Aurora Floyd

that which gave me the right to call upon the law to release me from him; and if I refrained from doing so, it was for my father’s sake, and not for his. I told him that so long as he left me unmolested and kept my secret, I would remit him money from time to time. I told him that I left him to the associations he had chosen for himself; and that my only prayer was, that God, in His mercy, might grant me complete forgetfulness of him. I left this letter for him with the concierge, and quitted the hotel in such a manner as to prevent his obtaining any trace of the way I had gone. I stopped in Paris for a few days, waiting for a reply to a letter I had written to my father, telling him that James Conyers was dead. Perhaps that was the worst sin of my life, Talbot. I deceived my father; but I believed that I was doing a wise and merciful thing in setting his mind at rest. He would have never been happy so long as he had believed the man lived. You understand all now, Talbot,” she said mournfully. “You remember the morning at Brighton?”

“Yes, yes; and the newspaper with the marked paragraph⁠—the report of the jockey’s death.”

“That report was false, Talbot Bulstrode,” cried Aurora. “James Conyers was not killed.”

Talbot’s face grew suddenly pale. He began to understand something of the nature of that trouble which had brought Aurora to him.

“What, he was still living, then?” he said anxiously.

“Yes; until the night before last.”

“But where⁠—where has he been all this time?”

“During the last ten days⁠—at Mellish Park.”

She told him the terrible story of the murder. The trainer’s death had not yet been reported in the London papers. She told him the dreadful story; and then, looking up at him with an earnest, imploring face, as she might have done had he been indeed her brother, she entreated him to help and counsel her in this terrible hour of need.

“Teach me how to do what is best for my dear love,” she said. “Don’t think of me or my happiness, Talbot; think only of him. I will make any sacrifice; I will submit to anything. I want to atone to my poor dear for all the misery I have brought upon him.”

Talbot Bulstrode did not make any reply to this earnest appeal. The administrative powers of his mind were at work; he was busy summing up facts and setting them before him, in order to grapple with them fairly; and he had no attention to waste upon sentiment or emotion. He was walking up and down the room, with his eyebrows knitted sternly over his cold gray eyes, and his head bent.

“How many people know this secret, Aurora?” he asked presently.

“I can’t tell you that; but I fear it must be very generally known,” answered Mrs. Mellish, with a shuddering recollection of the “Softy’s” insolence. “I heard of the discovery that had been made from a hanger-on of the stables, a man who hates me⁠—a man whom I⁠—had a misunderstanding with.”

“Have you any idea who it was that shot this Conyers?”

“No, not the least idea.”

“You do not even guess at anyone?”

“No.”

Talbot took a few more turns up and down the small apartment, in evident trouble and perplexity of mind. He left the room presently, and called at the foot of the staircase:

“Lucy, my dear, come down to your cousin.”

I’m afraid Mrs. Bulstrode must have been lurking somewhere about the outside of the drawing-room door, for she flew down the stairs at the sound of the strong voice, and was by her husband’s side two or three seconds after he had spoken.

“O Talbot!” she said, “how long you have been! I thought you would never send for me. What has been the matter with my poor darling?”

“Go in to her, and comfort her, my dear,” Mr. Bulstrode answered, gravely: “she has had enough trouble, Heaven knows, poor girl. Don’t ask her any questions, Lucy; but make her as comfortable as you can, and give her the best room you can find for her. She will stay with us as long as she remains in town.”

“Dear, dear Talbot,” murmured the young Cornishman’s grateful worshipper, “how kind you are!”

“Kind!” cried Mr. Bulstrode; “she has need of friends, Lucy; and, God knows, I will act a brother’s part towards her, faithfully and bravely. Yes, bravely!” he added, raising his head with an almost defiant gesture as he slowly ascended the stairs.

What was the dark cloud which he saw brooding so fatally over the far horizon? He dared not think of what it was⁠—he dared not even acknowledge its presence; but there was a sense of trouble and horror in his breast that told him the shadow was there.

Lucy Bulstrode ran into the library, and flung herself upon her cousin’s breast, and wept with her. She did not ask the nature of the sorrow which had brought Aurora an unexpected and uninvited guest to that modest little dwelling-house. She only knew that her cousin was in trouble, and that it was her happy privilege to offer her shelter and consolation. She would have fought a sturdy battle in defence of this privilege; but she adored her husband for the generosity which had granted it to her without a struggle. For the first time in her life, poor gentle Lucy took a new position with her cousin. It was her turn to protect Aurora; it was her turn to display a pretty motherly tenderness for the desolate creature whose aching head rested on her bosom.

The West-End clocks were striking three, in the dead middle of the night, when Mrs. Mellish fell into a feverish slumber, even in her sleep, even in her sleep repeating again and again: “My poor John! my poor dear love! what will become of him? my own faithful darling!”

XXXI

Talbot Bulstrode’s Advice

Talbot Bulstrode