 Chapter 15 of Aurora Floyd This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reporting by Rivka. Aurora Floyd, binary over the fratting. Chapter 15. Mr. Pastor and Blutter. Mr. John Malish reserved himself one room upon the ground floor of his house. A cheerful, airy apartment with French windows opening upon the lawn. Windows that were sheltered from the sun by a veranda overhung with adjustment and roses. It was all together a pleasant room for the summer season. The floor being covered with an Indian matting instead of a carpet. And many of the chairs being made of light back to work. Over the chimney piece hung a portrait of John's father. And opposite to this work of art there was the likeness of the deceased gentleman's favorite hunter, surmounted by a pair of brightly polished spurts. The glistening mouths of which he often pierced the sides of that faithful sleeve. In this chamber, Mr. Malish kept his whips, canes, foils, single sticks, box and gloves, spurs, guns, pistols, powder and shot flasks, fishing tackle, beaks and tops. And many happy mornings were spent by the master of Malish Park and the pleasing occupation of polishing, repairing, inspecting and otherwise thinning in order these possessions. He had as many pairs of hunting beaks as would have supplied half by chest or shire. With pops the match. He had whips enough for all the melt and hunt. Surrounded by these treasures, as it would in a temple sacred to the deities of the race force in the hunting field. Mr. John Malish used to hold psalm audiences with his trainer and his head game upon the business of the stable. It was Aurora's custom to peep into this chamber perpetually, very much to the delight and distraction of her adoring husband. He found the black eyes of his divinity with terrible hindrance to business, except indeed when he could induce Mr. Malish to join in a discussion upon hand and lend the assistance of a powerful intellect to the little conflict. I believe that John thought she could have handicapped the horses for the Chester Cup as well as Mr. Toppin himself. She was such a brilliant teacher that every little smattering of knowledge she possessed was turned to such good account as the main course name and adept in any subject of which she spoke. And the simple Yorkshire man believed in her as the wisest as well as the noblest and fairest of women. Mr. and Mrs. Malish returned to Yorkshire immediately after Lucy's wedding. Poor John was uneasy about his stables, for his trainer was a victim to chronic rheumatism and Mr. Pastron had not as yet made any communication respecting the young man of whom he had spoken on this day before. I shall keep lying, John said to Aurora, speaking of his old trainer, for he is an honest fellow and his judgment will always be of use to me. He and his wife can still occupy the rooms over the stables and the new man, whoever he may be, can live in the lodge on the north side of the park. Nobody ever goes in at that gate. To the lodge keeper's post is a signature and the cottage has been shut up for the last year or two. I wish John Pastron was right. And I wish whatever you wish, my dearest wife, Aurora said, dutifully to her happy slave. Very little had been heard of Steve Hargreaves, who saw me since the day upon which John Malish had turned his neck and prop out of his service. One of the rooms had seen him in a little village close to the park. And Stephen had informed the man that he was getting a living by doing odd jobs for the doctor of the parish and looking after that gentleman's horse and gig. But the softie had seemed inclined to be sulky and had said very little about himself or his entity. He made very particular inquiries, though, about Mrs. Malish and asked so many questions as to what Aurora did and said, where she went, whom she saw, and how she agreed with her husband. That had asked the groom, although only a simple puncture lab, refused to answer any more interrogatories about his mistress. Steve Hargreaves rubbed his poor, similar hands and chuckled as he spoke of Aurora. She's a rare, proud one, a regular high-spirited lady, he said, in that whispering voice that always longed and strange. She made it on to me that riding with her first, but I bear no mouse. I bear no mouse. She's a beautiful creature, and I wish Mr. Malish joy at his garden. The groom scarcely knew how to take this, not being fully aware if it was intended as a compliment or an impotence. So he added to the soft and knocked off, leaving him still rubbing his hands and whispering about Aurora Malish. He had long and all forgotten no encounter with Mr. Steve and Hargreaves. How was it likely that she should remember him, or take heed of him? How was it likely that she should take alarm because the pale-faced widow, Mrs. Walter Powell, sat by her hearth and heeded him, strong in her roots and beauty, rich in her happiness, sheltered and defended by her husband's love? How should she think of danger? How should she dread misfortune? She thanked God every day that the troubles of her youth were passed, and that her path in life led henceforth through smooth and pleasant faces, where no perils could come. Lucy was at Bull's Door Castle, winning upon the affections of her husband's mother, who patronized her daughter-in-law with lofty kindness, and took the blushing and timorous creature under her shelter in the wing. Lady Bull's Door was very well satisfied with her son's choice. He might have done better, certainly, as the position of unfortunate, the lady hinted at her habit, and in her maternal anxiety, she would have preferred his marrying anyone rather than the cousin of that Miss Boyd who ran away from school, and caused such a scandal at the Parisian Feminine. But Lady Bull's Door's heart warmed to Lucy. He was so gentle and humble, and he always spoke of Talbot as if he had been a being far too bright and good, and, etc., much of the gratification of her ladyship's maternal vanity. She has a very proper affection for Talbot, Lady Bull's Door said, and for so young a future promise is to make an excellent life far better suited to you, I am sure, than her cousin could ever have been. Talbot turned fiercely upon his mother, very much the lady's surprise. Why will you be forever bringing Aurora's name into the question, mother? He cried. Why cannot you let him marry West? He pardoned us forever, you and Plumson, and has not that enough. She is married, and she and her husband are a very happy couple. A man might have a worse wife than Mrs. Melish, I can tell you, and John seems to appreciate her value in his rough way. You need not be so violent, Talbot, as Lady Bull's Door said, with offended dignity. I am very glad to hear that Mrs. Floyd has altered some of her school days, and I hope that she may continue to be a good wife, she added, with an emphasis which insinuated that she had no very great hopes of the duration of Mr. Melish's happiness. My poor mother is offended with Lady Talbot's lot, as Lady Bull's Door stepped out of the room. I know I am an abominable bear, and that nobody will ever truly belong as I live. My poor little Lucy loves me after her fashion, loves me in fear and trembling, as if she and I belong to different orders of being. Very much as the flying woman must have loved my punchy man, could have both means, I think. But after all, perhaps my mother is right, and my gentle little wife is better suited to me than Aurora would have been. So we dismissed Talbot Bull's Door for a while, moderately happy, and yet not quite satisfied. What mortal ever was quite satisfied in this world, it is a part of our earthly nature always to find something wanting, always to have a vague and dull, ignorant meaning which cannot be achieved. Sometimes, indeed, we are happy, but in our wildest happiness we are still infamously, for it seems then, as if a cup of joy were too full, and we grow cold with terror at the plot, but even because of its fullness, it may possibly be smashed to the ground. What a mistake this life would be for a wild feverish dream with an unfinished and imperfect story if it were not a preview to something better. Taken by itself, it is all trouble and confusion, but taking the future as the keynote of the present, how wondrous in the moment the whole becomes, how little does it signify that our joys here are not complete, our wishes not fulfilled, if the completion and the fulfillment are to come hereafter. Little more than a week after Lucy's wedding, Aurora ordered her horse immediately after breakfast upon a sunny summer morning and accompanied by the old brim who had been behind John's father went out on an excursion amongst