"Shall I go and look for Aurora?" Lucy said to her husband. "She is in the morning-room, I dare say."
Talbot suggested that it would be better, perhaps, to wait till Mrs. Mellish came to them. So Lucy was fain to remain where she was. She went to one of the open windows, and pushed the shutters apart. The blazing sunshine burst into the room, and drowned it in light. The smooth lawn was aflame with scarlet geraniums and standard roses, and all manner of gaudily-coloured blossoms; but Mrs. Bulstrode looked beyond this vividly-tinted parterre to the thick woods, that loomed darkly purple against the glowing sky.
It was in that very wood that her husband had declared his love for her; the same wood that had since been outraged by violence and murder.
"The—the man is buried, I suppose, Talbot?" she said to her husband.
"I believe so, my dear."
"I should never care to live in this place again, if I were Aurora."
The door opened before Mrs. Bulstrode had finished speaking, and the mistress of the house came towards them. She welcomed them affectionately and kindly, taking Lucy in her arms, and greeting her very tenderly; but Talbot saw that she had changed terribly within the few days that had passed since her return to Yorkshire, and his heart sank as he observed her pale face and the dark circles about her hollow eyes.
Could she have heard——? Could anybody have given her reason to suppose——?
"You are not well, Mrs. Mellish," he said, as he took her hand.
"No, not very well. This oppressive weather makes my head ache."