LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET

By

Mary Elizabeth Braddon

CHAPTER I. 

LUCY. 

It lay down in a hollow, rich with fine old timber and luxuriantpastures; and you came upon it through an avenue of limes, bordered oneither side by meadows, over the high hedges of which the cattle lookedinquisitively at you as you passed, wondering, perhaps, what you wanted;for there was no thorough-fare, and unless you were going to the Courtyou had no business there at all. 

At the end of this avenue there was an old arch and a clock tower, witha stupid, bewildering clock, which had only one hand--and which jumpedstraight from one hour to the next--and was therefore always inextremes. Through this arch you walked straight into the gardens ofAudley Court. 

A smooth lawn lay before you, dotted with groups of rhododendrons, whichgrew in more perfection here than anywhere else in the county. To theright there were the kitchen gardens, the fish-pond, and an orchardbordered by a dry moat, and a broken ruin of a wall, in some placesthicker than it was high, and everywhere overgrown with trailing ivy, yellow stonecrop, and dark moss. To the left there was a broad graveledwalk, down which, years ago, when the place had been a convent, thequiet nuns had walked hand in hand; a wall bordered with espaliers, andshadowed on one side by goodly oaks, which shut out the flat landscape, and circled in the house and gardens with a darkening shelter. 

The house faced the arch, and occupied three sides of a quadrangle. Itwas very old, and very irregular and rambling. The windows were uneven;some small, some large, some with heavy stone mullions and rich stainedglass; others with frail lattices that rattled in every breeze; othersso modern that they might have been added only yesterday. Great piles ofchimneys rose up here and there behind the pointed gables, and seemed asif they were so broken down by age and long service that they must havefallen but for the straggling ivy which, crawling up the walls andtrailing even over the roof, wound itself about them and supported them. The principal door was squeezed into a corner of a turret at one angleof the building, as if it were in hiding from dangerous visitors, andwished to keep itself a secret--a noble door for all that--old oak, andstudded with great square-headed iron nails, and so thick that the sharpiron knocker struck upon it with a muffled sound, and the visitor rung aclanging bell that dangled in a corner among the ivy, lest the noise ofthe knocking should never penetrate the stronghold. 

A glorious old place. A place that visitors fell in raptures with;feeling a yearning wish to have done with life, and to stay thereforever, staring into the cool fish-ponds and counting the bubbles asthe roach and carp rose to the surface of the water. A spot in whichpeace seemed to have taken up her abode, setting her soothing hand onevery tree and flower, on the still ponds and quiet alleys, the shadycorners of the old-fashioned rooms, the deep window-seats behind thepainted glass, the low meadows and the stately avenues--ay, even uponthe stagnant well, which, cool and sheltered as all else in the oldplace, hid itself away in a shrubbery behind the gardens, with an idlehandle that was never turned and a lazy rope so rotten that the pail hadbroken away from it, and had fallen into the water. 

A noble place; inside as well as out, a noble place--a house in whichyou incontinently lost yourself if ever you were so rash as to attemptto penetrate its mysteries alone; a house in which no one room had anysympathy with another, every chamber running off at a tangent into aninner chamber, and through that down some narrow staircase leading to adoor which, in its turn, led back into that very part of the house fromwhich you thought yourself the furthest; a house that could never havebeen planned by any mortal architect, but must have been the handiworkof that good old builder, Time, who, adding a room one year, andknocking down a room another year, toppling down a chimney coeval withthe Plantagenets, and setting up one in the style of the Tudors; shakingdown a bit of Saxon wall, allowing a Norman arch to stand here; throwingin a row of high narrow windows in the reign of Queen Anne, and joiningon a dining-room after the fashion of the time of Hanoverian George I, to a refectory that had been standing since the Conquest, had contrived, in some eleven centuries, to run up such a mansion as was not elsewhereto be met with throughout the county of Essex. Of course, in such ahouse there were secret chambers; the little daughter of the presentowner, Sir Michael Audley, had fallen by accident upon the discovery ofone. A board had rattled under her feet in the great nursery where sheplayed, and on attention being drawn to it, it was found to be loose, and so removed, revealed a ladder, leading to a hiding-place between thefloor of the nursery and the ceiling of the room below--a hiding-placeso small that he who had hid there must have crouched on his hands andknees or lain at full length, and yet large enough to contain a quaintold carved oak chest, half filled with priests' vestments, which hadbeen hidden away, no doubt, in those cruel days when the life of a manwas in danger if he was discovered to have harbored a Roman Catholicpriest, or to have mass said in his house. 

The broad outer moat was dry and grass-grown, and the laden trees of theorchard hung over it with gnarled, straggling branches that drewfantastical shadows upon the green slope. Within this moat there was, asI have said, the fish-pond--a sheet of water that extended the wholelength of the garden and bordering which there was an avenue called thelime-tree walk; an avenue so shaded from the sun and sky, so screenedfrom observation by the thick shelter of the over-arching trees that itseemed a chosen place for secret meetings or for stolen interviews; aplace in which a conspiracy might have been planned, or a lover's vowregistered with equal safety; and yet it was scarcely twenty paces fromthe house. 

At the end of this dark arcade there was the shrubbery, where, halfburied among the tangled branches and the neglected weeds, stood therusty wheel of that old well of which I have spoken. It had been of goodservice in its time, no doubt; and busy nuns have perhaps drawn the coolwater with their own fair hands; but it had fallen into disuse now, andscarcely any one at Audley Court knew whether the spring had dried up ornot. But sheltered as was the solitude of this lime-tree walk, I doubtvery much if it was ever put to any romantic uses. Often in the cool ofthe evening Sir Michael Audley would stroll up and down smoking hiscigar, with his dogs at his heels, and his pretty young wife dawdling byhis side; but in about ten minutes the baronet and his companion wouldgrow tired of the rustling limes and the still water, hidden under thespreading leaves of the water-lilies, and the long green vista with thebroken well at the end, and would stroll back to the drawing-room, wheremy lady played dreamy melodies by Beethoven and Mendelssohn till herhusband fell asleep in his easy-chair. 

Sir Michael Audley was fifty-six years of age, and he had married asecond wife three months after his fifty-fifth birthday. He was a bigman, tall and stout, with a deep, sonorous voice, handsome black eyes, and a white beard--a white beard which made him look venerable againsthis will, for he was as active as a boy, and one of the hardest ridersin the country. For seventeen years he had been a widower with an onlychild, a daughter, Alicia Audley, now eighteen, and by no means too wellpleased at having a step-mother brought home to the Court; for MissAlicia had reigned supreme in her father's house since her earliestchildhood, and had carried the keys, and jingled them in the pockets ofher silk aprons, and lost them in the shrubbery, and dropped them intothe pond, and given all manner of trouble about them from the hour inwhich she entered her teens, and had, on that account, deluded herselfinto the sincere belief, that for the whole of that period, she had beenkeeping the house. 

But Miss Alicia's day was over; and now, when she asked anything of thehousekeeper, the housekeeper would tell her that she would speak to mylady, or she would consult my lady, and if my lady pleased it should bedone. So the baronet's daughter, who was an excellent horsewoman and avery clever artist, spent most of her time out of doors, riding aboutthe green lanes, and sketching the cottage children, and the plow-boys, and the cattle, and all manner of animal life that came in her way. Sheset her face with a sulky determination against any intimacy betweenherself and the baronet's young wife; and amiable as that lady was, shefound it quite impossible to overcome Miss Alicia's prejudices anddislike; or to convince the spoilt girl that she had not done her acruel injury by marrying Sir Michael Audley. The truth was that LadyAudley had, in becoming the wife of Sir Michael, made one of thoseapparently advantageous matches which are apt to draw upon a woman theenvy and hatred of her sex. She had come into the neighborhood as agoverness in the family of a surgeon in the village near Audley Court. No one knew anything of her, except that she came in answer to anadvertisement which Mr. Dawson, the surgeon, had inserted in The_Times_. She came from London; and the only reference she gave was to alady at a school at Brompton, where she had once been a teacher. Butthis reference was so satisfactory that none other was needed, and MissLucy Graham was received by the surgeon as the instructress of hisdaughters. Her accomplishments were so brilliant and numerous, that itseemed strange that she should have answered an advertisement offeringsuch very moderate terms of remuneration as those named by Mr. Dawson;but Miss Graham seemed perfectly well satisfied with her situation, andshe taught the girls to play sonatas by Beethoven, and to paint fromnature after Creswick, and walked through a dull, out-of-the-way villageto the humble little church, three times every Sunday, as contentedly asif she had no higher aspiration in the world than to do so all the restof her life. 

People who observed this, accounted for it by saying that it was a partof her amiable and gentle nature always to be light-hearted, happy andcontented under any circumstances. 

Wherever she went she seemed to take joy and brightness with her. In thecottages of the poor her fair face shone like a sunbeam. She would sitfor a quarter of an hour talking to some old woman, and apparently aspleased with the admiration of a toothless crone as if she had beenlistening to the compliments of a marquis; and when she tripped away, leaving nothing behind her (for her poor salary gave no scope to herbenevolence), the old woman would burst out into senile raptures withher grace, beauty, and her kindliness, such as she never bestowed uponthe vicar's wife, who half fed and clothed her. For you see, Miss LucyGraham was blessed with that magic power of fascination, by which awoman can charm with a word or intoxicate with a smile. Every one loved, admired, and praised her. The boy who opened the five-barred gate thatstood in her pathway, ran home to his mother to tell of her prettylooks, and the sweet voice in which she thanked him for the littleservice. The verger at the church, who ushered her into the surgeon'spew; the vicar, who saw the soft blue eyes uplifted to his face as hepreached his simple sermon; the porter from the railway station, whobrought her sometimes a letter or a parcel, and who never looked forreward from her; her employer; his visitors; her pupils; the servants;everybody, high and low, united in declaring that Lucy Graham was thesweetest girl that ever lived. 

Perhaps it was the rumor of this which penetrated into the quiet chamberof Audley Court; or, perhaps, it was the sight of her pretty face, looking over the surgeon's high pew every Sunday morning; however itwas, it was certain that Sir Michael Audley suddenly experienced astrong desire to be better acquainted with Mr. Dawson's governess. 

He had only to hint his wish to the worthy doctor for a little party tobe got up, to which the vicar and his wife, and the baronet and hisdaughter, were invited. 

That one quiet evening sealed Sir Michael's fate. He could no moreresist the tender fascination of those soft and melting blue eyes; thegraceful beauty of that slender throat and drooping head, with itswealth of showering flaxen curls; the low music of that gentle voice;the perfect harmony which pervaded every charm, and made all doublycharming in this woman; than he could resist his destiny! Destiny! Why, she was his destiny! He had never loved before. What had been hismarriage with Alicia's mother but a dull, jog-trot bargain made to keepsome estate in the family that would have been just as well out of it?What had been his love for his first wife but a poor, pitiful, smoldering spark, too dull to be extinguished, too feeble to burn? But_this_ was love--this fever, this longing, this restless, uncertain, miserable hesitation; these cruel fears that his age was aninsurmountable barrier to his happiness; this sick hatred of his whitebeard; this frenzied wish to be young again, with glistening raven hair, and a slim waist, such as he had twenty years before; these, wakefulnights and melancholy days, so gloriously brightened if he chanced tocatch a glimpse of her sweet face behind the window curtains, as hedrove past the surgeon's house; all these signs gave token of the truth, and told only too plainly that, at the sober age of fifty-five, SirMichael Audley had fallen ill of the terrible fever called love. 

