‘Certainly, madam,’ he said, slowly, like a man feeling his way in the dark.  Manston was utterly at fault now.  His previous experience of the effect of his form and features upon womankind en masse, had taught him to flatter himself that he could account by the same law of natural selection for the extraordinary interest Miss Aldclyffe had hitherto taken in him, as an unmarried man; an interest he did not at all object to, seeing that it kept him near Cytherea, and enabled him, a man of no wealth, to rule on the estate as if he were its lawful owner.  Like Curius at his Sabine farm, he had counted it his glory not to possess gold himself, but to have power over her who did.  But at this hint of the lady’s wish to take his wife under her wing also, he was perplexed:  could she have any sinister motive in doing so?  But he did not allow himself to be troubled with these doubts, which only concerned his wife’s happiness.

‘She tells me,’ continued Miss Aldclyffe, ’how utterly alone in the world she stands, and that is an additional reason why I should sympathize with her.  Instead, then, of requesting the favour of your retirement from the post, and dismissing your interests altogether, I will retain you as my steward still, on condition that you bring home your wife, and live with her respectably, in short, as if you loved her; you understand.  I wish you to stay here if you grant that everything shall flow smoothly between yourself and her.’

The breast and shoulders of the steward rose, as if an expression of defiance was about to be poured forth; before it took form, he controlled himself and said, in his natural voice—­

‘My part of the performance shall be carried out, madam.’

’And her anxiety to obtain a standing in the world ensures that hers will,’ replied Miss Aldclyffe.  ‘That will be satisfactory, then.’

After a few additional remarks, she gently signified that she wished to put an end to the interview.  The steward took the hint and retired.

He felt vexed and mortified; yet in walking homeward he was convinced that telling the whole truth as he had done, with the single exception of his love for Cytherea (which he tried to hide even from himself), had never served him in better stead than it had done that night.

Manston went to his desk and thought of Cytherea’s beauty with the bitterest, wildest regret.  After the lapse of a few minutes he calmed himself by a stoical effort, and wrote the subjoined letter to his wife:—­

’KNAPWATER,
November 21, 1864.

’DEAR EUNICE,—­I hope you reached London safely after your flighty visit to me.

’As I promised, I have thought over our conversation that night, and your wish that your coming here should be no longer delayed.  After all, it was perfectly natural that you should have spoken unkindly as you did, ignorant as you were of the circumstances which bound me.