Part 58 (1/2)

Aura stood up, and in Ned's sudden swerve inwards, an overhanging root from the high rocky bank above struck her full upon the temple.

The child, shrieking more from joyous excitement than fear, lurched back with outstretched arms to the shadow; but Aura sank back, her head resting on Ned's shoulder.

”My G.o.d! Aura!” he cried. There was no answer. He did not stop the car, but sweeping it round the open s.p.a.ce by the school, raced back to Cwmfaernog. There, he knew, all was ready for her reception, there everything would be to hand. As he sped through the misty blue cloud once more, he saw nothing of it. His eyes were on her whitening face.

Dear G.o.d! How limp she felt, as he lifted her in his arms and carried her across the drawbridge, and so through the garden to the house. A scent of violets and primroses, of lilies of the valley, of all things sweet a.s.sailed him as he entered the door that was only latched. He had brought the flowers when he had come down secretly to see that all things were prepared. He had brought them _for her!_ And the table set out with flowers and fruit--that was _for her_ also.

He stumbled up the stairs with his heavy burden to her room. He had not entered that. He had only climbed once more to her window-sill to set it abloom with white and purple iris--the messengers of the G.o.ds.

How they mocked him now with their tale of immortality. His mind went back to many a Kashmir grave which he had seen, long and narrow like the sill set as thick with irises, high upon the hills, low amongst the dales.

But she could not be dead!

Yet her head lay on the pillow just as it had touched it, her arm slipping from his support sank, till it could sink no more.

”Aura!” he muttered faintly ”Aura!”

He knelt and laid his ear to her heart--oh! sweetest resting--place in all the world!

There was no sound, no beat. Yes! she was dead!

He turned his face round into the soft pillow of her breast and whispered ”Aura.” It seemed to him as on that midsummer night when he had first met her, as if all the world were wailing ”Aura! Aura!”

How long he knelt there he scarcely knew; a faint sense of sound in the house roused him to the remembrance that something must be done.

He must call for help. But if he did that, every one must know that she was here with him alone. The world would judge, and what would that judgment reck of her spotlessness or his forbearance? No! that must not be, if he could compa.s.s otherwise.

His mind, almost unhinged by the terrible shock, chased possibility through a thousand impossibilities, the least grotesque of these being a grave of his own digging amongst the hyacinths; his subsequent flight being easy, since he had made all arrangements for a sudden disappearance.

Was that a noise below--a faint creak on the stairs? The possibility troubled him. He crossed to the door, and opened it to find himself confronted by Ted Cruttenden, his face distorted by pa.s.sion.

”You scoundrel!” he cried. ”You--you infernal scoundrel--where is Aura--my wife?”

His very vehemence, his very lack of self restraint, brought back Ned Blackborough's wandering wits. He closed the door behind him, and stood with his back to it.

”She is--not there,” he said slowly. ”Ted! listen for one moment. I brought her here----”

”Do you think I don't know that, you d.a.m.ned villain,” burst out Ted--”when I came home this morning and found you had taken her--there was some c.o.c.k-and-bull story the servants had about not sitting up for her, and a latch-key and all that rot--do you think I was fool enough not to understand--I've never really trusted you. And now--and now--let me pa.s.s in, I say, or there'll be murder done.”

”Listen one moment----” the voice was inexorable. ”You never trusted me. I know that. Have you not trusted her? Are you fool enough to have lived day and night with her, to have lain with your head upon her breast--and not known--No! it is impossible. You know what she is--you must--you do know it----”

Even to Ted Cruttenden's mad jealousy, memory could bring no fuel to feed the flame; his very anger sank for the moment to self-pity.

”I come home,” he muttered, ”I find her gone. I follow. I have walked over the hill to----”

”To--spy upon us----” interrupted Ned sternly, ”go on.”

”To spy upon you if you will,” cried Ted, his pa.s.sion rising again--”and I find you here, in her room----”

Ned opened the door behind him quietly. ”Because she is dead,” he said, and leaning against the lintel, his head upon his arm, waited.