‘No, I mustn’t go back now,’ she continued, in a tone of resignation. Seeing that the porter was watching her, she turned about and came on as before, giving vent to a slight laugh. It was a laugh full of character; the low forced laugh which seeks to hide the painful perception of a humiliating position under the mask of indifference. Altogether her conduct had shown her to be what in fact she was, a weak, though a calculating woman, one clever to conceive, weak to execute: one whose best-laid schemes were for ever liable to be frustrated by the ineradicable blight of vacillation at the critical hour of action. ‘O, if I had only known that all this was going to happen!’ she murmured again, as they paced along upon the rustling leaves. ‘What did you say, ma’am?’ said the porter. ‘O, nothing particular; we are getting near the old manor-house by this time, I imagine?’ ‘Very near now, ma’am.’ They soon reached Manston’s residence, round which the wind blew mournfully and chill. Passing under the detached gateway, they entered the porch. The porter stepped forward, knocked heavily and waited. Nobody came. Mrs. Manston then advanced to the door and gave a different series of rappings--less forcible, but more sustained. There was not a movement of any kind inside, not a ray of light visible; nothing but the echo of her own knocks through the passages, and the dry scratching of the withered leaves blown about her feet upon the floor of the porch. The steward, of course, was not at home. Mrs. Crickett, not expecting that anybody would arrive till the time of the later train, had set the place in order, laid the supper-table, and then locked the door, to go into the village and converse with her friends. ‘Is there an inn in the village?’ said Mrs. Manston, after the fourth and loudest rapping upon the iron-studded old door had resulted only in the fourth and loudest echo from the passages inside. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ ‘Who keeps it?’ ‘Farmer Springrove.’ ‘I will go there to-night,’ she said decisively. ‘It is too cold, and altogether too bad, for a woman to wait in the open road on anybody’s account, gentle or simple.’ They went down the park and through the gate, into the village of Carriford. By the time they reached the Three Tranters, it was verging upon ten o’clock. There, on the spot where two months earlier in the season the sunny and lively group of villagers making cider under the trees had greeted Cytherea’s eyes, was nothing now intelligible but a vast cloak of darkness, from which came the low sough of the elms, and the occasional creak of the swinging sign. They went to the door, Mrs. Manston shivering; but less from the cold, than from the dreariness of her emotions. Neglect is the coldest of winter winds.