MR. JAMES CONYERS.
The first week in July brought James Conyers, the new trainer, to
Mellish Park. John had made no particular inquiries as to the man's
character of any of his former employers, as a word from Mr. Pastern
was all-sufficient.
Mr. Mellish had endeavoured to discover the cause of Aurora's agitation
at the reading of John Pastern's letter. She had fallen like a dead
creature at his feet; she had been hysterical throughout the remainder
of the day, and delirious in the ensuing night, but she had not uttered
one word calculated to throw any light upon the secret of her strange
manifestation of emotion.
Her husband sat by her bedside upon the day after that on which she had
fallen into the death-like swoon; watching her with a grave, anxious
face, and earnest eyes that never wandered from her own.
He was suffering very much the same agony that Talbot Bulstrode had
endured at Felden on the receipt of his mother's letter. The dark wall
was slowly rising and separating him from the woman he loved. He was
now to discover the tortures known only to the husband whose wife is
parted from him by that which has more power to sever than any width of
land or wide extent of ocean--_a secret_.
He watched the pale face lying on the pillow; the large, black,
haggard eyes, wide open, and looking blankly out at the faraway purple
tree-tops in the horizon; but there was no clue to the mystery in
any line of that beloved countenance; there was little more than an
expression of weariness, as if the soul, looking out of that white
face, was so utterly enfeebled as to have lost all power to feel
anything but a vague yearning for rest.
The wide casement windows were open, but the day was hot and
oppressive--oppressively still and sunny; the landscape sweltering
under a yellow haze, as if the very atmosphere had been opaque with
molten gold. Even the roses in the garden seemed to feel the influence
of the blazing summer sky, dropping their heavy heads like human
sufferers from headache. The mastiff Bow-wow, lying under an acacia
upon the lawn, was as peevish as any captious elderly gentleman, and
snapped spitefully at a frivolous butterfly that wheeled, and spun,
and threw somersaults about the dog's head. Beautiful as was this
summer's day, it was one on which people are apt to lose their tempers,
and quarrel with each other, by reason of the heat; every man feeling
a secret conviction that his neighbour is in some way to blame for
the sultriness of the atmosphere, and that it would be cooler if he
were out of the way. It was one of those days on which invalids are
especially fractious, and hospital nurses murmur at their vocation;
a day on which third-class passengers travelling long distances by
excursion train are savagely clamorous for beer at every station, and
hate each other for the narrowness and hardness of the carriage seats,
and for the inadequate means of ventilation provided by the railway
company; a day on which stern business men revolt against the ceaseless
grinding of the wheel, and, suddenly reckless of consequences, rush
wildly to the Crown and Sceptre, to cool their overheated systems with
water souchy and still hock; an abnormal day, upon which the machinery
of every-day life gets out of order, and runs riot throughout twelve
suffocating hours.
John Mellish, sitting patiently by his wife's side, thought very little
of the summer weather. I doubt if he knew whether the month was January
or June. For him earth only held one creature, and she was ill and in
distress--distress from which he was powerless to save her--distress
the very nature of which he was ignorant.
His voice trembled when he spoke to her.
"My darling, you have been very ill," he said.
She looked at him with a smile so unlike her own that it was more
painful to him to see than the loudest agony of tears, and stretched
out her hand. He took the burning hand in his, and held it while he
talked to her.
"Yes, dearest, you have been ill; but Morton says the attack was merely
hysterical, and that you will be yourself again to-morrow, so there's
no occasion for anxiety on that score. What grieves me, darling, is to
see that there is something on your mind; something which has been the
real cause of your illness."
She turned her face upon the pillow, and tried to snatch her hand from
his in her impatience, but he held it tightly in both his own.
"Does my speaking of yesterday distress you, Aurora?" he asked gravely.
"Distress me? Oh, no!"
"Then tell me, darling, why the mention of that man, the trainer's
name, had such a terrible effect upon you."
