THE DISCOVERY OF THE WEAPON WITH WHICH JAMES CONYERS HAD BEEN SLAIN.
Mr. and Mrs. Mellish returned to the house in which they had been so
happy; but it is not to be supposed that the pleasant country mansion
could be again, all in a moment, the home that it had been before the
advent of James Conyers the trainer, and the acting of the tragedy that
had so abruptly concluded his brief service.
No; every pang that Aurora had felt, every agony that John had
endured, had left a certain impress upon the scene in which it had
been suffered. The subtle influences of association hung heavily about
the familiar place. We are the slaves of such associations, and we are
powerless to stand against their silent force. Scraps of colour and
patches of gilding upon the walls will bear upon them, as plainly as
if they were covered with hieroglyphical inscriptions, the shadows
of the thoughts of those who have looked upon them. Transient and
chance effects of light or shade will recall the same effects, seen
and observed--as Fagin observed the broken spike upon the guarded
dock--in some horrible crisis of misery and despair. The commonest
household goods and chattels will bear mute witness of your agonies:
an easy-chair will say to you, "It was upon me you cast yourself in
that paroxysm of rage and grief;" the pattern of a dinner-service may
recall to you that fatal day on which you pushed your food untasted
from you, and turned your face, like grief-stricken King David, to
the wall. The bed you lay upon, the curtains that sheltered you, the
pattern of the paper on the walls, the common every-day sounds of the
household, coming muffled and far-away to that lonely room in which
you hid yourself,--all these bear record of your sorrow, and of that
hideous double action of the mind which impresses these things most
vividly upon you at the very time when it would seem they should be
most indifferent.
But every sorrow, every pang of wounded love, or doubt, or jealousy, or
despair, is a fact--a fact once, and a fact for ever; to be outlived,
but very rarely to be forgotten; leaving such an impress upon our lives
as no future joys can quite wear out. The murder has been done, and
the hands are red. The sorrow has been suffered; and however beautiful
Happiness may be to us, she can never be the bright virginal creature
she once was; for she has passed through the valley of the shadow of
death, and we have discovered that she is not immortal.
It is not to be expected, then, that John Mellish and his wife Aurora
could feel quite the same in the pretty chambers of the Yorkshire
mansion as they had felt before the first shipwreck of their happiness.
They had been saved from peril and destruction, and landed, by the
mercy of Providence, high and dry upon the shore that seemed to promise
them pleasure and security henceforth. But the memory of the tempest
was yet new to them; and upon the sands that were so smooth to-day
they had seen yesterday the breakers beating with furious menace, and
hurrying onward to destroy them.
The funeral of the trainer had not yet taken place, and it was scarcely
a pleasant thing for Mr. Mellish to remember that the body of the
murdered man still lay, stark and awful, in the oak coffin that stood
upon trestles in the rustic chamber at the north lodge.
"I'll pull that place down, Lolly," John said, as he turned away from
an open window, through which he could see the Gothic chimneys of the
trainer's late habitation glimmering redly above the trees. "I'll
pull the place down, my pet. The gates are never used, except by the
stable-boys; I'll knock them down, and the lodge too, and build some
loose boxes for the brood-mares with the materials. And we'll go away
to the south of France, darling, and run across to Italy, if you like,
and forget all about this horrid business."
"The funeral will take place to-morrow, John, will it not?" Aurora
asked.
"To-morrow, dear!--to-morrow is Wednesday, you know. It was upon
Thursday night that----"
"Yes, yes," she answered, interrupting him. "I know; I know."
She shuddered as she spoke, remembering the ghastly circumstances of
the night to which he alluded; remembering how the dead man had stood
before her, strong in health and vitality, and had insolently defied
her hatred. Away from Mellish Park, she had only remembered that the
burden of her life had been removed from her, and that she was free.
But here--here upon the scene of the hideous story--she recollected the
manner of her release; and that memory oppressed her even more terribly
than her old secret, her only sorrow.
She had never seen or known in this man, who had been murdered, one
redeeming quality, one generous thought. She had known him as a liar, a
schemer, a low and paltry swindler, a selfish spendthrift, extravagant
to wantonness upon himself, but meaner than words could tell towards
others; a profligate, a traitor, a glutton, a drunkard. This is what
she had found behind her school-girl's fancy for a handsome face, for
violet-tinted eyes, and soft-brown curling hair. Do not call her hard,
then, if sorrow had no part in the shuddering horror she felt as she
conjured up the image of him in his death-hour, and saw the glazing
eyes turned angrily upon her. She was little more than twenty; and it
had been her fate always to take the wrong step, always to be misled
by the vague finger-posts upon life's high-road, and to choose the
longest, and crookedest, and hardest way towards the goal she sought to
reach.
Had she, upon the discovery of her first husband's infidelity, called
the law to her aid,--she was rich enough to command its utmost help,
though Sir Cresswell Cresswell did not then keep the turnpike upon such
a royal road to divorce as he does now,--she might have freed herself
from the hateful chains so foolishly linked together, and might have
defied this dead man to torment or assail her.
