Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  Mr. Chivers wiped the perspiration from his face in testimony of his exertions. Dirty little streams were rolling down his forehead and trickling upon his poor faded cheeks. He mopped up these evidences of his fatigue with a red cotton handkerchief, and gave a deprecatory sigh.

  “If there’s anybody to lay blame on, it a’n’t me,” he said, mildly. “I said all along you ought to have had help. A man as is on his own ground, and knows his own ground, is more than a match for one cove, however hard he may work.”

  The detective turned fiercely upon his meek dependent.

  “Who’s blaming you?” he cried, impatiently. “I would n’t cry out before I was hurt, if I were you.”

  They had reached the railway station by this time.

  “How long is it since you missed him?” asked Mr. Grimstone of the penitent Chivers.

  “Three-quarters of a hour, or it may be a hour,” Tom added, doubtfully.

  “I dare say it is an hour,” muttered the detective.

  He walked straight to one of the chief officials, and asked what trains had left within the last hour.

  “Two, both market trains; one eastward, Selby way, the other for Penistone and the intervening stations.”

  The detective looked at the time-table, running his thumb-nail along the names of the stations.

  “That train will reach Penistone in time to catch the Liverpool train, won’t it?” he asked.

  “Just about.”

  “What time did it go?”

  “The Penistone train?”

  “Yes.”

  “About half an hour ago — at 2.30.”

  The clocks had struck three as Mr. Grimstone made his way to the station.

  “Half an hour ago,” muttered the detective. “He’d have had ample time to catch the train after giving Chivers the slip.”

  He questioned the guards and porters as to whether any of them had seen a man answering to the description of the softy; a whitefaced, humpbacked fellow, in corduroys and a fustian jacket; and even penetrated into the ticket-clerk’s office to ask the same question.

  No; none of them had seen Mr. Stephen Hargraves. Two or three of them recognized him by the detective’s description, and asked if it was one of the stable-men from Mellish Park that the gentleman was inquiring after. Mr. Grimstone rather evaded any direct answer to this question. Secrecy was, as we know, the principle upon which he conducted his affairs.

  “He may have contrived to give ’em all the slip,” he said, confidentially, to his faithful but dispirited ally. “He may have got off without any of ’em seeing him. He’s got the money about him, I am all but certain of that, and his game is to get off to Liverpool. His inquiries after the trains yesterday proves that. Now I might telegraph, and have him stopped at Liverpool — supposing him to have given us all the slip, and gone off there — if I like to let others into the game; but I don’t. I’ll play to win or lose; but I’ll play singlehanded. He may try another dodge, and get off Hull way by the canal-boats that the market-people use, and then slip across to Hamborough, or something of that sort; but that a’n’t likely — these fellows always go one way. It seems as if the minute a man has taken another man’s life, or forged his name, or embezzled his money, his ideas gets fixed in one groove, and never can soar higher than Liverpool and the American packet.”

  Mr. Chivers listened respectfully to his patron’s communications. He was very well pleased to see the serenity of his employer’s mind gradually returning.

  “Now, I’ll tell you what, Tom,” said Mr. Grimstone. “If this chap has given us the slip, why he’s given us the slip, and he’s got a start of us which we shan’t be able to pick up till half-past ten o’clock to-night, when there’s a train that’ll take us to Liverpool. If he has n’t given us the slip, there’s only one way he can leave Doncaster, and that’s by this station; so you stay here patient and quiet, till you see me, or hear from me. If he is in Doncaster, I’m jiggered if I don’t find him.”

  With which powerful asseveration Mr. Grimstone walked away, leaving his scout to keep watch for the possible coming of the softy.

  CHAPTER 39

  Talbot Bulstrode Makes Atonement for the Past.

  John Mellish and Talbot Bulstrode walked to and fro upon the lawn before the drawing-room windows on that afternoon on which the detective and his underling lost sight of Stephen Hargraves. It was a dreary time, this period of watching and waiting, of uncertainty and apprehension, and poor John Mellish chafed bitterly under the burden which he had to bear.