"The doctor told you that the attack was hysterical," she said coldly;
"I suppose I was hysterical and nervous yesterday."
"But the name, Aurora, the name. This James Conyers--who is he?"
He felt the hand he held tighten convulsively upon his own, as he
mentioned the trainer's name.
"Who is this man? Tell me, Aurora. For God's sake, tell me the truth."
She turned her face towards him once more, as he said this.
"If you only want the truth from me, John, you must ask me nothing.
Remember what I said to you at the Château d'Arques. It was a secret
that parted me from Talbot Bulstrode. You trusted me then, John,--you
must trust me to the end; if you cannot trust me----" she stopped
suddenly, and the tears welled slowly up to her large, mournful eyes,
as she looked at her husband.
"What, dearest?"
"We must part; as Talbot and I parted."
"Part!" he cried; "my love, my love! Do you think there is anything
upon this earth strong enough to part us, except death? Do you think
that any combination of circumstances, however strange, however
inexplicable, would ever cause me to doubt your honour; or to tremble
for my own? Could I be here if I doubted you? could I sit by your side,
asking you these questions, if I feared the issue? Nothing shall shake
my confidence; nothing can. But have pity on me; think how bitter a
grief it is to sit here, with your hand in mine, and to know that there
is a secret between us. Aurora, tell me,--this man, this Conyers,--what
is he, and who is he?"
"You know that as well as I do. A groom once; afterwards a jockey; and
now a trainer."
"But you know him?"
"I have seen him."
"When?"
"Some years ago, when he was in my father's service."
John Mellish breathed more freely for a moment. The man had been a
groom at Felden Woods, that was all. This accounted for the fact of
Aurora's recognizing his name; but not for her agitation. He was no
nearer the clue to the mystery than before.
"James Conyers was in your father's service," he said thoughtfully;
"but why should the mention of his name yesterday have caused you such
emotion?"
"I cannot tell you."
"It is another secret, then, Aurora," he said reproachfully; "or has
this man anything to do with the old secret of which you told me at the
Château d'Arques?"
She did not answer him.
"Ah, I see; I understand, Aurora," he added, after a pause. "This man
was a servant at Felden Woods; a spy, perhaps; and he discovered the
secret, and traded upon it, as servants often have done before. This
caused your agitation at hearing his name. You were afraid that he
would come here and annoy you, making use of this secret to extort
money, and keeping you in perpetual terror of him. I think I can
understand it all. I am right; am I not?"
She looked at him with something of the expression of a hunted animal
that finds itself at bay.
"Yes, John."
"This man--this groom--knows something of--of the secret."
"He does."
John Mellish turned away his head, and buried his face in his hands.
What cruel anguish! what bitter degradation! This man, a groom, a
servant, was in the confidence of his wife; and had such power to
harass and alarm her, that the very mention of his name was enough to
cast her to the earth, as if stricken by sudden death. What, in the
name of heaven, could this secret be, which was in the keeping of a
servant, and yet could not be told to him? He bit his lip till his
strong teeth met upon the quivering flesh, in the silent agony of that
thought. What could it be? He had sworn, only a minute before, to trust
in her blindly to the end; and yet, and yet---- His massive frame shook
from head to heel in that noiseless struggle; doubt and despair rose
like twin-demons in his soul; but he wrestled with them, and overcame
them; and, turning with a white face to his wife, said quietly--
"I will press these painful questions no further, Aurora. I will write
to Pastern, and tell him that the man will not suit us; and----"
He was rising to leave her bedside, when she laid her hand upon his arm.
"Don't write to Mr. Pastern, John," she said; "the man will suit you
very well, I dare say. I had rather he came."
"You wish him to come here?"
"Yes."
"But he will annoy you; he will try to extort money from you."
"He would do that in any case, since he is alive. I thought that he was
dead."
"Then you really wish him to come here?"
"I do."
