“Aurora,” he said at last, “why not take the wisest and the safest step? Why not tell John Mellish the truth? The danger would disappear; the difficulty would be overcome. If you are persecuted by this low rabble, who so fit as he to act for you? Tell him, Aurora—tell him all!”
“No, no, no!”
She lifted her hands and clasped them upon her pale face.
“No, no; not for all this wide world!” she cried.
“Aurora,” said Archibald Floyd, with a gathering sternness upon his face, which overspread the old man’s benevolent countenance like some dark cloud—“Aurora—God forgive me for saying such words to my own child—but I must insist upon your telling me that this is no new infatuation, no new madness, which leads you to—” He was unable to finish his sentence.
Mrs. Mellish dropped her hands from before her face, and looked at him with her eyes flashing fire, and her cheeks in a crimson blaze.
“Father,” she cried, “how dare you ask me such a question? New infatuation! New madness! Have I suffered so little, do you think, from the folly of my youth? Have I paid so small a price for the mistake of my girlhood, that you should have cause to say these words to me tonight? Do I come of so bad a race,” she said, pointing indignantly to her mother’s portrait, “that you should think so vilely of me? Do I—”
Her tragical appeal was rising to its climax, when she dropped suddenly at her father’s feet, and burst into a tempest of sobs.
“Papa, papa, pity me!” she cried; “pity me!”
He raised her in his arms, and drew her to him, and comforted her, as he had comforted her for the loss of a Scotch terrier-pup twelve years before, when she was small enough to sit on his knee, and nestle her head in his waistcoat.
“Pity you, my dear!” he said. “What is there I would not do for you to save you one moment’s sorrow? If my worthless life could help you; if—”
“You will give me the money, papa?” she asked, looking up at him half coaxingly through her tears.
“Yes, my darling; tomorrow morning.”
“In banknotes?”
“In any manner you please. But, Aurora, why see these people? Why listen to their disgraceful demands? Why not tell the truth?”
“Ah, why, indeed!” she said thoughtfully. “Ask me no questions, dear papa; but let me have the money tomorrow, and I promise you that this shall be the very last you hear of my old troubles.”
She made this promise with such perfect confidence that her father was inspired with a faint ray of hope.
“Come, darling papa,” she said; “your room is near mine; let us go upstairs together.”
She entwined her arm in his, and led him up the broad staircase; only parting from him at the door of his room.
Mr. Floyd summoned his daughter into the study early the next morning, while Talbot Bulstrode was opening his letters, and Lucy strolling up and down the terrace with John Mellish.
“I have telegraphed for the money, my darling,” the banker said. “One of the clerks will be here with it by the time we have finished breakfast.”
Mr. Floyd was right. A card inscribed with the name of a Mr. George Martin was brought to him during breakfast.
“Mr. Martin will be good enough to wait in my study,” he said.
Aurora and her father found the clerk seated at the open window, looking admiringly through festoons of foliage, which clustered round the frame of the lattice, into the richly-cultivated garden. Felden Woods was a sacred spot in the eyes of the junior clerks in Lombard Street, and a drive to Beckenham in a Hansom cab on a fine summer’s morning, to say nothing of such chance refreshment as pound-cake and old Madeira, or cold fowl and Scotch ale, was considered no small treat.
Mr. George Martin, who was labouring under the temporary affliction of being only nineteen years of age, rose in a confused flutter of respect and surprise, and blushed very violently at sight of Mrs. Mellish.
Aurora responded to his reverential salute with such a pleasant nod as she might have bestowed upon the younger dogs in the stable-yard, and seated herself opposite to him at the little table by the window. It was such an excruciatingly narrow table that the crisp ribbons about Aurora’s muslin dress rustled against the drab trousers of the junior clerk as Mrs. Mellish sat down.
The young man unlocked a little morocco pouch which he wore suspended from a strap across his shoulder, and produced a roll of crisp notes; so crisp, so white and new, that, in their unsullied freshness, they looked more like notes on the Bank of Elegance than the circulating medium of this busy, moneymaking nation.
“I have brought the cash for which you telegraphed, sir,” said the clerk.
“Very good, Mr. Martin,” answered the banker. “Here is my cheque ready written for you. The notes are—?”
“Twenty fifties, twenty-five twenties, fifty tens,” the clerk said glibly.
Mr. Floyd took the little bundle of tissue-paper, and counted the notes with the professional rapidity which he still retained.
“Quite correct,” he said, ringing the bell, which was speedily answered by a simpering footman. “Give this gentleman some lunch. You will find the Madeira very good,” he added kindly, turning to the blushing junior; “it’s a wine that is dying out; and by the time you’re my age, Mr. Martin, you won’t be able to get such a glass as I can offer you today. Good morning.”
Mr. George Martin clutched his hat nervously from the empty chair on which he had placed it, knocked down a heap of papers with his elbow, bowed, blushed, and stumbled out of the room, under convoy of the simpering footman, who nourished a profound contempt for the young men from the “hoffice.”
“Now, my darling,” said Mr. Floyd,
