Aurora Floyd

by M. E. Braddon

  "Yes, Talbot."

  She obeyed as submissively as a child; but she lingered near the door, after her husband had closed it upon her, with a mournful yearning in her heart. She wanted to go to her cousin, and comfort her, if she had need of comfort. She dreaded the effect of her husband's cold and passionless manner upon Aurora's impressionable nature.

  Mr. Bulstrode went down to the library to receive his kinswoman. It would have been strange if he had failed to remember that Christmas evening nearly two years before, upon which he had gone down to the shadowy room at Felden, with every hope of his heart crushed, to ask for comfort from the woman he loved. It would have been strange if, in the brief interval that elapsed between his leaving the drawing-room and entering the library, his mind had not flown back to that day of desolation. If there was any infidelity to Lucy in that sharp thrill of pain that pierced his heart as the old memory came back, the sin was as short-lived as the agony which it brought with it. He was able now to say, in all singleness of heart, "I made a wise choice, and I shall never repent of having made it."

  The library was a small apartment at the back of the dining-room. It was dimly lighted, for Aurora had lowered the lamp. She did not want Mr. Bulstrode to see her face.

  "My dear Mrs. Mellish," said Talbot, gravely, "I am so surprised at this visit that I scarcely know how to say I am glad to see you. I fear something must have happened to cause your travelling alone. John is ill, perhaps, or—"

  He might have said much more if Aurora had not interrupted him by casting herself upon her knees before him, and looking up at him with a pale, agonized face, that seemed almost ghastly in the dim lamplight.

  It was impossible to describe the look of horror that came over Talbot Bulstrode's face as she did this. It was the Felden scene over again. He came to her in the hope that she would justify herself, and she tacitly acknowledged her humiliation.

  She was a guilty woman, then—a guilty creature, whom it would be his painful duty to cast out of that pure household. She was a poor, lost, polluted wretch, who must not be admitted into the holy atmosphere of a Christian gentleman's home.

  "Mrs. Mellish! Mrs. Mellish!" he cried, "what is the meaning of this? Why do you give me this horrible pain again? Why do you insist upon humiliating yourself and me by such a scene as this?"

  "Oh, Talbot, Talbot!" answered Aurora, "I come to you because you are good and honorable. I am a desolate, wretched woman, and I want your help—I want your advice. I will abide by it; I will, Talbot Bulstrode, so help me Heaven!"

  Her voice was broken by her sobs. In her passionate grief and confusion she forgot that it was just possible such an appeal as this might be rather bewildering in its effect upon Talbot. But perhaps, even amid his bewilderment, the young Cornishman saw, or fancied he saw, something in Aurora's manner which had no fellowship with guilt, or with such guilt as he had at first dreaded. I imagine that it must have been so, for his voice was softer and his manner kinder when he next addressed her.

  "Aurora," he said, "for pity's sake be calm. Why have you left Mellish? What is the business in which I can help or advise you? Be calm, my dear girl, and I will try and understand you. God knows how much I wish to be a friend to you, for I stand in a brother's place, you know, my dear, and demand a brother's right to question your actions. I am sorry you came up to town alone, because such a step was calculated to compromise you; but if you will be calm, and tell me why you came, I may be able to understand your motives. Come, Aurora, try and be calm."

  She was still on her knees, sobbing hysterically. Talbot would have summoned his wife to her assistance, but he could not bear to see the two women associated until he had discovered the cause of Aurora's agitation.

  He poured some water into a glass, and gave it her. He placed her in an easy-chair near the open window, and then walked up and down the room until she had recovered herself.

  "Talbot Bulstrode," she said, quietly, after a long pause, "I want you to help me in the crisis of my life. I must be candid with you, therefore, and tell you that which I would have died rather than tell you two years ago. You remember the night upon which you left Felden?"

  "Remember it? Yes, yes."