John Mellish left his wife's room inexpressibly relieved. The secret
could not be so very terrible after all, since she was willing that
the man who knew it should come to Mellish Park; where there was at
least a remote chance of his revealing it to her husband. Perhaps,
after all, this mystery involved others rather than herself,--her
father's commercial integrity--her mother? He had heard very little of
that mother's history; perhaps she----Pshaw! why weary himself with
speculative surmises? He had promised to trust her, and the hour had
come in which he was called upon to keep his promise. He wrote to Mr.
Pastern, accepting his recommendation of James Conyers, and waited
rather impatiently to see what kind of man the trainer was.
He received a letter from Conyers, very well written and worded, to the
effect that he would arrive at Mellish Park upon the 3rd of July.
Aurora had recovered from her brief hysterical attack when this letter
arrived; but as she was still weak and out of spirits, her medical
man recommended change of air; so Mr. and Mrs. Mellish drove off to
Harrogate upon the 28th of June, leaving Mrs. Powell behind them at the
Park.
The ensign's widow had been scrupulously kept out of Aurora's room
during her short illness; being held at bay by John, who coolly shut
the door in the lady's sympathetic face, telling her that he'd wait
upon his wife himself, and that when he wanted female assistance he
would ring for Mrs. Mellish's maid.
Now Mrs. Walter Powell, being afflicted with that ravenous curiosity
common to people who live in other people's houses, felt herself deeply
injured by this line of conduct. There were mysteries and secrets
afloat, and she was not to be allowed to discover them; there was a
skeleton in the house, and she was not to anatomize the bony horror.
She scented trouble and sorrow as carnivorous animals scent their prey;
and yet she who hated Aurora was not to be allowed to riot at the
unnatural feast.
Why is it that the dependents in a household are so feverishly
inquisitive about the doings and sayings, the manners and customs,
the joys and sorrows, of those who employ them? Is it that, having
abnegated for themselves all active share in life, they take an
unhealthy interest in those who are in the thick of the strife? Is
it because, being cut off in a great measure by the nature of their
employment from family ties and family pleasures, they feel a malicious
delight in all family trials and vexations, and the ever-recurring
breezes which disturb the domestic atmosphere? Remember this, husbands
and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, brothers and
sisters, when you quarrel. _Your servants enjoy the fun._ Surely
that recollection ought to be enough to keep you for ever peaceful
and friendly. Your servants listen at your doors, and repeat your
spiteful speeches in the kitchen, and watch you while they wait at
table, and understand every sarcasm, every innuendo, every look, as
well as those at whom the cruel glances and the stinging words are
aimed. They understand your sulky silence, your studied and over-acted
politeness. The most polished form your hate and anger can take is as
transparent to those household spies as if you threw knives at each
other, or pelted your enemy with the side-dishes and vegetables, after
the fashion of disputants in a pantomime. Nothing that is done in
the parlour is lost upon these quiet, well-behaved watchers from the
kitchen. They laugh at you; nay worse, they pity you. They discuss your
affairs, and make out your income, and settle what you can afford to
do and what you can't afford to do; they prearrange the disposal of
your wife's fortune, and look prophetically forward to the day when you
will avail yourself of the advantages of the new Bankruptcy Act. They
know why you live on bad terms with your eldest daughter, and why your
favourite son was turned out of doors; and they take a morbid interest
in every dismal secret of your life. You don't allow them followers;
you look blacker than thunder if you see Mary's sister or John's poor
old mother sitting meekly in your hall; you are surprised if the
postman brings them letters, and attribute the fact to the pernicious
system of over-educating the masses; you shut them from their homes and
their kindred, their lovers and their friends; you deny them books, you
grudge them a peep at your newspaper; and then you lift up your eyes
and wonder at them because they are inquisitive, and because the staple
of their talk is scandal and gossip.
Mrs. Walter Powell, having been treated by most of her employers, as a
species of upper servant, had acquired all the instincts of a servant;
and she determined to leave no means untried in order to discover the
cause of Aurora's illness, which the doctor had darkly hinted to her
had more to do with the mind than the body.
