Aurora Floyd

but his heart knocked furiously against his ribs, and the blood rushed hotly to his face. He never remembered having seen the “Softy”; but he had always heard him described as a humpbacked man. There could be no doubt of the shadow’s identity; there could be still less doubt that Stephen Hargraves had visited that place for no good purpose. What could bring him there⁠—to that place above all other places, which, if he were indeed guilty, he would surely most desire to avoid? Stolid, semi-idiotic, as he was supposed to be, surely the common terrors of the lowest assassin, half brute, half Caliban, would keep him away from that spot. These thoughts did not occupy more than those few moments in which the violent beating of Talbot Bulstrode’s heart held him powerless to move or act; then, pushing open the gate, he rushed across the tiny garden, trampling recklessly upon the neglected flowerbeds, and softly tried the door. It was firmly secured with a heavy chain and padlock.

“He has got in at the window, then,” thought Mr. Bulstrode. “What, in Heaven’s name, could be his motive in coming here?”

Talbot was right. The little lattice-window had been wrenched nearly off its hinges, and hung loosely among the tangled foliage that surrounded it. Mr. Bulstrode did not hesitate a moment before he plunged head foremost into the narrow aperture through which the “Softy” must have found his way, and scrambled as he could into the little room. The lattice, strained still further, dropped, with a crashing noise, behind him; but not soon enough to serve as a warning for Stephen Hargraves, who appeared upon the lowest step of the tiny corkscrew staircase at the same moment. He was carrying a tallow candle in a battered tin candlestick in his right hand, and he had a small bundle under his left arm. His white face was no whiter than usual, but he presented an awfully corpse-like appearance to Mr. Bulstrode, who had never seen him, or noticed him, before. The “Softy” recoiled, with a gesture of intense terror, as he saw Talbot; and a box of lucifer-matches, which he had been carrying in the candlestick, rolled to the ground.

“What are you doing here?” asked Mr. Bulstrode, sternly; “and why did you come in at the window?”

“I warn’t doin’ no wrong”; the “Softy” whined piteously; “and it ain’t your business neither,” he added, with a feeble attempt at insolence.

“It is my business. I am Mr. Mellish’s friend and relation; and I have reason to suspect that you are here for no good purpose,” answered Talbot. “I insist upon knowing what you came for.”

“I haven’t come to steal owght, anyhow,” said Mr. Hargraves; “there’s nothing here but chairs and tables, and ’taint loikely I’ve come arter them.”

“Perhaps not; but you have come after something, and I insist upon knowing what it is. You wouldn’t come to this place unless you’d a very strong reason for coming. What have you got there?”

Mr. Bulstrode pointed to the bundle carried by the “Softy.” Stephen Hargraves’ small red-brown eyes evaded those of his questioner, and made believe to mistake the direction in which Talbot looked.

“What have you got there?” repeated Mr. Bulstrode; “you know well enough what I mean. What have you got there, in that bundle under your arm?”

The “Softy” clutched convulsively at the dingy bundle, and glared at his questioner with something of the savage terror of some ugly animal at bay. Except that in his brutalized manhood, he was more awkward, and perhaps more repulsive, than the ugliest of the lower animals.

“It’s nowght to you, nor to anybody else,” he muttered sulkily. “I suppose a poor chap may fetch his few bits of clothes without being called like this?”

“What clothes? Let me see the clothes.”

“No, I won’t; they’re nowght to you. They⁠—it’s only an old weskit as was give me by one o’ th’ lads in th’ steables.”

“A waistcoat!” cried Mr. Bulstrode; “let me see it this instant. A waistcoat of yours has been particularly inquired for, Mr. Hargraves. It’s a chocolate waistcoat, with yellow stripes and brass buttons, unless I’m very much mistaken. Let me see it.”

Talbot Bulstrode was almost breathless with excitement. The “Softy” stared aghast at the description of his waistcoat, but he was too stupid to comprehend instantaneously the reason for which this garment was wanted. He recoiled for a few paces, and then made a rush towards the window; but Talbot’s hands closed upon his collar, and held him as if in a vice.

“You’d better not trifle with me,” cried Mr. Bulstrode; “I’ve been accustomed to deal with refractory Sepoys in India, and I’ve had a struggle with a tiger before now. Show me that waistcoat!”

“I won’t!”

“By the Heaven above us, you shall!”

“I won’t!”

The two men closed with each other in a hand-to-hand struggle. Powerful as the soldier was, he found himself more than matched by Stephen Hargraves, whose thickset frame, broad shoulders, and sinewy arms were almost Herculean in, their build. The struggle lasted for a considerable time⁠—or for a time that seemed considerable to both of the combatants; but at last it drew towards its termination, and the heir of all the Bulstrodes, the commander of squadrons of horse, the man who had done battle with bloodthirsty Sikhs, and ridden against the black mouths of Russian cannon at Balaclava, felt that he could scarcely hope to hold out much longer against the half-witted hanger-on of the Mellish stables. The horny fingers of the “Softy” were upon his throat, the long arms of the “Softy” were writhing round him, and in another moment Talbot Bulstrode lay upon the floor of the north lodge, with the “Softy’s” knee planted upon his heaving chest.

Another moment, and in the dim moonlight⁠—the candle had been thrown down and trampled upon in the beginning of the scuffle⁠—the heir of Bulstrode Castle saw Stephen Hargraves fumbling with his disengaged hand in his breast-pocket.

One moment more, and Mr. Bulstrode heard that sharp metallic noise only associated