There was a turn in the road between Beckenham and Norwood; and as the phaeton swept round, a chaise or dogcart, a shabby vehicle enough, with a rakish-looking horse, drove close up, and the man who was driving asked the squire to put him in the nearest way to London. The vehicle had been behind them all the way from Felden, but had kept at a very respectful distance until now.
“Do you want to get to the City or the West End?” John asked.
“The West End.”
“Then you can’t do better than follow us,” answered Mr. Mellish; “the road’s clean enough, and your horse seems a good one to go. You can keep us in sight, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir, and thank ye.”
“All right, then.”
Talbot Bulstrode’s thoroughbreds dashed off, but the rakish-looking horse kept his ground behind them. He had something of the insolent, offhand assurance of a butcher’s horse, accustomed to whirl a bareheaded blue-coated master through the sharp morning air.
“I was right, Lolly,” Mr. Mellish said, as he left the dogcart behind.
“How do you mean, dear?” asked Aurora.
“The man who spoke to us just now is the man who has been inquiring for me at Felden. He’s a Yorkshireman.”
“A Yorkshireman!”
“Yes; didn’t you hear the north-country twang?”
No: she had not listened to the man, nor heeded him. How should she think of anything but her newborn happiness—the newborn confidence between herself and the husband she loved?
Do not think her hard-hearted or cruel if she forgot that it was the death of a fellow-creature, a sinful man stricken down in the prime of youth and health, that had given her this welcome release. She had suffered so much, that the release could not be otherwise than welcome, let it come how it might.
Her nature, frank and open as the day, had been dwarfed and crippled by the secret that had blighted her life. Can it be wondered, then, that she rejoiced now that all need of secrecy was over, and this generous spirit might expand as it pleased?
It was past ten when the phaeton turned into Halfmoon Street. The men in the dogcart had followed John’s directions to the letter; for it was only in Piccadilly that Mr. Mellish had lost sight of them amongst other vehicles travelling backwards and forwards on the lamp-lit thoroughfare.
Talbot and Lucy received their visitors in one of the pretty little drawing-rooms. The young husband and wife had spent a quiet day together; going to church in the morning and afternoon, dining alone, and sitting in the twilight, talking happily and confidentially. Mr. Bulstrode was no Sabbath-breaker; and John Mellish had reason to consider himself a peculiarly privileged person, inasmuch as the thoroughbreds had been permitted to leave their stables for his service; to say nothing of the groom, who had been absent from his hard seat in the servants’ pew at a fashionable chapel, in order that he might accompany John and Aurora to Felden.
The little party sat up rather late, Aurora and Lucy talking affectionately together, side by side, upon a sofa in the shadow of the room, while the two men lounged in the open window. John told his host the history of the day, and in doing so casually mentioned the man who had asked him the way to London.
Strange to say, Talbot Bulstrode seemed especially interested in this part of the story. He asked several questions about the men. He asked what they were like; what was said by either of them; and made many other inquiries, which seemed equally trivial.
“Then they followed you into town, John?” he said finally.
“Yes; I only lost sight of them in Piccadilly, five minutes before I turned the corner of the street.”
“Do you think they had any motive in following you?” asked Talbot.
“Well, I fancy so; they’re on the lookout for information, I expect. The man who spoke to me looked something like a tout. I’ve heard that Lord Stamford’s rather anxious about my West-Australian colt, the Pork Butcher. Perhaps his people have set these men to work to find out if I’m going to run him in the Leger.”
Talbot Bulstrode smiled bitterly, almost mournfully, at the vanity of horseflesh. It was painful to see this lighthearted young squire looking in such ignorant hopefulness towards an horizon upon which graver and more thoughtful men could see a dreadful shadow lowering. Mr. Bulstrode was standing close to the balcony; he stepped out amongst the china boxes of mignonette, and looked down into the quiet street. A man was leaning against a lamppost, some few paces from Talbot’s house, smoking a cigar, and with his face turned towards the balcony. He finished his cigar deliberately, threw the end into the road, and walked away while Talbot kept watch; but Mr. Bulstrode did not leave his post of observation, and about a quarter of an hour afterwards he saw the same man lounging slowly along the pavement upon the other side of the street. John, who sat within the shadow of the window-curtains, lolling against them, and creasing their delicate folds with the heavy pressure of his broad back, was utterly unconscious of all this.
Early the next morning Mr. Bulstrode and Mr. Mellish took a Hansom cab, and rattled down to Doctors’ Commons, where, for the second time in his life, John gave himself
