AURORA'S FLIGHT.
Mrs. Mellish sat in her husband's room on the morning of the inquest,
amongst the guns and fishing-rods, the riding-boots and hunting-whips,
and all the paraphernalia of sportsmanship. She sat in a capacious
wicker-work arm-chair, close to the open window, with her head lying
back upon the chintz-covered cushions, and her eyes wandering far away
across the lawn and flower-beds towards the winding pathway by which
it was likely John Mellish would return from the inquest at the Golden
Lion.
She had openly defied Mrs. Powell, and had locked the door of this
quiet chamber upon that lady's stereotyped civilities and sympathetic
simperings. She had locked the door upon the outer world, and she sat
alone in the pleasant window, the full-blown roses showering their
scented petals upon her lap with every breath of the summer breeze, and
the butterflies hovering about her. The old mastiff sat by her side,
with his heavy head lying on her lap, and his big dim eyes lifted to
her face. She sat alone, I have said; but Heaven knows she was not
companionless. Black care and corroding anxiety kept her faithful
company, and would not budge from her side. What companions are so
adhesive as trouble and sorrow? what associates so tenacious, what
friends so watchful and untiring? This wretched girl stood alone in the
centre of a sea of troubles, fearful to stretch out her hands to those
who loved her, lest she should drag them into that ocean which was
rising to overwhelm her.
"Oh, if I could suffer alone!" she thought; "if I could suffer all
this misery alone, I think I would go through it to the last without
complaining; but the shame, the degradation, the anguish, will come
upon others more heavily than upon me. What will they not suffer? what
will they not endure, if the wicked madness of my youth should become
known to the world?"
Those others, of whose possible grief and shame she thought with
such cruel torture, were her father and John Mellish. Her love
for her husband had not lessened by one iota her love for that
indulgent father, on whom the folly of her girlhood had brought such
bitter suffering. Her generous heart was wide enough for both. She
had acknowledged no "divided duty," and would have repudiated any
encroachment of the new affection upon the old. The great river of her
love widened into an ocean, and embraced a new shore with its mighty
tide; but that far-away source of childhood, from which affection first
sprang in its soft infantine purity, still gushed in crystal beauty
from its unsullied spring. She would perhaps scarcely have recognized
the coldly-measured affection of mad Lear's youngest daughter--the
affection which could divide itself with mathematical precision between
father and husband. Surely love is too pure a sentiment to be so
weighed in the balance. Must we subtract something from the original
sum when we are called upon to meet a new demand? or has not affection
rather some magic power by which it can double its capital at any
moment when there is a run upon the bank? When Mrs. John Anderson
becomes the mother of six children, she does not say to her husband,
"My dear John, I shall be compelled to rob you of six-tenths of my
affection in order to provide for the little ones." No; the generous
heart of the wife grows larger to meet the claims upon the mother, as
the girl's heart expanded with the new affection of the wife. Every
pang of grief which Aurora felt for her husband's misery was doubled by
the image of her father's sorrow. She could not divide these two in her
own mind. She loved them, and was sorry for them, with an equal measure
of love and sorrow.
"If--if the truth should be discovered at this inquest," she thought,
"I can never see my husband again; I can never look in his face any
more. I will run away to the end of the world, and hide myself from him
for ever."
She had tried to capitulate with her fate; she had endeavoured to
escape the full measure of retribution, and she had failed. She had
done evil that good might come of it, in the face of that command which
says that all such evil-doing shall be wasted sin, useless iniquity.
She had deceived John Mellish in the hope that the veil of deception
might never be rent in twain, that the truth might be undiscovered
to the end, and the man she loved spared from cruel shame and grief.
But the fruits of that foolish seed, sown long ago in the day of her
disobedience, had grown up around her and hedged her in upon every
side, and she had been powerless to cut a pathway for herself through
the noxious weeds that her own hands had planted.
