MR. PASTERN'S LETTER.
Mr. John Mellish reserved to himself one room upon the ground-floor
of his house: a cheerful, airy apartment, with French windows opening
upon the lawn; windows that were sheltered from the sun by a verandah
overhung with jessamine and roses. It was altogether a pleasant room
for the summer season, the floor being covered with an India matting
instead of a carpet, and many of the chairs being made of light
basket-work. Over the chimney-piece hung a portrait of John's father,
and opposite to this work of art there was the likeness of the deceased
gentleman's favourite hunter, surmounted by a pair of brightly polished
spurs, the glistening rowels of which had often pierced the sides of
that faithful steed. In this chamber Mr. Mellish kept his whips, canes,
foils, single-sticks, boxing-gloves, spurs, guns, pistols, powder and
shot flasks, fishing-tackle, boots, and tops; and many happy mornings
were spent by the master of Mellish Park in the pleasing occupation
of polishing, repairing, inspecting, and otherwise setting in order,
these possessions. He had as many pairs of hunting-boots as would have
supplied half Leicestershire--with tops to match. He had whips enough
for all the Melton Hunt. Surrounded by these treasures, as it were in a
temple sacred to the deities of the race-course and the hunting-field,
Mr. John Mellish used to hold solemn audiences with his trainer and his
head-groom upon the business of the stable.
It was Aurora's custom to peep into this chamber perpetually, very much
to the delight and distraction of her adoring husband, who found the
black eyes of his divinity a terrible hindrance to business; except,
indeed, when he could induce Mrs. Mellish to join in the discussion
upon hand, and lend the assistance of her powerful intellect to the
little conclave. I believe that John thought she could have handicapped
the horses for the Chester Cup as well as Mr. Topham himself. She was
such a brilliant creature, that every little smattering of knowledge
she possessed appeared to such good account as to make her seem an
adept in any subject of which she spoke; and the simple Yorkshireman
believed in her as the wisest as well as the noblest and fairest of
women.
Mr. and Mrs. Mellish returned to Yorkshire immediately after Lucy's
wedding. Poor John was uneasy about his stables; for his trainer was a
victim to chronic rheumatism, and Mr. Pastern had not as yet made any
communication respecting the young man of whom he had spoken on the
Stand at York.
"I shall keep Langley," John said to Aurora, speaking of his old
trainer; "for he's an honest fellow, and his judgment will always be
of use to me. He and his wife can still occupy the rooms over the
stables; and the new man, whoever he may be, can live in the lodge on
the north side of the Park. Nobody ever goes in at that gate; so the
lodge-keeper's post is a sinecure, and the cottage has been shut up for
the last year or two. I wish John Pastern would write."
"And I wish whatever you wish, my dearest life," Aurora said dutifully
to her happy slave.
Very little had been heard of Steeve Hargraves, the "Softy," since
the day upon which John Mellish had turned him neck and crop out of
his service. One of the grooms had seen him in a little village close
to the Park, and Stephen had informed the man that he was getting his
living by doing odd jobs for the doctor of the parish, and looking
after that gentleman's horse and gig; but the "Softy" had seemed
inclined to be sulky, and had said very little about himself or his
sentiments. He made very particular inquiries, though, about Mrs.
Mellish, and asked so many questions as to what Aurora did and said,
where she went, whom she saw, and how she agreed with her husband,
that at last the groom, although only a simple country lad, refused to
answer any more interrogatories about his mistress.
Steeve Hargraves rubbed his coarse, sinewy hands, and chuckled as he
spoke of Aurora.
"She's a rare proud one,--a regular high-spirited lady," he said, in
that whispering voice that always sounded strange. "She laid it on
to me with that riding-whip of hers; but I bear no malice--I bear no
malice. She's a beautiful creature, and I wish Mr. Mellish joy of his
bargain."
The groom scarcely knew how to take this, not being fully aware if
it was intended as a compliment or an impertinence. So he nodded to
the "Softy," and strode off, leaving him still rubbing his hands
and whispering about Aurora Mellish, who had long ago forgotten her
encounter with Mr. Stephen Hargraves.
