The path the man had taken led, among other places, to Tolchurch, where Cytherea was living.

If Mrs. Manston was murdered, as some said, on the night of the fire, Cytherea was the steward’s lawful wife.  Manston at bay, and reckless of results, might rush to his wife and harm her.

It was a horrible supposition for a man who loved Cytherea to entertain; but Springrove could not resist its influence.  He started off for Tolchurch.

2.  ONE TO TWO O’CLOCK P.M.

On that self-same mid-day, whilst Edward was proceeding to Tolchurch by the footpath across the fields, Owen Graye had left the village and was riding along the turnpike road to the county-town, that he might ascertain the exact truth of the strange rumour which had reached him concerning Manston.  Not to disquiet his sister, he had said nothing to her of the matter.

She sat by the window reading.  From her position she could see up the lane for a distance of at least a hundred yards.  Passers-by were so rare in this retired nook, that the eyes of those who dwelt by the wayside were invariably lifted to every one on the road, great and small, as to a novelty.

A man in a brown smock-frock turned the corner and came towards the house.  It being market-day at Casterbridge, the village was nearly deserted, and more than this, the old farm-house in which Owen and his sister were staying, stood, as has been stated, apart from the body of cottages.  The man did not look respectable; Cytherea arose and bolted the door.

Unfortunately he was near enough to see her cross the room.  He advanced to the door, knocked, and, receiving no answer, came to the window; he next pressed his face against the glass, peering in.

Cytherea’s experience at that moment was probably as trying a one as ever fell to the lot of a gentlewoman to endure.  She recognized in the peering face that of the man she had married.

But not a movement was made by her, not a sound escaped her.  Her fear was great; but had she known the truth—­that the man outside, feeling he had nothing on earth to lose by any act, was in the last stage of recklessness, terrified nature must have given way.

‘Cytherea,’ he said, ‘let me come in:  I am your husband.’

‘No,’ she replied, still not realizing the magnitude of her peril.  ‘If you want to speak to us, wait till my brother comes.’

’O, he’s not at home?  Cytherea, I can’t live without you!  All my sin has been because I love you so!  Will you fly with me?  I have money enough for us both—­only come with me.’

‘Not now—­not now.’

‘I am your husband, I tell you, and I must come in.’

‘You cannot,’ she said faintly.  His words began to terrify her.

‘I will, I say!’ he exclaimed.  ’Will you let me in, I ask once more?’

‘No—­I will not,’ said Cytherea.

‘Then I will let myself in!’ he answered resolutely.  ’I will, if I die for it!’