I do not think that, throughout his courtship, the baronet oncecalculated upon his wealth or his position as reasons for his success. If he ever remembered these things, he dismissed the thought of themwith a shudder. It pained him too much to believe for a moment that anyone so lovely and innocent could value herself against a splendid houseor a good old title. No; his hope was that, as her life had been mostlikely one of toil and dependence, and as she was very young nobodyexactly knew her age, but she looked little more than twenty, she mightnever have formed any attachment, and that he, being the first to wooher, might, by tender attentions, by generous watchfulness, by a lovewhich should recall to her the father she had lost, and by a protectingcare that should make him necessary to her, win her young heart, andobtain from her fresh and earliest love, the promise or her hand. It wasa very romantic day-dream, no doubt; but, for all that, it seemed in avery fair way to be realized. Lucy Graham appeared by no means todislike the baronet's attentions. There was nothing whatever in hermanner that betrayed the shallow artifices employed by a woman whowishes to captivate a rich man. She was so accustomed to admiration fromevery one, high and low, that Sir Michael's conduct made very littleimpression upon her. Again, he had been so many years a widower thatpeople had given up the idea of his ever marrying again. At last, however, Mrs. Dawson spoke to the governess on the subject. Thesurgeon's wife was sitting in the school-room busy at work, while Lucywas putting the finishing touches on some water-color sketches done byher pupils. 

"Do you know, my dear Miss Graham, " said Mrs. Dawson, "I think you oughtto consider yourself a remarkably lucky girl?"

The governess lifted her head from its stooping attitude, and staredwonderingly at her employer, shaking back a shower of curls. They werethe most wonderful curls in the world--soft and feathery, alwaysfloating away from her face, and making a pale halo round her head whenthe sunlight shone through them. 

"What do you mean, my dear Mrs. Dawson?" she asked, dipping hercamel's-hair brush into the wet aquamarine upon the palette, and poisingit carefully before putting in the delicate streak of purple which wasto brighten the horizon in her pupil's sketch. 

"Why, I mean, my dear, that it only rests with yourself to become LadyAudley, and the mistress of Audley Court. "

Lucy Graham dropped the brush upon the picture, and flushed scarlet tothe roots of her fair hair; and then grew pale again, far paler thanMrs. Dawson had ever seen her before. 

"My dear, don't agitate yourself, " said the surgeon's wife, soothingly;"you know that nobody asks you to marry Sir Michael unless you wish. Ofcourse it would be a magnificent match; he has a splendid income, and isone of the most generous of men. Your position would be very high, andyou would be enabled to do a great deal of good; but, as I said before, you must be entirely guided by your own feelings. Only one thing I mustsay, and that is that if Sir Michael's attentions are not agreeable toyou, it is really scarcely honorable to encourage him. "

"His attentions--encourage him!" muttered Lucy, as if the wordsbewildered her. "Pray, pray don't talk to me, Mrs. Dawson. I had no ideaof this. It is the last thing that would have occurred to me. " Sheleaned her elbows on the drawing-board before her, and clasping herhands over her face, seemed for some minutes to be thinking deeply. Shewore a narrow black ribbon round her neck, with a locket, or a cross, ora miniature, perhaps, attached to it; but whatever the trinket was, shealways kept it hidden under her dress. Once or twice, while she satsilently thinking, she removed one of her hands from before her face, and fidgeted nervously with the ribbon, clutching at it with ahalf-angry gesture, and twisting it backward and forward between herfingers. 

"I think some people are born to be unlucky, Mrs. Dawson, " she said, by-and-by; "it would be a great deal too much good fortune for me tobecome Lady Audley. "

She said this with so much bitterness in her tone, that the surgeon'swife looked up at her with surprise. 

"You unlucky, my dear!" she exclaimed. "I think you are the last personwho ought to talk like that--you, such a bright, happy creature, that itdoes every one good to see you. I'm sure I don't know what we shall doif Sir Michael robs us of you. "

After this conversation they often spoke upon the subject, and Lucynever again showed any emotion whatever when the baronet's admirationfor her was canvassed. It was a tacitly understood thing in thesurgeon's family that whenever Sir Michael proposed, the governess wouldquietly accept him; and, indeed, the simple Dawsons would have thoughtit something more than madness in a penniless girl to reject such anoffer. 

So, one misty August evening, Sir Michael, sitting opposite to LucyGraham, at a window in the surgeon's little drawing-room, took anopportunity while the family happened by some accident to be absent fromthe room, of speaking upon the subject nearest to his heart. He made thegoverness, in a few but solemn words, an offer of his hand. There wassomething almost touching in the manner and tone in which he spoke toher--half in deprecation, knowing that he could hardly expect to be thechoice of a beautiful young girl, and praying rather that she wouldreject him, even though she broke his heart by doing so, than that sheshould accept his offer if she did not love him. 

"I scarcely think there is a greater sin, Lucy, " he said, solemnly, "than that of a woman who marries a man she does not love. You are soprecious to me, my beloved, that deeply as my heart is set on this, andbitter as the mere thought of disappointment is to me, I would not haveyou commit such a sin for any happiness of mine. If my happiness couldbe achieved by such an act, which it could not--which it never could, "he repeated, earnestly--"nothing but misery can result from a marriagedictated by any motive but truth and love. "

Lucy Graham was not looking at Sir Michael, but straight out into themisty twilight and dim landscape far away beyond the little garden. Thebaronet tried to see her face, but her profile was turned to him, and hecould not discover the expression of her eyes. If he could have done so, he would have seen a yearning gaze which seemed as if it would havepierced the far obscurity and looked away--away into another world. 

"Lucy, you heard me?"

"Yes, " she said, gravely; not coldly, or in any way as if she wereoffended at his words. 

"And your answer?"

She did not remove her gaze from the darkening country side, but forsome moments was quite silent; then turning to him, with a suddenpassion in her manner, that lighted up her face with a new and wonderfulbeauty which the baronet perceived even in the growing twilight, shefell on her knees at his feet. 

"No, Lucy; no, no!" he cried, vehemently, "not here, not here!"

"Yes, here, here, " she said, the strange passion which agitated hermaking her voice sound shrill and piercing--not loud, butpreternaturally distinct; "here and nowhere else. How good you are--hownoble and how generous! Love you! Why, there are women a hundred timesmy superiors in beauty and in goodness who might love you dearly; butyou ask too much of me! Remember what my life has been; only rememberthat! From my very babyhood I have never seen anything but poverty. Myfather was a gentleman: clever, accomplished, handsome--but poor--andwhat a pitiful wretch poverty made of him! My mother--But do not let mespeak of her. Poverty--poverty, trials, vexations, humiliations, deprivations. You cannot tell; you, who are among those for whom life isso smooth and easy, you can never guess what is endured by such as we. Do not ask too much of me, then. I cannot be disinterested; I cannot beblind to the advantages of such an alliance. I cannot, I cannot!"

Beyond her agitation and her passionate vehemence, there is an undefinedsomething in her manner which fills the baronet with a vague alarm. Sheis still on the ground at his feet, crouching rather than kneeling, herthin white dress clinging about her, her pale hair streaming over hershoulders, her great blue eyes glittering in the dusk, and her handsclutching at the black ribbon about her throat, as if it had beenstrangling her. "Don't ask too much of me, " she kept repeating; "I havebeen selfish from my babyhood. "

"Lucy--Lucy, speak plainly. Do you dislike me?"

"Dislike you? No--no!"

"But is there any one else whom you love?"

She laughed aloud at his question. "I do not love any one in the world, "she answered. 

He was glad of her reply; and yet that and the strange laugh jarred uponhis feelings. He was silent for some moments, and then said, with a kindof effort:

"Well, Lucy, I will not ask too much of you. I dare say I am a romanticold fool; but if you do not dislike me, and if you do not love any oneelse, I see no reason why we should not make a very happy couple. Is ita bargain, Lucy?"

"Yes. "

The baronet lifted her in his arms and kissed her once upon theforehead, then quietly bidding her good-night, he walked straight out ofthe house. 

He walked straight out of the house, this foolish old man, because therewas some strong emotion at work in his breast--neither joy nor triumph, but something almost akin to disappointment--some stifled andunsatisfied longing which lay heavy and dull at his heart, as if he hadcarried a corpse in his bosom. He carried the corpse of that hope whichhad died at the sound of Lucy's words. All the doubts and fears andtimid aspirations were ended now. He must be contented, like other menof his age, to be married for his fortune and his position. 

Lucy Graham went slowly up the stairs to her little room at the top ofthe house. She placed her dim candle on the chest of drawers, and seatedherself on the edge of the white bed, still and white as the draperieshanging around her. 

"No more dependence, no more drudgery, no more humiliations, " she said;"every trace of the old life melted away--every clew to identity buriedand forgotten--except these, except these. "

She had never taken her left hand from the black ribbon at her throat. She drew it from her bosom, as she spoke, and looked at the objectattached to it. 

It was neither a locket, a miniature, nor a cross; it was a ring wrappedin an oblong piece of paper--the paper partly written, partly printed, yellow with age, and crumpled with much folding. 

CHAPTER II. 

ON BOARD THE ARGUS. 

He threw the end of his cigar into the water, and leaning his elbowsupon the bulwarks, stared meditatively at the waves. 

"How wearisome they are, " he said; "blue and green, and opal; opal, andblue, and green; all very well in their way, of course, but three monthsof them are rather too much, especially--"

He did not attempt to finish his sentence; his thoughts seemed to wanderin the very midst of it, and carry him a thousand miles or so away. 

"Poor little girl, how pleased she'll be!" he muttered, opening hiscigar-case, lazily surveying its contents; "how pleased and howsurprised? Poor little girl. After three years and a half, too; she_will_ be surprised. "

He was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with dark face bronzed byexposure to the sun; he had handsome brown eyes, with a lazy smile inthem that sparkled through the black lashes, and a bushy beard andmustache that covered the whole lower part of his face. He was tall andpowerfully built; he wore a loose gray suit and a felt hat, throwncarelessly upon his black hair. His name was George Talboys, and he wasaft-cabin passenger on board the good ship _Argus_, laden withAustralian wool and sailing from Sydney to Liverpool. 

There were very few passengers in the aft-cabin of the _Argus_. Anelderly wool-stapler returning to his native country with his wife anddaughters, after having made a fortune in the colonies; a governess ofthree-and-thirty years of age, going home to marry a man to whom she hadbeen engaged fifteen years; the sentimental daughter of a wealthyAustralian wine-merchant, invoiced to England to finish her education, and George Talboys, were the only first-class passengers on board. 

This George Talboys was the life and soul of the vessel; nobody knew whoor what he was, or where he came from, but everybody liked him. He satat the bottom of the dinner-table, and assisted the captain in doing thehonors of the friendly meal. He opened the champagne bottles, and tookwine with every one present; be told funny stories, and led the lifehimself with such a joyous peal that the man must have been a churl whocould not have laughed for pure sympathy. He was a capital hand atspeculation and vingt-et-un, and all the merry games, which kept thelittle circle round the cabin-lamp so deep in innocent amusement, that ahurricane might have howled overhead without their hearing it; but hefreely owned that he had no talent for whist, and that he didn't know aknight from a castle upon the chess-board. 

Indeed, Mr. Talboys was by no means too learned a gentleman. The palegoverness had tried to talk to him about fashionable literature, butGeorge had only pulled his beard and stared very hard at her, sayingoccasionally, "Ah, yes, by Jove!" and "To be sure, ah!"

The sentimental young lady, going home to finish her education, hadtried him with Shelby and Byron, and he had fairly laughed in her face, as if poetry where a joke. The woolstapler sounded him on politics, buthe did not seem very deeply versed in them; so they let him go his ownway, smoke his cigars and talk to the sailors, lounge over the bulwarksand stare at the water, and make himself agreeable to everybody in hisown fashion. But when the _Argus_ came to be within about a fortnight'ssail of England everybody noticed a change in George Talboys. He grewrestless and fidgety; sometimes so merry that the cabin rung with hislaughter; sometimes moody and thoughtful. Favorite as he was among thesailors, they were tired at last of answering his perpetual questionsabout the probable time of touching land. Would it be in ten days, ineleven, in twelve, in thirteen? Was the wind favorable? How many knotsan hour was the vessel doing? Then a sudden passion would sieze him, andhe would stamp upon the deck, crying out that she was a rickety oldcraft, and that her owners were swindlers to advertise her as thefast-sailing _Argus_. She was not fit for passenger traffic; she was notfit to carry impatient living creatures, with hearts and souls; she wasfit for nothing but to be laden with bales of stupid wool, that mightrot on the sea and be none the worse for it. 