John Mellish had ordered a carpenter to repair the lodge at the north
gate, for the accommodation of James Conyers; and John's old trainer,
Langley, was to receive his colleague and introduce him to the stables.
The new trainer made his appearance at the lodge-gates in the glowing
July sunset; he was accompanied by no less a person than Steeve
Hargraves the "Softy," who had been lurking about the station upon the
look out for a job, and who had been engaged by Mr. Conyers to carry
his portmanteau.
To the surprise of the trainer, Stephen Hargraves set down his burden
at the park gates.
"You'll have to find some one else to carry it th' rest 't' ro-ad," he
said, touching his greasy cap, and extending his broad palm to receive
the expected payment.
Mr. James Conyers was rather a dashing fellow, with no small amount of
that quality which is generally termed "swagger," so he turned sharply
round upon the "Softy" and asked him what the devil he meant.
"I mean that I mayn't go inside yon geates," muttered Stephen
Hargraves; "I mean that I've been toorned oot of yon pleace that I've
lived in, man and boy, for forty year,--toorned oot like a dog, neck
and crop."
Mr. Conyers threw away the stump of his cigar and stared superciliously
at the "Softy."
"What does the man mean?" he asked of the woman who had opened the
gates.
"Why, poor fellow, he's a bit fond, sir, and him and Mrs. Mellish
didn't get on very well: she has a rare spirit, and I _have_ heard that
she horsewhipped him for beating her favourite dog. Any ways, master
turned him out of his service."
"Because my lady had horsewhipped him. Servants'-hall justice all the
world over," said the trainer, laughing, and lighting a second cigar
from a metal fusee-box in his waistcoat pocket.
"Yes, that's joostice, aint it?" the "Softy" said eagerly. "You
wouldn't like to be toorned oot of a pleace as you'd lived in forty
year, would you? But Mrs. Mellish has a rare spirit, bless her pretty
feace!"
The blessing enunciated by Mr. Stephen Hargraves had such a very
ominous sound, that the new trainer, who was evidently a shrewd,
observant fellow, took his cigar from his mouth on purpose to stare
at him. The white face, lighted up by a pair of red eyes with a dim
glimmer in them, was by no means the most agreeable of countenances;
but Mr. Conyers looked at the man for some moments, holding him by
the collar of his coat in order to do so with more deliberation: then
pushing the "Softy" away with an affably contemptuous gesture, he said,
laughing--
"You're a character, my friend, it strikes me; and not too safe a
character either. I'm dashed if I should like to offend you. There's
a shilling for your trouble, my man," he added tossing the money into
Steeve's extended palm with careless dexterity.
"I suppose I can leave my portmanteau here till to-morrow, ma'am?" he
said, turning to the woman at the lodge. "I'd carry it down to the
house myself if I wasn't lame."
He was such a handsome fellow, and had such an easy, careless manner,
that the simple Yorkshire woman was quite subdued by his fascinations.
"Leave it here, sir, and welcome," she said, curtsying, "and my master
shall take it to the house for you as soon as he comes in. Begging your
pardon, sir, but I suppose you're the new gentleman that's expected in
the stables?"
"Precisely."
"Then I was to tell you, sir, that they've fitted up the north
lodge for you: but you was to please go straight to the house, and
the housekeeper was to make you comfortable and give you a bed for
to-night."
Mr. Conyers nodded, thanked her, wished her good night, and limped
slowly away, through the shadows of the evening, and under the
shelter of the over-arching trees. He stepped aside from the broad
carriage-drive on to the dewy turf that bordered it, choosing the
softest, mossiest places with a sybarite's instinct. Look at him as he
takes his slow way under those glorious branches, in the holy stillness
of the summer sunset, his face sometimes lighted by the low, lessening
rays, sometimes darkened by the shadows of the leaves above his head.
