"I'll take her away with me," he thought; "and when we are divided by a thousand miles of blue water from the scene of her secret, I will fall on my knees before her, and beseech her to confide in me."
He passed by the north lodge with a shudder, and walked straight along the high-road toward the principal entrance of the Park. He was close to the gates when he heard a voice—a strange, suppressed voice, calling feebly to him to stop. He turned round and saw the softy making his way toward him with a slow, shambling run. Of all human beings, except perhaps that one who now lay cold and motionless in the darkened chamber at the north lodge, this Steeve Hargraves was the last whom Mr. Mellish cared to see. He turned with an angry frown upon the softy, who was wiping the perspiration from his pale face with the ragged end of his neck-handkerchief, and panting hoarsely.
"What is the matter?" asked John. "What do you want with me?"
"It's th' coroner," gasped Stephen Hargraves—"th' coroner and Mr. Lofthouse, th' parson—they want to speak to ye, sir, oop at the Loi-on."
"What about?"
Steeve Hargraves gave a ghastly grin.
"I doant know, sir," he whispered. "It's hardly loikely they'd tell me. There's summat oop, though, I'll lay, for Mr. Lofthouse was as whoite as ashes, and seemed strangely oopset about summat. Would you be pleased to step oop, and speak to 'un directly, sir? that was my message."
"Yes, yes, I'll go," answered John, absently.
He had taken his hat off, and was passing his hand over his hot forehead in a half-bewildered manner. He turned his back upon the softy, and walked rapidly away, retracing his steps in the direction of the roadside inn.
Stephen Hargraves stood staring after him until he was out of sight, and then turned, and walked on slowly toward the turnstile leading into the wood.
"I know what they've found," he muttered, "and I know what they want with him. He'll be some time oop there, so I'll slip across the wood and tell her. Yes"—he paused, rubbing his hands, and laughing a slow, voiceless laugh, which distorted his ugly face, and made him horrible to look upon—yes, it will be nuts for me to tell her."
CHAPTER XXVII.
"MY WIFE! MY WIFE! WHAT WIFE? I
HAVE NO WIFE."
The Golden Lion had reassumed its accustomed air of rustic tranquillity when John Mellish returned to it. The jurymen had gone back to their different avocations, glad to have finished the business so easily; the villagers, who had hung about the inn to hear what they could of the proceedings, were all dispersed; and the landlord was eating his dinner, with his wife and family, in the comfortable little bar-parlor. He put down his knife and fork as John entered the sanded bar, and left his meal to receive such a distinguished visitor.
"Mr. Hayward and Mr. Lofthouse are in the coffee-room, sir," he said. "Will you please to step this way?"
He opened the door of a carpeted room, furnished with shining mahogany tables, and adorned by half a dozen gaudily colored prints of the Doncaster meetings, the great match between Voltigeur and Flying Dutchman, and other events which had won celebrity for the northern race-course. The coroner was sitting at the bottom of one of the long tables, with Mr. Lofthouse standing near him. William Dork, the Meslingham constable, stood near the door, with his hat in his hand, and with rather an alarmed expression dimly visible in his ruddy face. Mr. Hayward and Mr. Lofthouse were both very pale.
One rapid glance was enough to show all this to John Mellish—enough to show him this, and something more: a basin of blood-stained water before the coroner, and an oblong piece of wet paper, which lay under Mr. Hayward's clenched hand.
"What is the matter? Why did you send for me?" he asked.
Bewildered and alarmed as he had been by the message which had summoned him hurriedly back to the inn, he was still more so by the confusion evident in the coroner's manner as he answered this question.
"Pray sit down, Mr. Mellish," he said. "I—I—sent for you—at—the—advice of Mr. Lofthouse, who—who, as a clergyman and a family man, thought it incumbent upon me—"
Reginald Lofthouse laid his hand upon the coroner's arm with a warning gesture. Mr. Hayward stopped for a moment, cleared his throat, and then continued speaking, but in an altered tone.