The sun was drooping down behind the waves as George Talboys lighted hiscigar upon this August evening. Only ten days more, the sailors had toldhim that afternoon, and they would see the English coast. "I will goashore in the first boat that hails us, " he cried; "I will go ashore ina cockle-shell. By Jove, if it comes to that, I will swim to land. "

His friends in the aft-cabin, with the exception of the pale governess, laughed at his impatience; she sighed as she watched the young man, chafing at the slow hours, pushing away his untasted wine, flinginghimself restlessly about upon the cabin sofa, rushing up and down thecompanion ladder, and staring at the waves. 

As the red rim of the sun dropped into the water, the governess ascendedthe cabin stairs for a stroll on deck, while the passengers sat overtheir wine below. She stopped when she came up to George, and, standingby his side, watched the fading crimson in the western sky. 

The lady was very quiet and reserved, seldom sharing in the after-cabinamusements, never laughing, and speaking very little; but she and GeorgeTalboys had been excellent friends throughout the passage. 

"Does my cigar annoy you, Miss Morley?" he said, taking it out of hismouth. 

"Not at all; pray do not leave off smoking. I only came up to look atthe sunset. What a lovely evening!"

"Yes, yes, I dare say, " he answered, impatiently; "yet so long, so long!Ten more interminable days and ten more weary nights before we land. "

"Yes, " said Miss Morley, sighing. "Do you wish the time shorter?"

"Do I?" cried George. "Indeed I do. Don't you?"

"Scarcely. "

"But is there no one you love in England? Is there no one you lovelooking out for your arrival?"

"I hope so, " she said gravely. They were silent for some time, hesmoking his cigar with a furious impatience, as if he could hasten thecourse of the vessel by his own restlessness; she looking out at thewaning light with melancholy blue eyes--eyes that seemed to have fadedwith poring over closely-printed books and difficult needlework; eyesthat had faded a little, perhaps, by reason of tears secretly shed inthe lonely night. 

"See!" said George, suddenly, pointing in another direction from thattoward which Miss Morley was looking, "there's the new moon!"

She looked up at the pale crescent, her own face almost as pale and wan. 

"This is the first time we have seen it. "

"We must wish!" said George. "I know what I wish. "

"What?"

"That we may get home quickly. "

"My wish is that we may find no disappointment when we get there, " saidthe governess, sadly. 

"Disappointment!"

He started as if he had been struck, and asked what she meant by talkingof disappointment. 

"I mean this, " she said, speaking rapidly, and with a restless motion ofher thin hands; "I mean that as the end of the voyage draws near, hopesinks in my heart; and a sick fear comes over me that at the last allmay not be well. The person I go to meet may be changed in his feelingstoward me; or he may retain all the old feeling until the moment ofseeing me, and then lose it in a breath at sight of my poor wan face, for I was called a pretty girl, Mr. Talboys, when I sailed for Sydney, fifteen years ago; or he may be so changed by the world as to have grownselfish and mercenary, and he may welcome me for the sake of my fifteenyears' savings. Again, he may be dead. He may have been well, perhaps, up to within a week of our landing, and in that last week may have takena fever, and died an hour before our vessel anchors in the Mersey. Ithink of all these things, Mr. Talboys, and act the scenes over in mymind, and feel the anguish of them twenty times a day. Twenty times aday, " she repeated; "why I do it a thousand times a day. "

George Talboys had stood motionless, with his cigar in his hand, listening to her so intently that, as she said the last words, his holdrelaxed, and the cigar dropped in the water. 

"I wonder, " she continued, more to herself than to him, "I wonder, looking back, to think how hopeful I was when the vessel sailed; I neverthought then of disappointment, but I pictured the joy of meeting, imagining the very words that would be said, the very tones, the verylooks; but for this last month of the voyage, day by day, and hour byhour my heart sinks and my hopeful fancies fade away, and I dread theend as much as if I knew that I was going to England to attend afuneral. "

The young man suddenly changed his attitude, and turned his face fullupon his companion, with a look of alarm. She saw in the pale light thatthe color had faded from his cheek. 

"What a fool!" he cried, striking his clinched fist upon the side of thevessel, "what a fool I am to be frightened at this? Why do you come andsay these things to me? Why do you come and terrify me out of my senses, when I am going straight home to the woman I love; to a girl whose heartis as true as the light of Heaven; and in whom I no more expect to findany change than I do to see another sun rise in to-morrow's sky? Why doyou come and try to put such fancies in my head when I am going home tomy darling wife?"

"Your wife, " she said; "that is different. There is no reason that myterrors should terrify you. I am going to England to rejoin a man towhom I was engaged to be married fifteen years ago. He was too poor tomarry then, and when I was offered a situation as governess in a richAustralian family, I persuaded him to let me accept it, so that I mightleave him free and unfettered to win his way in the world, while I saveda little money to help us when we began life together. I never meant tostay away so long, but things have gone badly with him in England. Thatis my story, and you can understand my fears. They need not influenceyou. Mine is an exceptional case. "

"So is mine, " said George, impatiently. "I tell you that mine is anexceptional case: although I swear to you that until this moment, I havenever known a fear as to the result of my voyage home. But you areright; your terrors have nothing to do with me. You have been awayfifteen years; all kinds of things may happen in fifteen years. Now itis only three years and a half this very month since I left England. What can have happened in such a short time as that?"

Miss Morley looked at him with a mournful smile, but did not speak. Hisfeverish ardor, the freshness and impatience of his nature were sostrange and new to her, that she looked at him half in admiration, halfin pity. 

"My pretty little wife! My gentle, innocent, loving little wife! Do youknow, Miss Morley, " he said, with all his old hopefulness of manner, "that I left my little girl asleep, with her baby in her arms, and withnothing but a few blotted lines to tell her why her faithful husband haddeserted her?"

"Deserted her!" exclaimed the governess. 

"Yes. I was an ensign in a cavalry regiment when I first met my littledarling. We were quartered at a stupid seaport town, where my pet livedwith her shabby old father, a half-pay naval officer; a regular oldhumbug, as poor as Job, and with an eye for nothing but the main chance. I saw through all his shallow tricks to catch one of us for his prettydaughter. I saw all the pitiable, contemptible, palpable traps he setfor us big dragoons to walk into. I saw through his shabby-genteeldinners and public-house port; his fine talk of the grandeur of hisfamily; his sham pride and independence, and the sham tears of hisbleared old eyes when he talked of his only child. He was a drunken oldhypocrite, and he was ready to sell my poor, little girl to the highestbidder. Luckily for me, I happened just then to be the highest bidder;for my father, is a rich man, Miss Morley, and as it was love at firstsight on both sides, my darling and I made a match of it. No sooner, however, did my father hear that I had married a penniless little girl, the daughter of a tipsy old half-pay lieutenant, than he wrote me afurious letter, telling me he would never again hold any communicationwith me, and that my yearly allowance would stop from my wedding-day. 

"As there was no remaining in such a regiment as mine, with nothing butmy pay to live on, and my pretty little wife to keep, I sold out, thinking that before the money was exhausted, I should be sure to dropinto something. I took my darling to Italy, and we lived there insplendid style as long as my two thousand pounds lasted; but when thatbegan to dwindle down to a couple of hundred or so, we came back toEngland, and as my darling had a fancy for being near that tiresome oldfather of hers, we settled at the watering-place where he lived. Well, as soon as the old man heard that I had a couple of hundred pounds left, he expressed a wonderful degree of affection for us, and insisted on ourboarding in his house. We consented, still to please my darling, who hadjust then a peculiar right to have every whim and fancy of her innocentheart indulged. We did board with him, and finally he fleeced us; butwhen I spoke of it to my little wife, she only shrugged her shoulders, and said she did not like to be unkind to her 'poor papa. ' So poor papamade away with our little stock of money in no time; and as I felt thatit was now becoming necessary to look about for something, I ran up toLondon, and tried to get a situation as a clerk in a merchant's office, or as accountant, or book-keeper, or something of that kind. But Isuppose there was the stamp of a heavy dragoon about me, for do what Iwould I couldn't get anybody to believe in my capacity; and tired out, and down-hearted, I returned to my darling, to find her nursing a sonand heir to his father's poverty. Poor little girl, she was verylow-spirited; and when I told her that my London expedition had failed, she fairly broke down, and burst in to a storm of sobs and lamentations, telling me that I ought not to have married her if I could give hernothing but poverty and misery; and that I had done her a cruel wrong inmaking her my wife. By heaven! Miss Morley, her tears and reproachesdrove me almost mad; and I flew into a rage with her, myself, herfather, the world, and everybody in it, and then rail out of the house. I walked about the streets all that day, half out of my mind, and with astrong inclination to throw myself into the sea, so as to leave my poorgirl free to make a better match. 'If I drown myself, her father mustsupport her, ' I thought; 'the old hypocrite could never refuse her ashelter; but while I live she has no claim on him. ' I went down to arickety old wooden pier, meaning to wait there till it was dark, andthen drop quietly over the end of it into the water; but while I satthere smoking my pipe, and staring vacantly at the sea-gulls, two mencame down, and one of them began to talk of the Australiangold-diggings, and the great things that were to be done there. Itappeared that he was going to sail in a day or two, and he was trying topersuade his companion to join him in the expedition. 

"I listened to these men for upward of an hour, following them up anddown the pier, with my pipe in my mouth, and hearing all their talk. After this I fell into conversation with them myself, and ascertainedthat there was a vessel going to leave Liverpool in three days, by whichvessel one of the men was going out. This man gave me all theinformation I required, and told me, moreover, that a stalwart youngfellow, such as I was, could hardly fail to do well in the diggings. Thethought flashed upon me so suddenly, that I grew hot and red in theface, and trembled in every limb with excitement. This was better thanthe water, at any rate. Suppose I stole away from my darling, leavingher safe under her father's roof, and went and made a fortune in the newworld, and came back in a twelvemonth to throw it into her lap; for Iwas so sanguine in those days that I counted on making my fortune in ayear or so. I thanked the man for his information, and late at nightstrolled homeward. It was bitter winter weather, but I had been too fullof passion to feel cold, and I walked through the quiet streets, withthe snow drifting in my face, and a desperate hopefulness in my heart. The old man was sitting drinking brandy-and-water in the littledining-room; and my wife was up-stairs, sleeping peacefully, with thebaby on her breast. I sat down and wrote a few brief lines, which toldher that I never had loved her better than now, when I seemed to deserther; that I was going to try my fortune in the new world, and that if Isucceeded I should come back to bring her plenty and happiness; but thatif I failed I should never look upon her face again. I divided theremainder of our money--something over forty pounds--into two equalportions, leaving one for her, and putting the other in my pocket. Iknelt down and prayed for my wife and child, with my head upon the whitecounterpane that covered them. I wasn't much of a praying man atordinary times, but God knows _that_ was a heartfelt prayer. I kissedher once, and the baby once, and then crept out of the room. Thedining-room door was open, and the old man was nodding over his paper. He looked up as he heard my step in the passage, and asked me where Iwas going. 'To have a smoke in the street, ' I answered; and as this wasa common habit of mine he believed me. Three nights after I was out atsea, bound for Melbourne--a steerage passenger, with a digger's toolsfor my baggage, and about seven shillings in my pocket. "

"And you succeeded?" asked Miss Morley. 

"Not till I had long despaired of success; not until poverty and I hadbecome such old companions and bed-fellows, that looking back at my pastlife, I wondered whether that dashing, reckless, extravagant, luxurious, champagne-drinking dragoon could have really been the same man who saton the damp ground gnawing a moldy crust in the wilds of the new world. I clung to the memory of my darling, and the trust that I had in herlove and truth was the one keystone that kept the fabric of my past lifetogether--the one star that lit the thick black darkness of the future. I was hail-fellow-well-met with bad men; I was in the center of riot, drunkenness, and debauchery; but the purifying influence of my love keptme safe from all. Thin and gaunt, the half-starved shadow of what I oncehad been, I saw myself one day in a broken bit of looking-glass, and wasfrightened by my own face. But I toiled on through all; throughdisappointment and despair, rheumatism, fever, starvation; at the verygates of death, I toiled on steadily to the end; and in the end Iconquered. "

He was so brave in his energy and determination, in his proud triumph ofsuccess, and in the knowledge of the difficulties he had vanquished, that the pale governess could only look at him in wondering admiration. 