He is wonderfully handsome--wonderfully and perfectly handsome--the
very perfection of physical beauty; faultless in proportion, as if each
line in his face and form had been measured by the sculptor's rule, and
carved by the sculptor's chisel. He is a man about whose beauty there
can be no dispute, whose perfection servant-maids and duchesses must
alike confess--albeit they are not bound to admire; yet it is rather a
sensual type of beauty, this splendour of form and colour, unallied to
any special charm of expression. Look at him now, as he stops to rest,
leaning against the trunk of a tree, and smoking his big cigar with
easy enjoyment. He is thinking. His dark-blue eyes, deeper in colour by
reason of the thick black lashes which fringe them, are half closed,
and have a dreamy, semi-sentimental expression, which might lead you
to suppose the man was musing upon the beauty of the summer sunset.
He is thinking of his losses on the Chester Cup, the wages he is to
get from John Mellish, and the perquisites likely to appertain to the
situation. You give him credit for thoughts to match with his dark,
violet-hued eyes, and the exquisite modelling of his mouth and chin;
you give him a mind as æsthetically perfect as his face and figure, and
you recoil on discovering what a vulgar, every-day sword may lurk under
that beautiful scabbard. Mr. James Conyers is, perhaps, no worse than
other men of his station; but he is decidedly no better. He is only
very much handsomer; and you have no right to be angry with him because
his opinions and sentiments are exactly what they would have been if he
had had red hair and a pug nose. With what wonderful wisdom has George
Eliot told us that people are not any better because they have long
eyelashes! Yet it must be that there is something anomalous in this
outward beauty and inward ugliness; for, in spite of all experience,
we revolt against it, and are incredulous to the last, believing that
the palace which is outwardly so splendid can scarcely be ill furnished
within. Heaven help the woman who sells her heart for a handsome
face, and awakes when the bargain has been struck, to discover the
foolishness of such an exchange!
It took Mr. Conyers a long while to walk from the lodge to the house. I
do not know how, technically, to describe his lameness. He had fallen,
with his horse, in the Prussian steeple-chase, which had so nearly
cost him his life, and his left leg had been terribly injured. The
bones had been set by wonderful German surgeons, who put the shattered
leg together as if it had been a Chinese puzzle, but who, with all
their skill, could not prevent the contraction of the sinews, which
had left the jockey lamed for life, and no longer fit to ride in any
race whatever. He was of the middle height, and weighed something
over eleven stone, and had never ridden except in Continental
steeple-chases.
Mr. James Conyers paused a few paces from the house, and gravely
contemplated the irregular pile of buildings before him.
"A snug crib," he muttered; "plenty of tin hereabouts, I should think,
from the look of the place."
Being ignorant of the geography of the neighbourhood, and being,
moreover, by no means afflicted by an excess of modesty, Mr. Conyers
went straight to the principal door, and rang the bell sacred to
visitors and the family.
He was admitted by a grave old man-servant, who, after deliberately
inspecting his brown shooting-coat, coloured shirt-front, and felt hat,
asked him, with considerable asperity, what he was pleased to want.
Mr. Conyers explained that he was the new trainer, and that he wished
to see the housekeeper; but he had hardly finished doing so, when a
door in an angle of the hall was softly opened, and Mrs. Walter Powell
peeped out of the snug little apartment sacred to her hours of privacy.
"Perhaps the young man will be so good as to step in here," she said,
addressing herself apparently to space, but indirectly to James Conyers.
The young man took off his hat, uncovering a mass of luxuriant brown
curls, and limped across the hall in obedience to Mrs. Powell's
invitation.
"I dare say I shall be able to give you any information you require."