  Now that his friend’s common sense had come to his relief, and that a few plain, outspoken sentences had dispersed the terrible cloud of mystery, now that he himself was fully assured of his wife’s innocence, he had no patience with the stupid country people who held themselves aloof from the woman he loved. He wanted to go out and do battle for his slandered wife; to hurl back every base suspicion into the faces that had scowled upon his idolized Aurora. How could they dare, these foul-minded slanderers, to harbor one base thought against the purest, the most perfect of women? Mr. Mellish, of course, quite forgot that he, the rightful defender of all this perfection, had suffered his mind to be for a time obscured beneath the black shadow of that vile suspicion.

  He hated the old friends of his youth for their base avoidance of him; the servants of his household for a half-doubtful, half-solemn expression of face, which he knew had relation to that growing suspicion, that horrible suspicion, which seemed to grow stronger with every hour. He broke out into a storm of rage with the gray-haired butler, who had carried him pickapack in his infancy, because the faithful retainer tried to hold back certain newspapers which contained dark allusions to the Mellish mystery.

  “Who told you I did n’t want the Manchester Guardian, Jarvis?” he cried, fiercely; “who gave you the right to dictate what I’m to read or what I’m to leave unread? I do want to-day’s Guardian; to-day’s, and yesterday’s, and to-morrow’s, and every other newspaper that comes into this house! I won’t have them overhauled by you, or any one, to see whether they’re pleasant reading or not, before they’re brought to me. Do you think I’m afraid of anything these penny-a-liner fellows can write?” roared the young squire, striking his open hand upon the table at which he sat. “Let them write their best or their worst of me. But let them write one word that can be twisted into an insinuation upon the purest and truest woman in all Christendom, and, by the Heaven above me, I’ll give them such a thrashing — penny-a-liners, printers, publishers, and every man-Jack of them — as shall make them remember the business to the last hour of their lives!”

  Mr. Mellish said all this in despite of the restraining presence of Talbot Bulstrode. Indeed, the young member for Penruthy had by no means a pleasant time of it during those few days of anxiety and suspense. A keeper set to watch over a hearty young jungle tiger, and bidden to prevent the noble animal from committing any imprudence, might have found his work little harder than that which Mr. Bulstrode did, patiently and uncomplainingly, for pure friendship’s sake.

  John Mellish roamed about in the custody of this friendly keeper, with his short auburn hair tumbled into a feverish-looking mass, like a field of ripening corn that had been beaten by a summer hurricane, his cheeks sunken and haggard, and a bristling yellow stubble upon his chin. I dare say he had made a vow neither to shave nor be shaven until the murderer of James Conyers should be found. He clung desperately to Talbot Bulstrode, but he clung with still wilder desperation to the detective, the professional criminal-hunter, who had, in a manner, tacitly pledged himself to the discovery of the real homicide.

  All through the fitful August day, now hot and still, now overclouded and showery, the master of Mellish Park went hither and thither — now sitting in his study; now roaming out on the lawn; now pacing up and down the drawing-room, displacing, disarranging, and overturning the pretty furniture; now wandering up and down the staircase, lolling on the landing-places, and patrolling the corridor outside the roo
ms in which Lucy and Aurora sat together, making a show of employing themselves, but only waiting, waiting, waiting for the hoped-for end.

  Poor John scarcely cared to meet that dearly-loved wife; for the great earnest eyes that looked in his face always asked the same question so plainly — always appealed so piteously for the answer that could not be given.

  It was a weary and a bitter time. I wonder, as I write of it, when I think of a quiet Somersetshire household in which a dreadful deed was done — the secret of which has never yet been brought to light, and perhaps never will be revealed until the Day of Judgment — what must have been suffered by each member of that family? What slow agonies, what ever-increasing tortures, while that cruel mystery was the “sensation” topic of conversation in a thousand happy home circles, in a thousand tavern parlors and pleasant club-rooms — a common and ever-interesting topic, by means of which travellers in first-class railway carriages might break down the ceremonial icebergs which surround each travelling Englishman, and grow friendly and confidential; a safe topic, upon which even tacit enemies might talk pleasantly without fear of wrecking themselves upon hidden rocks of personal insinuation. God help that household, or any such household, through the weary time of waiting which it may please Him to appoint, until that day in which it shall be His good pleasure to reveal the truth! God help all patient creatures laboring under the burden of an unjust suspicion, and support them unto the end!