"How brave you were!" she said. 

"Brave!" he cried, with a joyous peal of laughter; "wasn't I working formy darling? Through all the dreary time of that probation, her prettywhite hand seemed beckoning me onward to a happy future! Why, I haveseen her under my wretched canvas tent sitting by my side, with her boyin her arms, as plainly as I had ever seen her in the one happy year ofour wedded life. At last, one dreary foggy morning, just three monthsago, with a drizzling rain wetting me to the skin, up to my neck in clayand mire, half-starved, enfeebled by fever, stiff with rheumatism, amonster nugget turned up under my spade, and I was in one minute therichest man in Australia. I fell down on the wet clay, with my lump ofgold in the bosom of my shirt, and, for the first time in my life, criedlike a child. I traveled post-haste to Sydney, realized my price, whichwas worth upward of �20, 000, and a fortnight afterward took my passagefor England in this vessel; and in ten days--in ten days I shall see mydarling. "

"But in all that time did you never write to your wife?"

"Never, till the night before I left Sydney. I could not write wheneverything looked so black. I could not write and tell her that I wasfighting hard with despair and death. I waited for better fortune, andwhen that came I wrote telling her that I should be in England almost assoon as my letter, and giving her an address at a coffee-house in Londonwhere she could write to me, telling me where to find her, though she ishardly likely to have left her father's house. "

He fell into a reverie after this, and puffed meditatively at his cigar. His companion did not disturb him. The last ray of summer daylight haddied out, and the pale light of the crescent moon only remained. 

Presently George Talboys flung away his cigar, and turning to thegoverness, cried abruptly, "Miss Morley, if, when I get to England, Ihear that anything has happened to my wife, I shall fall down dead. "

"My dear Mr. Talboys, why do you think of these things? God is very goodto us; He will not afflict us beyond our power of endurance. I see allthings, perhaps, in a melancholy light; for the long monotony of my lifehas given me too much time to think over my troubles. "

"And my life has been all action, privation, toil, alternate hope anddespair; I have had no time to think upon the chances of anythinghappening to my darling. What a blind, reckless fool I have been! Threeyears and a half and not one line--one word from her, or from any mortalcreature who knows her. Heaven above! what may not have happened?"

In the agitation of his mind he began to walk rapidly up and down thelonely deck, the governess following, and trying to soothe him. 

"I swear to you, Miss Morley, " he said, "that till you spoke to meto-night, I never felt one shadow of fear, and now I have that sick, sinking dread at my heart which you talked of an hour ago. Let me alone, please, to get over it my own way. "

She drew silently away from him, and seated herself by the side of thevessel, looking over into the water. 

George Talboys walked backward and forward for some time, with his headbent upon his breast, looking neither to the right nor the left, but inabout a quarter of an hour he returned to the spot where the governesswas seated. 

"I have been praying, " he said--"praying for my darling. "

He spoke in a voice little above a whisper, and she saw his faceineffably calm in the moonlight. 

CHAPTER III

HIDDEN RELICS. 

The same August sun which had gone down behind the waste of watersglimmered redly upon the broad face of the old clock over thativy-covered archway which leads into the gardens of Audley Court. 

A fierce and crimson sunset. The mullioned windows and twinklinglattices are all ablaze with the red glory; the fading light flickersupon the leaves of the limes in the long avenue, and changes the stillfish-pond into a sheet of burnished copper; even into those dim recessesof brier and brushwood, amidst which the old well is hidden, the crimsonbrightness penetrates in fitful flashes till the dank weeds and therusty iron wheel and broken woodwork seem as if they were flecked withblood. 

The lowing of a cow in the quiet meadows, the splash of a trout in thefish-pond, the last notes of a tired bird, the creaking of wagon-wheelsupon the distant road, every now and then breaking the evening silence, only made the stillness of the place seem more intense. It was almostoppressive, this twilight stillness. The very repose of the place grewpainful from its intensity, and you felt as if a corpse must be lyingsomewhere within that gray and ivy-covered pile of building--sodeathlike was the tranquillity of all around. 

As the clock over the archway struck eight, a door at the back of thehouse was softly opened, and a girl came out into the gardens. 

But even the presence of a human being scarcely broke the silence; forthe girl crept slowly over the thick grass, and gliding into the avenueby the side of the fish-pond, disappeared in the rich shelter of thelimes. 

She was not, perhaps, positively a pretty girl; but her appearance wasof that order which is commonly called interesting. Interesting, it maybe, because in the pale face and the light gray eyes, the small featuresand compressed lips, there was something which hinted at a power ofrepression and self-control not common in a woman of nineteen or twenty. She might have been pretty, I think, but for the one fault in her smalloval face. This fault was an absence of color. Not one tinge of crimsonflushed the waxen whiteness of her cheeks; not one shadow of brownredeemed the pale insipidity of her eyebrows and eyelashes; not oneglimmer of gold or auburn relieved the dull flaxen of her hair. Even herdress was spoiled by this same deficiency. The pale lavender muslinfaded into a sickly gray, and the ribbon knotted round her throat meltedinto the same neutral hue. 

Her figure was slim and fragile, and in spite of her humble dress, shehad something of the grace and carriage of a gentlewoman, but she wasonly a simple country girl, called Phoebe Marks, who had been nursemaidin Mr. Dawson's family, and whom Lady Audley had chosen for her maidafter her marriage with Sir Michael. 

Of course, this was a wonderful piece of good fortune for Phoebe, whofound her wages trebled and her work lightened in the well-orderedhousehold at the Court; and who was therefore quite as much the objectof envy among her particular friends as my lady herself to highercircles. 

A man, who was sitting on the broken wood-work of the well, started asthe lady's-maid came out of the dim shade of the limes and stood beforehim among the weeds and brushwood. 

I have said before that this was a neglected spot; it lay in the midstof a low shrubbery, hidden away from the rest of the gardens, and onlyvisible from the garret windows at the back of the west wing. 

"Why, Phoebe, " said the man, shutting a clasp-knife with which he hadbeen stripping the bark from a blackthorn stake, "you came upon me sostill and sudden, that I thought you was an evil spirit. I've comeacross through the fields, and come in here at the gate agen the moat, and I was taking a rest before I came up to the house to ask if you wascome back. "

"I can see the well from my bedroom window, Luke, " Phoebe answered, pointing to an open lattice in one of the gables. "I saw you sittinghere, and came down to have a chat; it's better talking out here than inthe house, where there's always somebody listening. "

The man was a big, broad-shouldered, stupid-looking clod-hopper of abouttwenty-three years of age. His dark red hair grew low upon his forehead, and his bushy brows met over a pair of greenish gray eyes; his nose waslarge and well-shaped, but the mouth was coarse in form and animal inexpression. Rosy-cheeked, red-haired, and bull-necked, he was not unlikeone of the stout oxen grazing in the meadows round about the Court. 

The girl seated herself lightly upon the wood-work at his side, and putone of her hands, which had grown white in her new and easy service, about his thick neck. 

"Are you glad to see me, Luke?" she asked. 

"Of course I'm glad, lass, " he answered, boorishly, opening his knifeagain, and scraping away at the hedge-stake. 

They were first cousins, and had been play fellows in childhood, andsweethearts in early youth. 

"You don't seem much as if you were glad, " said the girl; "you mightlook at me, Luke, and tell me if you think my journey has improved me. "

"It ain't put any color into your cheeks, my girl, " he said, glancing upat her from under his lowering eyebrows; "you're every bit as white asyou was when you went away. "

"But they say traveling makes people genteel, Luke. I've been on theContinent with my lady, through all manner of curious places; and youknow, when I was a child, Squire Horton's daughters taught me to speak alittle French, and I found it so nice to be able to talk to the peopleabroad. "

"Genteel!" cried Luke Marks, with a hoarse laugh; "who wants you to begenteel, I wonder? Not me, for one; when you're my wife you won't haveovermuch time for gentility, my girl. French, too! Dang me, Phoebe, Isuppose when we've saved money enough between us to buy a bit of a farm, you'll be _parleyvooing_ to the cows?"

She bit her lip as her lover spoke, and looked away. He went on cuttingand chopping at a rude handle he was fashioning to the stake, whistlingsoftly to himself all the while, and not once looking at his cousin. 

For some time they were silent, but by-and-by she said, with her facestill turned away from her companion:

"What a fine thing it is for Miss Graham that was, to travel with hermaid and her courier, and her chariot and four, and a husband thatthinks there isn't one spot upon all the earth that's good enough forher to set her foot upon!"

"Ay, it is a fine thing, Phoebe, to have lots of money, " answered Luke, "and I hope you'll be warned by that, my lass, to save up your wagesagin we get married. "

"Why, what was she in Mr. Dawson's house only three months ago?"continued the girl, as if she had not heard her cousin's speech. "Whatwas she but a servant like me? Taking wages and working for them ushard, or harder, than I did. You should have seen her shabby clothes, Luke--worn and patched, and darned and turned and twisted, yet alwayslooking nice upon her, somehow. She gives me more as lady's-maid herethan ever she got from Mr. Dawson then. Why, I've seen her come out ofthe parlor with a few sovereigns and a little silver in her hand, thatmaster had just given her for her quarter's salary; and now look ather!"

"Never you mind her, " said Luke; "take care of yourself, Phoebe; that'sall you've got to do. What should you say to a public-house for you andme, by-and-by, my girl? There's a deal of money to be made out of apublic-house. "

The girl still sat with her face averted from her lover, her handshanging listlessly in her lap, and her pale gray eyes fixed upon thelast low streak of crimson dying out behind the trunks of the trees. 

"You should see the inside of the house, Luke, " she said; "it's atumbledown looking place enough outside; but you should see my lady'srooms--all pictures and gilding, and great looking-glasses that stretchfrom the ceiling to the floor. Painted ceilings, too, that cost hundredsof pounds, the housekeeper told her, and all done for her. "

"She's a lucky one, " muttered Luke, with lazy indifference. 

"You should have seen her while we were abroad, with a crowd ofgentlemen hanging about her; Sir Michael not jealous of them, only proudto see her so much admired. You should have heard her laugh and talkwith them; throwing all their compliments and fine speeches back atthem, as it were, as if they had been pelting her with roses. She seteverybody mad about her, wherever she went. Her singing, her playing, her painting, her dancing, her beautiful smile, and sunshiny ringlets!She was always the talk of a place, as long as we stayed in it. "

"Is she at home to-night?"

"No; she has gone out with Sir Michael to a dinner party at the Beeches. They've seven or eight miles to drive, and they won't be back till aftereleven. "

"Then I'll tell you what, Phoebe, if the inside of the house is somighty fine, I should like to have a look at it. "

"You shall, then. Mrs. Barton, the housekeeper, knows you by sight, andshe can't object to my showing you some of the best rooms. "

It was almost dark when the cousins left the shrubbery and walked slowlyto the house. The door by which they entered led into the servants'hall, on one side of which was the housekeeper's room. Phoebe Marksstopped for a moment to ask the housekeeper if she might take her cousinthrough some of the rooms, and having received permission to do so, lighted a candle at the lamp in the hall, and beckoned to Luke to followher into the other part of the house. 

The long, black oak corridors were dim in the ghostly twilight--thelight carried by Phoebe looking only a poor speck in the broad passagesthrough which the girl led her cousin. Luke looked suspiciously over hisshoulder now and then, half-frightened by the creaking of his ownhob-nailed boots. 

"It's a mortal dull place, Phoebe, " he said, as they emerged from apassage into the principal hall, which was not yet lighted; "I've heardtell of a murder that was done here in old times. "

"There are murders enough in these times, as to that, Luke, " answeredthe girl, ascending the staircase, followed by the young man. 

She led the way through a great drawing-room, rich in satin and ormolu, buhl and inlaid cabinets, bronzes, cameos, statuettes, and trinkets, that glistened in the dusky light; then through a morning room, hungwith proof engravings of valuable pictures; through this into anante-chamber, where she stopped, holding the light above her head. 

