XIX. THE EVENTS OF A DAY AND NIGHT
1. MARCH THE TWENTY-FIRST. MORNING
Next morning the steward went out as usual. He shortly told hiscompanion, Anne, that he had almost matured their scheme, and thatthey would enter upon the details of it when he came home at night. Thefortunate fact that the rector's letter did not require an immediateanswer would give him time to consider.
Anne Seaway then began her duties in the house. Besides dailysuperintending the cook and housemaid one of these duties was, at rareintervals, to dust Manston's office with her own hands, a servant beingsupposed to disturb the books and papers unnecessarily. She softlywandered from table to shelf with the duster in her hand, afterwardsstanding in the middle of the room, and glancing around to discover ifany noteworthy collection of dust had still escaped her.
Her eye fell upon a faint layer which rested upon the ledge of anold-fashioned chestnut cabinet of French Renaissance workmanship, placedin a recess by the fireplace. At a height of about four feet from thefloor the upper portion of the front receded, forming the ledge alludedto, on which opened at each end two small doors, the centre spacebetween them being filled out by a panel of similar size, making thethird of three squares. The dust on the ledge was nearly on a level withthe woman's eye, and, though insignificant in quantity, showed itselfdistinctly on account of this obliquity of vision. Now opposite thecentral panel, concentric quarter-circles were traced in the depositedfilm, expressing to her that this panel, too, was a door like theothers; that it had lately been opened, and had skimmed the dust withits lower edge.
At last, then, her curiosity was slightly rewarded. For the right of thematter was that Anne had been incited to this exploration of Manston'soffice rather by a wish to know the reason of his long seclusionhere, after the arrival of the rector's letter, and their subsequentdiscourse, than by any immediate desire for cleanliness. Still, therewould have been nothing remarkable to Anne in this sight but for onerecollection. Manston had once casually told her that each of the twoside-lockers included half the middle space, the panel of which didnot open, and was only put in for symmetry. It was possible that he hadopened this compartment by candlelight the preceding night, or he wouldhave seen the marks in the dust, and effaced them, that he might notbe proved guilty of telling her an untruth. She balanced herself on onefoot and stood pondering. She considered that it was very vexing andunfair in him to refuse her all knowledge of his remaining secrets,under the peculiar circumstances of her connection with him. She wentclose to the cabinet. As there was no keyhole, the door must be capableof being opened by the unassisted hand. The circles in the dust told herat which edge to apply her force. Here she pulled with the tips of herfingers, but the panel would not come forward. She fetched a chair andlooked over the top of the cabinet, but no bolt, knob, or spring was tobe seen.
'O, never mind,' she said, with indifference; 'I'll ask him about it,and he will tell me.' Down she came and turned away. Then looking backagain she thought it was absurd such a trifle should puzzle her.She retraced her steps, and opened a drawer beneath the ledge of thecabinet, pushing in her hand and feeling about on the underside of theboard.
Here she found a small round sinking, and pressed her finger into it.Nothing came of the pressure. She withdrew her hand and looked at thetip of her finger: it was marked with the impress of the circle, and, inaddition, a line ran across it diametrically.
'How stupid of me; it is the head of a screw.' Whatever mysteriouscontrivance had originally existed for opening the puny cupboard ofthe cabinet, it had at some time been broken, and this rough substituteprovided. Stimulated curiosity would not allow her to recede now. Shefetched a screwdriver, withdrew the screw, pulled the door open with apenknife, and found inside a cavity about ten inches square. The cavitycontained--
Letters from different women, with unknown signatures, Christian namesonly (surnames being despised in Paphos). Letters from his wife Eunice.Letters from Anne herself, including that she wrote in answer to hisadvertisement. A small pocket-book. Sundry scraps of paper.
The letters from the strange women with pet names she glanced carelesslythrough, and then put them aside. They were too similar to her ownregretted delusion, and curiosity requires contrast to excite it.
The letters from his wife were next examined. They were dated back asfar as Eunice's first meeting with Manston, and the early ones beforetheir marriage contained the usual pretty effusions of women at such aperiod of their existence. Some little time after he had made her hiswife, and when he had come to Knapwater, the series began again, andnow their contents arrested her attention more forcibly. She closed thecabinet, carried the letters into the parlour, reclined herself on thesofa, and carefully perused them in the order of their dates.
'JOHN STREET, October 17, 1864.
'MY DEAREST HUSBAND,--I received your hurried line of yesterday, and wasof course content with it. But why don't you tell me your exact addressinstead of that "Post-Office, Budmouth?" This matter is all a mystery tome, and I ought to be told every detail. I cannot fancy it is the samekind of occupation you have been used to hitherto. Your command thatI am to stay here awhile until you can "see how things look" and canarrange to send for me, I must necessarily abide by. But if, as you say,a married man would have been rejected by the person who engaged you,and that hence my existence must be kept a secret until you have securedyour position, why did you think of going at all?
'The truth is, this keeping our marriage a secret is troublesome,vexing, and wearisome to me. I see the poorest woman in the streetbearing her husband's name openly--living with him in the mostmatter-of-fact ease, and why shouldn't I? I wish I was back again inLiverpool.
'To-day I bought a grey waterproof cloak. I think it is a little toolong for me, but it was cheap for one of such a quality. The weather isgusty and dreary, and till this morning I had hardly set foot outsidethe door since you left. Please do tell me when I am to come.--Veryaffectionately yours, EUNICE.'
'JOHN STREET, October 25, 1864.
'MY DEAR HUSBAND,--Why don't you write? Do you hate me? I have not hadthe heart to do anything this last week. That I, your wife, should be inthis strait, and my husband well to do! I have been obliged to leave myfirst lodging for debt--among other things, they charged me for a lot ofbrandy which I am quite sure I did not taste. Then I went to Camberwelland was found out by them. I went away privately from thence, andchanged my name the second time. I am now Mrs. Rondley. But the newlodging was the wretchedest and dearest I ever set foot in, and I leftit after being there only a day. I am now at No. 20 in the same streetthat you left me in originally. All last night the sash of my windowrattled so dreadfully that I could not sleep, but I had not energyenough to get out of bed to stop it. This morning I have been walking--Idon't know how far--but far enough to make my feet ache. I have beenlooking at the outside of two or three of the theatres, but they seemforbidding if I regard them with the eye of an actress in search ofan engagement. Though you said I was to think no more of the stage,I believe you would not care if you found me there. But I am not anactress by nature, and art will never make me one. I am too timid andretiring; I was intended for a cottager's wife. I certainly shall nottry to go on the boards again whilst I am in this strange place. Theidea of being brought on as far as London and then left here alone! Whydidn't you leave me in Liverpool? Perhaps you thought I might have toldsomebody that my real name was Mrs. Manston. As if I had a living friendto whom I could impart it--no such good fortune! In fact, my nearestfriend is no nearer than what most people would call a stranger. Butperhaps I ought to tell you that a week before I wrote my last letter toyou, after wishing that my uncle and aunt in Philadelphia (the only nearrelatives I had) were still alive, I suddenly resolved to send a line tomy cousin James, who, I believe, is still living in that neighbourhood.H
e has never seen me since we were babies together. I did not tell himof my marriage, because I thought you might not like it, and I gave myreal maiden name, and an address at the post-office here. But God knowsif the letter will ever reach him.