"I have had occasion to reprimand William Dork for a breach of duty, which, though I am aware it may have been, as he says, purely unintentional and accidental—"
"It was indeed, sir," muttered the constable, submissively. "If I'd ha' know'd—"
"The fact is, Mr. Mellish, that on the night of the murder, Dork, in examining the clothes of the deceased, discovered a paper, which had been concealed by the unhappy man between the outer material and the lining of his waistcoat. This paper was so stained by the blood in which the breast of the waistcoat was absolutely saturated that Dork was unable to decipher a word of its contents. He therefore was quite unaware of the importance of the paper; and, in the hurry and confusion consequent on the very hard duty he has done for the last two days, he forgot to produce it at the inquest. He had occasion to make some memorandum in his pocket-book almost immediately after the verdict had been given, and this circumstance recalled to his mind the existence of the paper. He came immediately to me, and consulted me upon this very awkward business. I examined the document, washed away a considerable portion of the stains which had rendered it illegible, and have contrived to decipher the greater part of it."
"The document is of some importance, then?" John asked.
He sat at a little distance from the table, with his head bent, and his fingers rattling nervously against the side of his chair. He chafed horribly at the coroner's pompous slowness. He suffered an agony of fear and bewilderment. Why had they called him back? What was this paper? How could it concern him?
"Yes," Mr. Hayward answered, "the document is certainly an important one. I have shown it to Mr. Lofthouse, for the purpose of taking his advice upon the subject. I have not shown it to Dork; but I detained Dork in order that you may hear from him how and where the paper was found, and why it was not produced at the inquest."
"Why should I ask any questions upon the subject?" cried John, lifting his head suddenly, and looking from the coroner to the clergyman. "How should this paper concern me?"
"I regret to say that it does concern you very materially, Mr. Mellish," the rector answered, gently.
John's angry spirit revolted against that gentleness. What right had they to speak to him like this? Why did they look at him with those grave, pitying faces? Why did they drop their voices to that horrible tone in which the bearers of evil tidings pave their way to the announcement of some overwhelming calamity?
"Let me see this paper, then, if it concerns me," John said, very carelessly. "Oh, my God!" he thought, "what is this misery that is coming upon me? What is this hideous avalanche of trouble which is slowly descending to crush me?"
"You do not wish to hear anything from Dork?" asked the coroner.
"No, no!" cried John, savagely. "I only want to see that paper." He pointed as he spoke to the wet and blood-stained document under Mr. Hayward's hand.
"You may go, then, Dork," the coroner said, quietly, "and be sure you do not mention this business to any one. It is a matter of purely private interest, and has no reference to the murder. You will remember?"
"Yes, sir."
The constable bowed respectfully to the three gentlemen, and left the room. He was very glad to be so well out of the business.
"They need n't have called me," he thought (to call, in the Northern patois, is to scold, to abuse). "They need n't have said it was repri—wat's its name?—to keep the paper. I might have burnt it if I liked, and said naught about it."
"Now," said John, rising and walking to the table as the door closed upon the constable, "now, then, Mr. Hayward, let me see this paper. If it concerns me, or any one connected with me, I have a right to see it."
"A right which I will not dispute," the coroner answered, gravely, as he handed the blood-stained documen
t to Mr. Mellish. "I only beg you to believe in my heart-felt sympathy with you in this—"
"Let me alone!" cried John, waving the speaker away from him as he snatched the paper from his hand; "let me alone! Can't you see that I'm nearly mad?"
He walked to the window, and with his back to the coroner and Mr. Lofthouse, examined the blotched and blotted document in his hands. He stared for a long time at those blurred and half-illegible lines before he became aware of their full meaning. But at last, at last, the signification of that miserable paper grew clear to him, and with a loud cry of anguish he dropped into the chair from which he had risen, and covered his face with his strong right hand. He held the paper in the left, crumpled and crushed by the convulsive pressure of his grasp.
"My God!" he ejaculated, after that first cry of anguish, "my God! I never thought of this—I never could have imagined this."
Neither the coroner nor the clergyman spoke. What could they say to him. Sympathetic words could have no power to lessen such a grief as this; they would only fret and harass the strong man in his agony; it was better to obey him; it was far better to let him alone.
He rose at last, after a silence that seemed long to the spectators of his grief.