The young man stared about him, open-mouthed and open-eyed. 

"It's a rare fine place, " he said, "and must have cost a heap of money. "

"Look at the pictures on the walls, " said Phoebe, glancing at the panelsof the octagonal chamber, which were hung with Claudes and Poussins, Wouvermans and Cuyps. "I've heard that those alone are worth a fortune. This is the entrance to my lady's apartments, Miss Graham that was. " Shelifted a heavy green cloth curtain which hung across a doorway, and ledthe astonished countryman into a fairy-like boudoir, and thence to adressing-room, in which the open doors of a wardrobe and a heap ofdresses flung about a sofa showed that it still remained exactly as itsoccupants had left it. 

"I've got all these things to put away before my lady comes home, Luke;you might sit down here while I do it, I shan't be long. "

Her cousin looked around in gawky embarrassment, bewildered by thesplendor of the room; and after some deliberation selected the mostsubstantial of the chairs, on the extreme edge of which he carefullyseated himself. 

"I wish I could show you the jewels, Luke, " said the girl; "but I can't, for she always keeps the keys herself; that's the case on thedressing-table there. "

"What, _that?_" cried Luke, staring at the massive walnut-wood and brassinlaid casket. "Why, that's big enough to hold every bit of clothesI've got!"

"And it's as full as it can be of diamonds, rubies, pearls andemeralds, " answered Phoebe, busy as she spoke in folding the rustlingsilk dresses, and laying them one by one upon the shelves of thewardrobe. As she was shaking out the flounces of the last, a jinglingsound caught her ear, and she put her hand into the pocket. 

"I declare!" she exclaimed, "my lady has left her keys in her pocket foronce in a way; I can show you the jewelry, if you like, Luke. "

"Well, I may as well have a look at it, my girl, " he said, rising fromhis chair and holding the light while his cousin unlocked the casket. Heuttered a cry of wonder when he saw the ornaments glittering on whitesatin cushions. He wanted to handle the delicate jewels; to pull themabout, and find out their mercantile value. Perhaps a pang of longingand envy shot through his heart as he thought how he would have liked tohave taken one of them. 

"Why, one of those diamond things would set us up in life, Phoebe, hesaid, turning a bracelet over and over in his big red hands. 

"Put it down, Luke! Put it down directly!" cried the girl, with a lookof terror; "how can you speak about such things?"

He laid the bracelet in its place with a reluctant sigh, and thencontinued his examination of the casket. 

"What's this?" he asked presently, pointing to a brass knob in theframe-work of the box. 

He pushed it as he spoke, and a secret drawer, lined with purple velvet, flew out of the casket. 

"Look ye here!" cried Luke, pleased at his discovery. 

Phoebe Marks threw down the dress she had been folding, and went over tothe toilette table. 

"Why, I never saw this before, " she said; "I wonder what there is init?"

There was not much in it; neither gold nor gems; only a baby's littleworsted shoe rolled up in a piece of paper, and a tiny lock of pale andsilky yellow hair, evidently taken from a baby's head. Phoebe's eyesdilated as she examined the little packet. 

"So this is what my lady hides in the secret drawer, " she muttered. 

"It's queer rubbish to keep in such a place, " said Luke, carelessly. 

The girl's thin lip curved into a curious smile. 

"You will bear me witness where I found this, " she said, putting thelittle parcel into her pocket. 

"Why, Phoebe, you're not going to be such a fool as to take that, " criedthe young man. 

"I'd rather have this than the diamond bracelet you would have liked totake, " she answered; "you shall have the public house, Luke. "

CHAPTER IV. 

IN THE FIRST PAGE OF "THE TIMES. "

Robert Audley was supposed to be a barrister. As a barrister was hisname inscribed in the law-list; as a barrister he had chambers inFigtree Court, Temple; as a barrister he had eaten the allotted numberof dinners, which form the sublime ordeal through which the forensicaspirant wades on to fame and fortune. If these things can make a man abarrister, Robert Audley decidedly was one. But he had never either hada brief, or tried to get a brief, or even wished to have a brief in allthose five years, during which his name had been painted upon one of thedoors in Figtree Court. He was a handsome, lazy, care-for-nothingfellow, of about seven-and-twenty; the only son of a younger brother ofSir Michael Audley. His father had left him �400 a year, which hisfriends had advised him to increase by being called to the bar; and ashe found it, after due consideration, more trouble to oppose the wishesof these friends than to eat so many dinners, and to take a set ofchambers in the Temple, he adopted the latter course, and unblushinglycalled himself a barrister. 

Sometimes, when the weather was very hot, and he had exhausted himselfwith the exertion of smoking his German pipe, and reading French novels, he would stroll into the Temple Gardens, and lying in some shady spot, pale and cool, with his shirt collar turned down and a blue silkhandkerchief tied loosely about his neck, would tell grave benchers thathe had knocked himself up with over work. 

The sly old benchers laughed at the pleasant fiction; but they allagreed that Robert Audley was a good fellow; a generous-hearted fellow;rather a curious fellow, too, with a fund of sly wit and quiet humor, under his listless, dawdling, indifferent, irresolute manner. A man whowould never get on in the world; but who would not hurt a worm. Indeed, his chambers were converted into a perfect dog-kennel, by his habit ofbringing home stray and benighted curs, who were attracted by his looksin the street, and followed him with abject fondness. 

Robert always spent the hunting season at Audley Court; not that he wasdistinguished as a Nimrod, for he would quietly trot to covert upon amild-tempered, stout-limbed bay hack, and keep at a very respectfuldistance from the hard riders; his horse knowing quite as well as hedid, that nothing was further from his thoughts than any desire to be inat the death. 

The young man was a great favorite with his uncle, and by no meansdespised by his pretty, gipsy-faced, light-hearted, hoydenish cousin, Miss Alice Audley. It might have seemed to other men, that thepartiality of a young lady who was sole heiress to a very fine estate, was rather well worth cultivating, but it did not so occur to RobertAudley. Alicia was a very nice girl, he said, a jolly girl, with nononsense about her--a girl of a thousand; but this was the highest pointto which enthusiasm could carry him. The idea of turning his cousin'sgirlish liking for him to some good account never entered his idlebrain. I doubt if he even had any correct notion of the amount of hisuncle's fortune, and I am certain that he never for one momentcalculated upon the chances of any part of that fortune ultimatelycoming to himself. So that when, one fine spring morning, about threemonths before the time of which I am writing, the postman brought himthe wedding cards of Sir Michael and Lady Audley, together with a veryindignant letter from his cousin, setting forth how her father had justmarried a wax-dollish young person, no older than Alicia herself, withflaxen ringlets, and a perpetual giggle; for I am sorry to say that MissAudley's animus caused her thus to describe that pretty musical laughwhich had been so much admired in the late Miss Lucy Graham--when, Isay, these documents reached Robert Audley--they elicited neithervexation nor astonishment in the lymphatic nature of that gentleman. Heread Alicia's angry crossed and recrossed letter without so much asremoving the amber mouth-piece of his German pipe from his mustachedlips. When he had finished the perusal of the epistle, which he readwith his dark eyebrows elevated to the center of his forehead (his onlymanner of expressing surprise, by the way) he deliberately threw thatand the wedding cards into the waste-paper basket, and putting down hispipe, prepared himself for the exertion of thinking out the subject. 

"I always said the old buffer would marry, " he muttered, after abouthalf an hour's revery. Alicia and my lady, the stepmother, will go at ithammer and tongs. I hope they won't quarrel in the hunting season, orsay unpleasant things to each other at the dinner-table; rows alwaysupset a man's digestion. 

At about twelve o'clock on the morning following that night upon whichthe events recorded in my last chapter had taken place, the baronet'snephew strolled out of the Temple, Blackfriarsward, on his way to thecity. He had in an evil hour obliged some necessitous friend by puttingthe ancient name of Audley across a bill of accommodation, which billnot having been provided for by the drawer, Robert was called upon topay. For this purpose he sauntered up Ludgate Hill, with his bluenecktie fluttering in the hot August air, and thence to a refreshinglycool banking-house in a shady court out of St. Paul's churchyard, wherebe made arrangements for selling out a couple of hundred pounds' worthof consols. 

He had transacted this business, and was loitering at the corner of thecourt, waiting for a chance hansom to convey him back to the Temple, when he was almost knocked down by a man of about his own age, whodashed headlong into the narrow opening. 

"Be so good as to look where you're going, my friend!" Robertremonstrated, mildly, to the impetuous passenger; "you might give a manwarning before you throw him down and trample upon him. "

The stranger stopped suddenly, looked very hard at the speaker, and thengasped for breath. 

"Bob!" he cried, in a tone expressive of the most intense astonishment;"I only touched British ground after dark last night, and to think thatI should meet you this morning. "

"I've seen you somewhere before, my bearded friend, " said Mr. Audley, calmly scrutinizing the animated face of the other, "but I'll be hangedif I can remember when or where. "

"What!" exclaimed the stranger, reproachfully. "You don't mean to saythat you've forgotten George Talboys?"

"_No I have not!_" said Robert, with an emphasis by no means usual tohim; and then hooking his arm into that of his friend, he led him intothe shady court, saying, with his old indifference, "and now, Georgetell us all about it. "

George Talboys did tell him all about it. He told that very story whichhe had related ten days before to the pale governess on board the_Argus_; and then, hot and breathless, he said that he had twentythousand pounds or so in his pocket, and that he wanted to bank it atMessrs. ----, who had been his bankers many years before. 

"If you'll believe me, I've only just left their counting-house, " saidRobert. "I'll go back with you, and we'll settle that matter in fiveminutes. "

They did contrive to settle it in about a quarter of an hour; and thenRobert Audley was for starting off immediately for the Crown andScepter, at Greenwich, or the Castle, at Richmond, where they could havea bit of dinner, and talk over those good old times when they weretogether at Eton. But George told his friend that before he wentanywhere, before he shaved or broke his fast, or in any way refreshedhimself after a night journey from Liverpool by express train, he mustcall at a certain coffee-house in Bridge street, Westminster, where heexpected to find a letter from his wife. 

As they dashed through Ludgate Hill, Fleet street, and the Strand, in afast hansom, George Talboys poured into his friend's ear all those wildhopes and dreams which had usurped such a dominion over his sanguinenature. 

"I shall take a villa on the banks of the Thames, Bob, " he said, "forthe little wife and myself; and we'll have a yacht, Bob, old boy, andyou shall lie on the deck and smoke, while my pretty one plays herguitar and sings songs to us. She's for all the world like one of thosewhat's-its-names, who got poor old Ulysses into trouble, " added theyoung man, whose classic lore was not very great. 

The waiters at the Westminster coffee-house stared at the hollow-eyed, unshaven stranger, with his clothes of colonial cut, and his boisterous, excited manner; but he had been an old frequenter of the place in hismilitary days, and when they heard who he was they flew to do hisbidding. 

He did not want much--only a bottle of soda-water, and to know if therewas a letter at the bar directed to George Talboys. 

The waiter brought the soda-water before the young men had seatedthemselves in a shady box near the disused fire-place. No; there was noletter for that name. 

The waiter said it with consummate indifference, while he mechanicallydusted the little mahogany table. 

George's face blanched to a deadly whiteness. "Talboys, " he said;"perhaps you didn't hear the name distinctly--T, A, L, B, O, Y, S. Goand look again, there _must_ be a letter. "

The waiter shrugged his shoulders as he left the room, and returned inthree minutes to say that there was no name at all resembling Talboys inthe letter rack. There was Brown, and Sanderson, and Pinchbeck; onlythree letters altogether. 

The young man drank his soda-water in silence, and then, leaning hiselbows on the table, covered his face with his hands. There wassomething in his manner which told Robert Audley that hisdisappointment, trifling as it may appear, was in reality a very bitterone. He seated himself opposite to his friend, but did not attempt toaddress him. 

By-and-by George looked up, and mechanically taking a greasy _Times_newspaper of the day before from a heap of journals on the table, staredvacantly at the first page. 