She sat with her watch in her hand, and her eyes wandered every now
and then from the gardens before her to the figures on the dial. John
Mellish had left the house at a little after nine o'clock, and it was
now nearly two. He had told her that the inquest would be over in a
couple of hours, and that he would hurry home directly it was finished,
to tell her the result. What would be the result of that inquest? What
inquiries might be made? what evidence might, by some unhappy accident,
be produced to compromise or to betray her? She sat in a dull stupor,
waiting to receive her sentence. What would it be? Condemnation or
release? _If_ her secret should escape detection, if James Conyers
should be allowed to carry the story of his brief married life to the
grave, what relief, what release for the wretched girl, whose worst sin
had been to mistake a bad man for a good one; the ignorant trustfulness
of a child who is ready to accept any shabby pilgrim for an exiled
nobleman or a prince in disguise!
It was half-past two, when she was startled by the sound of a shambling
footstep upon the gravelled pathway underneath the verandah. The
footstep slowly shuffled on for a few paces; then paused, then shuffled
on again; and at last a face that she hated made itself visible at the
angle of the window, opposite to that against which she sat. It was the
white face of the "Softy," which was poked cautiously forward a few
inches within the window-frame. The mastiff sprang up with a growl, and
made as if he would have flown at that ugly leering face, which looked
like one of the hideous decorations of a Gothic building; but Aurora
caught the animal's collar with both her hands, and dragged him back.
"Be quiet, Bow-wow," she said; "quiet, boy,--quiet."
She still held him with one firm hand, soothing him with the other.
"What do you want?" she asked, turning upon the "Softy" with a cold
icy grandeur of disdain, which made her look like Nero's wife defying
her false accusers. "What do you want with me? Your master is dead, and
you have no longer an excuse for coming here. You have been forbidden
the house and the grounds. If you forget this another time, I shall
request Mr. Mellish to remind you."
She lifted her disengaged hand and laid it upon the window-sash; she
was going to draw it down, when Stephen Hargraves stopped her.
"Don't be in such a hoory," he said; "I want to speak to you. I've coom
straight from th' inquest. I thought you might want to know all about
it. I coom out o' friendliness, though you did pay into me with th'
horsewhip."
Aurora's heart beat tempestuously against her aching breast. Ah! what
hard duty that poor heart had done lately! what icy burdens it had
borne, what horrible oppression of secrecy and terror had weighed upon
it, crushing out all hope and peace! An agony of suspense and dread
convulsed that tortured heart as the "Softy" tempted her, tempted her
to ask him the issue of the inquest, that she might receive from his
lips the sentence of life or death. She little knew how much of her
secret this man had discovered; but she knew that he hated her, and
that he suspected enough to know his power of torturing her.
She lifted her proud head and looked at him with a steady glance of
defiance. "I have told you that your presence is disagreeable," she
said. "Stand aside, and let me shut the window."
The "Softy" grinned insolently, and holding the window-frame with one
of his broad hands, put his head into the room. Aurora rose to leave
the window; but he laid the other hand upon her wrist, which shrunk
instinctively from contact with his hard horny palm.
"I tell you I've got summat particklar to say to you," he whispered.
"You shall hear all about it. I was one of th' witnesses at th'
inquest, and I've been hanging about ever since, and I know everything."
Aurora flung her head back disdainfully, and tried to wrench her wrist
from that strong grasp.
"Let me go!" she said. "You shall suffer for this insolence when Mr.
Mellish returns."
"But he won't be back just yet awhile," said the "Softy," grinning.
"He's gone back to the Golden Lion. Th' coroner and Mr. Lofthouse, th'
parson, sent for him to tell him summat--_summat about you!_" hissed
Mr. Stephen Hargraves, with his dry white lips close to Aurora's ear.
"What do you mean?" cried Mrs. Mellish, still writhing in the "Softy's"
grasp, still restraining her dog from flying at him with her disengaged
hand; "what do you mean?"
"I mean what I say," answered Steeve Hargraves; "I mean that it's all
found out. They know everything; and they've sent for Mr. Mellish to
tell him. They've sent for him to tell him what you was to him that's
dead."