'Do write me an answer, and send something.--Your affectionate wife,EUNICE.'
'FRIDAY, October 28.
'MY DEAR HUSBAND,--The order for ten pounds has just come, and I amtruly glad to get it. But why will you write so bitterly? Ah--well, ifI had only had the money I should have been on my way to America by thistime, so don't think I want to bore you of my own free-will. Who canyou have met with at that new place? Remember I say this in no malignanttone, but certainly the facts go to prove that you have deserted me!You are inconstant--I know it. O, why are you so? Now I have lost you, Ilove you in spite of your neglect. I am weakly fond--that's my nature.I fear that upon the whole my life has been wasted. I know there isanother woman supplanting me in your heart--yes, I know it. Come tome--do come. EUNICE.'
'41 CHARLES SQUARE, HOXTON, November 19.
'DEAR AENEAS,--Here I am back again after my visit. Why should you havebeen so enraged at my finding your exact address? Any woman would havetried to do it--you know she would have. And no woman would have livedunder assumed names so long as I did. I repeat that I did not callmyself Mrs. Manston until I came to this lodging at the beginning ofthis month--what could you expect?
'A helpless creature I, had not fortune favoured me unexpectedly.Banished as I was from your house at dawn, I did not suppose theindignity was about to lead to important results. But in crossing thepark I overheard the conversation of a young man and woman who had alsorisen early. I believe her to be the girl who has won you away fromme. Well, their conversation concerned you and Miss Aldclyffe, _verypeculiarly_. The remarkable thing is that you yourself, without knowingit, told me of what, added to their conversation, completely reveals asecret to me that neither of you understand. Two negatives never madesuch a telling positive before. One clue more, and you would see it.A single consideration prevents my revealing it--just one doubt as towhether your ignorance was real, and was not feigned to deceive me.Civility now, please. EUNICE.'
'41 CHARLES SQUARE, Tuesday, November 22.
'MY DARLING HUSBAND,--Monday will suit me excellently for coming. I haveacted exactly up to your instructions, and have sold my rubbish at thebroker's in the next street. All this movement and bustle is delightfulto me after the weeks of monotony I have endured. It is a relief to wishthe place good-bye--London always has seemed so much more foreign tome than Liverpool The mid-day train on Monday will do nicely for me. Ishall be anxiously looking out for you on Sunday night.
'I hope so much that you are not angry with me for writing to MissAldclyffe. You are not, dear, are you? Forgive me.--Your loving wife,EUNICE.'
This was the last of the letters from the wife to the husband. Oneother, in Mrs. Manston's handwriting, and in the same packet, wasdifferently addressed.
'THREE TRANTERS INN, CARRIFORD, November 28, 1864.
'DEAR COUSIN JAMES,--Thank you indeed for answering my letter sopromptly. When I called at the post-office yesterday I did not in theleast think there would be one. But I must leave this subject. I writeagain at once under the strangest and saddest conditions it is possibleto conceive.
'I did not tell you in my last that I was a married woman. Don't blameme--it was my husband's influence. I hardly know where to begin mystory. I had been living apart from him for a time--then he sent for me(this was last week) and I was glad to go to him. Then this is what hedid. He promised to fetch me, and did not--leaving me to do the journeyalone. He promised to meet me at the station here--he did not. I went onthrough the darkness to his house, and found his door locked and himselfaway from home. I have been obliged to come here, and I write to you ina strange room in a strange village inn! I choose the present moment towrite to drive away my misery. Sorrow seems a sort of pleasure when youdetail it on paper--poor pleasure though.
'But this is what I want to know--and I am ashamed to tell it. I wouldgladly do as you say, and come to you as a housekeeper, but I havenot the money even for a steerage passage. James, do you want me badlyenough--do you pity me enough to send it? I could manage to subsist inLondon upon the proceeds of my sale for another month or six weeks. Willyou send it to the same address at the post-office? But how do I knowthat you...'
Thus the letter ended. From creases in the paper it was plain that thewriter, having got so far, had become dissatisfied with her production,and had crumpled it in her hand. Was it to write another, or not towrite at all?
The next thing Anne Seaway perceived was that the fragmentary story shehad coaxed out of Manston, to the effect that his wife had left Englandfor America, might be truthful, according to two of these letters,corroborated by the evidence of the railway-porter. And yet, at first,he had sworn in a passion that his wife was most certainly consumed inthe fire.
If she had been burnt, this letter, written in her bedroom, and probablythrust into her pocket when she relinquished it, would have been burntwith her. Nothing was surer than that. Why, then, did he say she wasburnt, and never show Anne herself this letter?
The question suddenly raised a new and much stranger one--kindling aburst of amazement in her. How did Manston become possessed of thisletter?
That fact of possession was certainly the most remarkable revelationof all in connection with this epistle, and perhaps had something to dowith his reason for never showing it to her.
She knew by several proofs, that before his marriage with Cytherea, andup to the time of the porter's confession, Manston believed--honestlybelieved--that Cytherea would be his lawful wife, and hence, of course,that his wife Eunice was dead. So that no communication could possiblyhave passed between his wife and himself from the first moment that hebelieved her dead on the night of the fire, to the day of his wedding.And yet he had that letter. How soon afterwards could they havecommunicated with each other?
The existence of the letter--as much as, or more than itscontents--implying that Mrs. Manston was not burnt, his belief in thatcalamity must have terminated at the moment he obtained possession ofthe letter, if no earlier. Was, then, the only solution to the riddlethat Anne could discern, the true one?--that he had communicated withhis wife somewhere about the commencement of Anne's residence with him,or at any time since?
It was the most unlikely thing on earth that a woman who had forsakenher husband should countenance his scheme to personify her--whether shewere in America, in London, or in the neighbourhood of Knapwater.