  "The secret which separated us then, Talbot, was the one secret of my life—the secret of my disobedience, the secret of my father's sorrow. You asked me to give you an account of that one year which was missing out of the history of my life. I could not do so, Talbot; I would not! My pride revolted against the horrible humiliation. If you had discovered the secret yourself, and had accused me of the disgraceful truth, I would have attempted no denial; but with my own lips to utter the hateful story—no, no, I could have borne anything better than that. But now that my secret is common property, in the keeping of police officers and stable-boys, I can afford to tell you all. When I left the school in the Rue Saint Dominique, I ran away to marry my father's groom!"

  "Aurora!"

  Talbot Bulstrode dropped into the chair nearest him, and sat blankly staring at his wife's cousin. Was this the secret humiliation which had prostrated her at his feet in the chamber at Felden Woods?

  "Oh, Talbot, how could I have told you this? How can I tell you now why I did this mad and wicked thing, blighting the happiness of my youth by my own act, and bringing shame and grief upon my father? I had no romantic, overwhelming love for this man. I can not plead the excuses which some women urge for their madness. I had only a school-girl's sentimental fancy for his dashing manner, only a school-girl's frivolous admiration of his handsome face. I married him because he had dark blue eyes, and long eye-lashes, and white teeth, and brown hair. He had insinuated himself into a kind of intimacy with me by bringing me all the empty gossip of the race-course, by extra attention to my favorite horses, by rearing a litter of puppies for me. All these things brought about associations between us; he was always my companion in my rides; and he contrived before long to tell me his story. Bah! why should I weary you with it?" cried Aurora, scornfully. "He was a prince in disguise, of course; he was a gentleman's son; his father had kept his hunters; he was at war with fortune; he had been ill used and trampled down in the battle of life. His talk was something to this effect, and I believed him. Why should I disbelieve him? I had lived all my life in an atmosphere of truth. My governess and I talked perpetually of the groom's romantic story. She was a silly woman, and encouraged my folly; out of mere stupidity, I believe, and with no suspicion of the mischief she was doing. We criticised the groom's handsome face, his white hands, his aristocratic manners. I mistook insolence for aristocracy; Heaven help me! And, as we saw scarcely any society at that time, I compared my father's groom with the few guests who came to Felden, and the town-bred impostor profited by comparison with rustic gentlemen. Why should I stay to account to you for my folly, Talbot Bulstrode? I could never succeed in doing so, though I talked for a week; I can not account to myself for my madness. I can only look back to that horrible time, and wonder why I was mad."

  "My poor Aurora! my poor Aurora!"

  He spoke in the pitying tone with which he might have comforted her had she been a child. He was thinking of her in her childish ignorance, exposed to the insidious advances of an unscrupulous schemer, and his heart bled for the motherless girl.

  "My father found some letters written by this man, and discovered that his daughter had affianced herself to his groom. He made this discovery while I was out riding with James Conyers—the groom's name was Conyers—and when I came home there was a fearful scene between us. I was mad enough and wicked enough to defend my conduct, and to reproach my father with the illiberality of his sentiments. I went even farther: I reminded him that the house of Floyd and Floyd had had a very humble origin. He took me to Paris upon the following day. I thought myself cruelly treated. I revolted against the ceremonial monotony of the pension; I hated the studies, which were ten times more difficult than anything I had ever experienced with my governess; I suffered terribly from the conventual seclusion, for I had be
en used to perfect freedom among the country roads round Felden; and, amid all this, the groom pursued me with letters and messages, for he had followed me to Paris, and spent his money recklessly in bribing the servants and hangers-on of the school. He was playing for a high stake, and he played so desperately that he won. I ran away from school, and married him at Dover, within eight or nine hours of my escape from the Rue Saint Dominique."

  She buried her face in her hands, and was silent for some time.

