“On no account,” answered Mrs. Mellish sharply. “I am going into papa’s study to have a quiet confabulation with him. What end would be gained by your waiting? You’ve been yawning in our faces all the evening. You’re tired to death, I know, John; so go at once, my precious pet, and leave papa and me to discuss our money matters.” She pouted her rosy lips, and stood upon tiptoe, while the big Yorkshireman kissed her.
“How you do henpeck me, Lolly!” he said rather sheepishly. “Good night, sir. God bless you! Take care of my darling.”
He shook hands with Mr. Floyd, parting from him with that half-affectionate, half-reverent manner which he always displayed to Aurora’s father. Mrs. Mellish stood for some moments silent and motionless, looking after her husband; while her father, watching her looks, tried to read their meaning.
How quiet are the tragedies of real life! That dreadful scene between the Moor and his Ancient takes place in the open street of Cyprus, according to modern usage. I can scarcely fancy Othello and Iago debating about poor Desdemona’s honesty in St. Paul’s Churchyard, or even in the marketplace of a country town; but perhaps the Cyprus street was a dull one, a cul-de-sac, it may be, or at least a deserted thoroughfare, something like that in which Monsieur Melnotte falls upon the shoulder of General Damas and sobs out his lamentations. But our modern tragedies seem to occur indoors, and in places where we should least look for scenes of horror. Who can forget that tempestuous scene of jealous fury and mad violence which took place in a second floor in Northumberland Street, while the broad daylight was streaming in through the dusty windows, and the common London cries ascending from the pavement below?
Any chance traveller driving from Beckenham to West Wickham would have looked, perhaps enviously, at the Felden mansion, and sighed to be lord of that fair expanse of park and garden; yet I doubt if in the county of Kent there was any creature more disturbed in mind than Archibald Floyd the banker. Those few moments during which Aurora stood in thoughtful silence were as so many hours to his anxious mind. At last she spoke.
“Will you come to the study, papa?” she said; “this room is so big, and so dimly lighted. I always fancy there are listeners in the corners.”
She did not wait for an answer; but led the way to a room upon the other side of the hall—the room in which she and her father had been so long closeted together upon the night before her departure for Paris. The crayon portrait of Eliza Floyd looked down upon Archibald and his daughter. The face wore so bright and genial a smile that it was difficult to believe that it was the face of the dead.
The banker was the first to speak.
“My darling girl,” he said, “what is it you want with me?”
“Money, papa. Two thousand pounds.”
She checked his gesture of surprise, and resumed before he could interrupt her.
“The money you settled upon me on my marriage with John Mellish is invested in our own bank, I know. I know, too, that I can draw upon my account when and how I please; but I thought that if I wrote a cheque for two thousand pounds the unusual amount might attract attention—and it might possibly fall into your hands. Had this occurred you would perhaps have been alarmed, at any rate astonished. I thought it best, therefore, to come to you myself and ask you for the money, especially as I must have it in notes.”
Archibald Floyd grew very pale. He had been standing while Aurora spoke; but as she finished he dropped into a chair near his little office table, and resting his elbow upon an open desk leaned his head on his hand.
“What do you want money for, my dear?” he asked gravely.
“Never mind that, papa. It is my money, is it not; and I may spend it as I please?”
“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” he answered, with some slight hesitation. “You shall spend whatever you please. I am rich enough to indulge any whim of yours, however foolish, however extravagant. But your marriage settlement was rather intended for the benefit of your children—than—than for—anything of this kind; and I scarcely know if you are justified in touching it without your husband’s permission; especially as your pin-money is really large enough to enable you to gratify any reasonable wish.”
The old man pushed his gray hair away from his forehead with a weary action and a tremulous hand. Heaven knows that even in that desperate moment Aurora took notice of the feeble hand and the whitening hair.
“Give me the money, then, papa,” she said. “Give it me from your own purse. You are rich enough to do that.”
“Rich enough! Yes, if it were twenty times the sum,” answered the banker slowly. Then, with a sudden burst of passion, he exclaimed, “O Aurora, Aurora! why do you treat me so badly? Have I been so cruel a father that you can’t confide in me? Aurora, why do you want this money?”
She clasped her hands tightly together, and stood looking at him for a few moments irresolutely.
“I cannot tell you,” she said, with grave determination. “If I were to tell you—what—what I think of doing, you might thwart me in my purpose. Father! father!” she cried, with a sudden change in her voice and manner, “I am hemmed in on every side by difficulty and danger; and there is only one way of escape—except death. Unless I take that one way, I must die. I am very young—too young and happy, perhaps, to die willingly. Give me the means of escape.”
“You mean this sum of money?”
“Yes.”
“You have been pestered by some connection—some old associate of—his?”
“No!”
“What then?”
“I cannot tell you.”
They were silent for some moments. Archibald Floyd looked imploringly at his child, but she did not answer that earnest gaze. She stood before him with a
