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 today. 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 forever is less than the pain of knowing that you had ceased to love me. Goodbye.”
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 upstairs 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.