A low wail broke from Aurora's lips. She had expected to hear this,
perhaps; she had, at any rate, dreaded it; she had only fought against
receiving the tidings from this man; but he had conquered her; he had
conquered her as the dogged obstinate nature, however base, however
mean, will always conquer the generous and impulsive soul. He had
secured his revenge, and had contrived to be the witness of her
agony. He released her wrist as he finished speaking, and looked at
her--looked at her with an insolently triumphant leer in his small
eyes.
She drew herself up, proudly still, proudly and bravely in spite of
all, but with her face changed--changed from its former expression of
restless pain to the dull blankness of despair.
"They found th' certificate," said the "Softy." "He'd carried it about
with him, sewed up in's waistco-at."
The certificate! Heaven have pity upon her girlish ignorance! She had
never thought of that; she had never remembered that miserable scrap
of paper which was the legal evidence of her folly. She had dreaded
the presence of that husband who had arisen, as if from the grave,
to pursue and torment her; but she had forgotten that other evidence
of the parish register, which might also arise against her at any
moment. She had feared the finding of something--some letter--some
picture--some accidental record amongst the possessions of the murdered
man; but she had never thought of this most conclusive evidence, this
most incontrovertible proof. She put her hand to her head, trying
to realize the full horror of her position. The certificate of her
marriage with her father's groom was in the hands of John Mellish.
"What will he think of me?" she thought. "How would he ever believe
me if I were to tell him that I had received what I thought positive
evidence of James Conyers's death a year before my second marriage? How
_could_ he believe in me? I have deceived him too cruelly to dare to
ask his confidence."
She looked about, trying to collect herself, trying to decide upon what
she ought to do, and in her bewilderment and agony forgot for a moment
the greedy eyes which were gloating upon her misery. But she remembered
herself presently, and turning sternly upon Stephen Hargraves, spoke to
him with a voice which was singularly clear and steady.
"You have told me all that you have to tell," she said; "be so good as
to get out of the way while I shut the window."
The "Softy" drew back and allowed her to close the sashes; she bolted
the window, and drew down the Venetian blind, effectually shutting out
her spy, who crept away slowly and reluctantly towards the shrubbery,
through which he could make his way safely out of the grounds.
"I've paid her out," he muttered, as he shambled off under the shelter
of the young trees; "I've paid her out pretty tidy. It's almost better
than money," he said, laughing silently--"it's almost better than money
to pay off them kind of debts."
Aurora seated herself at John Mellish's desk, and wrote a few hurried
lines upon a sheet of paper that lay uppermost amongst letters and
bills.
"My dear Love,"--she wrote,--"I cannot remain here to see you after
the discovery which has been made to-day. I am a miserable coward; and
I cannot meet your altered looks, I cannot hear your altered voice. I
have no hope that you can have any other feeling for me than contempt
and loathing. But on some future day, when I am far away from you, and
the bewilderment of my present misery has grown less, I will write and
explain everything. Think of me mercifully, if you can; and if you
can believe that, in the wicked concealments of the last few weeks,
the mainspring of my conduct has been my love for you, you will only
believe the truth. God bless you, my best and truest. The pain of
leaving you for ever is less than the pain of knowing that you had
ceased to love me. Good-bye."
She lighted a taper, and sealed the envelope which contained this
letter.
"The spies who hate and watch me shall not read this," she thought, as
she wrote John's name upon the envelope.
She left the letter upon the desk, and, rising from her seat, looked
round the room,--looked with a long lingering gaze, that dwelt on each
familiar object. How happy she had been amongst all that masculine
litter! how happy with the man she had believed to be her husband! how
innocently happy before the coming down of that horrible storm-cloud
which had overwhelmed them both! She turned away with a shudder.
"I have brought disgrace and misery upon all who have loved me," she
thought. "If I had been less cowardly,--if I had told the truth,--all
this might have been avoided, if I had confessed the truth to Talbot
Bulstrode."
She paused at the mention of that name.
"I will go to Talbot," she thought. "He is a good man. I will go to
him; I shall have no shame now in telling him all. He will advise me
what to do; he will break this discovery to my poor father."
Aurora had dimly foreseen this misery when she had spoken to Lucy
Bulstrode at Felden; she had dimly foreseen a day in which all would be
discovered, and she would fly to Lucy to ask for a shelter.