  John Mellish chafed and fretted himself ceaselessly all through that August day at the nonappearance of the detective. Why did n’t he come? He had promised to bring or send them news of his proceedings. Talbot in vain assured his friend that Mr. Grimstone was no doubt hard at work; that such a discovery as he had to make was not to be made in a day; and that Mr. Mellish had nothing to do but to make himself as comfortable as he could, and wait quietly for the event he desired so eagerly.

  “I should not say this to you, John,” Mr. Bulstrode said by and by, “if I did not believe — as I know this man Grimstone believes — that we are upon the right track, and are pretty sure to bring the crime home to the wretch who committed it. You can do nothing but be patient, and wait the result of Grimstone’s labors.”

  “Yes,” cried John Mellish; “and, in the meantime, all these people are to say cruel things of my darling, and keep aloof from her, and — No, I can’t bear it, Talbot, I can’t bear it. I’ll turn my back upon this confounded place. I’ll sell it; I’ll burn it down; I’ll — I’ll do anything to get away, and take my precious one from the wretches who have slandered her!”

  “That you shall not do, John Mellish,” exclaimed Talbot Bulstrode, “until the murderer of James Conyers has been discovered. Go away then as soon as you like, for the associations of this place can not be otherwise than disagreeable to you — for a time, at least. But, until the truth is out, you must remain here. If there is any foul suspicion against Aurora, her presence here will best give the lie to that suspicion. It was her hurried journey to London which first set people talking of her, I dare say,” added Mr. Bulstrode, who was, of course, entirely ignorant of the fact that an anonymous letter from Mrs. Powell had originally aroused the suspicions of the Doncaster constabulary.

  So through the long summer’s day Talbot reasoned with and comforted his friend, never growing weary of his task, never for one moment losing sight of the interests of Aurora Mellish and her husband.

  Perhaps this was a self-imposed penalty for the wrong which he had done the banker’s daughter long ago in the dim starlit chamber at Felden. If it was so, he did penance very cheerfully.

  “Heaven knows how gladly I would do her a service,” he thought; “her life has been a troubled one, in spite of her father’s thousands. Thank Heaven, my poor little Lucy has never been forced into playing the heroine of a tragedy like this; thank Heaven, my poor little darling’s life flows evenly and placidly in a smooth channel.”

  He could not but reflect with something of a shudder that it might have been his wife whose history was being canvassed throughout the West Riding. He could not be otherwise than pleased to remember that the name of the woman he had chosen had never gone beyond the holy circle of her own home, to be the common talk among strangers.

  There are things which are utterly unendurable to some people, but which are not at all terrible in the eyes of others. John Mellish, secure in his own belief in his wife’s innocence, would have been content to carry her away with him, after razing the home of his forefathers to the ground, and defying all Yorkshire to find flaw or speck upon her fair fame. But Talbot Bulstrode would have gone mad with the agony of the thought that common tongues had defiled the name he loved, and would, in no after-triumph of his wife’s innocence, have been able to forget or to recover from the torture of that unendurable agony. There are people who can not forget, and Talbot Bulstrode was one of them. He had never forgotten his Christmas agony at Felden Woods, and the after-struggle at Bulstrode Castle; nor did he ever hope to forget it. The happiness of the present, pure and unalloyed though it was, could not annihilate the anguish of the past. That stood alone — so many months, weeks, days, and hours of unutterable misery riven away from the rest of his life, to remain for ever a stony memorial upon the smooth plains of the past.