the villages around the Millish Park as the bus were happy to do once or twice a week. The poor and the neighborhood of the Yorkshire mansion had good reason to bless the coming of the banker's daughter. Aurora loved nothing better than to ride from cottage to cottage chatting with the simple villagers and finding out their wants. She never found the words of future's very remiss in feeding on assassins and the housekeeper at Millish Park had enough to do in distributing Aurora's bounties among the cottagers who came to the servant's hall with council orders from Mrs. Millish. Mrs. Walter Powell sometimes ventured to take Aurora to task on the folly and simpleness of what was called indiscriminate alms speaking. But Mrs. Millish would power such a flood of elephants upon our antagonists, but the insides would always scratch her tired from the unequal contest. Nobody had ever been able to argue with Archibald Ford's daughter. Impulsive and impetuous, she had always taken her own horse other for real or low and nobody had been strong enough to remember them. Mrs. Millish had a lovely dream morning in one of these charitable expeditions. Mrs. Millish just mounted the new horse at a little twin style leading into the wood and ordered the groom to take the animal home. I had a fancy for walking through the wood, Joseph, she said. It's such a lovely morning. Take care of Medepha and if you see Mr. Millish, tell him that I shall be moving directly. Mrs. Millish gathered up the folds of her habit and strolled slowly into the wood, under whose shadow Talbot first rode on Lucy and wandered on the eventful equal day which sealed the young lady's sleep. Now Aurora had chosen to ramble homework through this wood because being thoroughly happy the warm gladness of the summer mother filled her with a sense of delight and she was lost to the tale. The drowsy home of the insects, the rich coloring of the woods, the scent of wild flowers, the ripple of water, all blended into one delicious hole and made the earth lovely. There is something satisfactory to an a sense of possession and Aurora felt as she looked down along avenues and away through distant meadows on the wood to the wide expanse of Cartham Blonde and the picturesque, a regular pile of building beyond. Half Gothic, half Elizabethan and so lost in a rich triangle of ivy and white gold which has to be beautiful at every point. She felt, I say, that all the fair picture was her own or her husband, which was the same thing. She had never for one moment regretted her marriage with John Mellish. She had never, as I have said already, been in constant to him by one thought. In one part of the wood the ground rose considerably. Split the house, which lay low, was distinctly visible whenever we break in the trees. This rising ground was considered the prettiest spot in the wood and here a summer house had been erected a fragile wooden building which had fallen into decay of late years which was still a present musting place upon a summer's day being furnished with a wooden table and a broad bench and sheltered from the sun and wind by the lower branches of a magnificent beach. A few pieces away from this summer house, there was a pool of water a surface of which was so covered with lilies and canned food as to have beguiled a short-sighted traveler and to forget forness the danger beneath. Aurora's way led her past this spot and she started with a momentary sensation of terror on seeing a man lying asleep by the side of the pool. She quickly recovered herself remembering that John allowed the public to use the footpath through the wood but she started again and the man must have been a bad seeker to be aroused by her late footpath lifted his head and displayed the white fleece of the soft he rose slowly from the ground upon seeing Mrs. Malish and he crawled away looking at her as he went but not making any acknowledgement of her presence. Aurora could not repress a brief terrified shudder it seemed as if her footpath startled some light-brushed creature some loathsome member of the reptiles and scared it from its working bits. Steve Hargreaves disappeared amongst the trees as Mrs. Malish walked on her head proudly erect but her cheek is shade paler than before as unexpected encounter with the soft Her joyous madness in the bright summer's day had forsaken her as suddenly as she had met Stephen Hargreaves that bright smile which was even brighter than the morning sunshine faded out and left her face unnaturally gray Good heavens, she explained how foolish I am I am actually afraid of that man afraid of that pitiful coward who could hurt my feeble old dog as if such a creature as that could do one any mischief. Of course, this was very wisely argued as no coward ever by any chance worked any mischief upon his earth since the sacks and pints were stabbed in the back while drinking at his king's woman's feet or since brave King John and his future plotted together what they should do with a little boy Arthur. Aurora walked slowly across the lawn toward that end of the house at which the apartment was situated. She entered softly through the open window and made her hand upon John's shoulder as he sat at a table covered with a litter of account books to grace and lists and disorderly papers. He started at a touch of a familiar hand. My darling, I'm so glad you've come in. How long have you been? She looked at her little jeweled watch where John had loaded her with trinkets and gougas. His chief brief was that she was a wealthy heiress and that she wanted so little at his hands. Only half past one, you silly old John she said, what made you think me late? Because I wanted to confult you about something and to tell you something such good news. About what? About the trainer. She shrugged her shoulders and pursed up her red lips with a bewitching little gesture of indifference. Is that all she said? Yes, but ain't you glad we've gotten man at last the very man to suit us I think? Where's John Pastron's litter? Mr. Millish searched amongst litter of papers upon the table while Aurora, leaning against the framework of the open window, that was embarrassing. She had recovered her spirits and looked to the very picture of careless badness as she leaned on one of those graceful and unstudied attitudes peculiar to her, supported by the framework of the window. And with a trail and jesson and waving round her in a soft summer breeze she lifted her un-gloved hand and gathered one of the roses hanging above her head as she talked to her husband. You most disorderedly I wouldn't mind getting crime to one who won't find it. Mr. Millish muttered a mild implication as he talked about the heterogeneous mass of papers in his search for the missing document. I had it five minutes before you came in Aurora, he said, and now there's not a sign of it. Oh, here it is. Mr. Millish unfolded the letters, moved it out upon the table before him, and cleared his preparatory to reading the epistle. Aurora still leaned against the window frame, half in and half out of the room singing a snatch of a popular song and trying to gather an opposite and half blown rose which would be provoking me out of reach. You're attending, Aurora. Yes, dearest and best. Could you come in? You can't hear a word there. Aurora shrugged her shoulders as she should say, I submit to the command of the tyrant and advance a couple of pieces from the window. Then looking at John with an enchanting flint toss of her head, she folded her hands behind her and told him she would be good. She was a careless and petuous creature dreadfully forgetful of what Mrs. Walter Powell called her responsibilities. Every mortal thing by terms and never any one thing that you meant is together. Happy, generous, affectionate, taking life as a glorious summer holiday and thanking God for the bounce which made it so present to her. Mr. John Castron began his letter with an apology for having so long deferred writing. He had lost the address of the person he wished to recommend and had waited until the man wrote to me the second time. I think he will suit you very well, the letter went on to say, as he is well up in his business and having had plenty of experience as you and John have been training. He is only 30 years of age but met with an accident sometimes since which lamed him to life. He was half killed in the steeple chasing pressure and was for upwards of a year in the hospital at Burden. His name is James Conyers and he can have a character from the letter dropped out of John Mel as he looked up at his life. It was not a scream as she had uttered. It was a grasping cry, more terrible to hear than the shrillest scream that ever came from the quote of woman in all the long history of women that was dressed. Agoura, Agoura! He looked at her and his own face and whitened at the sight of hers. So terrible a transformation had come over her drawing the reading of that letter. The shock could not have been greater had he looked up and seen another person in her place. It's wrong, it's wrong, she cried hoarsely. You read the name wrong. It can't be that. What name? What name, she echoed fiercely with her face flaming up with a wild fury. That name! I tell you it can't be. You obeyed her mechanically picking up the paper and handing it to her, but never removing his eyes from her face. She snatched it from him, looked at it for a few moments with her eyes dilated and her lips apart. Then, kneeling back to her three pieces, her knees bent under her and she fell heavily to the ground. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of Aurora Floyd This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Elizabeth Klett Aurora Floyd by Mary Elizabeth Braddon Chapter 16 Mr. James Conyers The first week in July brought James Conyers, the new trainer to Malish Park. John had made no particular inquiries as to the man's character of any of his former employers as a word from Mr. Pastern was all sufficient. Mr. Malish had endeavored to discover the cause of Aurora's agitation at the reading of Mr. Pastern's letter. She had fallen like a dead creature at his feet. She had been hysterical throughout the remainder of the day and delirious in the ensuing night, calculated to throw any light upon the secret of her strange manifestation of emotion. Her husband sat by her bedside upon the day after that on which he had fallen into the death-like swoon, watching her with a grave, anxious face and earnest eyes that never wandered from her own. He was suffering very much the same agony that Talbot Balstrode had endured at Felden on the receipt of his mother's letter. The dark wall was slowly rising him from the woman he loved. He was now to discover the tortures known only to the husband whose wife is parted from him by that which has more power to sever than any width of land or wild extent of ocean. A secret. He watched the pale face lying on the pillow, the large black haggard eyes wide open and looking blankly out at the faraway purple treetops in the horizon, but there was no clue to the mystery in any line of that countenance. There was little more than an expression of weariness as if the soul looking out of that white face was so utterly enfeebled as to have lost all power to feel anything but a vague yearning for rest. The wide casement windows were open but the day was hot and oppressive. Oppressively still and sunny the landscape sweltering under yellow haze as if the very atmosphere had been opaque with melted gold. Even the roses in the garden seemed to feel the influence of the blazing summer sky dropping their heavy heads like human sufferers from headache. The mastiff bow-wow lying under an acacia upon the lawn was as peevish as any capture's elderly gentleman and snapped spitefully at a frivolous butterfly that wheeled and spun and through somersaults about the dog's head. Beautiful as was this summer's day it was one on which people are apt to lose their tempers and quarrel with each other by reason of the heat. Every man feeling a secret conviction that his neighbor is in some way to blame for the sultryness of the atmosphere and that it would be cooler if he were out of the way. It was one of those days on which invalids are especially fractious and hospital nurses murmur at their vacation. A day on which third class passengers travelling long distances by excursion trains are savagely clamorous for beer at every station and hate each other for the narrowness and hardness of the carriage seats and for the inadequate means of ventilation provided by the railway company. A day on which stern businessmen revolt against the ceaseless grinding of the wheel and suddenly reckless of consequences rush wildly to the crown and scepter to cool their overheated systems with water-sushi and still-hawk and abnormal day upon which the machinery of everyday life gets out of order and runs riot throughout twelve suffocating hours. John Melish, sitting patiently by his wife's side, thought very little of the summer weather. I doubt if he knew whether the month was January or June. For him, earth only held one creature and she was ill and in distress, distress from which he was powerless to save her, distress the very nature of which he was ignorant. His voice trembled when he spoke to her. My darling, you've been very ill, he said. She looked at him with a smile so unlike her own that it was more painful to him to see than the loudest agony of tears and stretched out her hand. He took the burning hand in his and held it while he talked to her. Yes, dearest, you've been ill, but Morton says the attack was merely hysterical and that you will be yourself again tomorrow, so there's no occasion for anxiety on that score. What grieves me, darling, is to see that there is something on your mind, something which has been the real cause of your illness. She turned her face upon the pillow and tried to snatch her hand from his and her impatience, but he held it tightly in both his own. Does my speaking of yesterday distress you, Aurora?" he asked gravely. Distress me, oh no! Then tell me, darling, why the mention of that man, the trainer's name, had such a terrible effect upon you. The doctor told you that the attack was hysterical, she said coldly. I suppose I was hysterical and nervous yesterday. But the name, Aurora, the name! This James Conyers, who is he? He felt the hand he held tightened convulsively upon his own as he mentioned the trainer's name. Who is this man? Tell me, Aurora, for God's sake, tell me the truth! She turned her face toward him once more as he said this. If you only want the truth from me, John, you must ask me nothing. Remember what I said to you at the Shadow Dark? It was a secret that parted me from Talbot Balstrode. You trusted me, then, John. You must trust me to the end. Or if you cannot trust me— she stopped suddenly, and the tears welled up slowly to her large, mournful eyes as she looked at her husband. What, dearest? We must part, as Talbot and I parted. Part? he cried. My love, my love! Do you think there is anything upon this earth strong enough to part us except death? Do you think that any combination of circumstances, however strange, however inexplicable, would ever cause me to doubt your honour or to tremble for my own? Could I be here if I doubted you? Could I sit by your side, asking you these questions, if I feared the issue? Nothing shall shake my confidence. Nothing can. But have pity on me. Think how bitter a grief it is to sit here with your hand in mine, and to know that there is a secret between us. Aurora, tell me. This man, this conya's. What is he, and who is he? You know that as well as I do. A groom once, afterward a jockey, and now a trainer. But you know him? I have seen him. When? Some years ago when he was in my father's service. John Mallish breathed more freely for a moment. The man had been a groom at Felden Woods, that was all. This accounted for the fact of Aurora's recognizing his name, but not for her agitation. He was no nearer the clue to the mystery than before. James Conyers was in your father's service, he said thoughtfully. But why should the mention of his name yesterday have caused you such emotion? I cannot tell you. It is another secret, then, Aurora, he said reproachfully. Or has this man anything to do with the old secret of which you told me at the Chateau Dark? She did not answer him. Ah! I see. I understand, Aurora," he added after a pause. This man was a servant at Felden Woods, a spy perhaps, and he discovered the secret and traded upon it. Her servants often have done before. This caused your agitation at hearing his name. You were afraid that he would come here and annoy you, making use of this secret to extort money and keeping you in perpetual terror of him? I think I can understand it all. I am right, am I not? She looked at him with something of the expression of a hunted animal that finds itself at bay. Yes, John. This man, this groom, knows something of—of the secret. He does. John Melish turned away his head and buried his face in his hands. What cruel anguish! What bitter degradation! This man, a groom, a servant, was in the confidence of his wife, and had such power to harass and alarm her that the very mention of his name was enough to cast her to the earth as if stricken by sudden death. What in the name of heaven