"Gentlemen," he said, in a loud, resolute voice that resounded through the little room, "I give you my solemn word of honor that when Archibald Floyd's daughter married me, she believed this man, James Conyers, to be dead."
He struck his clenched fist upon the table, and looked with proud defiance at the two men. Then, with his left hand, the hand that grasped the blood-stained paper, thrust into his breast, he walked out of the room. He walked out of the room, and out of the house, but not homeward. A grassy lane opposite the Golden Lion led away to a great waste of brown turf called Harper's Common. John Mellish walked slowly along this lane, and out upon this quiet common-land, lonely even in the broad summer daylight. As he closed the five-barred gate at the end of the lane, and emerged upon the open waste, he seemed to shut the door of the world that lay behind him, and to stand alone with his great grief under the low, sunless summer sky. The dreary scene before him, and the gray atmosphere above his head, seemed in strange harmony with his grief. The reedy water-pools, unbroken by a ripple; the barren verdure, burnt a dull grayish brown by the summer sun; the bloomless heather, and the flowerless rushes—all things upon which he looked took a dismal coloring from his own desolation, and seemed to make him the more desolate. The spoiled child of fortune—the popular young squire, who had never been contradicted in nearly two-and-thirty years—the happy husband, whose pride in his wife had touched upon that narrow boundary-line which separates the sublime from the ridiculous—ah! whither had they fled, all these shadows of the happy days that were gone? They had vanished away; they had fallen into the black gulf of the cruel past. The monster who devours his children had taken back these happy ones, and a desolate man was left in their stead—a desolate man, who looked at a broad ditch and a rushy bank a few paces from where he stood, and thought, "Was it I who leaped that dike a month ago to gather forget-me-nots for my wife?"
He asked himself that question, reader, which we must all ask ourselves sometimes. Was he really that creature of the irrevocable past? Even as I write this I can see that common-land of which I write—the low sky, the sunburnt grass, the reedy water-pools, the flat landscape stretching far away on every side to regions that are strange to me. I can recall every object in that simple scene—the atmosphere of the sunless day, the sounds in the soft summer air, the voices of the people near me; I can recall everything except—myself. This miserable ego is the one thing that I can not bring back—the one thing that seems strange to me—the one thing that I can scarcely believe in. If I went back to that Northern common-land to-morrow, I should recognize every hillock, every scrap of furze, or patch of heather. The few years that have gone by since I saw it will have made a scarcely perceptible difference in the features of the familiar place. The slow changes of Nature, immutable in her harmonious law, will have done their work according to that unalterable law; but this wretched me has undergone so complete a change that, if you could bring me back that alter ego of the past, I should be unable to recognize the strange creature; and yet it is by no volcanic shocks, no rending asunder of rocky masses, no great convulsions, or terrific agonies of Nature, that the change has come about; it is rather by a slow, monotonous wearing away of salient points, an imperceptible adulteration of this or that constituent part, an addition here, and a subtraction there, that the transformation takes place. It is hard to make a man believe in the physiologists, who declare that the hand which uses his pen to-day is not the same hand that guided the quill with which he wrote seven years ago. He finds it very difficult to believe this; but let him take out of some forgotten writing-desk, thrust into a corner of his lumber-room, those letters which he wrote seven years ago, and which were afterward returned to him by the lady to whom they were addressed, and the question which he will ask himself, as he reads the faded lines, will most surely be, "Was it I who wrote this bosh? Was it I who called a lady with white eyelashes 'the guiding star of a lonely life?' Was it I who was 'inexpressibly miserable, with one s, and looked 'forward with unutterable anxiety to the party in Onslow Square, at which I once more should look into those soft blue eyes?' What party in Onslow Square? Non mi recordo. 'Those soft blue eyes' were garnished with white lashes, and the lady to whom the letters were written jilted me to marry a rich soap-boiler." Even the law takes cognizance of this wonderful transformation. The debt which Smith contracts in 1850 is null and void in 1857. The Smith of '50 may have been an extravagant rogue; the Smith of '57 may be a conscientious man, who would not cheat his creditors of a farthing. Shall Smith the second be called upon to pay the debts of Smith the first? I leave that question to Smith's conscience and the metaphysicians. Surely the same law should hold good in breach of promise of marriage. Smith the first may have adored Miss Brown; Smith the second may detest her. Shall Smith of 1857 be called upon to perform the contract entered into by that other Smith of 1850? The French criminal law goes still farther. The murderer whose crime remains unsuspected for ten years can laugh at the police officers who discover his guilt in the eleventh. Surely this must be because the real murderer is no longer amenable to justice—because the hand that struck the blow, and the brain that plotted the deed, are alike extinct.