How was it likely that she should remember him, or take heed of him?
How was it likely that she should take alarm because the pale-faced
widow, Mrs. Walter Powell, sat by her hearth and hated her? Strong in
her youth and beauty, rich in her happiness, sheltered and defended
by her husband's love, how should she think of danger? How should she
dread misfortune? She thanked God every day that the troubles of her
youth were past, and that her path in life led henceforth through
smooth and pleasant places, where no perils could come.
Lucy was at Bulstrode Castle, winning upon the affections of her
husband's mother, who patronized her daughter-in-law with lofty
kindness, and took the blushing timorous creature under her sheltering
wing. Lady Bulstrode was very well satisfied with her son's choice.
He might have done better, certainly, as to position and fortune,
the lady hinted to Talbot; and in her maternal anxiety, she would
have preferred his marrying any one rather than the cousin of that
Miss Floyd who ran away from school, and caused such a scandal at the
Parisian seminary. But Lady Bulstrode's heart warmed to Lucy, who was
so gentle and humble, and who always spoke of Talbot as if he had been
a being far "too bright and good," &c., much to the gratification of
her ladyship's maternal vanity.
"She has a very proper affection for you, Talbot," Lady Bulstrode said,
"and, for so young a creature, promises to make an excellent wife; far
better suited to you, I am sure, than her cousin could ever have been."
Talbot turned fiercely upon his mother, very much to the lady's
surprise.
"Why will you be for ever bringing Aurora's name into the question,
mother?" he cried. "Why cannot you let her memory rest? You parted us
for ever,--you and Constance,--and is not that enough? She is married,
and she and her husband are a very happy couple. A man might have
a worse wife than Mrs. Mellish, I can tell you; and John seems to
appreciate her value in his rough way."
"You need not be so violent, Talbot," Lady Bulstrode said, with
offended dignity. "I am very glad to hear that Miss Floyd has altered
since her school-days, and I hope that she may continue to be a good
wife," she added, with an emphasis which insinuated that she had no
very great hopes of the continuance of Mr. Mellish's happiness.
"My poor mother is offended with me," Talbot thought, as Lady Bulstrode
swept out of the room. "I know I am an abominable bear, and that nobody
will ever truly love me so long as I live. My poor little Lucy loves
me after her fashion; loves me in fear and trembling, as if she and I
belonged to different orders of beings; very much as the flying woman
must have loved my countryman, Peter Wilkins, I think. But, after all,
perhaps my mother is right, and my gentle little wife is better suited
to me than Aurora would have been."
So we dismiss Talbot Bulstrode for a while, moderately happy, and yet
not quite satisfied. What mortal ever was _quite_ satisfied in this
world? It is a part of our earthly nature always to find something
wanting, always to have a vague, dull, ignorant yearning which cannot
be appeased. Sometimes, indeed, we are happy; but in our wildest
happiness we are still unsatisfied, for it seems then as if the cup of
joy were too full, and we grow cold with terror at the thought that,
even because of its fulness, it may possibly be dashed to the ground.
What a mistake this life would be, what a wild feverish dream, what an
unfinished and imperfect story, if it were not a prelude to something
better! Taken by itself, it is all trouble and confusion; but taking
the future as the keynote of the present, how wondrously harmonious
the whole becomes! How little does it signify that our joys here are
not complete, our wishes not fulfilled, if the completion and the
fulfilment are to come hereafter!
Little more than a week after Lucy's wedding, Aurora ordered her
horse immediately after breakfast, upon a sunny summer morning, and,
accompanied by the old groom who had ridden behind John's father, went
out on an excursion amongst the villages round Mellish Park, as it was
her habit to do once or twice a week.
The poor in the neighbourhood of the Yorkshire mansion had good reason
to bless the coming of the banker's daughter. Aurora loved nothing
better than to ride from cottage to cottage, chatting with the simple
villagers, and finding out their wants. She never found the worthy
creatures very remiss in stating their necessities, and the housekeeper
at Mellish Park had enough to do in distributing Aurora's bounties
amongst the cottagers who came to the servants' hall with pencil orders
from Mrs. Mellish. Mrs. Walter Powell sometimes ventured to take Aurora
to task on the folly and sinfulness of what she called indiscriminate
almsgiving; but Mrs. Mellish would pour such a flood of eloquence upon
her antagonist, that the ensign's widow was always glad to retire from
the unequal contest. Nobody had ever been able to argue with Archibald
Floyd's daughter. Impulsive and impetuous, she had always taken her own
course, whether for weal or woe, and nobody had been strong enough to
hinder her.