could this secret be, which was in the keeping of a servant and yet could not be told to him? He bit his lip till his strong teeth met upon the quivering flesh in the silent agony of that thought. What could it be? He had sworn only a minute before to trust in her blindly to the end, and yet—and yet— his massive frame shook from head to heel in that noiseless struggle. Doubt and despair rose like twin demons in his soul, but he wrestled with them and overcame them, and turning with a white face to his wife, said quietly, I will press these painful questions no further, Aurora. I will write to Paston and tell him that the man will not suit us, and he was rising to leave her bedside when she laid her hand upon his arm. Don't write to Mr. Paston, John, she said. The man will suit you very well, I dare say. I had rather he came. You wish him to come here? Yes. But he will annoy you. He will try to extort money from you. He would do that in any case since he is alive. I thought that he was dead. Then you really wish him to come here? I do. John Melish left his wife's room inexpressibly relieved. The secret could not be so very terrible after all, since she was willing that the man who knew it should come to Melish Park, where there was at least a remote chance of his revealing it to her husband. Perhaps, after all, this mystery involved others rather than herself, her father's commercial integrity, her mother? He had heard very little of her mother's history. Perhaps she? Pasha! Why weary himself with speculative surmises, he had promised to trust her and the hour had come in which he was called upon to keep his promise. He wrote to Mr. Paston, accepting his recommendation of James Conyers, and waited rather impatiently to see what kind of man the trainer was. He received a letter from Conyers, and worded to the effect that he would arrive at Melish Park upon the third of July. Aurora had recovered from her brief hysterical attack when this letter arrived, but as she was still weak in doubt of spirits, her medical man recommended change of air, so Mr. and Mrs. Melish drove off to Harrogate upon the 28th of June, leaving Mrs. Powell behind them at the park. The ensign's widow had been scrupulously kept out of Aurora's room during her short illness, being held at bay by John, who cruelly shut the door in the lady's sympathetic face, telling her that he'd wait upon his wife himself, and that when he wanted female assistance he would ring for Mrs. Melish's maid. Now, Mrs. Walter Powell, being afflicted with that ravenous curiosity common to people who live in other people's houses, felt herself deeply injured by this line of conduct. There were mysteries and secrets afloat, and she was not to be allowed to discover them. There is a skeleton in the house, and she was not to anatomize the bony horror. She scented trouble and sorrow as carnivorous animals sent their prey, and yet she, who hated Aurora, was not to be allowed to riot at the unnatural feast. Why is it that the dependents in a household are so feverishly inquisitive about the doings and sayings, the manners and customs, the joys and sorrows of those who employ them? Is it that, having abnegated for themselves all active share in life, they take an unhealthy interest in those who are in the thick of the strife? Is it because, being cut off in a great measure by the nature of their employments from family ties and family pleasures, they feel a malicious delight in all family trials and vexations, and the ever-recurring breezes which disturb the domestic atmosphere? Remember this, husbands and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, brothers and sisters, when you quarrel. Surely that recollection ought to be enough to keep you forever peaceful and friendly. Your servants listen at your doors and repeat your spiteful speeches in the kitchen, and watch you while they wait at table, and understand every sarcasm, every innuendo, every look, as well as those at whom the cruel glances and the stinging words are aimed. They understand your sulky silence, your studied and overacted politeness. The most polished form your hate and anger can take is as transparent to those household spies, as if you threw knives at each other, or pelted your enemy with the side-dishes and vegetables, after the fashion of disputance in a pantomime. Nothing that is done in the parlor is lost upon these quiet, well-behaved watchers from the kitchen. They laugh at you, nay worse, they pity you. They discuss your affairs and make out your income and settle what you can afford to do and what you can't afford to do. You arrange the disposal of your wife's fortune and look prophetically forward to the day when you will avail yourself of the advantages of the new bankruptcy act. They know why you live on bad terms with your eldest daughter and why your favourite son was turned out of doors, and they take a morbid interest in every dismal secret of your life. You don't allow them followers. You look blacker than thunder if you see Mary's sister or John's poor old mother sitting meekly in your hall. You are surprised if the postman brings them letters, and attribute the fact to the pernicious system of over-educating the masses. You shut them from their homes and their kindred, their lovers and their friends. You deny them books. You grudge them a peep at the newspaper, and then you lift up your eyes and wonder at them because they are inquisitive, and because the staple of their talk is scandal and gossip. Mrs. Walter Powell, having been treated by most of her employers as a species of upper servant, had acquired all the instincts of a servant, and she determined to leave no means untried in order to discover the cause of Aurora's illness, which the doctor had darkly hinted to her had more to do with the mind than the body. John Melish had ordered a carpenter to repair the lodge at the north gate for the accommodation of James Conyers, and John's old trainer Langley was to receive his colleague and introduce him to the stables. The new trainer made his appearance at the lodge gates in the glowing July sunset. He was accompanied by no less a person than Steve Hargraves, the softie, who had been lurking about the station upon the lookout for a job and who had been engaged by Mr. Conyers to carry his portmanteau. To the surprise of the trainer, Stephen Hargraves stepped down his burden at the park gates. You'll have to find someone else to carry it the rest to road," he said, touching his greasy cap and extending his broad palm to receive the expected payment. Mr. James Conyers was rather a dashing fellow, with no small amount of that quality which is generally termed swagger, so he turned sharply round upon the softie and asked him what the devil he meant. I mean that I may not go inside your gates," muttered Stephen Hargraves. I mean that I've been turned out of your place that I've lived in man and boy for forty years, turned out like a dog, neck and crop. Mr. Conyers threw away the stump of his cigar and stared superciliously at the softie. What does the man mean? he asked of the woman who had opened the gates. Oh, I poor fellow, he's a bit fun, sir, and him and Mrs. Mellish didn't get on very well. She has a rare spirit, and I have heard that she horse-whipped him for beating her favourite dog. Anyways, master turned him out of his service. Because my lady had horse-whipped him, servants hauled justice all the world over, said the trainer, laughing, and lighting a second cigar from a metal fuse box in his waistcoat pocket. Yes, that's justice, isn't it? the softie said eagerly. You wouldn't like to be turned out of a place you'd lived in forty years, would you? But Mrs. Mellish has a rare spirit. Bless her pretty face. The blessing enunciated by Mr. Stephen Hargraves had such a very ominous sound that the new trainer, who was evidently a shrewd observant fellow, had a cigar from his mouth on purpose to stare at him. The white face, lighted up by a pair of red eyes with a dim glimmer in them, was by no means the most agreeable of countenances. But Mr. Conyers looked at the man for some moments, holding him by the collar of his coat in order to do so with more deliberation. Then, pushing the softie away with an affably contemptuous gesture, he said, laughing, Your character, my friend, it strikes me, and not too safe a character, either. I'm dashed if I should like to offend you. There's a shilling for your trouble, my man," he added, tossing the money into Steve's extended palm with careless dexterity. I suppose I can leave my portmanteau here till tomorrow, ma'am," he said, turning to the woman at the lodge. I'd carry it down to the house myself