“I won’t tell o’ you,” he said, “and you won’t tell o’ me. I’ve got the stripes upon my shoulder where she cut me with the whip to this day. I look at ’em sometimes, and they help to keep me in mind. She’s a fine madam, ain’t she, and a great lady too? Ay, sure she is; but she comes to meet her husband’s servant on the sly, after dark, for all that. Maybe the day isn’t far off when she’ll be turned from these gates, and warned off this ground; and the merciful Lord send that I live to see it. Hush!”
With her wrist still pinioned in his strong grasp, he motioned her to be silent, and bent his pale face forward; every feature rigid, in the listening expectancy of his hungry gaze.
“Listen,” he whispered; “listen! Every fresh word damns her deeper than the last.”
The trainer was the first to speak after this pause in the dialogue within the cottage. He had quietly smoked out his pipe, and had emptied the ashes of his tobacco upon the table before he took up the thread of the conversation at the point at which he had dropped it.
“Two thousand pounds,” he said, “that is the offer, and I think it ought to be taken freely. Two thousand down, in Bank-of-England notes (fives and tens, higher figures might be awkward), or sterling coin of the realm. You understand; two thousand down. That’s my alternative; or I leave this place tomorrow morning—with all belonging to me.”
“By which course you would get nothing,” said Mrs. John Mellish, quietly.
“Shouldn’t I? What does the chap in the play get for his trouble when the blackamoor smothers his wife? I should get nothing—but my revenge upon a tiger-cat, whose claws have left a mark upon me that I shall carry to my grave.” He lifted his hair with a careless gesture of his hand, and pointed to a scar upon his forehead, a white mark, barely visible in the dim light of the tallow-candle. “I’m a good-natured, easygoing fellow, Mrs. John Mellish, but I don’t forget. Is it to be the two thousand pounds, or war to the knife?”
Mrs. Powell waited eagerly for Aurora’s answer; but before it came, a round heavy raindrop pattered upon the light hair of the ensign’s widow. The hood of her cloak had fallen back, leaving her head uncovered. This one large drop was the warning of the coming storm. The signal peal of thunder rumbled slowly and hoarsely in the distance, and a pale flash of lightning trembled on the white faces of the two listeners.
“Let me go,” whispered Mrs. Powell, “let me go; I must get back to the house before the rain begins.”
The “Softy” slowly relaxed his iron grip upon her wrist. He had held it unconsciously, in his utter abstraction to all things except the two speakers in the cottage.
Mrs. Powell rose from her knees, and crept noiselessly away from the lodge. She remembered the vital necessity of getting back to the house before Aurora, and of avoiding the shower. Her wet garments would betray her if she did not succeed in escaping the coming storm. She was of a spare, wizen figure, encumbered with no superfluous flesh, and she ran rapidly along the narrow sheltered pathway leading to the iron gate through which she had followed Aurora.
The heavy raindrops fell at long intervals upon the leaves. A second and a third peal of thunder rattled along the earth, like the horrible roar of some hungry animal creeping nearer and nearer to its prey. Blue flashes of faint lightning lit up the tangled intricacies of the wood, but the fullest fury of the storm had not yet burst forth.
The raindrops came at shorter intervals as Mrs. Powell passed out of the wood, through the little iron gate; faster still as she hurried across the lawn; faster yet as she reached the lobby-door, which she had left ajar an hour before, and sat down panting upon a little bench within, to recover her breath before she went any further. She was still sitting on this bench, when the fourth peal of thunder shook the low roof above her head, and the rain dropped from the starless sky with such a rushing impetus, that it seemed as if a huge trap-door had been opened in the heavens, and a celestial ocean let down to flood the earth.
“I think my lady will be nicely caught,” muttered Mrs. Walter Powell.
She threw her cloak aside upon the lobby bench, and went through a passage leading to the hall. One of the servants was shutting the hall-door.
“Have you shut the drawing-room windows, Wilson?” she asked.
“No, ma’am; I am afraid Mrs. Mellish is out in the rain. Jarvis is getting ready to go and look for her, with a lantern and the gig-umbrella.”
“Then Jarvis can stop where he is; Mrs. Mellish came in half an hour ago. You may shut all the windows, and close the house for the night.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“By the by, what o’clock is it, Wilson? My watch is slow.”
“A quarter past ten, ma’am, by the dining-room clock.”
The man locked the hall-door, put up an immense iron bar, which worked with some rather complicated machinery, and had a bell hanging at one end of it, for the frustration of all burglarious and designing ruffians.
From the hall the man went to the drawing-room, where he carefully fastened the long range of windows; from the drawing-room to the lobby; and from the lobby to the dining-room, where he locked the half-glass door opening into the garden. This being done, all communication between the house and the garden was securely shut off.
“He shall know of her goings-on, at any rate,” thought Mrs. Powell, as she dogged the footsteps of the servant to see that he did