Returning on this lovely June morning from one of these charitable
expeditions, Mrs. Mellish dismounted from her horse at a little
turnstile leading into the wood, and ordered the groom to take the
animal home.
"I have a fancy for walking through the wood, Joseph," she said;
"it's such a lovely morning. Take care of Mazeppa; and if you see Mr.
Mellish, tell him that I shall be home directly."
The man touched his hat, and rode off, leading Aurora's horse.
Mrs. Mellish gathered up the folds of her habit, and strolled slowly
into the wood, under whose shadow Talbot Bulstrode and Lucy had
wandered on that eventful April day which sealed the young lady's fate.
Now Aurora had chosen to ramble homewards through this wood because,
being thoroughly happy, the warm gladness of the summer weather filled
her with a sense of delight which she was loth to curtail. The drowsy
hum of the insects, the rich colouring of the woods, the scent of
wild-flowers, the ripple of water,--all blended into one delicious
whole, and made the earth lovely.
There is something satisfactory, too, in the sense of possession; and
Aurora felt, as she looked down the long avenues, and away through
distant loopholes in the wood to the wide expanse of park and lawn,
and the picturesque, irregular pile of building beyond, half Gothic,
half Elizabethan, and so lost in a rich tangle of ivy and bright
foliage as to be beautiful at every point,--she felt, I say, that all
the fair picture was her own, or her husband's, which was the same
thing. She had never for one moment regretted her marriage with John
Mellish. She had never, as I have said already, been inconstant to him
by one thought.
In one part of the wood the ground rose considerably; so that the
house, which lay low, was distinctly visible whenever there was a break
in the trees. This rising ground was considered the prettiest spot in
the wood, and here a summer-house had been erected: a fragile, wooden
building, which had fallen into decay of late years, but which was
still a pleasant resting-place upon a summer's day, being furnished
with a wooden table and a broad bench, and sheltered from the sun and
wind by the lower branches of a magnificent beech. A few paces away
from this summer-house there was a pool of water, the surface of which
was so covered with lilies and tangled weeds as to have beguiled a
short-sighted traveller into forgetfulness of the danger beneath.
Aurora's way led her past this spot, and she started with a momentary
sensation of terror on seeing a man lying asleep by the side of the
pool. She quickly recovered herself, remembering that John allowed the
public to use the footpath through the wood; but she started again when
the man, who must have been a bad sleeper to be aroused by her light
footstep, lifted his head, and displayed the white face of the "Softy."
He rose slowly from the ground upon seeing Mrs. Mellish, and crawled
away, looking at her as he went, but not making any acknowledgment of
her presence.
Aurora could not repress a brief terrified shudder; it seemed as if her
footfall had startled some viperish creature, some loathsome member of
the reptile race, and scared it from its lurking-place.
Steeve Hargraves disappeared amongst the trees as Mrs. Mellish walked
on, her head proudly erect, but her cheek a shade paler than before
this unexpected encounter with the "Softy."
Her joyous gladness in the bright summer's day had forsaken her as
suddenly as she had met Stephen Hargraves; that bright smile, which
was even brighter than the morning sunshine, faded out, and left her
face unnaturally grave.
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "how foolish I am! I am actually afraid
of that man,--afraid of that pitiful coward who could hurt my feeble
old dog. As if such a creature as that could do one any mischief!"
Of course this was very wisely argued, as no coward ever by any chance
worked any mischief upon this earth since the Saxon prince was stabbed
in the back while drinking at his kinswoman's gate, or since brave King
John and his creature plotted together what they should do with the
little boy Arthur.