if I wasn't lame. He was such a handsome fellow, and he had such an easy, careless manner that the simple Yorkshire woman was quite subdued by his vacinations. Leave it here, sir, and welcome," she said, curtsying. And my master shall take it to the house for you as soon as he comes in. Beg in your pardon, sir, but I suppose you're the new gentleman that's expected in the stables? Precisely. Then I was to tell you, sir, that they fitted up the north lodge for you, but you was to please go straight to the house, and the housekeeper was to make you comfortable and give you a bed for to-night. Mr. Conyers nodded, thanked her, wished her good night, and limped slowly away, through the shadows of the evening, and under the shelter of the overarching trees. He stepped aside from the broad carriage-drive onto the dewy turf that bordered it, choosing the softest, mossiest places with a Siborite's instinct. Look at him as he takes his slow way under those glorious branches in the holy stillness of the summer sunset. His face, sometimes lighted by the low, lessening rays, sometimes dark with the shadows from the leaves above his head. He is wonderfully handsome. Wonderfully and perfectly handsome. The very perfection of physical beauty, faultless in proportion, as if each line in his face and form had been measured by the sculptor's rule and carved by the sculptor's chisel. He is a man about whose beauty there can be no dispute. Whose perfection, servant-maids and duchesses must alike confess, albeit they are not bound to admire. Yet it is rather a sensual type of beauty, this splendour of form and colour, unallied to any special charm of expression. Look at him now as he stops to rest, leaning against the trunk of a tree and smoking his big cigar with easy enjoyment. He is thinking. His dark blue eyes, deeper in colour by reason of the thick black lashes which fringe them, are half closed and have a dreamy, semi-sentimental expression which might lead you to suppose the man was musing upon the beauty of the summer sunset. He is thinking of his losses in the winter cup, the wages he is to get from John Mellish and the perquisites likely to appertain to the situation. You give him credit for thoughts to match with his dark, violet-hued eyes and the exquisite modelling of his mouth and chin. You give him a mind as aesthetically perfect as his face and figure and you recoil on discovering what a vulgar, everyday sword may lurk under that beautiful scabbard. Mr. James Conyers is perhaps no worse than other manifestation, but he is decidedly no better. He is only very much handsomer and you have no right to be angry with him because his opinions and sentiments are exactly what they would have been if he had had red hair and a pug nose. With what wonderful wisdom has George Elliot told us that people are not any better because they have long eyelashes? Yet it must be that there is something anomalous in this outward beauty and inward ugliness. For in spite of all experience we revolt against it and are incredulous to the last believing that the palace which is outwardly so splendid can scarcely be ill-furnished within. Heaven help the woman who sells her heart for a handsome face and awakes when the bargain has been struck to discover the foolishness of such an exchange. It took Mr. Conyers a long while to walk from the lodge to the house. I do not know how, technically, to describe his lameness. He had fallen with his horse in the Prussian steeple-chase which had so nearly cost him his life his left leg had been terribly injured. The bones had been set by wonderful German surgeons who put the shattered leg together as if it had been a Chinese puzzle. But who, for all their skill, could not prevent the contraction of the sinews which had left the jockey lame for life and no longer fit to ride in any race whatever. He was of the middle height and weighed something over eleven stone and had never ridden except in continental steeple-chases. Mr. James Conyers paused a few paces from the house and gravely contemplated the irregular pile of buildings before him. A snug crib, he muttered, plenty of tin hereabouts, I should think, from the look of the place. Being ignorant of the geography of the neighbourhood and being moreover by no means afflicted by an excess of modesty Mr. Conyers went straight to the principal door and rang the bell sacred to visitors and the family. He was admitted by a grave old man-servant who, after deliberately inspecting his brown shooting-coat, coloured shirt-front and felt hat, asked him with considerable asperity what he was pleased to want. Mr. Conyers explained that he was the new trainer and that he wished to see the housekeeper but he had hardly finished doing so when a door in an angle of the hall was softly opened and Mrs. Walter Powell peeped out of the snug little apartment sacred to her hours of privacy. Perhaps the young man will be so good as to step in here. Addressing herself apparently to space but indirectly to James Conyers the young man took off his hat uncovering a mass of luxuriant brown curls and limped across the hall in obedience to Mrs. Powell's invitation. I dare say I shall be able to give you any information you require. James Conyers smiled wondering whether the billiest-looking party as he mentally designated Mrs. Powell could give him any information about the York summer meeting but he bowed politely and said he merely wanted to know where he was to hang out he stopped and apologized where he was to sleep that night and whether there were any letters for him but Mrs. Powell was by no means inclined to let him off so cheaply she set to work to pump him and labored so assiduously that she soon exhausted that very small amount of intelligence which he was disposed to afford her being perfectly aware of the process to which he was subjected and more than equal to the lady in dexterity the ensign's widow therefore ascertained little more than that Mr. Conyers was a perfect stranger to John Mellish and his wife neither of whom he had ever seen having failed to gain much by this interview Mrs. Powell was anxious to bring it to a speedy termination perhaps you would like a glass of wine after your walk she said I'll ring for some and I can inquire at the same time about your letters I dare say you were anxious to hear from the relatives you have left at home Mr. Conyers smiled for the second time he had neither had a home nor any relatives to speak of since the most infantile period of his existence but had been thrown upon the world a sharp-witted adventurer at seven or eight years old the relatives for whose communication he was looking out so eagerly were members of a humbler class of bookmen with whom he did business the servant dispatched by Mrs. Powell returned with a decanter of sherry and about half a dozen letters for Mr. Conyers you'd better bring the lamp William said Mrs. Powell as the man left the room for I'm sure you'll never be able to read your letters by this light she added politely to Mr. Conyers the fact was that Mrs. Powell afflicted by that diseased curiosity of which I have spoken wanted to know what kind of correspondence these were whose letters the trainer was so anxious to receive and sent for the lamp in order that she might get the full benefit of any scraps of information to be got at by rapid glances and dexterously stolen peeps the servant brought a brilliant camphine lamp and Mr. Conyers, not at all abashed by Mrs. Powell's condescension drew his chair close to the table and after tossing off a glass of sherry settled himself to the perusal of his letters the ensign's widow with some needlework in her hand sat direct the opposite to him at the small round table with nothing but the pedestal of the lamp between them James Conyers took up the first letter examined the superscription and seal tore open the envelope read the brief communication upon half a sheet of note paper and thrust it into his waistcoat pocket Mrs. Powell, using her eyes to the uttermost saw nothing but a few lines in a scratchy plebeian handwriting and a signature which, seen at disadvantage upside down didn't look unlike Johnson the second envelope contained only a tissue paper betting list the third held a dirty scrap of paper with a few words scrawled in pencil but at sight of the uppermost envelope of the remaining three Mr. James Conyers started as if he had been shot Mrs. Powell looked from the face of the trainer to the superscription of the letter and was scarcely less surprised than Mr. Conyers the superscription was in the handwriting of Aurora Mallish it was a peculiar hand a hand about which there could be no mistake not an