James Conyers smiled, wondering whether the bilious-looking party, as
he mentally designated Mrs. Powell, could give him any information
about the York Summer Meeting; but he bowed politely, and said he
merely wanted to know where he was to hang out--he stopped and
apologized--where he was to sleep that night, and whether there were
any letters for him. But Mrs. Powell was by no means inclined to
let him off so cheaply. She set to work to pump him, and laboured
so assiduously that she soon exhausted that very small amount of
intelligence which he was disposed to afford her, being perfectly aware
of the process to which he was subjected, and more than equal to the
lady in dexterity. The ensign's widow, therefore, ascertained little
more than that Mr. Conyers was a perfect stranger to John Mellish and
his wife, neither of whom he had ever seen.
Having failed to gain much by this interview, Mrs. Powell was anxious
to bring it to a speedy termination.
"Perhaps you would like a glass of wine after your walk?" she said;
"I'll ring for some, and I can inquire at the same time about your
letters. I dare say you are anxious to hear from the relatives you have
left at home."
Mr. Conyers smiled for the second time. He had neither had a home nor
any relatives to speak of, since the most infantine period of his
existence; but had been thrown upon the world a sharp-witted adventurer
at seven or eight years old. The "relatives" for whose communication
he was looking out so eagerly were members of the humbler class of
book-men with whom he did business.
The servant despatched by Mrs. Powell returned with a decanter of
sherry and about half a dozen letters for Mr. Conyers.
"You'd better bring the lamp, William," said Mrs. Powell, as the man
left the room; "for I'm sure you'll never be able to read your letters
by this light," she added politely to Mr. Conyers.
The fact was, that Mrs. Powell, afflicted by that diseased curiosity of
which I have spoken, wanted to know what kind of correspondents these
were whose letters the trainer was so anxious to receive, and sent for
the lamp in order that she might get the full benefit of any scraps of
information to be got at by rapid glances and dexterously stolen peeps.
The servant brought a brilliant camphine-lamp, and Mr. Conyers, not at
all abashed by Mrs. Powell's condescension, drew his chair close to the
table, and after tossing off a glass of sherry, settled himself to the
perusal of his letters.
The ensign's widow, with some needlework in her hand, sat directly
opposite to him at the small round table, with nothing but the pedestal
of the lamp between them.
James Conyers took up the first letter, examined the superscription
and seal, tore open the envelope, read the brief communication upon
half a sheet of note-paper, and thrust it into his waistcoat-pocket.
Mrs. Powell, using her eyes to the utmost, saw nothing but a few lines
in a scratchy plebeian handwriting, and a signature which, seen at a
disadvantage upside-down, didn't look unlike "Johnson." The second
envelope contained only a tissue-paper betting-list; the third held a
dirty scrap of paper with a few words scrawled in pencil; but at sight
of the uppermost envelope of the remaining three Mr. James Conyers
started as if he had been shot. Mrs. Powell looked from the face of
the trainer to the superscription of the letter, and was scarcely less
surprised than Mr. Conyers. The superscription was in the handwriting
of Aurora Mellish.
It was a peculiar hand; a hand about which there could be no mistake;
not an elegant Italian hand, sloping, slender, and feminine, but large
and bold, with ponderous up-strokes and down-strokes, easy to recognize
at a greater distance than that which separated Mrs. Powell from the
trainer. There was no room for any doubt. Mrs. Mellish had written to
her husband's servant, and the man was evidently familiar with her
hand, yet surprised at receiving her letter.
He tore open the envelope, and read the contents eagerly twice over,
frowning darkly as he read.
Mrs. Powell suddenly remembered that she had left part of her
needlework upon a cheffonier behind the young man's chair, and rose
quietly to fetch it. He was so much engrossed by the letter in his
hand that he was not aware of the pale face which peered for one brief
moment over his shoulder, as the faded, hungry eyes stole a glance at
the writing on the page.
The letter was written on the first side of a sheet of note-paper, with
only a few words carried over to the second page. It was this second
page which Mrs. Powell saw. The words written at the top of the leaf
were these:--"Above all, _express no surprise_.--A."
There was no ordinary conclusion to the letter; no other signature than
this big capital A.