“I so much regret that you should have been out of doors at the time, my dear Mrs. Mellish,” she said; “and, as I should imagine from the direction which you took on leaving the house, actually near the place where the unfortunate person met his death. It will be so unpleasant for you to have to appear at the inquest.”
“Appear at the inquest!” cried John Mellish, stopping suddenly, and turning fiercely upon the placid speaker. “Who says that my wife will have to appear at the inquest?”
“I merely imagined it probable that—”
“Then you’d no business to imagine it, ma’am,” retorted Mr. Mellish, with no very great show of politeness. “My wife will not appear. Who should ask her to do so? Who should wish her to do so? What has she to do with tonight’s business? or what does she know of it more than you or I, or anyone else in this house?”
Mrs. Powell shrugged her shoulders.
“I thought that, from Mrs. Mellish’s previous knowledge of this unfortunate person, she might be able to throw some light upon his habits and associations,” she suggested mildly.
“Previous knowledge!” roared John. “What knowledge should Mrs. Mellish have of her father’s grooms? What interest should she take in their habits or associations?”
“Stop,” said Aurora, rising and laying her hand lightly on her husband’s shoulder. “My dear, impetuous John, why do you put yourself into a passion about this business? If they choose to call me as a witness, I will tell all I know about this man’s death; which is nothing but that I heard a shot fired while I was in the grounds.”
She was very pale; but she spoke with a quiet determination, a calm resolute defiance of the worst that fate could reserve for her.
“I will tell anything that is necessary to tell,” she said; “I care very little what.”
With her hand still upon her husband’s shoulder, she rested her head on his breast, like some weary child nestling in its only safe shelter.
Mrs. Powell rose, and gathered together her embroidery in a pretty, ladylike receptacle of fragile wickerwork. She glided to the door, selected her candlestick, and then paused on the threshold to bid Mr. and Mrs. Mellish good night.
“I am sure you must need rest after this terrible affair,” she simpered; “so I will take the initiative. It is nearly one o’clock. Good night.”
If she had lived in the Thane of Cawdor’s family, she would have wished Macbeth and his wife a good night’s rest after Duncan’s murder; and would have hoped they would sleep well; she would have curtsied and simpered amidst the tolling of alarm-bells, the clashing of vengeful swords, and the blood-bedabbled visages of the drunken grooms. It must have been the Scottish queen’s companion who watched with the truckling physician, and played the spy upon her mistress’s remorseful wanderings, and told how it was the conscience-stricken lady’s habit to do thus and thus; no one but a genteel mercenary would have been so sleepless in the dead hours of the night, lying in wait for the revelation of horrible secrets, the muttered clues to deadly mysteries.
“Thank God, she’s gone at last!” cried John Mellish, as the door closed very softly and very slowly upon Mrs. Powell. “I hate that woman, Lolly.”
Heaven knows I have never called John Mellish a hero; I have never set him up as a model of manly perfection or infallible virtue; and if he is not faultless, if he has those flaws and blemishes which seem a constituent part of our imperfect clay, I make no apology for him; but trust him to the tender mercies of those who, not being quite perfect themselves, will, I am sure, be merciful to him. He hated those who hated his wife, or did her any wrong, however small. He loved those who loved her. In the great power of his wide affection, all self-esteem was annihilated. To love her was to love him; to serve her was to do him treble service; to praise her was to make him vainer than the vainest schoolgirl. He freely took upon his shoulders every debt that she owed, whether of love or of hate; and he was ready to pay either species of account to the uttermost farthing, and with no mean interest upon the sum total. “I hate that woman, Lolly,” he repeated; “and I shan’t be able to stand her much longer.”
Aurora did not answer him. She was silent for some moments, and when she did speak, it was evident that Mrs. Powell was very far away from her thoughts.
“My poor John!” she said, in a low soft voice, whose melancholy tenderness went straight to her husband’s heart; “my dear, how happy we were together for a little time! How very happy we were, my poor boy!”
“Always, Lolly,” he answered—“always, my darling.”
“No, no, no!” said Aurora suddenly; “only for a little while. What a horrible fatality has pursued us! what a frightful curse has clung to me! The curse of disobedience, John; the curse of Heaven upon my disobedience. To think that this man should have been sent here, and that he—”
She stopped, shivering violently, and clinging to the faithful breast that sheltered her.
John Mellish quietly led her to her dressing-room, and placed her in the care of her maid.
“Your mistress has been very much agitated by this night’s business,” he said to the girl; “keep her as quiet as you possibly can.”
Mrs. Mellish’s bedroom, a comfortable and roomy apartment, with a low ceiling and deep bay windows, opened into a morning-room, in which it was John’s habit to read the newspapers and sporting periodicals, while his wife wrote letters, drew pencil sketches of dogs and horses, or played with her favourite Bow-wow. They had been very childish and idle and happy in this pretty chintz-hung chamber; and going into it tonight in utter desolation of heart, Mr. Mellish felt his sorrows all the more bitterly