But she had chosen to follow the counsel of expediency, and it had
led her upon the crooked way through which I have striven to follow
her. I feel that there is much need of apology for her. Her own hands
had sown the dragon's teeth, from whose evil seed had sprung up armed
men, strong enough to rend and devour her. But then, if she had been
faultless, she could not have been the heroine of this story; for I
think some wise man of old remarked, that the perfect women were those
who left no histories behind them, but went through life upon such a
tranquil course of quiet well-doing as left no footprints on the sands
of time; only mute records hidden here and there, deep in the grateful
hearts of those who had been blest by them.
The presence of the dead man within the boundary of Mellish Park made
itself felt throughout the household that had once been such a jovial
one. The excitement of the catastrophe had passed away, and only the
dull gloom remained--a sense of oppression not to be cast aside. It
was felt in the servants' hall, as well as in Aurora's luxurious
apartments. It was felt by the butler as well as by the master. No
worse deed of violence than the slaughter of an unhappy stag, who
had rushed for a last refuge to the Mellish Park flower-garden, and
had been run down by furious hounds upon the velvet lawn, had ever
before been done within the boundary of the young squire's home. The
house was an old one, and had stood, gray and ivy-shrouded, through
the perilous days of civil war. There were secret passages, in which
loyal squires of Mellish Park had hidden from ferocious Roundheads
bent upon riot and plunder. There were broad hearth-stones, upon which
sturdy blows had been given and exchanged by strong men in leathern
jerkins and clumsy iron-heeled boots; but the Royalist Mellish had
always ultimately escaped,--up a chimney, or down a cellar, or behind
a curtain of tapestry; and the wicked Praise-the-Lord Thompsons, and
Smiter-of-the-Philistines Joneses, had departed after plundering the
plate-chest and emptying the wine-barrels. There had never before been
set upon the place in which John Mellish had first seen the light, the
red hand of MURDER.
It was not strange, then, that the servants sat long over their
meals, and talked in solemn whispers of the events of the past week.
There was more than the murder to talk about. There was the flight
of Mrs. Mellish from beneath her husband's roof upon the very day of
the inquest. It was all very well for John to give out that his wife
had gone up to town upon a visit to her cousin, Mrs. Bulstrode. Such
ladies as Mrs. Mellish do not go upon visits without escort, without a
word of notice, without the poorest pretence of bag and baggage. No;
the mistress of Mellish Park had fled away from her home under the
influence of some sudden panic. Had not Mrs. Powell said as much, or
hinted as much? for when did that lady-like creature ever vulgarize her
opinions by stating them plainly? The matter was obvious. Mr. Mellish
had taken, no doubt, the wisest course: he had pursued his wife and
had brought her back, and had done his best to hush up the matter; but
Aurora's departure had been a flight,--a sudden and unpremeditated
flight.
The lady's-maid,--ah, how many handsome dresses, given to her by a
generous mistress, lay neatly folded in the girl's boxes on the second
story!--told how Aurora had come to her room, pale and wild-looking,
and had dressed herself unassisted for that hurried journey, upon the
day of the inquest. The girl liked her mistress, loved her, perhaps;
for Aurora had a wondrous and almost dangerous faculty for winning
the love of those who came near her; but it was so pleasant to have
something to say about this all-absorbing topic, and to be able to make
oneself a feature in the solemn conclave. At first they had talked
only of the murdered man, speculating upon his life and history, and
building up a dozen theoretical views of the murder. But the tide had
turned now, and they talked of their mistress; not connecting her in
any positive or openly expressed manner with the murder, but commenting
upon the strangeness of her conduct, and dwelling much upon those
singular coincidences by which she had happened to be roaming in the
park upon the night of the catastrophe, and to run away from her home
on the day of the inquest.
"It _was_ odd, you know," the cook said; "and them black-eyed women are
generally regular spirity ones. _I_ shouldn't like to offend Master
John's wife. Do you remember how she paid into t' 'Softy'?"
"But there was naught o' sort between her and the trainer, was there?"
asked some one.
"I don't know about that. But 'Softy' said she hated him like poison,
and that there was no love lost between 'em."
But why should Aurora have hated the dead man? The ensign's widow had
left the sting of her venom behind her, and had suggested to these
servants, by hints and innuendos, something so far more base and
hideous than the truth, that I will not sully these pages by recording
it. But Mrs. Powell had of course done this foul thing without the
utterance of one ugly word that could have told against her gentility,
had it been repeated aloud in a crowded drawing-room. She had only
shrugged her shoulders, and lifted her straw-coloured eyebrows, and
sighed half regretfully, half deprecatingly; but she had blasted the
character of the woman she hated as shamefully as if she had uttered a
libel too gross for Holywell Street. She had done a wrong that could
only be undone by the exhibition of the blood-stained certificate
in John's keeping, and the revelation of the whole story connected
with that fatal scrap of paper. She had done this before packing her
boxes; and she had gone away from the house that had sheltered her,
well-pleased at having done this wrong; and comforting herself yet
further by the intention of doing more mischief through the medium of
the penny post.