  "Heaven have pity upon my wretched ignorance!" she said at last; "the illusion under which I had married this man ended in about a week. At the end of that time I discovered that I was the victim of a mercenary wretch, who meant to use me to the uttermost as a means of wringing money from my father. For some time I submitted, and my father paid, and paid dearly, for his daughter's folly; but he refused to receive the man I had married, or to see me until I separated myself from that man. He offered the groom an income on the condition of his going to Australia, and resigning all association with me for ever. But the man had a higher game to play. He wanted to bring about a reconciliation with my father, and he thought that in due time that tender father's resolution would have yielded to the force of his love. It was little better than a year after our marriage that I made a discovery that transformed me in one moment from a girl into a woman—a revengeful woman, perhaps, Mr. Bulstrode. I discovered that I had been wronged, deceived, and outraged by a wretch who laughed at my ignorant confidence in him. I had learned to hate the man long before this occurred; I had learned to despise his shallow trickeries, his insolent pretensions; but I do not think I felt his deeper infamy the less keenly for that. We were travelling in the south of France, my husband playing the great gentleman upon my father's money, when this discovery was made by me—or not by me; for it was forced upon me by a woman who knew my story and pitied me. Within half an hour of obtaining this knowledge, I acted upon it. I wrote to James Conyers, telling him I had discovered that which gave me the right to call upon the law to release me from him; and if I refrained from doing so, it was for my father's sake, and not for his. I told him that so long as he left me unmolested, and kept my secret, I would remit him money from time to time. I told him that I left him to the associations he had chosen for himself, and that my only prayer was that God, in His mercy, might grant me complete forgetfulness of him. I left this letter for him with the concierge, and quitted the hotel in such a manner as to prevent his obtaining any trace of the way I had gone. I stopped in Paris for a few days, waiting for a reply to a letter I had written to my father, telling him that James Conyers was dead. Perhaps that was the worst sin of my life, Talbot. I deceived my father; but I believed that I was doing a wise and merciful thing in setting his mind at rest. He would have never been happy so long as he had believed the man lived. You understand all now, Talbot," she said mournfully. "You remember the morning at Brighton?"

  "Yes, yes; and the newspaper with the marked paragraph—the report of the jockey's death."

  "That report was false, Talbot Bulstrode," cried Aurora. "James Conyers was not killed."

  Talbot's face grew suddenly pale. He began to understand something of the nature of that trouble which had brought Aurora to him.

  "What! he was still living, then?" he said, anxiously.

  "Yes; until the night before last?"

  "But where—where has he been all this time?"

  "During the last ten days at Mellish Park."

  She told him the terrible story of the murder. The trainer's death had not yet been reported in the London papers. She told him the dreadful story; and then, looking up at him with an earnest, imploring face, as she might have done had he been indeed her brother, she entreated him to help and counsel her in this terrible hour of need.

  "Teach me how to do what is best for my dear love," she said. "Don't think of me or my happiness, Talbot; think only of him. I will make any sacrifice; I will submit to anything. I want to atone to my poor dear for all the misery I have brought upon him."

  Talbot Bulstrode did not make any reply to this earnest appeal. The administrative powers of his mind were at work; he was busy summing up facts, and setting them before him, in order to grapple with them fairly, and he had no attention to waste upon sentiment or emotion. He was walking up and down the room, with his eyebrows knitted sternly over his cold gray eyes, and his head bent.

  "How many people know this secret, Aurora?" he asked, presently.

  "I can't tell you that; but I fear it must be very generally known," answered Mrs. Mellish, with a shuddering recollection of the softy's insolence. "I heard of the discovery that had been made from a hanger-on of the stables, a man who hates me—a man whom I—had a misunderstanding with."

  "Have you any idea who it was that shot this Conyers?"

  "No, not the least idea."

  "You do not even guess at any one?"

  "No."

  Talbot took a few more turns up and down the small apartment, in evident trouble and perplexity of mind. He left the room presently, and called at the foot of the staircase:

  "Lucy, my dear, come down to your cousin."

  I'm afraid Mrs. Bulstrode must have been lurking somewhere about the outside of the drawing-room door, for she flew down the stairs at the sound of the strong voice, and was by her husband's side two or three seconds after he had spoken.

  "Oh, Talbot," she said, "how long you have been! I thought you would never send for me. What has been the matter with my poor darling?"

  "Go in to her, and comfort her, my dear," Mr. Bulstrode answered, gravely; "she has had enough trouble, Heaven knows, poor girl. Don't ask her any questions, Lucy, but make her as comfortable as you can, and give her the best room you can find for her. She will stay with us as long as she remains in town."