She looked at her watch.
"A quarter past three," she said. "There is an express that leaves
Doncaster at five. I could walk the distance in the time."
She unlocked the door, and ran up-stairs to her own rooms. There was no
one in the dressing-room; but her maid was in the bedroom, arranging
some dresses in a huge wardrobe.
Aurora selected her plainest bonnet and a large gray cloak, and quietly
put them on before the cheval glass in one of the pretty French
windows. The maid, busy with her own work, did not take any particular
notice of her mistress's actions; for Mrs. Mellish was accustomed to
wait upon herself, and disliked any officious attention.
"How pretty the rooms look!" Aurora thought, with a weary sigh; "how
simple and countrified! It was for _me_ that the new furniture was
chosen,--for me that the bath-room and conservatory were built."
She looked through the vista of brightly-carpeted rooms.
Would they ever seem as cheerful as they had once done to their master?
Would he still occupy them, or would he lock the doors, and turn his
back upon the old house in which he had lived such an untroubled life
for nearly two-and-thirty years?
"My poor boy, my poor boy!" she thought. "Why was I ever born to bring
such sorrow upon him?"
There was no egotism in her sorrow for his grief. She knew that he had
loved her, and she knew that his parting would be the bitterest agony
of his life; but in the depth of mortification which her own womanly
pride had undergone, she could not look beyond the present shame of the
discovery made that day, to a future of happiness and release.
"He will believe that I never loved him," she thought. "He will believe
that he was the dupe of a designing woman, who wished to regain the
position she had lost. What will he not think of me that is base and
horrible?"
The face which she saw in the glass was very pale and rigid; the large
dark eyes dry and lustrous, the lips drawn tightly down over the white
teeth.
"I look like a woman who could cut her throat in such a crisis as
this," she thought. "How often I have wondered at the desperate deeds
done by women! I shall never wonder again."
She unlocked her dressing-case, and took a couple of bank-notes and
some loose gold from one of the drawers. She put these in her purse,
gathered her cloak about her, and walked towards the door.
She paused on the threshold to speak to her maid, who was still busy in
the inner room.
"I am going into the garden, Parsons," she said; "tell Mr. Mellish that
there is a letter for him in his study."
The room in which John kept his boots and racing accounts was called a
"study" by the respectful household.
The dog Bow-wow lifted himself lazily from his tiger-skin rug as
Aurora crossed the hall, and came sniffing about her, and endeavoured
to follow her out of the house. But she ordered him back to his rug,
and the submissive animal obeyed her, as he had often done in his
youth, when his young mistress used to throw her doll into the water at
Felden, and send the faithful mastiff to rescue that fair-haired waxen
favourite. He obeyed her now, but a little reluctantly; and he watched
her suspiciously as she descended the flight of steps before the door.
She walked at a rapid pace across the lawn, and into the shrubbery,
going steadily southwards, though by that means she made her journey
longer; for the north lodge lay towards Doncaster. In her way through
the shrubbery she met two people, who walked closely side by side,
engrossed in a whispering conversation, and who both started and
changed countenance at seeing her. These two people were the "Softy"
and Mrs. Powell.
"So," she thought, as she passed this strangely-matched pair, "my two
enemies are laying their heads together to plot my misery. It is time
that I left Mellish Park."
She went out of a little gate, leading into some meadows. Beyond these
meadows there was a long shady lane that led behind the house to
Doncaster. It was a path rarely chosen by any of the household at the
Park, as it was the longest way to the town.
Aurora stopped at about a mile from the house which had been her own,
and looked back at the picturesque pile of building, half hidden under
the luxuriant growth of a couple of centuries.
"Good-bye, dear home, in which I was an impostor and a cheat," she
said; "good-bye, for ever and for ever, my own dear love."
While Aurora uttered these few words of passionate farewell, John
Mellish lay upon the sun-burnt grass, staring absently at the still
water-pools under the gray sky,--pitying her, praying for her, and
forgiving her from the depth of his honest heart.