Then came the old and harassing question, what was Manston's real motivein risking his name on the deception he was practising as regarded Anne.It could not be, as he had always pretended, mere passion. Her thoughtshad reverted to Mr. Raunham's letter, asking for proofs of her identitywith the original Mrs. Manston. She could see no loophole of escapefor the man who supported her. True, in her own estimation, his worstalternative was not so very bad after all--the getting the name oflibertine, a possible appearance in the divorce or some other courtof law, and a question of damages. Such an exposure might hinderhis worldly progress for some time. Yet to him this alternative was,apparently, terrible as death itself.
She restored the letters to their hiding-place, scanned anew the otherletters and memoranda, from which she could gain no fresh information,fastened up the cabinet, and left everything in its former condition.
Her mind was ill at ease. More than ever she wished that she had neverseen Manston. Where the person suspected of mysterious moral obliquityis the possessor of great physical and intellectual attractions, themere sense of incongruity adds an extra shudder to dread. The man'sstrange bearing terrified Anne a
s it had terrified Cytherea; for withall the woman Anne's faults, she had not descended to such depths ofdepravity as to willingly participate in crime. She had not even knownthat a living wife was being displaced till her arrival at Knapwater putretreat out of the question, and had looked upon personation simply asa mode of subsistence a degree better than toiling in poverty and alone,after a bustling and somewhat pampered life as housekeeper in a gaymansion.
'Non illa colo calathisve Minervae Foemineas assueta manus.'
2. AFTERNOON
Mr. Raunham and Edward Springrove had by this time set in motion amachinery which they hoped to find working out important results.
The rector was restless and full of meditation all the followingmorning. It was plain, even to the servants about him, that Springrove'scommunication wore a deeper complexion than any that had been made tothe old magistrate for many months or years past. The fact was that,having arrived at the stage of existence in which the difficultintellectual feat of suspending one's judgment becomes possible, he wasnow putting it in practice, though not without the penalty of watchfuleffort.
It was not till the afternoon that he determined to call on hisrelative, Miss Aldclyffe, and cautiously probe her knowledge of thesubject occupying him so thoroughly. Cytherea, he knew, was stillbeloved by this solitary woman. Miss Aldclyffe had made several privateinquiries concerning her former companion, and there was ever a sadnessin her tone when the young lady's name was mentioned, which showed thatfrom whatever cause the elder Cytherea's renunciation of her favouriteand namesake proceeded, it was not from indifference to her fate.
'Have you ever had any reason for supposing your steward anything but anupright man?' he said to the lady.
'Never the slightest. Have you?' said she reservedly.
'Well--I have.'
'What is it?'
'I can say nothing plainly, because nothing is proved. But my suspicionsare very strong.'
'Do you mean that he was rather cool towards his wife when they werefirst married, and that it was unfair in him to leave her? I know hewas; but I think his recent conduct towards her has amply atoned for theneglect.'
He looked Miss Aldclyffe full in the face. It was plain that she spokehonestly. She had not the slightest notion that the woman who lived withthe steward might be other than Mrs. Manston--much less that a greatermatter might be behind.
'That's not it--I wish it was no more. My suspicion is, first, that thewoman living at the Old House is not Mr. Manston's wife.'
'Not--Mr. Manston's wife?'
'That is it.'
Miss Aldclyffe looked blankly at the rector. 'Not Mr. Manston'swife--who else can she be?' she said simply.
'An improper woman of the name of Anne Seaway.'
Mr. Raunham had, in common with other people, noticed the extraordinaryinterest of Miss Aldclyffe in the well-being of her steward, and hadendeavoured to account for it in various ways. The extent to which shewas shaken by his information, whilst it proved that the understandingbetween herself and Manston did not make her a sharer of his secrets,also showed that the tie which bound her to him was still unbroken. Mr.Raunham had lately begun to doubt the latter fact, and now, on findinghimself mistaken, regretted that he had not kept his own counsel in thematter. This it was too late to do, and he pushed on with his proofs. Hegave Miss Aldclyffe in detail the grounds of his belief.
Before he had done, she recovered the cloak of reserve that she hadadopted on his opening the subject.
'I might possibly be convinced that you were in the right, after such anelaborate argument,' she replied, 'were it not for one fact, which bearsin the contrary direction so pointedly, that nothing but absolute proofcan turn it. It is that there is no conceivable motive whichcould induce any sane man--leaving alone a man of Mr. Manston'sclear-headedness and integrity--to venture upon such an extraordinarycourse of conduct--no motive on earth.'
'That was my own opinion till after the visit of a friend last night--afriend of mine and poor little Cytherea's.'
'Ah--and Cytherea,' said Miss Aldclyffe, catching at the idea raisedby the name. 'That he loved Cytherea--yes and loves her now, wildly anddevotedly, I am as positive as that I breathe. Cytherea is years youngerthan Mrs. Manston--as I shall call her--twice as sweet in disposition,three times as beautiful. Would he have given her up quietly andsuddenly for a common--Mr. Raunham, your story is monstrous, and I don'tbelieve it!' She glowed in her earnestness.
The rector might now have advanced his second proposition--the possiblemotive--but for reasons of his own he did not.
'Very well, madam. I only hope that facts will sustain you in yourbelief. Ask him the question to his face, whether the woman is his wifeor no, and see how he receives it.'
'I will to-morrow, most certainly,' she said. 'I always let these thingsdie of wholesome ventilation, as every fungus does.'
But no sooner had the rector left her presence, than the grain ofmustard-seed he had sown grew to a tree. Her impatience to set hermind at rest could not brook a night's delay. It was with the utmostdifficulty that she could wait till evening arrived to screen hermovements. Immediately the sun had dropped behind the horizon, andbefore it was quite dark, she wrapped her cloak around her, softly leftthe house, and walked erect through the gloomy park in the direction ofthe old manor-house.
The same minute saw two persons sit down in the rectory-house toshare the rector's usually solitary dinner. One was a man of officialappearance, commonplace in all except his eyes. The other was EdwardSpringrove.
The discovery of the carefully-concealed letters rankled in the mind ofAnne Seaway. Her woman's nature insisted that Manston had no right tokeep all matters connected with his lost wife a secret from herself.Perplexity had bred vexation vexation, resentment; curiosity had beencontinuous. The whole morning this resentment and curiosity increased.
The steward said very little to his companion during their luncheonat mid-day. He seemed reckless of appearances--almost indifferent towhatever fate awaited him. All his actions betrayed that somethingportentous was impending, and still he explained nothing. By carefullyobserving every trifling action, as only a woman can observe them,the thought at length dawned upon her that he was going to run awaysecretly. She feared for herself; her knowledge of law and justice wasvague, and she fancied she might in some way be made responsible forhim.