I cannot tell how long he sat blankly staring at one paragraph among thelist of deaths, before his dazed brain took in its full meaning; butafter considerable pause he pushed the newspaper over to Robert Audley, and with a face that had changed from its dark bronze to a sickly, chalky grayish white, and with an awful calmness in his manner, hepointed with his finger to a line which ran thus:

"On the 24th inst. , at Ventnor, Isle of Wight, Helen Talboys, aged 22. "

CHAPTER V. 

THE HEADSTONE AT VENTNOR. 

Yes, there it was in black and white--"Helen Talboys, aged 22. "

When George told the governess on board the _Argus_ that if he heard anyevil tidings of his wife he should drop down dead, he spoke in perfectgood faith; and yet, here were the worst tidings that could come to him, and he sat rigid, white and helpless, staring stupidly at the shockedface of his friend. 

The suddenness of the blow had stunned him. In this strange andbewildered state of mind he began to wonder what had happened, and whyit was that one line in the _Times_ newspaper could have so horrible aneffect upon him. 

Then by degrees even this vague consciousness of his misfortune fadedslowly out of his mind, succeeded by a painful consciousness of externalthings. 

The hot August sunshine, the dusty window-panes and shabby-paintedblinds, a file of fly-blown play-bills fastened to the wall, the blackand empty fire-places, a bald-headed old man nodding over the _MorningAdvertizer_, the slip-shod waiter folding a tumbled table-cloth, andRobert Audley's handsome face looking at him full of compassionatealarm--he knew that all these things took gigantic proportions, andthen, one by one, melted into dark blots and swam before his eyes, Heknew that there was a great noise, as of half a dozen furioussteam-engines tearing and grinding in his ears, and he knew nothingmore--except that somebody or something fell heavily to the ground. 

He opened his eyes upon the dusky evening in a cool and shaded room, thesilence only broken by the rumbling of wheels at a distance. 

He looked about him wonderingly, but half indifferently. His old friend, Robert Audley, was seated by his side smoking. George was lying on a lowiron bedstead opposite to an open window, in which there was a stand offlowers and two or three birds in cages. 

"You don't mind the pipe, do you, George?" his friend asked, quietly. 

"No. "

He lay for some time looking at the flowers and the birds; one canarywas singing a shrill hymn to the setting sun. 

"Do the birds annoy you, George? Shall I take them out of the room?"

"No; I like to hear them sing. "

Robert Audley knocked the ashes out of his pipe, laid the preciousmeerschaum tenderly upon the mantelpiece, and going into the next room, returned presently with a cup of strong tea. 

"Take this, George, " he said, as he placed the cup on a little tableclose to George's pillow; "it will do your head good. "

The young man did not answer, but looked slowly round the room, and thenat his friend's grave face. 

"Bob, " he said, "where are we?"

"In my chambers, dear boy, in the Temple. You have no lodgings of yourown, so you may as well stay with me while you're in town. "

George passed his hand once or twice across his forehead, and then, in ahesitating manner, said, quietly:

"That newspaper this morning, Bob; what was it?"

"Never mind just now, old boy; drink some tea. "

"Yes, yes, " cried George, impatiently, raising himself upon the bed, andstaring about him with hollow eyes. "I remember all about it. Helen! myHelen! my wife, my darling, my only love! Dead, dead!"

"George, " said Robert Audley, laying his hand gently upon the youngman's arm, "you must remember that the person whose name you saw in thepaper may not be your wife. There may have been some other HelenTalboys. "

"No, no!" he cried; "the age corresponds with hers, and Talboys is suchan uncommon name. "

"It may be a misprint for Talbot. "

"No, no, no; my wife is dead!"

He shook off Robert's restraining hand, and rising from the bed, walkedstraight to the door. 

"Where are you going?" exclaimed his friend. 

"To Ventnor, to see her grave. "

"Not to-night, George, not to-night. I will go with you myself by thefirst train to-morrow. "

Robert led him back to the bed, and gently forced him to lie down again. He then gave him an opiate, which had been left for him by the medicalman whom they had called in at the coffee-house in Bridge street, whenGeorge fainted. 

So George Talboys fell into a heavy slumber, and dreamed that he went toVentnor, to find his wife alive and happy, but wrinkled, old, and gray, and to find his son grown into a young man. 

Early the next morning he was seated opposite to Robert Audley in thefirst-class carriage of an express, whirling through the pretty opencountry toward Portsmouth. 

They landed at Ventnor under the burning heat of the midday sun. As thetwo young men came from the steamer, the people on the pier stared atGeorge's white face and untrimmed beard. 

"What are we to do, George?" Robert Audley asked. "We have no clew tofinding the people you want to see. "

The young man looked at him with a pitiful, bewildered expression. Thebig dragoon was as helpless as a baby; and Robert Audley, the mostvacillating and unenergetic of men, found himself called upon to act foranother. He rose superior to himself, and equal to the occasion. 

"Had we not better ask at one of the hotels about a Mrs. Talboys, George?" he said. 

"Her father's name was Maldon, " George muttered; "he could never havesent her here to die alone. "

They said nothing more; but Robert walked straight to a hotel where heinquired for a Mr. Maldon. 

Yes, they told him, there was a gentleman of that name stopping atVentnor, a Captain Maldon; his daughter was lately dead. The waiterwould go and inquire for the address. 

The hotel was a busy place at this season; people hurrying in and out, and a great bustle of grooms and waiters about the halls. 

George Talboys leaned against the doorpost, with much the same look inhis face, as that which had frightened his friend in the Westministercoffee-house. 

The worst was confirmed now. His wife, Captain Maldon's daughter wasdead. 

The waiter returned in about five minutes to say that Captain Maldon waslodging at Lansdowne Cottage, No. 4. 

They easily found the house, a shabby, low-windowed cottage, lookingtoward the water. 

Was Captain Maldon at home? No, the landlady said; he had gone out onthe beach with his little grandson. Would the gentleman walk in and sitdown a bit?

George mechanically followed his friend into the little frontparlor--dusty, shabbily furnished, and disorderly, with a child's brokentoys scattered on the floor, and the scent of stale tobacco hangingabout the muslin window-curtains. 

"Look!" said George, pointing to a picture over the mantelpiece. 

It was his own portrait, painted in the old dragooning days. A prettygood likeness, representing him in uniform, with his charger in thebackground. 

Perhaps the most animated of men would have been scarcely so wise acomforter as Robert Audley. He did not utter a word to the strickenwidower, but quietly seated himself with his back to George, looking outof the open window. 

For some time the young man wandered restlessly about the room, lookingat and sometimes touching the nick-nacks lying here and there. 

Her workbox, with an unfinished piece of work; her album full ofextracts from Byron and Moore, written in his own scrawling hand; somebooks which he had given her, and a bunch of withered flowers in a vasethey had bought in Italy. 

"Her portrait used to hang by the side of mine, " he muttered; "I wonderwhat they have done with it. "

By-and-by he said, after about an hour's silence:

"I should like to see the woman of the house; I should like to ask herabout--"

He broke down, and buried his face in his hands. 

Robert summoned the landlady. She was a good-natured garrulous creature, accustomed to sickness and death, for many of her lodgers came to her todie. 

She told all the particulars of Mrs. Talboys' last hours; how she hadcome to Ventnor only ten days before her death, in the last stage ofdecline; and how, day by day, she had gradually, but surely, sunk underthe fatal malady. Was the gentleman any relative? she asked of RobertAudley, as George sobbed aloud. 

"Yes, he is the lady's husband. "

"What!" the woman cried; "him as deserted her so cruel, and left herwith her pretty boy upon her poor old father's hands, which CaptainMaldon has told me often, with the tears in his poor eyes?"

"I did not desert her, " George cried out; and then he told the historyof his three years' struggle. 

"Did she speak of me?" he asked; "did she speak of me--at--at the last?"

"No, she went off as quiet as a lamb. She said very little from thefirst; but the last day she knew nobody, not even her little boy, norher poor old father, who took on awful. Once she went off wild-like, talking about her mother, and about the cruel shame it was to leave herto die in a strange place, till it was quite pitiful to hear her. "

"Her mother died when she was quite a child, " said George. "To thinkthat she should remember her and speak of her, but never once of me. "

The woman took him into the little bedroom in which his wife had died. He knelt down by the bed and kissed the pillow tenderly, the landladycrying as he did so. 

While he was kneeling, praying, perhaps, with his face buried in thishumble, snow-white pillow, the woman took something from a drawer. Shegave it to him when he rose from his knees; it was a long tress of hairwrapped in silver paper. 

"I cut this off when she lay in her coffin, " she said, "poor dear?"

He pressed the soft lock to his lips. "Yes, " he murmured; "this is thedear hair that I have kissed so often when her head lay upon myshoulder. But it always had a rippling wave in it then, and now it seemssmooth and straight. "

"It changes in illness, " said the landlady. "If you'd like to see wherethey have laid her, Mr. Talboys, my little boy shall show you the way tothe churchyard. "

So George Talboys and his faithful friend walked to the quiet spot, where, beneath a mound of earth, to which the patches of fresh turfhardly adhered, lay that wife of whose welcoming smile George haddreamed so often in the far antipodes. 

Robert left the young man by the side of this newly-made grave, andreturning in about a quarter of an hour, found that he had not oncestirred. 

He looked up presently, and said that if there was a stone-mason'sanywhere near he should like to give an order. 

They very easily found the stonemason, and sitting down amidst thefragmentary litter of the man's yard, George Talboys wrote in pencilthis brief inscription for the headstone of his dead wife's grave:

 Sacred to the Memory of HELEN, THE BELOVED WIFE OF GEORGE TALBOYS, "Who departed this life August 24th, 18--, aged 22, Deeply regretted by her sorrowing Husband. 

CHAPTER VI. 

ANYWHERE, ANYWHERE OUT OF THE WORLD. 

When they returned to Lansdowne Cottage they found the old man had notyet come in, so they walked down to the beach to look for him. After abrief search they found him, sitting upon a heap of pebbles, reading anewspaper and eating filberts. The little boy was at some distance fromhis grandfather, digging in the sand with a wooden spade. The craperound the old man's shabby hat, and the child's poor little black frock, went to George's heart. Go where he would he met fresh confirmation ofthis great grief of his life. His wife was dead. 

"Mr. Maldon, " he said, as he approached his father-in-law. 

The old man looked up, and, dropping his newspaper, rose from thepebbles with a ceremonious bow. His faded light hair was tinged withgray; he had a pinched hook nose; watery blue eyes, and anirresolute-looking mouth; he wore his shabby dress with an affectationof foppish gentility; an eye-glass dangled over his closely buttoned-upwaistcoat, and he carried a cane in his ungloved hand. 

"Great Heaven!" cried George, "don't you know me?"

Mr. Maldon started and colored violently, with something of a frightenedlook, as he recognized his son-in-law. 

"My dear boy, " he said, "I did not; for the first moment I did not. Thatbeard makes such a difference. You find the beard makes a greatdifference, do you not, sir?" he said, appealing to Robert. 

"Great heavens!" exclaimed George Talboys, "is this the way you welcomeme? I come to England to find my wife dead within a week of my touchingland, and you begin to chatter to me about my beard--you, her father!"

"True! true!" muttered the old man, wiping his bloodshot eyes; "a sadshock, a sad shock, my dear George. If you'd only been here a weekearlier. "

"If I had, " cried George, in an outburst of grief and passion, "Iscarcely think that I would have let her die. I would have disputed forher with death. I would! I would! Oh God! why did not the _Argus_ godown with every soul on board her before I came to see this day?"

He began to walk up and down the beach, his father-in-law lookinghelplessly at him, rubbing his feeble eyes with a handkerchief. 

"I've a strong notion that that old man didn't treat his daughter toowell, " thought Robert, as he watched the half-pay lieutenant. "He seems, for some reason or other, to be half afraid of George. "

While the agitated young man walked up and down in a fever of regret anddespair, the child ran to his grandfather, and clung about the tails ofhis coat. 

