The steward's confession, aided by circumstantial evidence of various kinds, was the means of freeing both Anne Seaway and Miss Aldclyffe from all suspicion of complicity with the murderer.
2. SIX O'CLOCK P.M.
It was evening--just at sunset--on the day of Manston's death.
In the cottage at Tolchurch was gathered a group consisting of Cytherea, her brother, Edward Springrove, and his father. They sat by the window conversing of the strange events which had just taken place. In Cytherea's eye there beamed a hopeful ray, though her face was as white as a lily.
Whilst they talked, looking out at the yellow evening light that coated the hedges, trees, and church tower, a brougham rolled round the corner of the lane, and came in full view. It reflected the rays of the sun in a flash from its polished panels as it turned the angle, the spokes of the wheels bristling in the same light like bayonets. The vehicle came nearer, and arrived opposite Owen's door, when the driver pulled the rein and gave a shout, and the panting and sweating horses stopped.
'Miss Aldclyffe's carriage!' they all exclaimed.
Owen went out. 'Is Miss Graye at home?' said the man. 'A note for her, and I am to wait for an answer.'
Cytherea read in the handwriting of the Rector of Carriford:--'DEAR MISS GRAYE,--Miss Aldclyffe is ill, though not dangerously.
She continually repeats your name, and now wishes very much to see you. If you possibly can, come in the carriage.--Very sincerely yours, JOHN RAUNHAM.'
'How comes she ill?' Owen inquired of the coachman.
'She caught a violent cold by standing out of doors in the damp, on the night the steward ran away. Ever since, till this morning, she complained of fulness and heat in the chest. This morning the maid ran in and told her suddenly that Manston had killed himself in gaol--she shrieked--broke a blood-vessel--and fell upon the floor.
Severe internal haemorrhage continued for some time and then stopped. They say she is sure to get over it; but she herself says no. She has suffered from it before.'
Cytherea was ready in a few moments, and entered the carriage.
3. SEVEN O'CLOCK P.M.
Soft as was Cytherea's motion along the corridors of Knapwater House, the preternaturally keen intelligence of the suffering woman caught the maiden's well-known footfall. She entered the sick-chamber with suspended breath.
In the room everything was so still, and sensation was as it were so rarefied by solicitude, that thinking seemed acting, and the lady's weak act of trying to live a silent wrestling with all the powers of the universe. Nobody was present but Mr. Raunham, the nurse having left the room on Cytherea's entry, and the physician and surgeon being engaged in a whispered conversation in a side-chamber. Their patient had been pronounced out of danger.
Cytherea went to the bedside, and was instantly recognized. O, what a change--Miss Aldclyffe dependent upon pillows! And yet not a forbidding change. With weakness had come softness of aspect: the haughtiness was extracted from the frail thin countenance, and a sweeter mild placidity had taken its place.
Miss Aldclyffe signified to Mr. Raunham that she would like to be alone with Cytherea.
'Cytherea?' she faintly whispered the instant the door was closed.
Cytherea clasped the lady's weak hand, and sank beside her.
Miss Aldclyffe whispered again. 'They say I am certain to live; but I know that I am certainly going to die.'
'They know, I think, and hope.'
'I know best, but we'll leave that. Cytherea--O Cytherea, can you forgive me!'
Her companion pressed her hand.
'But you don't know yet--you don't know yet,' the invalid murmured.
'It is forgiveness for that misrepresentation to Edward Springrove that I implore, and for putting such force upon him--that which caused all the train of your innumerable ills!'
'I know all--all. And I do forgive you. Not in a hasty impulse that is revoked when coolness comes, but deliberately and sincerely: as I myself hope to be forgiven, I accord you my forgiveness now.'
Tears streamed from Miss Aldclyffe's eyes, and mingled with those of her young companion, who could not restrain hers for sympathy.
Expressions of strong attachment, interrupted by emotion, burst again and again from the broken-spirited woman.
'But you don't know my motive. O, if you only knew it, how you would pity me then!'
Cytherea did not break the pause which ensued, and the elder woman appeared now to nerve herself by a superhuman effort. She spoke on in a voice weak as a summer breeze, and full of intermission, and yet there pervaded it a steadiness of intention that seemed to demand firm tones to bear it out worthily.
'Cytherea,' she said, 'listen to me before I die.
'A long time ago--more than thirty years ago--a young girl of seventeen was cruelly betrayed by her cousin, a wild officer of six-and-twenty. He went to India, and died.
'One night when that miserable girl had just arrived home with her parents from Germany, where her baby had been born, she took all the money she possessed, pinned it on her infant's bosom, together with a letter, stating, among other things, what she wished the child's Christian name to be; wrapped up the little thing, and walked with it to Clapham. Here, in a retired street, she selected a house.
She placed the child on the doorstep and knocked at the door, then ran away and watched. They took it up and carried it indoors.