In the afternoon he went out of the house again, and she watched himdrive away in the direction of the county-town. She felt a desire to gothere herself, and, after an interval of half-an-hour, followed him onfoot notwithstanding the distance--ostensibly to do some shopping.
One among her several trivial errands was to make a small purchase atthe druggist's. Near the druggist's stood the County Bank. Looking outof the shop window, between the coloured bottles, she saw Manston comedown the steps of the bank, in the act of withdrawing his hand from hispocket, and pulling his coat close over its mouth.
It is an almost universal habit with people, when leaving a bank, to becarefully adjusting their pockets if they have been receiving money; ifthey have been paying it in, their hands swing laxly. The steward hadin all likelihood been taking money--possibly on Miss Aldclyffe'saccount--that was continual with him. And he might have been removinghis own, as a man would do who was intending to leave the country.
3. FROM FIVE TO EIGHT O'CLOCK P.M.
Anne reached home again in time to preside over preparations for dinner.Manston came in half-an-hour later. The lamp was lighted, the shutterswere closed, and they sat down together. He was pale and worn--almosthaggard.
The meal passed off in almost unbroken silence. When preoccupationwithstands the influence of a social meal with one pleasant companion,the mental scene must be surpassingly vivid. Just as she was rising atap came to the door.
Before a maid could attend to the knock, Manston crossed the room andanswered it himself. The visitor was Miss Aldclyffe.
Manston instantly came back and spoke to Anne in an undertone.
'I shouldbe glad if you could retire to your room for a short time.'
'It is a dry, starlight evening,' she replied. 'I will go for alittle walk if your object is merely a private conversation with MissAldclyffe.'
'Very well, do; there's no accounting for tastes,' he said. A fewcommonplaces then passed between her and Miss Aldclyffe, and Anne wentupstairs to bonnet and cloak herself. She came down, opened the frontdoor, and went out.
She looked around to realize the night. It was dark, mournful, andquiet. Then she stood still. From the moment that Manston had requestedher absence, a strong and burning desire had prevailed in her to knowthe subject of Miss Aldclyffe's conversation with him. Simple curiositywas not entirely what inspired her. Her suspicions had been thoroughlyaroused by the discovery of the morning. A conviction that her futuredepended on her power to combat a man who, in desperate circumstances,would be far from a friend to her, prompted a strategic movement toacquire the important secret that was in handling now. The woman thoughtand thought, and regarded the dull dark trees, anxiously debating howthe thing could be done.
Stealthily re-opening the front door she entered the hall, and advancingand pausing alternately, came close to the door of the room in whichMiss Aldclyffe and Manston conversed. Nothing could be heard through thekeyhole or panels. At a great risk she softly turned the knob andopened the door to a width of about half-an-inch, performing the act sodelicately that three minutes, at least, were occupied in completing it.At that instant Miss Aldclyffe said--
'There's a draught somewhere. The door is ajar, I think.'
Anne glided back under the staircase. Manston came forward and closedthe door. This chance was now cut off, and she considered again. Theparlour, or sitting-room, in which the conference took place, had thewindow-shutters fixed on the outside of the window, as is usual in theback portions of old country-houses. The shutters were hinged oneon each side of the opening, and met in the middle, where they werefastened by a bolt passing continuously through them and the woodmullion within, the bolt being secured on the inside by a pin, which wasseldom inserted till Manston and herself were about to retire for thenight; sometimes not at all.
If she returned to the door of the room she might be discovered at anymoment, but could she listen at the window, which overlooked a partof the garden never visited after nightfall, she would be safe fromdisturbance. The idea was worth a trial.
She glided round to the window, took the head of the bolt between herfinger and thumb, and softly screwed it round until it was entirelywithdrawn from its position. The shutters remained as before, whilst,where the bolt had come out, was now a shining hole three-quarters ofan inch in diameter, through which one might see into the middle of theroom. She applied her eye to the orifice.
Miss Aldclyffe and Manston were both standing; Manston with his back tothe window, his companion facing it. The lady's demeanour was severe,condemnatory, and haughty. No more was to be seen; Anne then turnedsideways, leant with her shoulder against the shutters and placed herear upon the hole.
'You know where,' said Miss Aldclyffe. 'And how could you, a man, act adouble deceit like this?'
'Men do strange things sometimes.'
'What was your reason--come?'
'A mere whim.'
'I might even believe that, if the woman were handsomer than Cytherea,or if you had been married some time to Cytherea and had grown tired ofher.'
'And can't you believe it, too, under these conditions; that I marriedCytherea, gave her up because I heard that my wife was alive, found thatmy wife would not come to live with me, and then, not to let any womanI love so well as Cytherea run any risk of being displaced and ruined inreputation, should my wife ever think fit to return, induced this womanto come to me, as being better than no companion at all?'
'I cannot believe it. Your love for Cytherea was not of such a kindas that excuse would imply. It was Cytherea or nobody with you. As anobject of passion, you did not desire the company of this Anne Seawayat all, and certainly not so much as to madly risk your reputationby bringing her here in the way you have done. I am sure you didn't,AEneas.'
'So am I,' he said bluntly.
Miss Aldclyffe uttered an exclamation of astonishment; the confessionwas like a blow in its suddenness. She began to reproach him bitterly,and with tears.
'How could you overthrow my plans, disgrace the only girl I ever had anyrespect for, by such inexplicable doings!... That woman must leave thisplace--the country perhaps. Heavens! the truth will leak out in a day ortwo!'
'She must do no such thing, and the truth must be stifledsomehow--nobody knows how. If I stay here, or on any spot of thecivilized globe, as AEneas Manston, this woman must live with me as mywife, or I am damned past redemption!'
'I will not countenance your keeping her, whatever your motive may be.'
'You must do something,' he murmured. 'You must. Yes, you must.'
'I never will,' she said. 'It is a criminal act.'
He looked at her earnestly. 'Will you not support me through thisdeception if my very life depends upon it? Will you not?'
'Nonsense! Life! It will be a scandal to you, but she must leave thisplace. It will out sooner or later, and the exposure had better comenow.'
Manston repeated gloomily the same words. 'My life depends upon yoursupporting me--my very life.'
He then came close to her, and spoke into her ear. Whilst he spoke heheld her head to his mouth with both his hands. Strange expressions cameover her face; the workings of her mouth were painful to observe. Stillhe held her and whispered on.
The only words that could be caught by Anne Seaway, confused as herhearing frequently was by the moan of the wind and the waterfall inher outer ear, were these of Miss Aldclyffe, in tones which absolutelyquivered: 'They have no money. What can they prove?'