"Come home, grandpa, come home, " he said. "I'm tired. "

George Talboys turned at the sound of the babyish voice, and looked longand earnestly at the boy. 

He had his father's brown eyes and dark hair. 

"My darling! my darling!" said George, taking the child in his arms, "Iam your father, come across the sea to find you. Will you love me?"

The little fellow pushed him away. "I don't know you, " he said. "I lovegrandpa and Mrs. Monks at Southampton. "

"Georgey has a temper of his own, sir, " said the old man. "He has beenspoiled. "

They walked slowly back to the cottage, and once more George Talboystold the history of that desertion which had seemed so cruel. He told, too, of the twenty thousand pounds banked by him the day before. He hadnot the heart to ask any questions about the past, and his father-in-lawonly told him that a few months after his departure they had gone fromthe place where George left them to live at Southampton, where Helen gota few pupils for the piano, and where they managed pretty well till herhealth failed, and she fell into the decline of which she died. Likemost sad stories it was a very brief one. 

"The boy seems fond of you, Mr. Maldon, " said George, after a pause. 

"Yes, yes, " answered the old man, smoothing the child's curling hair;"yes. Georgey is very fond of his grandfather. "

"Then he had better stop with you. The interest of my money will beabout six hundred a year. You can draw a hundred of that for Georgey'seducation, leaving the rest to accumulate till he is of age. My friendhere will be trustee, and if he will undertake the charge, I willappoint him guardian to the boy, allowing him for the present to remainunder your care. "

"But why not take care of him yourself, George?" asked Robert Audley. 

"Because I shall sail in the very next vessel that leaves Liverpool forAustralia. I shall be better in the diggings or the backwoods than everI could be here. I'm broken for a civilized life from this hour, Bob. "

The old man's weak eyes sparkled as George declared this determination. 

"My poor boy, I think you're right, " he said, "I really think you'reright. The change, the wild life, the--the--" He hesitated and brokedown as Robert looked earnestly at him. 

"You're in a great hurry to get rid of your son-in-law, I think, Mr. Maldon, " he said, gravely. 

"Get rid of him, dear boy! Oh, no, no! But for his own sake, my dearsir, for his own sake, you know. "

"I think for his own sake he'd much better stay in England and lookafter his son, " said Robert. 

"But I tell you I can't, " cried George; "every inch of this accursedground is hateful to me--I want to run out of it as I would out of agraveyard. I'll go back to town to-night, get that business about themoney settled early to-morrow morning, and start for Liverpool without amoment's delay. I shall be better when I've put half the world betweenme and her grave. "

"Before he left the house he stole out to the landlady, and asked samemore questions about his dead wife. 

"Were they poor?" he asked, "were they pinched for money while she wasill?"

"Oh, no!" the woman answered; "though the captain dresses shabby, he hasalways plenty of sovereigns in his purse. The poor lady wanted fornothing. "

George was relieved at this, though it puzzled him to know where thedrunken half-pay lieutenant could have contrived to find money for allthe expenses of his daughter's illness. 

But he was too thoroughly broken down by the calamity which had befallenhim to be able to think much of anything, so he asked no furtherquestions, but walked with his father-in-law and Robert Audley down tothe boat by which they were to cross to Portsmouth. 

The old man bade Robert a very ceremonious adieu. 

"You did not introduce me to your friend, by-the-bye, my dear boy, " hesaid. George stared at him, muttered something indistinct, and ran downthe ladder to the boat before Mr. Maldon could repeat his request. Thesteamer sped away through the sunset, and the outline of the islandmelted in the horizon as they neared the opposite shore. 

"To think, " said George, "that two nights ago, at this time, I wassteaming into Liverpool, full of the hope of clasping her to my heart, and to-night I am going away from her grave!"

The document which appointed Robert Audley as guardian to little GeorgeTalboys was drawn up in a solicitor's office the next morning. 

"It's a great responsibility, " exclaimed Robert; "I, guardian to anybodyor anything! I, who never in my life could take care of myself!"

"I trust in your noble heart, Bob, " said George. "I know you will takecare of my poor orphan boy, and see that he is well used by hisgrandfather. I shall only draw enough from Georgey's fortune to take meback to Sydney, and then begin my old work again. "

But it seemed as if George was destined to be himself the guardian ofhis son; for when he reached Liverpool, he found that a vessel had justsailed, and that there would not be another for a month; so he returnedto London, and once more threw himself upon Robert Audley's hospitality. 

The barrister received him with open arms; he gave him the room with thebirds and flowers, and had a bed put up in his dressing-room forhimself. Grief is so selfish that George did not know the sacrifices hisfriend made for his comfort. He only knew that for him the sun wasdarkened, and the business of life done. He sat all day long smokingcigars, and staring at the flowers and canaries, chafing for the time topass that he might be far out at sea. 

But just as the hour was drawing near for the sailing of the vessel, Robert Audley came in one day, full of a great scheme. 

A friend of his, another of those barristers whose last thought is of abrief, was going to St. Petersburg to spend the winter, and wantedRobert to accompany him. Robert would only go on condition that Georgewent too. 

For a long time the young man resisted; but when he found that Robertwas, in a quiet way, thoroughly determined upon not going without him, he gave in, and consented to join the party. What did it matter? hesaid. One place was the same to him as another; anywhere out of England;what did he care where?

This was not a very cheerful way of looking at things, but Robert Audleywas quite satisfied with having won his consent. 

The three young men started under very favorable circumstances, carryingletters of introduction to the most influential inhabitants of theRussian capital. 

Before leaving England, Robert wrote to his cousin Alicia, telling herof his intended departure with his old friend George Talboys, whom hehad lately met for the first time after a lapse of years, and who hadjust lost his wife. 

Alicia's reply came by return post, and ran thus:

"MY DEAR ROBERT--How cruel of you to run away to that horrid St. Petersburg before the hunting season! I have heard that people losetheir noses in that disagreeable climate, and as yours is rather a longone, I should advise you to return before the very severe weather setsin. What sort of person is this Mr. Talboys? If he is very agreeable youmay bring him to the Court as soon as you return from your travels. LadyAudley tells me to request you to secure her a set of sables. You arenot to consider the price, but to be sure that they are the handsomestthat can be obtained. Papa is perfectly absurd about his new wife, andshe and I cannot get on together at all; not that she is, disagreeableto me, for, as far as that goes, she makes herself agreeable to everyone; but she is so irretrievably childish and silly. 

"Believe me to be, my dear Robert. 

"Your affectionate cousin, "ALICIA AUDLEY. "

CHAPTER VII. 

AFTER A YEAR. 

The first year of George Talboys' widowhood passed away, the deep bandof crepe about his hat grew brown and dusty, and as the last burning dayof another August faded out, he sat smoking cigars in the quiet chambersof Figtree Court, much as he had done the year before, when the horrorof his grief was new to him, and every object in life, however triflingor however important, seemed saturated with his one great sorrow. 

But the big ex-dragoon had survived his affliction by a twelvemonth, andhard as it may be to have to tell it, he did not look much the worse forit. Heaven knows what wasted agonies of remorse and self-reproach maynot have racked George's honest heart, as he lay awake at nightsthinking of the wife he had abandoned in the pursuit of a fortune, whichshe never lived to share. 

Once, while they were abroad, Robert Audley ventured to congratulate himupon his recovered spirits. He burst into a bitter laugh. 

"Do you know, Bob, " he said, "that when some of our fellows were woundedin India, they came home, bringing bullets inside them. They did nottalk of them, and they were stout and hearty, and looked as well, perhaps, as you or I; but every change in the weather, however slight, every variation of the atmosphere, however trifling, brought back theold agony of their wounds as sharp as ever they had felt it on thebattle-field. I've had my wound, Bob; I carry the bullet still, and Ishall carry it into my coffin. "

The travelers returned from St. Petersburg in the spring, and Georgeagain took up his quarters at his old friend's chambers, only leavingthem now and then to run down to Southampton and take a look at hislittle boy. He always went loaded with toys and sweetmeats to give tothe child; but, for all this, Georgey would not become very familiarwith his papa, and the young man's heart sickened as he began to fancythat even his child was lost to him. 

"What can I do?" he thought. "If I take him away from his grandfather, Ishall break his heart; if I let him remain, he will grow up a strangerto me, and care more for that drunken old hypocrite than for his ownfather. But then, what could an ignorant, heavy dragoon like me do withsuch a child? What could I teach him, except to smoke cigars and idlearound all day with his hands in his pockets?"

So the anniversary of that 30th of August, upon which George had seenthe advertisement of his wife's death in the _Times_ newspaper, cameround for the first time, and the young man put off his black clothesand the shabby crape from his hat, and laid his mournful garments in atrunk in which he kept a packet of his wife's letters, her portrait, andthat lock of hair which had been cut from her head after death. RobertAudley had never seen either the letters, the portrait, or the longtress of silky hair; nor, indeed, had George ever mentioned the name ofhis dead wife after that one day at Ventnor, on which he learned thefull particulars of her decease. 

"I shall write to my cousin Alicia to-day, George, " the young barristersaid, upon this very 30th of August. "Do you know that the day afterto-morrow is the 1st of September? I shall write and tell her that wewill both run down to the Court for a week's shooting. "

"No, no, Bob; go by yourself; they don't want me, and I'd rather--"

"Bury yourself in Figtree Court, with no company but my dogs andcanaries! No, George, you shall do nothing of the kind. "

"But I don't care for shooting. "

"And do you suppose _I_ care for it?" cried Robert, with charming_naivete_. "Why, man, I don't know a partridge from a pigeon, and itmight be the 1st of April, instead of the 1st of September, for aught Icare. I never hurt a bird in my life, but I have hurt my own shoulderwith the weight of my gun. I only go down to Essex for the change ofair, the good dinners, and the sight of my uncle's honest, handsomeface. Besides, this time I've another inducement, as I want to see thisfair-haired paragon--my new aunt. You'll go with me, George?"

"Yes, if you really wish it. "

The quiet form his grief had taken after its first brief violence, lefthim as submissive as a child to the will of his friend; ready to goanywhere or do anything; never enjoying himself, or originating anyenjoyment, but joining in the pleasures of others with a hopeless, uncomplaining, unobtrusive resignation peculiar to his simple nature. But the return of post brought a letter from Alicia Audley, to say thatthe two young men could not be received at the Court. 

"There are seventeen spare bed-rooms, " wrote the young lady, in anindignant running hand, "but for all that, my dear Robert, you can'tcome; for my lady has taken it into her silly head that she is too illto entertain visitors (there is no more the matter with her than thereis with me), and she cannot have gentlemen (great, rough men, she says)in the house. Please apologize to your friend Mr. Talboys, and tell himthat papa expects to see you both in the hunting season. "

"My lady's airs and graces shan't keep us out of Essex for all that, "said Robert, as he twisted the letter into a pipe-light for his bigmeerschaum. "I'll tell you what we'll do, George: there's a glorious innat Audley, and plenty of fishing in the neighborhood; we'll go there andhave a week's sport. Fishing is much better than shooting; you've onlyto lie on a bank and stare at your line; I don't find that you oftencatch anything, but it's very pleasant. "

He held the twisted letter to the feeble spark of fire glimmering in thegrate, as he spoke, and then changing his mind, deliberately unfoldedit, and smoothed the crumpled paper with his hand. 

"Poor little Alicia!" he said, thoughtfully; "it's rather hard to treather letter so cavalierly--I'll keep it;" upon which Mr. Robert Audleyput the note back into its envelope, and afterward thrust it into apigeon-hole in his office desk, marked _important_. Heaven knows whatwonderful documents there were in this particular pigeon-hole, but I donot think it likely to have contained anything of great judicial value. If any one could at that moment have told the young barrister that sosimple a thing as his cousin's brief letter would one day come to be alink in that terrible chain of evidence afterward to be slowly forged inthe only criminal case in which he was ever to be concerned, perhaps Mr. Robert Audley would have lifted his eyebrows a little higher than usual. 

So the two young men left London the next day, with one portmanteau anda rod and tackle between them, and reached the straggling, old-fashioned, fast-decaying village of Audley, in time to order a gooddinner at the Sun Inn. 