elegant Italian hand sloping, slender and feminine but large and bold with ponderous upstrokes and downstrokes easy to recognize at a greater distance than that which separated Mrs. Powell from the trainer there was no room for any doubt Mrs. Mallish had written to her husband's servant and the man was evidently familiar with her hand yet surprised at receiving her letter he tore open the envelope and read the contents eagerly twice over frowning darkly as he read Mrs. Powell suddenly remembered that she had left part of her needlework upon a chiffon-y behind the young man's chair and rose quietly to fetch it he was so much engrossed by the letter in his hand that he was not aware of the pale face which peered for one brief moment over his shoulder as the faded hungry eyes stole a glance at the writing on the page the letter was written on the first side of a sheet of note paper with only a few words carried over to the second page it was the second page which Mrs. Powell saw the words written at the top of the leaf were these Above all, express no surprise A there was no ordinary conclusion to the letter no other signature than this big capital A End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of Aurora Floyd This is the LibraVox recording All LibraVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibraVox.org Reading done by Jules Harlick of Mississauga, Ontario, Canada Aurora Floyd by Mary Elizabeth Braddon Chapter 17 The Trainer's Messenger Mr. James Conyers made himself very much at home at Mellish Park Poor Langley, the invalid trainer who was a Yorkshire man felt himself almost bewildered by the easy insolence of the town bread trainer He looked so much too handsome and dashing for his office that the grooms and stable boys bowed down to him and paid court to him as they had never done to simple Langley who had been very often obliged to enforce his commands with a horse whip or a serviceable leather strap James Conyers' handsome face was a capital with which that gentleman knew very well how to trade and he took the full amount of interest that was to be got for it without compunction I am sorry to be obliged to confess that this man who had sat in the artist's studios and the life academies of Apollo and Antonius was selfish to the backbone and so long as he was well fed and clothed and housed and provided for, cared very little whence the food and clothing came or who kept the house that sheltered him or filled the purse which he jingled in his trouser pocket heaven forbid that I should be called upon for his biography I only know that he sprang from the mire of the streets like some male aphrodite rising from the mud that he was a back leg in the gutter at four years of age and a welsher in the matter of marbles and hard bake before his fifth birthday even then he was forever reaping the advantage of a handsome face and a hearted matrons who would have been deaf to the cries of us snub-nosed urgent petted and compassionated the pretty boy in his earliest childhood he'd learned therefore to trade upon his beauty and to get the most that he could for that merchandise and he grew up utterly unprincipled and carried his handsome face out into the world to help him onto fortune extravagant, lazy, luxurious and selfish but he had that easy indifferent grace of manner which passes with shallow observers for good nature he would not have gone three paces out of his way to serve his best friend but he smiled and showed his handsome white teeth with equal liberality to all his acquaintance and took credit for being a frank generous hearted fellow in fact of that smile he was skilled in the uses of that guilt gingerbread of generosity which so often passes current for sterling gold he was dexterous in the handling of those carved dice which have all the rattle of the honest ivories a slap on the back a hearty shake of the hand often went as far from him as the loan of a sovereign from another man and Jim Conyers was firmly believed in by the doubtful gentleman with whom he associated as a good natured fellow who was nobody's enemy but his own he had that superficial cockney cleverness which is generally called knowledge of the world knowledge of the worst side of the world and utter ignorance of all that is noble upon earth it might perhaps be more justly called he had matriculated in the streets of London and graduated on the race course he had never read any higher literature than the Sunday papers and the racing calendar but he contrived to make a very little learning go a long way and was generally spoken of by his employers as a superior young man considerably above his station Mr. Conyers expressed himself very well contented with the rustic lodge which had been chosen for his dwelling house he condescendingly looked on while the stable lads carried the furniture selected for him by the housekeeper from the spare servants rooms from the house to the lodge and assisted in the arrangement of the tiny rustic chambers limping about in his shirt sleeves and showing himself wonderfully handy with a hammer and a pocket full of nails sat upon a table and drank beer with such charming affability that the stable lads were as grateful to him as if he had treated them to that beverage indeed seeing the frank cordiality with which James Conyers smote the lads upon the back and prayed them to be active with the can it was almost difficult to remember that he was not the giver of the feast and that it was Mr. John Melish who would have to pay the brewer's bill what among all the virtues which adorn this earth can be more charming than the generosity of upper servants with what hearty hospitality they pass the bottle how liberally they throw the seven shilling gunpowder into the teapot how unsparingly they spread the 20 penny fresh butter on the toast and what a glorious welcome they give to the droppers in of the servants hall it is scarcely wonderful that the recipients of their bounty forget that it is the master of the household who will be called upon for the expenses of the banquet and who will look roofily at the total of the quarter's housekeeping it was not to be supposed that so dashing a fellow as Mr. James Conyers could in the lodging housekeepers patois due for himself he required a humble drudge to black his boots make his bed, boil his kettle cook his dinner and keep the two little chambers at the lodge in decent order casting about in a reflective mood for a fitting person for his office his recurrent fancy hit upon Steve Hargrove's The Softie he was sitting upon the sill of an open window in the little parlor of the lodge smoking a cigar and drinking out of a can of beer when this idea came into his head he was so tickled by the notion that he took his cigar from his mouth in order to laugh at his case the man's a character he said still laughing and I'll have him to wait upon me he's been forbid the place has he turned out neck and crop because he high ropes horse whipped him never mind that I'll give him leave to come back if it's only for the fun of the thing he limped out upon the high road half an hour after this and went into the village to find Steve Hargraves he had little difficulty in doing this as everybody knew The Softie and a chorus of boys volunteered to fetch him from the house of the doctor in whose service he did odd jobs and brought him to Mr. Conyers five minutes afterwards looking very hot and dirty but as pale of complexion as usual Stephen Hargraves agreed very readily to abandon his present occupation and to wait upon the trainer in consideration of five shillings a week and his board and lodging but his countenance fell when he discovered that Mr. Conyers was in the service of John Melish and lived on the outskirts of the park you're afraid of setting foot upon his estate are you? said the trainer laughing never mind Steve I'll give you leave to come and I should like to see the man or woman in that house who'll interfere with any whim of mine I'll give you leave you understand The Softie touched his cap and tried to look as if he understood but it was very evident that he could not understand and it was some time before Mr. Conyers could persuade him that his life would be safe within the gates of Melish Park but he was ultimately induced to trust himself at the North Lodge and promised to present himself there in the course of the evening now Mr. James Conyers had exerted himself as much in order to overcome the cowardly objections of this rustic clown as he could have done if Steve Hargraves had been the most accomplished body servant in the three ridings perhaps there was some deeper motive than any regard for the man himself in