The listener tasked herself to the utmost to catch his answer, but itwas in vain. Of the remainder of the colloquy one fact alone was plainto Anne, and that only inductively--that Miss Aldclyffe, from what hehad revealed to her, was going to scheme body and soul on Manston'sbehalf.
Miss Aldclyffe seemed now to have no further reason for remaining,yet she lingered awhile as if loth to leave him. When, finally, thecrestfallen and agitated lady made preparations for departure, Annequickly inserted the bolt, ran round to the entrance archway, and downthe steps into the park. Here she stood close to the trunk of a hugelime-tree, which absorbed her dark outline into its own.
In a few minutes she saw Manston, with Miss Aldclyffe leaning on hisarm, cross the glade before her and proceed in the direction of thehouse. She watched them ascend the rise and advance, as two black spots,towards the mansion. The appearance of an oblong space of light in thedark mass of walls denoted that the door was opened. Miss Aldclyffe'soutline became visible upon it; the door shut her in, and all wasdarkness again. The form of Manston returning alone arose from thegloom, and passed by Anne in her hiding-place.
Waiting outside a quarter of an hour longer, that no suspicion of anykind might be excited, Anne returned to the old manor-house.
4. FROM EIGHT TO ELEVEN O'CLOCK P.M.
Manston was very friendly that evening. It was evident to her, nowthat she was behind the scenes, that he was making desperate efforts todisguise the real state of his mind.
Her terror of him did not decrease. They sat down to supper, Manstonstill talking cheerfully. But what is keener than the eye of amistrustful woman? A man's cunning is to it as was the armour of Siserato the thin tent-nail. She found, in spite of his adroitness, that hewas attempting something more than a disguise of his feeling. He wastrying to distract her attention, that he might be unobserved in somespecial movement of his hands.
What a moment it was for her then! The whole surface of her body becameattentive. She allowed him no chance whatever. We know the duplicatedcondition at such times--when the existence divides itself into two, andthe ostensibly innocent chatterer stands in front, like another person,to hide the timorous spy.
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bsp; Manston played the same game, but more palpably. The meal was nearlyover when he seemed possessed of a new idea of how his object might beaccomplished. He tilted back his chair with a reflective air, and lookedsteadily at the clock standing against the wall opposite to him. He saidsententiously, 'Few faces are capable of expressing more by dumbshow than the face of a clock. You may see in it every variety ofincentive--from the softest seductions to negligence to the strongesthints for action.'
'Well, in what way?' she inquired. His drift was, as yet, quiteunintelligible to her.
'Why, for instance: look at the cold, methodical, unromantic,business-like air of all the right-angled positions of the hands. Theymake a man set about work in spite of himself. Then look at the piquantshyness of its face when the two hands are over each other. Severalattitudes imply "Make ready." The "make ready" of ten minutes to onediffers from the "make ready" of ten minutes to twelve, as youth differsfrom age. "Upward and onward" says twenty-five minutes to eleven.Mid-day or midnight expresses distinctly "It is done." You surely havenoticed that?'
'Yes, I have.'
He continued with affected quaintness:--
'The easy dash of ten minutes past seven, the rakish recklessness of aquarter past, the drooping weariness of twenty-five minutes past, musthave been observed by everybody.'
'Whatever amount of truth there may be, there is a good deal ofimagination in your fancy,' she said.
He still contemplated the clock.
'Then, again, the general finish of the face has a great effect upon theeye. This old-fashioned brass-faced one we have here, with its archedtop, half-moon slit for the day of the month, and ship rocking at theupper part, impresses me with the notion of its being an old cynic,elevating his brows, whose thoughts can be seen wavering between goodand evil.'
A thought now enlightened her: the clock was behind her, and he wantedto get her back turned. She dreaded turning, yet, not to excite hissuspicion, she was on her guard; she quickly looked behind her at theclock as he spoke, recovering her old position again instantly. The timehad not been long enough for any action whatever on his part.
'Ah,' he casually remarked, and at the same minute began to pour herout a glass of wine. 'Speaking of the clock has reminded me that it mustnearly want winding up. Remember that it is wound to-night. Suppose youdo it at once, my dear.'
There was no possible way of evading the act. She resolutely turned toperform the operation: anything was better than that he should suspecther. It was an old-fashioned eight-day clock, of workmanship suited tothe rest of the antique furniture that Manston had collected there, andground heavily during winding.
Anne had given up all idea of being able to watch him during theinterval, and the noise of the wheels prevented her learning anything byher ears. But, as she wound, she caught sight of his shadow on the wallat her right hand.
What was he doing? He was in the very act of pouring something into herglass of wine.
He had completed the manoeuvre before she had done winding. Shemethodically closed the clock-case and turned round again. When shefaced him he was sitting in his chair as before she had risen.
In a familiar scene which has hitherto been pleasant it is difficult torealize that an added condition, which does not alter its aspect, canhave made it terrible. The woman thought that his action must have beenprompted by no other intent than that of poisoning her, and yet shecould not instantly put on a fear of her position.
And before she had grasped these consequences, another suppositionserved to make her regard the first as unlikely, if not absurd. It wasthe act of a madman to take her life in a manner so easy of discovery,unless there were far more reason for the crime than any that Manstoncould possibly have.
Was it not merely his intention, in tampering with her wine, to makeher sleep soundly that night? This was in harmony with her originalsuspicion, that he intended secretly to abscond. At any rate, he wasgoing to set about some stealthy proceeding, as to which she was to bekept in utter darkness. The difficulty now was to avoid drinking thewine.
By means of one pretext and another she put off taking her glass fornearly five minutes, but he eyed her too frequently to allow her tothrow the potion under the grate. It became necessary to take onesip. This she did, and found an opportunity of absorbing it in herhandkerchief.
Plainly he had no idea of her countermoves. The scheme seemed to him inproper train, and he turned to poke out the fire. She instantly seizedthe glass, and poured its contents down her bosom. When he faced roundagain she was holding the glass to her lips, empty.
In due course he locked the doors and saw that the shutters werefastened. She attended to a few closing details of housewifery, and afew minutes later they retired for the night.
