“John, John!” cried Talbot, “we were little boys together at Rugby, and have backed each other in a dozen childish fights. Is it kind of you to withhold your friendship from me now, when I have come here on purpose to be a friend to you—to you and to Aurora?”
John Mellish turned away his head as his friend mentioned that familiar name; and the gesture was not lost upon Mr. Bulstrode.
“John, why do you refuse to trust me?”
“I don’t refuse. I⸺Why did you come to this accursed house?” cried John Mellish, passionately; “why did you come here, Talbot Bulstrode? You don’t know the blight that is upon this place, and those who live in it, or you would have no more come here than you would willingly go to a plague-stricken city. Do you know that since I came back from London not a creature has called at this house? Do you know that when I and—and—my wife—went to church on Sunday, the people we knew sneaked away from our path as if we had just recovered from typhus fever? Do you know that the cursed gaping rabble come from Doncaster to stare over the park-palings, and that this house is a show to half the West Riding? Why do you come here? You will be stared at, and grinned at, and scandalized—you, who—Go back to London tonight, Talbot, if you don’t want to drive me mad.”
“Not till you trust me with your troubles, John,” answered Mr. Bulstrode firmly. “Put on your hat, and come out with me. I want you to show me the spot where the murder was done.”
“You may get someone else to show it you,” muttered John, sullenly; “I’ll not go there!”
“John Mellish!” cried Talbot suddenly, “am I to think you a coward and a fool? By the heaven that’s above me, I shall think so if you persist in this nonsense. Come out into the park with me; I have the claim of past friendship upon you, and I’ll not have that claim set aside by any folly of yours.”
The two men went out upon the lawn, John complying moodily enough with his friend’s request, and walked silently across the park towards that portion of the wood in which James Conyers had met his death. They had reached one of the loneliest and shadiest avenues in this wood, and were, in fact, close against the spot from which Samuel Prodder had watched his niece and her companion on the night of the murder, when Talbot stopped suddenly, and laid his hand on the squire’s shoulder.
“John,” he said, in a determined tone, “before we go to look at the place where this bad man died, you must tell me your trouble.”
Mr. Mellish drew himself up proudly, and looked at the speaker with gloomy defiance lowering upon his face.
“I will tell no man that which I do not choose to tell,” he said firmly; and then with a sudden change that was terrible to see, he cried impetuously, “Why do you torment me, Talbot? I tell you that I can’t trust you—I can’t trust anyone upon earth. If—if I told you—the horrible thought that—if I told you, it would be your duty to—I—Talbot, Talbot, have pity upon me—let me alone—go away from me—I—”
Stamping furiously, as if he would have trampled down the cowardly despair for which he despised himself, and beating his forehead with his clenched fists, John Mellish turned away from his friend, and, leaning against the gnarled branch of a great oak, wept aloud. Talbot Bulstrode waited till the paroxysm had passed away before he spoke again; but when his friend had grown calmer, he linked his arm about him, and drew him away almost as tenderly as if the big Yorkshireman had been some sorrowing woman, sorely in need of manly help and comfort.
“John, John,” he said gravely, “thank God for this; thank God for anything that breaks the ice between us. I know what your trouble is, poor old friend, and I know that you have no cause for it. Hold up your head, man, and look straightforward to a happy future. I know the black thought that has been gnawing at your poor foolish manly heart: you think that Aurora murdered the groom!”
John Mellish, started, shuddering convulsively.
“No, no,” he gasped; “who said so—who said—?”
“You think this, John,” continued Talbot Bulstrode; “and you do her the most grievous wrong that ever yet was done to woman; a more shameful wrong than I committed when I thought that Aurora Floyd had been guilty of some base intrigue.”
“You don’t know—” stammered John.
“I don’t know! I know all, and foresaw trouble for you, before you saw the cloud that was in the sky. But I never dreamt of this. I thought the foolish country people would suspect your wife, as it always pleases people to try and fix a crime upon the person in whom that crime would be more particularly atrocious. I was prepared for this; but to think that you—you, John, who should have learned to know your wife by this time—to think that you should suspect the woman you have loved of a foul and treacherous murder!”
“How do we know that the—that the man was murdered?” cried John vehemently. “Who says that the deed was treacherously done? He may have goaded her beyond endurance, insulted her generous pride, stung her to the very quick, and in the madness of her passion—having that wretched pistol in her possession—she may—”
“Stop!” interrupted Talbot. “What pistol? you told me the weapon had not been found.”
“It was found upon the night of our return.”
“Yes; but why do you associate this weapon with Aurora? What do you mean by saying that the pistol was in her possession?”
“Because—O my God! Talbot, why do you wring these things from me?”
“For your own