this special preference for the Softie some lurking malice some petty spite the key to which was hidden in his own breast if while standing smoking in the village street for the edification of the lookers on and taking so much trouble to secure such an ignorant and brutish Esquire if one shadow of the future so very near at hand could have fallen across his path surely he would have instinctively recoiled from the striking of that ill-olmined bargain but James Conyers had no superstition indeed he was so pleasantly free from that weakness as to be a disbeliever in all things in heaven and on earth except himself and his own merits so he hired the Softie for the fun of the thing as he called it and walked slowly back to the park gates to watch for the return of Mr. and Mrs. Malish who were expected that afternoon the woman at the lodge brought him out a chair and begged him to rest himself under the portico thanked her with a pleasant smile and sat down among the roses and honeysuckles and lighted another cigar you'll find a north lodge dull I'm thinking sir the woman said from the open window where she had reseeded herself with her needlework well it isn't very lively ma'am certainly answered Mr. Conyers but it serves my purpose well enough the place is lonely enough for a man to be murdered there and nobody be any the wiser but as I have nothing to lose it will answer well enough for me he might perhaps have said a good deal more about the place but at this moment the sound of wheels upon the high road announced the return of the travelers and two or three minutes afterwards the carriage dashed through the gate and passed Mr. James Conyers whatever power this man might have over Aurora whatever knowledge of a compromising secret he might have obtained and traded upon the fearlessness of her nature showed itself now as always and she never flinched at the sight of him if he had placed himself in her way on purpose to watch the effect of his presence he must have been disappointed for except that cold shadow of disdain passed over her face as the carriage drove by him he might have imagined himself unseen she looked pale and care-worn and her eyes seemed to have grown larger since her illness but she held her head as erect as ever and had still the air of imperial grandeur which constituted one of her chief charms so that is Mr. Melish as the carriage disappeared he seems very fond of his wife yes sure and he is too fond of her why they say there isn't another such couple in all Yorkshire and she's fond of him too bless her handsome face but who wouldn't be fond of Master John Mr. Conyers shrugged his shoulders these patriarchal habits and domestic virtues had no particular charm for him she had plenty of money hadn't she he asked by way of bringing the conversation into a more rational channel plenty of money I should think so they say her paw gave her 50,000 pounds down on her wedding day not that our master wants money he's got enough and to spare ah to be sure answered Mr. Conyers that's always the way of it Mr. Conyers gave her 50,000 did he if Miss Floyd had married a poor devil now I don't suppose her father would have given her 56 pence well no if she'd gone against his wishes I don't suppose he would he was here in the spring a nice white haired old gentleman but failing fast failing fast and Mrs. Melish will come into a quarter of a million I suppose good afternoon ma'am it's a queer world Mr. Conyers took up his stick and limped away under the trees repeating his ejaculation as he went it was a habit with this gentleman to attribute the good fortune of other people to some eccentricity in the machinery of life by which he the only really deserving person in the world had been deprived of rights he went through the wood into a meadow where some of the horses under his charge were at grass and spent upward of an hour lounging about the hedgerows sitting on gates smoking his pipe and staring at the animals which seemed about the hardest work he had to do in his capacity of trainer it isn't a very hard life when all said and done he thought and as he looked at a group of mayors and foals who in their eccentric diversions were performing a species of Sir Rogers the coverly up and down the meadow it isn't a very hard life for as long as a fellow swears hard and fast at the lads and gets rid of plenty of oats he's right enough these country gentlemen always judge a man's merit by the quantity of corn feed their horses as fat as pigs and never enter them except among such a set of screws as the active pig could beat and they'll swear by you they think more of having a horse when the Margate plate or the Hampstead Heath sweepstakes than if he ran a good forth in the Derby bless their innocent hearts I should think fellows with plenty of money and no brains have been invented for the good of fellows with plenty of brains and no money and that's how we contrived to keep our equilibrium in the universal seesaw Mr. James Conyers puffing lazy clouds of transparent blue smoke from his lips and pondering thus looked as sentimental as if he had been ruminating upon the last three pages of the Bride of Advidos of Paul Donby he had that romantic style of beauty peculiar to dark blue eyes and long black lashes and he could not wonder what he should have for dinner without a dreamy pensiveness in the purple shadows of those deep blue orbs he had found the sentimentality of his beauty almost of greater use to him than the beauty itself it was this sentimentality which always put him at the advantage with his employers he looked like an exiled prince doing menial service in bitterness of spirit and a turned down caller he looked like Lara returned to his own domains to train the horses of a usurper he looked in short like anything but what he was a selfish good for nothing lazy scoundrel who was well up in the useful art of doing the minimum of work and getting the maximum of wages he strolled solely back to his rustic habitation where he found the softy waiting for him the kettle boiling upon a handful of bright fire and some tea things laid out upon the little round table Mr. Conyers looked rather contemptuously at the humble considerations I've mashed the tea for you said the softy I thought you'd like a coupe the trainer shrugged his shoulders I can't say I'm particularly attached to the cat lap he said laughing I've had rather too much of it when I've been in training half and half warm tea and a cold drawn castor oil I'll send you into Don Caster tomorrow my man or tonight perhaps he added reflectively resting his elbow upon the table and his chin in the hollow of his hand he sat for some time in this thoughtful attitude his retainer Steve Hargraves watching him intently all the while with that half wondering half admiring stare with which a very ugly creature a creature so ugly as to know it is ugly he said a very handsome one at the close of his reverie Mr. Conyers took out a clumsy silver watch and sat for a few minutes staring vacantly at the dial close upon six he muttered at last what time do they dine at the house Steve seven o'clock answered the softy seven o'clock then you'd have time to run there with a message or a letter to catch him just as they're going into dinner the softy stared aghast at his new master a message or a letter he repeated for Mr. Mellish no for Mrs. Mellish but I Darren exclaimed Steve and Hargraves I Darren Conyer the house least of all speak to her I don't forget the day she horse whipped me I've never seen her since you think I'm a coward donkey he said stopping suddenly and looking at the trainer whose handsome lips were curved into a contemptuous smile you think I'm a coward donkey now he repeated well I don't think you are overvalued answered Mr. Conyers to be afraid of a woman though she was the various devil that ever played fast and loose with a man shall I tell you what it is I'm afraid of said Steve Hargraves hissing the words through his closed teeth in that unpleasant whisper peculiar to him it isn't Mrs. Mellish it's myself it's this he grasped something in the loose pocket of his trousers as he spoke it's this I'm afraid to trust myself and I her for fear I should spring upon her and cut her throat from ear to ear I've seen her in my dreams sometimes with her beautiful white throat laid open and streaming oceans of blood but for all that she's always had the broken whip in her hand and she's always laughed at me I've had many a dream about her but I've never seen her dead or quiet I've never seen her without the whip the contemptuous smile died away from the trainer's lips as Steve Hargrave made his evaluations of his sentiments and