5. FROM ELEVEN O'CLOCK TO MIDNIGHT
When Manston was persuaded, by the feigned heaviness of her breathing,that Anne Seaway was asleep, he softly arose, and dressed himself in thegloom. With ears strained to their utmost she heard him complete thisoperation then he took something from his pocket, put it in the drawerof the dressing-table, went to the door, and down the stairs. She glidedout of bed and looked in the drawer. He had only restored to its placea small phial she had seen there before. It was labelled 'Battley'sSolution of Opium.' She felt relieved that her life had not beenattempted. That was to have been her sleeping-draught. No time was tobe lost if she meant to be a match for him. She followed him in hernightdress. When she reached the foot of the staircase he was in theoffice and had closed the door, under which a faint gleam showed thathe had obtained a light. She crept to the door, but could not venture toopen it, however slightly. Placing her ear to the panel, she could hearhim tearing up papers of some sort, and a brighter and quivering ray oflight coming from the threshold an instant later, implied that he wasburning them. By the slight noise of his footsteps on the uncarpetedfloor, she at length imagined that he was approaching the door. Sheflitted upstairs again and crept into bed.
Manston returned to the bedroom close upon her heels, and enteredit--again without a light. Standing motionless for an instant to assurehimself that she still slept, he went to the drawer in which theirready-money was kept, and removed the casket that contained it. Anne'sear distinctly caught the rustle of notes, and the chink of the goldas he handled it. Some he placed in his pocket, some he returned toits place. He stood thinking, as it were weighing a possibility. Whilelingering thus, he noticed the reflected image of his own face in theglass--pale and spectre-like in its indistinctness. The sight seemed tobe the feather which turned the balance of indecision: he drew a heavybreath, retired from the room, and passed downstairs. She heard himunbar the back-door, and go out into the yard.
Feeling safe in a conclusion that he did not intend to return to thebedroom again, she arose, and hastily dressed herself. On going to thedoor of the apartment she found that he had locked it behind him. 'Aprecaution--it can be no more,' she muttered. Yet she was all the moreperplexed and excited on this account. Had he been going to leave homeimmediately, he would scarcely have taken the trouble to lock her in,holding the belief that she was in a drugged sleep. The lock shot into amortice, so that there was no possibility of her pushing back the bolt.How should she follow him? Easily. An inner closet opened from thebedroom: it was large, and had some time heretofore been used as adressing or bath room, but had been found inconvenient from having noother outlet to the landing. The window of this little room looked outupon the roof of the porch, which was flat and covered with lead. Annetook a pillow from the bed, gently opened the casement of the inner roomand stepped forth on the flat. There, leaning over the edge of thesmall parapet that ornamented the porch, she dropped the pillow upon thegravel path, and let herself down over the parapet by her hands tillher toes swung about two feet from the ground. From this position sheadroitly alighted upon the pillow, and stood in the path.
Since she had come indoors from her walk in the early part of theevening the moon had risen. But the thick clouds overspreading the wholelan
dscape rendered the dim light pervasive and grey: it appeared asan attribute of the air. Anne crept round to the back of the house,listening intently. The steward had had at least ten minutes' start ofher. She had waited here whilst one might count fifty, when she heard amovement in the outhouse--a fragment once attached to the main building.This outhouse was partitioned into an outer and an inner room, whichhad been a kitchen and a scullery before the connecting erections werepulled down, but they were now used respectively as a brewhouse andworkshop, the only means of access to the latter being through thebrewhouse. The outer door of this first apartment was usually fastenedby a padlock on the exterior. It was now closed, but not fastened.Manston was evidently in the outhouse.
She slightly moved the door. The interior of the brewhouse was wrappedin gloom, but a streak of light fell towards her in a line across thefloor from the inner or workshop door, which was not quite closed. Thislight was unexpected, none having been visible through hole or crevice.Glancing in, the woman found that he had placed cloths and mats at thevarious apertures, and hung a sack at the window to prevent the egressof a single ray. She could also perceive from where she stood that thebar of light fell across the brewing-copper just outside the inner door,and that upon it lay the key of her bedroom. The illuminated interior ofthe workshop was also partly visible from her position through the twohalf-open doors. Manston was engaged in emptying a large cupboard of thetools, gallipots, and old iron it contained. When it was quitecleared he took a chisel, and with it began to withdraw the hooksand shoulder-nails holding the cupboard to the wall. All these beingloosened, he extended his arms, lifted the cupboard bodily from thebrackets under it, and deposited it on the floor beside him.
That portion of the wall which had been screened by the cupboard was nowlaid bare. This, it appeared, had been plastered more recently than thebulk of the outhouse. Manston loosened the plaster with some kindof tool, flinging the pieces into a basket as they fell. Having nowstripped clear about two feet area of wall, he inserted a crowbarbetween the joints of the bricks beneath, softly wriggling it untilseveral were loosened. There was now disclosed the mouth of an old oven,which was apparently contrived in the thickness of the wall, and havingfallen into disuse, had been closed up with bricks in this manner. Itwas formed after the simple old-fashioned plan of oven-building--a mereoblate cavity without a flue.
Manston now stretched his arm into the oven, dragged forth a heavyweight of great bulk, and let it slide to the ground. The woman whowatched him could see the object plainly. It was a common corn-sack,nearly full, and was tied at the mouth in the usual way.
The steward had once or twice started up, as if he had heard sounds, andhis motions now became more cat-like still. On a sudden he put out thelight. Anne had made no noise, yet a foreign noise of some kind hadcertainly been made in the intervening portion of the house. She heardit. 'One of the rats,' she thought.
He seemed soon to recover from his alarm, but changed his tacticscompletely. He did not light his candle--going on with his work in thedark. She had only sounds to go by now, and, judging as well as shecould from these, he was piling up the bricks which closed the oven'smouth as they had been before he disturbed them. The query that had notleft her brain all the interval of her inspection--how should she getback into her bedroom again?--now received a solution. Whilst he wasreplacing the cupboard, she would glide across the brewhouse, take thekey from the top of the copper, run upstairs, unlock the door, and bringback the key again: if he returned to bed, which was unlikely, he wouldthink the lock had failed to catch in the staple. This thought andintention, occupying such length of words, flashed upon her in aninstant, and hardly disturbed her strong curiosity to stay and learn themeaning of his actions in the workshop.
Slipping sideways through the first door and closing it behind her, sheadvanced into the darkness towards the second, making every individualfootfall with the greatest care, lest the fragments of rubbish on thefloor should crackle beneath her tread. She soon stood close by thecopper, and not more than a foot from the door of the room occupiedby Manston himself, from which position she could distinctly hear himbreathe between each exertion, although it was far too dark to discernanything of him.
To secure the key of her chamber was her first anxiety, and accordinglyshe cautiously reached out with her hand to where it lay. Instead oftouching it, her fingers came in contact with the boot of a human being.
She drooped faint in a cold sweat. It was the foot either of a man orwoman, standing on the brewing-copper where the key had lain. A warmfoot, covered with a polished boot.