  "Dear, dear Talbot," murmured the young Cornishman's grateful worshipper, "how kind you are!"

  "Kind!" cried Mr. Bulstrode; "she has need of friends, Lucy; and, God knows, I will act the brother's part toward her, faithfully and bravely. Yes, bravely," he added, raising his head with an almost defiant gesture as he slowly ascended the stairs.

  What was the dark cloud which he saw brooding so fatally over the far horizon? He dared not think of what it was—he dared not even acknowledge its presence; but there was a sense of trouble and horror in his breast that told him the shadow was there.

  Lucy Bulstrode ran into the library, and flung herself upon her cousin's breast, and wept with her. She did not ask the nature of the sorrow which had brought Aurora an unexpected and uninvited guest to that modest little dwelling-house. She only knew that her cousin was in trouble, and, that it was her happy privilege to offer her shelter and consolation. She would have fought a sturdy battle in defence of this privilege; but she adored her husband for the generosity which had granted it to her without a struggle. For the first time in her life, poor, gentle Lucy took a new position with her cousin. It was her turn to protect Aurora; it was her turn to display a pretty motherly tenderness for the desolate creature whose aching head rested on her bosom.

  The West-End clocks were striking three, in the dead middle of the night, when Mrs. Mellish fell into a feverish slumber, even in her sleep repeating again and again, "My poor John! my poor, dear love! what will become of him! my own faithful darling!"

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  TALBOT BULSTRODE'S ADVICE.

  Talbot Bulstrode went out early upon the quiet Sunday morning after Aurora's arrival, and walked down to the Telegraph Company's Office at Charing Cross, whence he despatched a message to Mr. John Mellish. It was a very brief message, only telling Mr. Mellish to come to town without delay, and that he would find Aurora in Half-Moon street. Mr. Bulstrode walked quietly homeward in the morning sunshine after having performed this duty. Even the London streets were bright and dewy in that early sunlight, for it was only a little after seven o'clock, and the fresh morning breezes came sweeping over the house-tops, bringing health and purity from Shooter's Hill and H
ighgate, Streatham and Barnsbury, Richmond and Hampstead. The white morning mists were slowly melting from the worn grass in the Green Park; and weary creatures, who had had no better shelter than the quiet sky, were creeping away to find such wretched resting-places as they might, in that free city, in which to sit for an unreasonable time upon a door-step, or to ask a rich citizen for the price of a loaf, is to commit an indictable offence.

  Surely it was impossible for any young legislator not quite worn out by a life-long struggle with the time which was never meant to be set right—surely it was impossible for any fresh-hearted, prosperous young Liberal to walk through those quiet streets without thinking of these things. Talbot Bulstrode thought very earnestly and very mournfully. To what end were his labors, after all? He was fighting for a handful of Cornish miners; doing battle with the rampant spirit of circumlocution for the sake of a few benighted wretches, buried in the darkness of a black abyss of ignorance a hundred times deeper and darker than the material obscurities in which they labored. He was working his best and his hardest that these men might be taught, in some easy, unambitious manner, the simplest elements of Christian love and Christian duty. He was working for these poor far-away creatures, in their forgotten corner of the earth; and here, around and about him, was ignorance more terrible, because, hand in hand with ignorance of all good, there was the fatal experience of all evil. The simple Cornish miner who uses his pickaxe in the region of his friend's skull when he wishes to enforce an argument, does so because he knows no other species of emphasis. But in the London universities of crime, knavery, and vice, and violence, and sin matriculate and graduate day by day, to take their degrees in the felon's dock or on the scaffold. How could he be otherwise than sorrowful, thinking of these things? Were Sodom and Gomorrah worse than this city, in which there were yet so many good and earnest men laboring patiently day by day, and taking little rest? Was the great accumulation of evil so heavy that it rolled for ever back upon these untiring Sisyphuses? Or did they make some imperceptible advance toward the mountain-top, despite of all discouragement?