“If I was to meet Mr. Mellish’s keeper here, he’d look at me black enough, I dare say,” muttered the “Softy,” “though I ain’t after the game. Lookin’ at a pheasant’s high treason in his mind, curse him!”
He put his hands low down in his pockets, as if scarcely able to resist the temptation to wring the neck of a splendid cock-pheasant that was strutting through the high grass, with a proud serenity of manner that implied a knowledge of the game-laws. The trees on the north side of the Park formed a species of leafy wall which screened the lawn, so that, coming from this northern side, the “Softy” emerged at once from the shelter into the smooth grass bordering this lawn, which was separated from the Park by an invisible fence.
As Steeve Hargraves, still sheltered from observation by the trees, approached the place, he saw that his errand was shortened, for Mrs. Mellish was leaning upon a low iron gate, with the dog Bow-wow, the dog that he had beaten, at her side.
He had left the narrow pathway and struck in amongst the undergrowth, in order to make a shorter cut to the flower-garden, and as he came from under the shelter of the low branches which made a leafy cave about him, he left a long track of parted grass behind him, like the track of the footstep of a tiger, or the trail of a slow, ponderous serpent creeping towards its prey.
Aurora looked up at the sound of the shambling footstep, and, for the second time since she had beaten him, she encountered the gaze of the “Softy.” She was very pale, almost as pale as her white dress, which was unenlivened by any scrap of colour, and which hung about her in loose folds that gave a statuesque grace to her figure. She was dressed with such evident carelessness that every fold of muslin seemed to tell how far away her thoughts had been when that hasty toilette was made. Her black brows contracted as she looked at the “Softy.”
“I thought Mr. Mellish had dismissed you,” she said, “and that you had been forbidden to come here?”
“Yes, ma’am, Muster Mellish did turn me out of the house I’d lived in, man and boy, nigh upon forty year; but I’ve got a new pleace now, and my new master sent me to you with a letter.”
Watching the effect of his words, the “Softy” saw a leaden change come over the pale face of his listener.
“What new master?” she asked.
Steeve Hargraves lifted his hand and pointed across his shoulder. She watched the slow motion of that clumsy hand, and her eyes seemed to grow larger as she saw the direction to which it pointed.
“Your new master is the trainer, James Conyers—the man who lives at the north lodge?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What does he want with you?” she asked.
“I keep his place in order for him, ma’am, and run errands for him; and I’ve brought a letter.”
“A letter? Ah, yes, give it me.”
The “Softy” handed her the envelope. She took it slowly, without removing her eyes from his face, but watching him with a fixed and earnest look that seemed as if it would have fathomed something beneath the dull red eyes which met hers. A look that betrayed some doubtful terror hidden in her own breast, and a vague desire to penetrate the secrets of his.
She did not look at the letter, but held it half crushed in the hand hanging by her side.
“You can go,” she said.
“I was to wait for an answer.”
The black brows contracted again, and this time a bright gleam of fury kindled in the great black eyes.
“There is no answer,” she said, thrusting the letter into the bosom of her dress, and turning to leave the gate; “there is no answer, and there shall be none till I choose. Tell your master that.”
“It wasn’t to be a written answer,” persisted the “Softy”; “it was to be Yes or No, that’s all; but I was to be sure and wait for it.”
The half-witted creature saw some feeling of hate and fury in her face beyond her contemptuous hatred of himself, and took a savage pleasure in tormenting her. She struck her foot impatiently upon the grass, and plucking the letter from her breast, tore open the envelope, and read the few lines it contained. Few as they were, she stood for nearly five minutes with the open letter in her hand, separated from the “Softy” by the iron fence, and lost in thought. The silence was only broken during this pause by an occasional growl from the mastiff, who lifted his heavy lip, and showed his feeble teeth for the edification of his old enemy.
She tore the letter into a hundred morsels, and flung it from her before she spoke. “Yes,” she said at last; “tell your master that.”
Steeve Hargraves touched his cap and went back through the grassy trail he had left, to carry this message to the trainer.
“She hates me bad enough,” he muttered, as he stopped once to look back at the quiet white figure on the lawn, “but she hates t’oother chap worse.”
XVIII
Out in the Rain
The second dinner-bell rang five minutes after the “Softy” had left Aurora, and Mr. John Mellish came out upon the lawn to look for his wife. He came whistling across the grass, and whisking the roses with his pocket-handkerchief in very gaiety of heart. He had quite forgotten the anguish of that miserable morning after the receipt of Mr. Pastern’s letter. He had forgotten all but that his Aurora was the loveliest and dearest of women, and that he trusted her with the boundless faith of his big, honest heart. “Why should I doubt such a noble, impetuous creature?” he thought; “doesn’t every feeling