The startling discovery so terrified her that she could hardly repress asound. She withdrew her hand with a motion like the flight of an arrow.Her touch was so light that the leather seemed to have been thick enoughto keep the owner of the foot in entire ignorance of it, and the noiseof Manston's scraping might have been quite sufficient to drown theslight rustle of her dress.
The person was obviously not the steward: he was still busy. It wassomebody who, since the light had been extinguished, had taken advantageof the gloom, to come from some dark recess in the brewhouse and standupon the brickwork of the copper. The fear which had at first paralyzedher lessened with the birth of a sense that fear now was utter failure:she was in a desperate position and must abide by the consequences.The motionless person on the copper was, equally with Manston, quiteunconscious of her proximity, and she ventured to advance her handagain, feeling behind the feet, till she found the key. On its return toher side, her finger-tip skimmed the lower verge of a trousers-leg.
It was a man, then, who stood there. To go to the door just at this timewas impolitic, and she shrank back into an inner corner to wait. Thecomparative security from discovery that her new position ensuredresuscitated reason a little, and empowered her to form some logicalinferences:--
1. The man who stood on the copper had taken advantage of the darknessto get there, as she had to enter.
2. The man must have been hidden in the outhouse before she had reachedthe door.
3. He must be watching Manston with much calculation and system, and forpurposes of his own.
She could now tell by the noises that Manston had completed hisre-erection of the cupboard. She heard him replacing the articles it hadcontained--bottle by bottle, tool by tool--after which he came into thebrewhouse, went to the window, and pulled down the cloths covering it;but the window being rather small, this unveiling scarcely relieved thedarkness of the interior. He returned to the workshop, hoisted somethingto his back by a jerk, and felt about the room for some other article.Having found it, he emerged from the inner door, crossed the brewhouse,and went into the yard. Directly he stepped out she could see hisoutline by the light of the clouded and weakly moon. The sack was slungat his back, and in his hand he carried a spade.
Anne now waited in her corner in breathless suspense for the proceedingsof the other man. In about half-a-minute she heard him descend from thecopper, and then the square opening of the doorway showed the outline ofthis other watcher passing through it likewise. The form was that ofa broad-shouldered man enveloped in a long coat. He vanished after thesteward.
The woman vented a sigh of relief, and moved forward to follow.Simultaneously, she discovered that the watcher whose foot she hadtouched was, in his turn, watched and followed also.
It was by one of her own sex. Anne Seaway shrank backward again. Theunknown woman came forward from the further side of the yard, andpondered awhile in hesitation. Tall, dark, and closely wrapped, shestood up from the earth like a cypress. She moved, crossed the yardwithout producing the slightest disturbance by her footsteps, and wentin the direction the others had taken.
Anne waited yet another minute--then in her turn noiselessly followedthe last woman.
But so impressed was she with the sensation of people in hiding, thatin coming out of the yard she turned her head to see if any person werefollowing her, in the same way. Nobody was visible, but she discerned,standing behind the
angle of the stable, Manston's horse and gig, readyharnessed.
He did intend to fly after all, then, she thought. He must have placedthe horse in readiness, in the interval between his leaving the houseand her exit by the window. However, there was not time to weigh thisbranch of the night's events. She turned about again, and continued onthe trail of the other three.
6. FROM MIDNIGHT TO HALF-PAST ONE A.M.
Intentness pervaded everything; Night herself seemed to have become awatcher.
The four persons proceeded across the glade, and into the parkplantation, at equidistances of about seventy yards. Here the ground,completely overhung by the foliage, was coated with a thick moss whichwas as soft as velvet beneath their feet. The first watcher, thatis, the man walking immediately behind Manston, now fell back,when Manston's housekeeper, knowing the ground pretty well, divedcircuitously among the trees and got directly behind the steward, who,encumbered with his load, had proceeded but slowly. The other womanseemed now to be about opposite to Anne, or a little in advance, but onManston's other hand.
He reached a pit, midway between the waterfall and the engine-house.There he stopped, wiped his face, and listened.
Into this pit had drifted uncounted generations of withered leaves, halffilling it. Oak, beech, and chestnut, rotten and brown alike, mingledthemselves in one fibrous mass. Manston descended into the midst ofthem, placed his sack on the ground, and raking the leaves aside into alarge heap, began digging. Anne softly drew nearer, crept into a bush,and turning her head to survey the rest, missed the man who had droppedbehind, and whom we have called the first watcher. Concluding that he,too, had hidden himself, she turned her attention to the second watcher,the other woman, who had meanwhile advanced near to where Anne layin hiding, and now seated herself behind a tree, still closer to thesteward than was Anne Seaway.
Here and thus Anne remained concealed. The crunch of the steward'sspade, as it cut into the soft vegetable mould, was plainly perceptibleto her ears when the periodic cessations between the creaks of theengine concurred with a lull in the breeze, which otherwise broughtthe subdued roar of the cascade from the further side of the bankthat screened it. A large hole--some four or five feet deep--had beenexcavated by Manston in about twenty minutes. Into this he immediatelyplaced the sack, and then began filling in the earth, and treading itdown. Lastly he carefully raked the whole mass of dead and dry leavesinto the middle of the pit, burying the ground with them as they hadburied it before.
For a hiding-place the spot was unequalled. The thick accumulationof leaves, which had not been disturbed for centuries, might not bedisturbed again for centuries to come, whilst their lower layers stilldecayed and added to the mould beneath.
By the time this work was ended the sky had grown clearer, and Annecould now see distinctly the face of the other woman, stretching frombehind the tree, seemingly forgetful of her position in her intensecontemplation of the actions of the steward. Her countenance was whiteand motionless.
It was impossible that Manston should not soon notice her. At thecompletion of his labour he turned, and did so.
'Ho--you here!' he exclaimed.
'Don't think I am a spy upon you,' she said, in an imploring whisper.Anne recognized the voice as Miss Aldclyffe's.
The trembling lady added hastily another remark, which was drowned inthe recurring creak of the engine close at hand The first watcher, if hehad come no nearer than his original position, was too far off to hearany part of this dialogue, on account of the roar of the falling water,which could reach him unimpeded by the bank.
The remark of Miss Aldclyffe to Manston had plainly been concerning thefirst watcher, for Manston, with his spade in his hand, instantly rushedto where the man was concealed, and, before the latter could disengagehimself from the boughs, the steward struck him on the head with theblade of the instrument. The man fell to the ground.
'Fly!' said Miss Aldclyffe to Manston. Manston vanished amidst thetrees. Miss Aldclyffe went off in a contrary direction.