  Archibald Martin Floyd sat with his daughter and Lucy in Mrs. Mellish’s morning-room, the pleasantest chamber for many reasons, but chiefly because it was removed from the bustle of the house, and from the chance of unwelcome intrusion. All the troubles of that household had been made light of in the presence of the old man, and no word had been dropped before him which could give him reason to guess that his only child had been suspected of the most fearful crime that man or woman can commit. But Archibald Floyd was not easily to be deceived where his daughter’s happiness was in question; he had watched that beautiful face, whose ever-varying expression was its highest charm, so long and earnestly, as to have grown familiar with its every look. No shadow upon the brightness of his daughter’s beauty could possibly escape the old man’s eyes, dim as they may have grown for the figures in his banking-book. It was Aurora’s business, therefore, to sit by her father’s side in the pleasant morning-room, to talk to him and amuse him, while John rambled hither and thither, and made himself otherwise tiresome to his patient companion, Talbot Bulstrode. Mrs. Mellish repeated to her father again and again that there was no cause for uneasiness; they were merely anxious — naturally anxious — that the guilty man should be found and brought to justice — nothing more.

  The banker accepted this explanation of his daughter’s pale face very quietly; but he was not the less anxious — anxious he scarcely knew why, but with the shadow of a dark cloud hanging over him that was not to be driven away.

  Thus the long August day wore itself out, and the low sun — blazing a lurid red behind the trees in Mellish Wood, until it made that pool beside which the murdered man had fallen seem a pool of blood — gave warning that one weary day of watching and suspense was nearly done.

  John Mellish, far too restless to sit long at dessert, had roamed out upon the lawn, still attended by his indefatigable keeper, Talbot Bulstrode, and employed himself in pacing up and down the smooth grass amid Mr. Dawson’s flower-beds, looking always toward the pathway that led to the house, and breathing suppressed anathemas against the dilatory detective.

  “One day nearly gone, thank Heaven, Talbot!” he said, with an impatient sigh. “Will to-morrow bring us no nearer to what we want, I wonder? What if it should go on like this for long? what if it should go on for ever, until Aurora and I go mad with this wretched anxiety and suspense? Yes, I know you think me a fool and a coward, Talbot Bulstrode; but I can’t bear it quietly, I tell you I can’t. I know there are some people who can shut themselves up with their troubles, and sit down quietly and suffer without a groan; but I can’t. I must cry out when I am tortured, or I should dash my brains out against the first wall I came to, and make an end of it. To think that anybody should suspect my darling
! to think that they should believe her to be—”

  “To think that you should have believed it, John!” said Mr. Bulstrode, gravely.

  “Ah! there’s the cruelest stab of all,” cried John; “if I — I, who know her, and love her, and believe in her as man never yet believed in woman — if I could have been bewildered and maddened by that horrible chain of cruel circumstances, every one of which pointed — Heaven help me! — at her — if I could be deluded by these things until my brain reeled, and I went nearly mad with doubting my own dearest love, what may strangers think — strangers who neither know nor love her, but who are only too ready to believe anything unnaturally infamous? Talbot I won’t endure this any longer. I’ll ride into Doncaster and see this man Grimstone. He must have done some good to-day. I’ll go at once.”

  Mr. Mellish would have walked straight off to the stables; but Talbot Bulstrode caught him by the arm.

  “You may miss the man on the road, John,” he said. “He came last night after dark, and may come as late to-night. There’s no knowing whether he’ll come by the road, or the short cut across the fields. You’re as likely to miss him as not.”

  Mr. Mellish hesitated.

  “He may n’t come at all to-night,” he said; “and I tell you I can’t bear this suspense.”

  “Let me ride into Doncaster, then, John,” urged Talbot, “and you stay here to receive Grimstone if he should come.”

  Mr. Mellish was considerably mollified by this proposition.

  “Will you ride into the town, Talbot?” he said. “Upon my word, it’s very kind of you to propose it. I should n’t like to miss this man upon any account; but, at the same time, I don’t feel inclined to wait for the chance of his coming or staying away. I’m afraid I’m a great nuisance to you, Bulstrode.”

  “Not a bit of it,” answered Talbot, with a smile.

  Perhaps he smiled involuntarily at the notion of how little John Mellish knew what a nuisance he had been through that weary day.