gave place to a darkly thoughtful expression which overshadowed the whole of his face I've no such wonderful love for Mrs. Mellish myself he said but she might live to be as old as Methuselah for odd I care if she'd he muttered something between his teeth and walked up the little staircase to his bedroom whistling a popular tune he went he came down again with a dirty looking leather desk in his hand which he flung carelessly onto the table it was stuffed with crumbled untidy looking letters and papers from amongst which he had considerable difficulty in selecting a tolerably clean sheet of note paper you'll take a letter to Mrs. Mellish my friend he said to Stephen writing as he spoke and you'll be pleased to deliver it safely into her own hands the window will be all open this sultry weather and you can watch till you see her in the drawing room and when you do contrive to beckon her out and give her this he had folded the sheet of paper by this time and had sealed it carefully in an adhesive envelope there's no need of any address he said as he handed the letter to Steve Hargraves you know who it's for and you won't give it to anybody else there, get along with you she'll say nothing to you man when she sees who the letter comes from the softie looked darkly at his new employer but Mr. James Conyers rather peaked himself upon a quality which he called determination Conyers designated obstinacy and he made up his mind that no one but Steve Hargraves should carry the letter come he said no nonsense Mr. Stephen remember this if I choose to employ you and if I choose to send you on any errand whatsoever there's no one in that house will dare to question my right to do it get along with you he pointed as he spoke of his pipe to the gothic roof and ivy chimneys of the old house gleaming among the mass of foliage get along with you Mr. Stephen and bring me an answer to that letter he added lighting his pipe and seating himself in his favorite attitude upon the windowsill an attitude which, like everything about him, was a half careless, half defined protest of his superiority to his position you needn't wait for a written answer yes or no will be quite enough you may tell Mrs. Melish the softie whispered something half inaudible between his teeth but he took the letter and pulling his shabby rabbit skin cap over his eyes walked slowly off in the direction to which Mr. Conyers had pointed with a half contemptuous action a few moments before a queer fish muttered the trainer lazily watching the awkward figure of his attendant a queer fish but it's rather hard if I can't manage him I've twisted his betters round my little finger before today Mr. Conyers forgot that there are some natures which, although inferior in everything else are strong by reasons of their stubbornness and not to be twisted out of their natural crookedness by any trick of management or skillfulness of handling the evening was sunless but sultry there was a lowering darkness in the leaden sky and an unnatural stillness in the atmosphere that prophesied the coming of a storm the elements were taking breath for the struggle and lying silently in wait against the reeking of the storm it would come by and by the signal for the outburst in a long crackling peel of thunder that would shake the distant hills and flutter every leaf in the wood the trainer looked with an indifferent eye at the ominous aspect of the heavens I must go down to the stables and send some of the boys to get the horses under shelter he said there'll be a storm he took his stick and limped out of the cottage still smoking indeed there were very few hours in the day and not many during the night in which Mr. Conyers was unprovided with his pipe or cigar Steve Hargraves walked very slowly along the narrow pathway which led across the park to the flower garden and lawn before the house this north side of the park was wilder and less well kept than the rest but the thick undergrowth swarmed with game and the young hairs flew backward and forward across the pathway startled by the softies shambling tread while every now and then the partridges rose in pairs from the tangled grass and skimmed away under the low roof of foliage look at me black enough I dare say muttered the softie though ain't after the game looking at a pheasant's high treason in his mind curse him he put his hands low down in his pockets as if scarcely able to resist the temptation to ring the neck of a splendid caulk pheasant that was strutting through the high grass with a proud serenity of manner that implied the game laws the trees on the north side of the park formed a species of leafy wall which screened the lawn so that coming from this northern side the softie emerged at once from the shelter into the smooth grass bordering this lawn which was separated from the park by an invisible fence as Steve Hargraves still sheltered from observation by the trees approached this place he saw that his errand was shortened for Mrs. Melish was leaning upon a low iron gate with the dog Bow Wow the dog that he had beaten at her side he had left the narrow pathway and struck in among the undergrowth in order to make a shorter cut to the flower garden and as he came from under the shelter of the low branches in the cave about him he left a long track of parted grass behind him like the track of a footstep of a tiger or the trail of a slow ponderous serpent creeping towards its prey Aurora looked up at the sound of the shambling footsteps and for the second time since she had beaten him she encountered the gaze of the softie she was very pale which was unenlivened by any scrap of color and which hung about her in loose folds that gave a statuesque grace to her figure she was dressed with such evident carelessness that every fold of muslin seemed to tell how far away her thoughts had been when that hasty toilet was made her black brows contracted as she looked at the softie I thought Mr. Melish had dismissed you she said and that you had been forbidden to come here yes ma'am Mr. Melish did turn me out of the old house I'd lived in man and boy, nigh upon 40 years but I've got a new place now and my new master sent me to you with a letter watching the effect of his words the softie saw lead and change come over the pale face of his listener the master she asked Steve Hargraves lifted his hand and pointed across his shoulder she watched the slow motion of that clumsy hand and her eyes seemed to grow larger as she saw the direction to which it pointed your new master is the trainer James Conyers the man who lives at the north lodge she said yes ma'am what does he want with you she asked I'll place an order for him ma'am and run errands for him and I brought a letter a letter? ah yes give it to me the softie handed her the envelope she took it slowly without removing her eyes from his face but watching him with a fixed and earnest look that seemed as if it would have fathomed something beneath the dull red eyes which met hers a look that betrayed some doubtful terror hidden in her own breast and a vague desire to penetrate the secret of his she did not look at the letter but held it half crushed in the hand hanging by her side you can go she said I was to wait for an answer the black brows contracted again and this time a bright gleam of fury kindled in the great black eyes there is no answer she said thrusting the letter into the bosom of her dress and turning to leave the gate there is no answer and there shall be none till I choose tell your master that it wasn't to be a written answer persisted the softie it was to be yes or no that's all but I was to be sure and wait for it the half-witted creature saw some feeling of hate fury in her face beyond her contemptuous hatred of himself and took a savage pleasure in tormenting her she struck her foot impatiently upon the grass and plucking the letter from her breast tore open the envelope and read the few lines it contained few as they were she stood for nearly five minutes with the open letter in her hand separated from the softie by the iron fence and lost in thought the silence was only broken during this pause by an occasional growl from the mastiff who lifted his heavy lip and showed his feeble teeth for the edification of his old enemy she tore the letter into a hundred morsels and flung it from her before she spoke yes, she said at last tell your master that Steve Hargraves touched his cap and went back through the grassy trail he had left to carry this message to the trainer she hates me bad enough he muttered as he stopped once to look back at the quiet white figure on the lawn but she hates him worse end of chapter 17 the trainer's message