Poor John Mellish, with the world of the past crumbled at his feet, looked out at the blank future, and mourned for the people who were dead and gone.
He flung himself at full length upon the stunted grass, and, taking the crumpled paper from his breast, unfolded it and smoothed it our before him.
It was a certificate of marriage—the certificate of a marriage which had been solemnized at the parish church of Dover upon the 2d of July, 1856, between James Conyers, bachelor, rough-rider, of London, son of Joseph Conyers, stage-coachman, and Susan, his wife, and Aurora Floyd, spinster, daughter of Archibald Floyd, banker, of Felden Woods, Kent.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
AURORA'S FLIGHT.
Mrs. Mellish sat in her husband's room on the morning of the inquest, among the guns and fishing-rods, the riding-boots and hunting-whips, and all the paraphernalia of sportsmanship. She sat in a capacious wicker-work arm-chair close to the open window, with her head lying back upon the chintz-covered cushions, and her eyes wandering far away across the lawn and flower-beds toward the winding pathway by which it was likely John Mellish would return from the inquest at the Golden Lion.
She had openly defied Mrs. Powell, and had locked the door of this quiet chamber upon that lady's stereotyped civilities and sympathetic simperings. She had locked the door upon the outer world, and she sat alone in the pleasant window, the full-blown roses showering their scented petals upon her lap with every breath of the summer breeze, and the butterflies hovering about her. The old mastiff sat by her side, with his heavy head lying on her lap, and his big dim eyes lifted to her face. She sat alon
e, I have said; but Heaven knows she was not companionless. Black care and corroding anxiety kept her faithful company, and would not budge from her side. What companions are so adhesive as trouble and sorrow? what associates so tenacious, what friends so watchful and untiring? This wretched girl stood alone in the centre of a sea of troubles, fearful to stretch out her hands to those who loved her, lest she should drag them into that ocean which was rising to overwhelm her.
"Oh, if I could suffer alone," she thought—"if I could suffer all this misery alone, I think I would go through it to the last without complaining; but the shame, the degradation, the anguish will come upon others more heavily than upon me. What will they not suffer? what will they not endure if the wicked madness of my youth should become known to the world?"
Those others of whose possible grief and shame she thought with such cruel torture were her father and John Mellish. Her love for her husband had not lessened by one iota her love for that indulgent father on whom the folly of her girlhood had brought such bitter suffering. Her generous heart was wide enough for both. She had acknowledged no "divided duty," and would have repudiated any encroachment of the new affection upon the old. The great river of her love widened into an ocean, and embraced a new shore with its mighty tide; but that far-away source of childhood, from which affection first sprang in its soft infantine purity, still gushed in crystal beauty from its unsullied spring. She would perhaps scarcely have recognized the coldly-measured affection of mad Lear's youngest daughter—the affection which could divide itself with mathematical precision between father and husband. Surely, love is too pure a sentiment to be so weighed in the balance. Must we subtract something from the original sum when we are called upon to meet a new demand? or has not affection rather some magic power by which it can double its capital at any moment when there is a run upon the bank? When Mrs. John Anderson becomes the mother of six children, she does not say to her husband, "My dear John, I shall be compelled to rob you of six-tenths of my affection in order to provide for the little ones." No; the generous heart of the wife grows larger to meet the claims upon the mother, as the girl's heart expanded with the new affections of the wife. Every pang of grief which Aurora felt for her husband's misery was doubled by the image of her father's sorrow. She could not divide these two in her own mind. She loved them, and was sorry for them, with an equal measure of love and sorrow.
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