3. FROM NINE TO TEN O'CLOCK P.M.
The next presentation is the interior of the Old House on the
evening of the preceding section. The steward was sitting by his
parlour fire, and had been reading the letter arrived from the
rectory. Opposite to him sat the woman known to the village and
neighbourhood as Mrs. Manston.
'Things are looking desperate with us,' he said gloomily. His gloom
was not that of the hypochondriac, but the legitimate gloom which
has its origin in a syllogism. As he uttered the words he handed
the letter to her.
'I almost expected some such news as this,' she replied, in a tone
of much greater indifference. 'I knew suspicion lurked in the eyes
of that young man who stared at me so in the church path: I could
have sworn it.'
Manston did not answer for some time. His face was worn and
haggard; latterly his head had not been carried so uprightly as of
old. 'If they prove you to be--who you are. . . . Yes, if they
do,' he murmured.
'They must not find that out,' she said, in a positive voice, and
looking at him. 'But supposing they do, the trick does not seem to
me to be so serious as to justify that wretched, miserable, horrible
look of yours. It makes my flesh creep; it is perfectly deathlike.'
He did not reply, and she continued, 'If they say and prove that
Eunice is indeed living--and dear, you know she is--she is sure to
come back.'
This remark seemed to awaken and irritate him to speech. Again, as
he had done a hundred times during their residence together, he
categorized the events connected with the fire at the Three
Tranters. He dwelt on every incident of that night's history, and
endeavoured, with an anxiety which was extraordinary in the apparent
circumstances, to prove that his wife must, by the very nature of
things, have perished in the flames. She arose from her seat, crossed the hearthrug, and set herself to soothe him; then she whispered that she was still as unbelieving as ever. 'Come, supposing she escaped--just supposing she escaped--where is she?' coaxed the lady.
'Why are you so curious continually?' said Manston.
'Because I am a woman and want to know. Now where is she?'
'In the Flying Isle of San Borandan.'
'Witty cruelty is the cruellest of any. Ah, well--if she is in
England, she will come back.'
'She is not in England.'
'But she will come back?'
'No, she won't. . . . Come, madam,' he said, arousing himself, 'I
shall not answer any more questions.'
'Ah--ah--ah--she is not dead,' the woman murmured again poutingly.
'She is, I tell you.'
'I don't think so, love.'
'She was burnt, I tell you!' he exclaimed.
'Now to please me, admit the bare possibility of her being alive
--just the possibility.'
'O yes--to please you I will admit that,' he said quickly. 'Yes, I
admit the possibility of her being alive, to please you.'
She looked at him in utter perplexity. The words could only have
been said in jest, and yet they seemed to savour of a tone the
furthest remove from jesting. There was his face plain to her eyes, but no information of any kind was to be read there.
'It is only natural that I should be curious,' she murmured
pettishly, 'if I resemble her as much as you say I do.'
'You are handsomer,' he said, 'though you are about her own height
and size. But don't worry yourself. You must know that you are
body and soul united with me, though you are but my housekeeper.'
She bridled a little at the remark. 'Wife,' she said, 'most
certainly wife, since you cannot dismiss me without losing your
character and position, and incurring heavy penalties.'
'I own it--it was well said, though mistakenly--very mistakenly.'
'Don't riddle to me about mistakenly and such dark things. Now what
was your motive, dearest, in running the risk of having me here?'
'Your beauty,' he said.
'She thanks you much for the compliment, but will not take it. Come, what was your motive?'