by the hand, and staring at him pathetically, “I could have looked upon you as a brother; she’s better suited to you, twenty thousand times better adapted to you than her cousin, and you ought to have married her — in common courtesy — I mean to say as an honorable — having very much compromised yourself by your attentions — Mrs. Whatshername — the companion — Mrs. Powell — said so — you ought to have married her.”
“Married her! Married whom?” cried Talbot, rather savagely, shaking off his friend’s hot grasp, and allowing Mr. Mellish to sway backward upon the heels of his varnished boots in rather an alarming manner. “Who do you mean?”
“The sweetest girl in Christendom — except one,” exclaimed John, clasping his hot hands and elevating his dim blue eyes to the ceiling; “the loveliest girl in Christendom, except one — Lucy Floyd.”
“Lucy Floyd!”
“Yes, Lucy; the sweetest girl in —”
“Who says that I ought to marry Lucy Floyd?”
“She says so — no, no, I don’t mean that; I mean,” said Mr. Mellish, sinking his voice to a solemn whisper, “I mean that Lucy Floyd loves you! She did n’t tell me so — oh, no, bless your soul! she never uttered a word upon the subject; but she loves you. Yes,” continued John, pushing his friend away from him with both hands, and staring at him as if mentally taking his pattern for a suit of clothes, “that girl loves you, and has loved you all along. I am not a fool, and I give you my word and honor that Lucy Floyd loves you.”
“Not a fool!” cried Talbot; “you’re worse than a fool, John Mellish — you’re drunk!”
He turned upon his heel contemptuously, and, taking a candle from a table near the door, lighted it, and strode out of the room,
John stood rubbing his hands through his curly hair, and staring helplessly after the captain.
“This is the reward a fellow gets for doing a generous thing,” he said, as he thrust his own candle into the burning coals, ignoring any easier mode of lighting it. “It’s hard, but I suppose it’s human nature.”
Talbot Bulstrode went to bed in a very bad humor. Could it be true that Lucy loved him? Could this chattering Yorkshireman have discovered a secret which had escaped the captain’s penetration? He remembered how, only a short time before, he had wished that this fair-haired girl might fall in love with him, and now all was trouble and confusion. Guinevere was lady of his heart, and poor Elaine was sadly in the way. Mr. Tennyson’s wondrous book had not been given to the world in the year fifty-seven, or no doubt poor Talbot would have compared himself to the knight whose “honor rooted in dishonor stood.” Had he been dishonorable? Had he compromised himself by his attentions to Lucy? Had he deceived that fair and gentle creature? The down pillows in the chintz chamber gave no rest to his weary head that night; and when he fell asleep in the late daybreak, it was to dream of horrible dreams, and to see in a vision Aurora Floyd standing on the brink of a clear pool of water in a woody recess at Felden, and pointing down through its crystal surface to the corpse of Lucy, lying pale and still amid lilies and clustering aquatic plants, whose long tendrils entwined themselves with the fair golden hair.
He heard the splash of the water in that terrible dream, and awoke, to find his valet breaking the ice in his bath in the adjoining room. His perplexities about poor Lucy vanished in the broad daylight, and he laughed at a trouble which must have grown out of his own vanity. What was he, that young ladies should fall in love with him? What a weak fool he must have been to have believed for one moment in the drunken babble of John Mellish! So he dismissed the image of Aurora’s cousin from his mind, and had eyes, ears, and thought only for Aurora herself, who drove him to Beckenham church in her basket carriage, and sat by his side in the banker’s great square pew.
Alas! I fear he heard very little of the sermon that was preached that day; but, for all that, I declare that he was a good and devout man; a man whom God had blessed with the gift of earnest belief; a man who took all blessings from the hand of God reverently, almost fearfully; and as he bowed his head at the end of that Christmas service of rejoicing and thanksgiving, he thanked Heaven for his overflowing cup of gladness, and prayed that he might become worthy of so much happiness.
He had a vague fear that he was too happy — too much bound up heart and soul in the dark-eyed woman by his side. If she were to die! If she were to be false to him! He turned sick and dizzy at the thought; and even in that sacred temple the Devil whispered to him that there were still pools, loaded pistols, and other certain remedies for such calamities as those, so wicked as well as cowardly a passion is this terrible fever, Love!
The day was bright and clear, the light snow whitening the ground; every line of hedge-top and tree cut sharply out against the cold blue of the winter sky. The banker proposed that they should send home the carriages, and walk down the hill to Felden; so Talbot Bulstrode offered Aurora his arm, only too glad of the chance of a tête-à-tête with his betrothed.
John Mellish walked with Archibald Floyd, with whom the Yorkshireman was an especial favorite; and Lucy was lost amid a group of brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles.
“We were so busy all yesterday with the little people,” said Talbot, “that I forgot to tell you, Aurora, that I had had a letter from my mother.”
Miss Floyd looked up at him with her brightest glance. She was always pleased to hear anything about Lady Bulstrode.
“Of course there is very little news in the letter,” added Talbot, “for there is rarely much to tell at Bulstrode. And yet — yes — there is one piece of news which concerns yourself.”
“Which concerns me?”
“Yes. You remember my cousin, Constance Trevyllian?”
“Yes —”
“She has returned from Paris, her education finished at last, and she, I believe, all-accomplished, and has gone to spend Christmas at Bulstrode. Good Heavens, Aurora, what is the matter?”
Nothing very much, apparently. Her face had grown as white as a sheet of letter-paper, but the hand upon his arm did not tremble. Perhaps, had he taken especial notice of it, he would have found it preternaturally still.
“Aurora, what is the matter?”
“Nothing. Why do you ask?”
“Your face is as pale as —”
“It is the cold, I suppose,” she said, shivering. “Tell me about your cousin, this Miss Trevyllian; when did she go to Bulstrode Castle?”
“She was to arrive the day before yesterday. My mother was expecting her when she wrote.”
“Is she a favorite of Lady Bulstrode?”
“No very especial favorite. My mother likes her well enough; but Constance is rather a frivolous girl.”
“The day before yesterday,” said Aurora; “Miss Trevyllian was to arrive the day before yesterday. The letters from Cornwall are delivered at Felden early in the afternoon, are they not?”
“Yes, dear.”
“You will have a letter from your mother to-day, Talbot?”
“A letter to-day! oh, no, Aurora, she never writes two days running; seldom more than