It is not to be supposed that the Manchester paper, which had caused
so serious a discussion in the humble parlour of the Crooked Rabbit,
had been overlooked in the servants' hall at Mellish Park. The
Manchester journals were regularly forwarded to the young squire
from that metropolis of cotton-spinning and horse-racing; and the
mysterious letter in the 'Guardian' had been read and commented upon.
Every creature in that household, from the fat housekeeper, who had
kept the keys of the store-room through nearly three generations, to
the rheumatic trainer, Langley, had a certain interest in the awful
question. A nervous footman turned pale as that passage was read which
declared that the murder had been committed by some member of the
household; but I think there were some younger and more adventurous
spirits--especially a pretty housemaid, who had seen the thrilling
drama of 'Susan Hopley' performed at the Doncaster theatre during the
spring meeting--who would have rather liked to be accused of the crime,
and to emerge spotless and triumphant from the judicial ordeal, through
the evidence of an idiot, or a magpie, or a ghost, or some other
witness common and popular in criminal courts.
Did Aurora know anything of all this? No; she only knew that a dull
and heavy sense of oppression in her own breast made the very summer
atmosphere floating in at the open windows seem stifling and poisonous;
that the house, which had once been so dear to her, was as painfully
and perpetually haunted by the ghastly presence of the murdered man, as
if the dead trainer had stalked palpably about the corridors wrapped
in a blood-stained winding-sheet.
She dined with her husband alone in the great dining-room. They were
very silent at dinner, for the presence of the servants sealed their
lips upon the topic that was uppermost in their minds. John looked
anxiously at his wife every now and then, for he saw that her face had
grown paler since her arrival at Mellish; but he waited until they were
alone before he spoke.
"My darling," he said, as the door closed behind the butler and his
subordinate, "I am sure you are ill. This business has been too much
for you."
"It is the air of this house that seems to oppress me, John," answered
Aurora. "I had forgotten all about this dreadful business while I was
away. Now that I have come back, and find that the time which has been
so long to me--so long in misery and anxiety, and so long in joy, my
own dear love, through you--is in reality only a few days, and that the
murdered man still lies near us, I--; I shall be better when--when the
funeral is over, John."
"My poor darling, I was a fool to bring you back. I should never have
done so, but for Talbot's advice. He urged me so strongly to come back
directly. He said that if there should be any disturbance about the
murder, we ought to be upon the spot."
"Disturbance! What disturbance?" cried Aurora.
Her face blanched as she spoke, and her heart sank within her. What
further disturbance could there be? Was the ghastly business as yet
unfinished, then? She knew--alas! only too well--that there could be no
investigation of this matter which would not bring her name before the
world linked with the name of the dead man. How much she had endured
in order to keep that shameful secret from the world! How much she had
sacrificed in the hope of saving her father from humiliation! And now,
at the last, when she had thought that the dark chapter of her life was
finished, the hateful page blotted out,--now, at the very last, there
was a probability of some new disturbance which would bring her name
and her history into every newspaper in England.
"Oh, John, John!" she cried, bursting into a passion of hysterical
sobs, and covering her face with her clasped hands; "am I never to hear
the last of this? Am I never, never, never to be released from the
consequences of my miserable folly?"
The butler entered the room as she said this; she rose hurriedly, and
walked to one of the windows, in order to conceal her face from the man.
"I beg your pardon, sir," the old servant said; "but they've found
something in the park, and I thought perhaps you might like to know----"
"They've found something! What?" exclaimed John, utterly bewildered
between his agitation at the sight of his wife's grief and his
endeavour to understand the man.
"A pistol, sir. One of the stable-lads found it just now. He went to
the wood with another boy to look at the place where--the--the man
was shot; and he's brought back a pistol he found there. It was close
against the water, but hid away among the weeds and rushes. Whoever
threw it there, thought, no doubt, to throw it in the pond; but Jim,
that's one of the boys, fancied he saw something glitter, and sure
enough it was the barrel of a pistol; and I think must be the one that
the trainer was shot with, Mr. John."
"A pistol!" cried Mr. Mellish; "let me see it."
His servant handed him the weapon. It was small enough for a toy, but
none the less deadly in a skilful hand. It was a rich man's fancy,
deftly carried out by some cunning gunsmith, and enriched by elaborate
inlaid work of purple steel and tarnished silver. It was rusty, from
exposure to rain and dew; but Mr. Mellish knew the pistol well, for it
was his own.
It was his own; one of his pet playthings; and it had been kept in the
room which was only entered by privileged persons,--the room in which
his wife had busied herself with the rearrangement of his guns upon the
day of the murder.