Aurora walked slowly across the lawn towards that end of the house at
which the apartment sacred to Mr. Mellish was situated. She entered
softly at the open window, and laid her hand upon John's shoulder, as
he sat at a table covered with a litter of account-books, racing-lists,
and disorderly papers.
He started at the touch of the familiar hand.
"My darling, I'm so glad you've come in. How long you've been!"
She looked at her little jewelled watch. Poor John had loaded her
with trinkets and gewgaws. His chief grief was that she was a wealthy
heiress, and that he could give her nothing but the adoration of his
simple, honest heart.
"Only half-past one, you silly old John," she said. "What made you
think me late?"
"Because I wanted to consult you about something, and to tell you
something. Such good news!"
"About what?"
"About the trainer."
She shrugged her shoulders, and pursed up her red lips with a
bewitching little gesture of indifference.
"Is that all?" she said.
"Yes; but aint you glad we've got the man at last--the very man to suit
us, I think? Where's John Pastern's letter?"
Mr. Mellish searched amongst the litter of papers upon the table, while
Aurora, leaning against the framework of the open window, watched him,
and laughed at his embarrassment.
She had recovered her spirits, and looked the very picture of careless
gladness as she leaned in one of those graceful and unstudied
attitudes peculiar to her, supported by the framework of the window,
and with the trailing jessamine waving round her in the soft summer
breeze. She lifted her ungloved hand, and gathered the roses above her
head as she talked to her husband.
"You most disorderly and unmethodical of men," she said, laughing; "I
wouldn't mind betting five to one you won't find it."
I'm afraid that Mr. Mellish muttered an oath as he tossed about the
heterogeneous mass of papers in his search for the missing document.
"I had it five minutes before you came in, Aurora," he said, "and now
there's not a sign of it----Oh, here it is!"
Mr. Mellish unfolded the letter, and, smoothing it out upon the table
before him, cleared his throat preparatory to reading the epistle.
Aurora still leaned against the window-frame, half in and half out of
the room, singing a snatch of a popular song, and trying to gather an
obstinate half-blown rose which grew provokingly out of reach.
"You're attending, Aurora?"
"Yes, dearest and best."
"But do come in. You can't hear a word there."
Aurora shrugged her shoulders, as who should say, "I submit to the
command of a tyrant," and advanced a couple of paces from the window;
then looking at John with an enchantingly insolent toss of her head,
she folded her hands behind her, and told him she would "be good."
She was a careless, impetuous creature, dreadfully forgetful of what
Mrs. Walter Powell called her "responsibilities;" every mortal thing
by turns, and never any one thing for two minutes together; happy,
generous, affectionate; taking life as a glorious summer's holiday, and
thanking God for the bounty which made it so pleasant to her.
Mr. John Pastern began his letter with an apology for having so long
deferred writing. He had lost the address of the person he had wished
to recommend, and had waited until the man wrote to him a second time.
"I think he will suit you very well," the letter went on to say, "as
he is well up in his business, having had plenty of experience, as
groom, jockey, and trainer. He is only thirty years of age, but met
with an accident some time since, which lamed him for life. He was half
killed in a steeple-chase in Prussia, and was for upwards of a year
in a hospital at Berlin. His name is James Conyers, and he can have a
character from----"
The letter dropped out of John Mellish's hand as he looked up at his
wife. It was not a scream which she had uttered. It was a gasping cry,
more terrible to hear than the shrillest scream that ever came from the
throat of woman in all the long history of womanly distress.
"Aurora! Aurora!"
He looked at her, and his own face changed and whitened at the sight
of hers. So terrible a transformation had come over her during the
reading of that letter, that the shock could not have been greater had
he looked up and seen another person in her place.
"It's wrong; it's wrong!" she cried hoarsely; "you've read the name
wrong. It can't be that!"
"What name?"
"What name?" she echoed fiercely, her face flaming up with a wild
fury,--"that name! I tell you, it _can't_ be. Give me the letter."
He obeyed her mechanically, picking up the paper and handing it to her,
but never removing his eyes from her face.
She snatched it from him; looked at it for a few moments, with her eyes
dilated and her lips apart; then, reeling back two or three paces, her
knees bent under her, and she fell heavily to the ground.