Anne Seaway was about to run away likewise, when she turned and lookedat the fallen man. He lay on his face, motionless.
Many of these women who own to no moral code show considerablemagnanimity when they see people in trouble. To act right simply becauseit is one's duty is proper; but a good action which is the result of nolaw of reflection shines more than any. She went up to him and gentlyturned him over, upon which he began to show signs of life. By herassistance he was soon able to stand upright.
He looked about him with a bewildered air, endeavouring to collect hisideas. 'Who are you?' he said to the woman, mechanically.
It was bad policy now to attempt disguise. 'I am the supposed Mrs.Manston,' she said. 'Who are you?'
'I am the officer employed by Mr. Raunham to sift this mystery--whichmay be criminal.' He stretched his limbs, pressed his head, andseemed gradually to awake to a sense of having been incautious in hisutterance. 'Never you mind who I am,' he continued. 'Well, it doesn'tmatter now, either--it will no longer be a secret.'
He stooped for his hat and ran in the direction the steward hadtaken--coming back again after the lapse of a minute.
'It's only an aggravated assault, after all,' he said hastily, 'until wehave found out for certain what's buried here. It may be only a bag ofbuilding rubbish; but it may be more. Come and help me dig.' He seizedthe spade with the awkwardness of a town man, and went into the pit,continuing a muttered discourse. 'It's no use my running after himsingle-handed,' he said. 'He's ever so far off by this time. The beststep is to see what is here.'
It was far easier for the detective to re-open the hole than it had beenfor Manston to form it. The leaves were raked away, the loam thrown out,and the sack dragged forth.
'Hold this,' he said to Anne, whose curiosity still kept her standingnear. He turned on the light of a dark lantern he had brought, and gaveit into her hand.
The string which bound the mouth of the sack was now cut. The officerlaid the bag on its side, seized it by the bottom, and jerked forththe contents. A large package was disclosed, carefully wrapped up inimpervious tarpaulin, also well tied. He was on the point of pullingopen the folds at one end, when a light coloured thread of something,hanging on the outside, arrested his eye. He put his hand upon it; itfelt stringy, and adhered to his fingers. 'Hold the light close,' hesaid.
She held it close. He raised his hand to the glass, and they both peeredat an almost intangible filament he held between his finger and thumb.It was a long hair; the hair of a woman.
'God! I couldn't believe it--no, I couldn't believe it!' the detectivewhispered, horror-struck. 'And I have lost the man for the presentthrough my unbelief. Let's get into a sheltered place.... Now wait aminute whilst I prove it.'
He thrust his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and withdrew thence aminute packet of brown paper. Spreading it out he disclosed, coiledin the middle, another long hair. It was the hair the clerk's wife hadfound on Manston's pillow nine days before the Carriford fire. He heldthe two hairs to the light: they were both of a pale-brown hue. He laidthem parallel and stretched out his arms: they were of the same lengthto a nicety. The detective turned to Anne.
'It is the body of his first wife,' he said quietly. 'He murdered her,as Mr. Springrove and the rector suspected--but how and when, God onlyknows.'
'And I!' exclaimed Anne Seaway, a probable and natural sequence ofevents and motives explanatory of the whole crime--events andmotives shadowed forth by the letter, Manston's possession of it, hisrenunciation of Cytherea, and instalment of herself--flashing upon hermind with the rapidity of lightning.
'Ah--I see,' said the detective, standing unusually close to her: anda handcuff was on her wrist. 'You must come with me, madam. Knowing asmuch about a secret murder as God knows is a very suspicious thing: itdoesn't make you a goddess--far from it.' He directed the bull's-eyeinto her face.
'Pooh--lead on,' she said scornfully, 'and don't lose your principalactor for the sake of torturing a poor subordinate
like me.'
He loosened her hand, gave her his arm, and dragged her out of thegrove--making her run beside him till they had reached the rectory. Alight was burning here, and an auxiliary of the detective's awaitinghim: a horse ready harnessed to a spring-cart was standing outside.
'You have come--I wish I had known that,' the detective said to hisassistant, hurriedly and angrily. 'Well, we've blundered--he's gone--youshould have been here, as I said! I was sold by that woman, MissAldclyffe--she watched me.' He hastily gave directions in an undertoneto this man. The concluding words were, 'Go in to the rector--he's up.Detain Miss Aldclyffe. I, in the meantime, am driving to Casterbridgewith this one, and for help. We shall be sure to have him when it getslight.'
He assisted Anne into the vehicle, and drove off with her. As they went,the clear, dry road showed before them, between the grassy quarters ateach side, like a white riband, and made their progress easy. They cameto a spot where the highway was overhung by dense firs for some distanceon both sides. It was totally dark here.
There was a smash; and a rude shock. In the very midst of its length, atthe point where the road began to drop down a hill, the detectivedrove against something with a jerk which nearly flung them both to theground.
The man recovered himself, placed Anne on the seat, and reached outhis hand. He found that the off-wheel of his gig was locked in that ofanother conveyance of some kind.
'Hoy!' said the officer.
Nobody answered.
'Hoy, you man asleep there!' he said again.
No reply.
'Well, that's odd--this comes of the folly of travelling withoutgig-lamps because you expect the dawn.' He jumped to the ground andturned on his lantern.
There was the gig which had obstructed him, standing in the middle ofthe road; a jaded horse harnessed to it, but no human being in or nearthe vehicle.
'Do you know whose gig this is?' he said to the woman.
'No,' she said sullenly. But she did recognize it as the steward's.
'I'll swear it's Manston's! Come, I can hear it by your tone. However,you needn't say anything which may criminate you. What forethoughtthe man must have had--how carefully he must have considered possiblecontingencies! Why, he must have got the horse and gig ready before hebegan shifting the body.'
He listened for a sound among the trees. None was to be heard but theoccasional scamper of a rabbit over the withered leaves. He threw thelight of his lantern through a gap in the hedge, but could see nothingbeyond an impenetrable thicket. It was clear that Manston was not manyyards off, but the question was how to find him. Nothing could be doneby the detective just then, encumbered as he was by the horse and Anne.If he had entered the thicket on a search unaided, Manston might havestepped unobserved from behind a bush and murdered him with thegreatest ease. Indeed, there were such strong reasons for the exploit inManston's circumstances at that moment that without showing cowardice,his pursuer felt it hazardous to remain any longer where he stood.
He hastily tied the head of Manston's horse to the back of his ownvehicle, that the steward might be deprived of the use of any means ofescape other than his own legs, and drove on thus with his prisoner tothe county-town. Arrived there, he lodged her in the police-station, andthen took immediate steps for the capture of Manston.