Audley Court was about three-quarters of a mile from the village, lying, as I have said, deep down in the hollow, shut in by luxuriant timber. You could only reach it by a cross-road bordered by trees, and as trimlykept as the avenues in a gentleman's park. It was a lonely place enough, even in all its rustic beauty, for so bright a creature as the late MissLucy Graham, but the generous baronet had transformed the interior ofthe gray old mansion into a little palace for his young wife, and LadyAudley seemed as happy as a child surrounded by new and costly toys. 

In her better fortunes, as in her old days of dependence, wherever shewent she seemed to take sunshine and gladness with her. In spite of MissAlicia's undisguised contempt for her step-mother's childishness andfrivolity, Lucy was better loved and more admired than the baronet'sdaughter. That very childishness had a charm which few could resist. Theinnocence and candor of an infant beamed in Lady Audley's fair face, andshone out of her large and liquid blue eyes. The rosy lips, the delicatenose, the profusion of fair ringlets, all contributed to preserve to herbeauty the character of extreme youth and freshness. She owned to twentyyears of age, but it was hard to believe her more than seventeen. Herfragile figure, which she loved to dress in heavy velvets, and stiff, rustling silks, till she looked like a child tricked out for amasquerade, was as girlish as if she had just left the nursery. All heramusements were childish. She hated reading, or study of any kind, andloved society. Rather than be alone, she would admit Phoebe Marks intoher confidence, and loll on one of the sofas in her luxuriousdressing-room, discussing a new costume for some coming dinner-party; orsit chattering to the girl with her jewel-box beside her, upon the satincushions, and Sir Michael's presents spread out in her lap, while shecounted and admired her treasures. 

She had appeared at several public balls at Chelmsford and Colchester, and was immediately established as the belle of the county. Pleased withher high position and her handsome house; with every caprice gratified, every whim indulged; admired and caressed wherever she went; fond of hergenerous husband; rich in a noble allowance of pin-money; with no poorrelations to worry her with claims upon her purse or patronage; it wouldhave been hard to find in the County of Essex a more fortunate creaturethan Lucy, Lady Audley. 

The two young men loitered over the dinner-table in the privatesitting-room at the Sun Inn. The windows were thrown wide open, and thefresh country air blew in upon them as they dined. The weather waslovely; the foliage of the woods touched here and there with faintgleams of the earliest tints of autumn; the yellow corn still standingin some of the fields, in others just falling under the shining sickle;while in the narrow lanes you met great wagons drawn by broad-chestedcart-horses, carrying home the rich golden store. To any one who hasbeen, during the hot summer months, pent up in London, there is in thefirst taste of rustic life a kind of sensuous rapture scarcely to bedescribed. George Talboys felt this, and in this he experienced thenearest approach to enjoyment that he had ever known since his wife'sdeath. 

The clock struck five as they finished dinner. 

"Put on your hat, George, " said Robert Audley; "they don't dine at theCourt till seven; we shall have time to stroll down and see the oldplace and its inhabitants. "

The landlord, who had come into the room with a bottle of wine, lookedup as the young man spoke. 

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Audley, " he said, "but if you want to see youruncle, you'll lose your time by going to the Court just now. Sir Michaeland my lady and Miss Alicia have all gone to the races up at Chorley, and they won't be back till nigh upon eight o'clock, most likely. Theymust pass by here to go home. "

Under these circumstances of course it was no use going to the Court, sothe two young men strolled through the village and looked at the oldchurch, and then went and reconnoitered the streams in which they wereto fish the next day, and by such means beguiled the time until afterseven o'clock. At about a quarter past that hour they returned to theinn, and seating themselves in the open window, lit their cigars andlooked out at the peaceful prospect. 

We hear every day of murders committed in the country. Brutal andtreacherous murders; slow, protracted agonies from poisons administeredby some kindred hand; sudden and violent deaths by cruel blows, inflicted with a stake cut from some spreading oak, whose every shadowpromised--peace. In the county of which I write, I have been shown ameadow in which, on a quiet summer Sunday evening, a young farmermurdered the girl who had loved and trusted him; and yet, even now, withthe stain of that foul deed upon it, the aspect of the spot is--peace. No species of crime has ever been committed in the worst rookeries aboutSeven Dials that has not been also done in the face of that rustic calmwhich still, in spite of all, we look on with a tender, half-mournfulyearning, and associate with--peace. 

It was dusk when gigs and chaises, dog-carts and clumsy farmers'phaetons, began to rattle through the village street, and under thewindows of the Sun Inn; deeper dusk still when an open carriage and fourdrew suddenly up beneath the rocking sign-post. 

It was Sir Michael Audley's barouche which came to so sudden a stopbefore the little inn. The harness of one of the leaders had become outof order, and the foremost postillion dismounted to set it right. 

"Why, it's my uncle, " cried Robert Audley, as the carriage stopped. "I'll run down and speak to him. "

George lit another cigar, and, sheltered by the window-curtains, lookedout at the little party. Alicia sat with her back to the horses, and hecould perceive, even in the dusk, that she was a handsome brunette; butLady Audley was seated on the side of the carriage furthest from theinn, and he could see nothing of the fair-haired paragon of whom he hadheard so much. 

"Why, Robert, " exclaimed Sir Michael, as his nephew emerged from theinn, "this is a surprise!"

"I have not come to intrude upon you at the Court, my dear uncle, " saidthe young man, as the baronet shook him by the hand in his own heartyfashion. "Essex is my native county, you know, and about this time ofyear I generally have a touch of homesickness; so George and I have comedown to the inn for two or three day's fishing. "

"George--George who?"

"George Talboys. "

"What, has he come?" cried Alicia. "I'm so glad; for I'm dying to seethis handsome young widower. "

"Are you, Alicia?" said her cousin, "Then egad, I'll run and fetch him, and introduce you to him at once. "

Now, so complete was the dominion which Lady Audley had, in her ownchildish, unthinking way, obtained over her devoted husband, that it wasvery rarely that the baronet's eyes were long removed from his wife'spretty face. When Robert, therefore, was about to re-enter the inn, itneeded but the faintest elevation of Lucy's eyebrows, with a charmingexpression of weariness and terror, to make her husband aware that shedid not want to be bored by an introduction to Mr. George Talboys. 

"Never mind to-night, Bob, " he said. "My wife is a little tired afterour long day's pleasure. Bring your friend to dinner to-morrow, and thenhe and Alicia can make each other's acquaintance. Come round and speakto Lady Audley, and then we'll drive home. "

My lady was so terribly fatigued that she could only smile sweetly, andhold out a tiny gloved hand to her nephew by marriage. 

"You will come and dine with us to-morrow, and bring your interestingfriend?" she said, in a low and tired voice. She had been the chiefattraction of the race-course, and was wearied out by the exertion offascinating half the county. 

"It's a wonder she didn't treat you to her never-ending laugh, "whispered Alicia, as she leaned over the carriage-door to bid Robertgood-night; "but I dare say she reserves that for your delectationto-morrow. I suppose _you_ are fascinated as well as everybody else?"added the young lady, rather snappishly. 

"She is a lovely creature, certainly, " murmured Robert, with placidadmiration. 

"Oh, of course! Now, she is the first woman of whom I ever heard you saya civil word, Robert Audley. I'm sorry to find you can only admire waxdolls. "

Poor Alicia had had many skirmishes with her cousin upon that particulartemperament of his, which, while it enabled him to go through life withperfect content and tacit enjoyment, entirely precluded his feeling onespark of enthusiasm upon any subject whatever. 

"As to his ever falling in love, " thought the young lady sometimes, "theidea is preposterous. If all the divinities on earth were ranged beforehim, waiting for his sultanship to throw the handkerchief, he would onlylift his eyebrows to the middle of his forehead, and tell them toscramble for it. "

But, for once in his life, Robert was almost enthusiastic. 

"She's the prettiest little creature you ever saw in your life, George, "he cried, when the carriage had driven off and he returned to hisfriend. "Such blue eyes, such ringlets, such a ravishing smile, such afairy-like bonnet--all of a-tremble with heart's-ease and dewy spangles, shining out of a cloud of gauze. George Talboys, I feel like the hero ofa French novel: I am falling in love with my aunt. "

The widower only sighed and puffed his cigar fiercely out of the openwindow. Perhaps he was thinking of that far-away time--little betterthan five years ago, in fact; but such an age gone by to him--when hefirst met the woman for whom he had worn crape round his hat three daysbefore. They returned, all those old unforgotten feelings; they cameback, with the scene of their birth-place. Again he lounged with hisbrother officers upon the shabby pier at the shabby watering-place, listening to a dreary band with a cornet that was a note and a halfflat. Again he heard the old operatic airs, and again _she_ cametripping toward him, leaning on her old father's arm, and pretending(with such a charming, delicious, serio-comic pretense) to be listeningto the music, and quite unaware of the admiration of half a dozenopen-mouthed cavalry officers. Again the old fancy came back that shewas something too beautiful for earth, or earthly uses, and that toapproach her was to walk in a higher atmosphere and to breathe a purerair. And since this she had been his wife, and the mother of his child. She lay in the little churchyard at Ventnor, and only a year ago he hadgiven the order for her tombstone. A few slow, silent tears dropped uponhis waistcoat as he thought of these things in the quiet and darkeningroom. 

Lady Audley was so exhausted when she reached home, that she excusedherself from the dinner-table, and retired at once to her dressing-room, attended by her maid, Phoebe Marks. 

She was a little capricious in her conduct to this maid--sometimes veryconfidential, sometimes rather reserved; but she was a liberal mistress, and the girl had every reason to be satisfied with her situation. 

This evening, in spite of her fatigue, she was in extremely highspirits, and gave an animated account of the races, and the companypresent at them. 

"I am tired to death, though, Phoebe, " she said, by-and-by. "I am afraidI must look a perfect fright, after a day in the hot sun. "

There were lighted candles on each side of the glass before which LadyAudley was standing unfastening her dress. She looked full at her maidas she spoke, her blue eyes clear and bright, and the rosy childish lipspuckered into an arch smile. 

"You are a little pale, my lady, " answered the girl, "but you look aspretty as ever. "

"That's right, Phoebe, " she said, flinging herself into a chair, andthrowing back her curls at the maid, who stood, brush in hand, ready toarrange the luxuriant hair for the night. "Do you know, Phoebe, I haveheard some people say that you and I are alike?"

"I have heard them say so, too, my lady, " said the girl, quietly "butthey must be very stupid to say it, for your ladyship is a beauty, and Iam a poor, plain creature. "

"Not at all, Phoebe, " said the little lady, superbly; "you _are_ likeme, and your features are very nice; it is only color that you want. Myhair is pale yellow shot with gold, and yours is drab; my eyebrows andeyelashes are dark brown, and yours are almost--I scarcely like to sayit, but they're almost white, my dear Phoebe. Your complexion is sallow, and mine is pink and rosy. Why, with a bottle of hair-dye, such as wesee advertised in the papers, and a pot of rouge, you'd be asgood-looking as I, any day, Phoebe. "

She prattled on in this way for a long time, talking of a hundreddifferent subjects, and ridiculing the people she had met at the races, for her maid's amusement. Her step-daughter came into the dressing-roomto bid her good-night, and found the maid and mistress laughing aloudover one of the day's adventures. Alicia, who was never familiar withher servants, withdrew in disgust at my lady's frivolity. 

"Go on brushing my hair, Phoebe, " Lady Audley said, every time the girlwas about to complete her task, "I quite enjoy a chat with you. "

At last, just as she had dismissed her maid, she suddenly called herback. "Phoebe Marks, " she said, "I want you to do me a favor. "

"Yes, my lady. "

"I want you to go to London by the first train to-morrow morning toexecute a little commission for me. You may take a day's holidayafterward, as I know you have friends in town; and I shall give you afive-pound note if you do what I want, and keep your own counsel aboutit. "

"Yes, my lady. "

"See that that door is securely shut, and come and sit on this stool atmy feet. "

The girl obeyed. Lady Audley smoothed her maid's neutral-tinted hairwith her plump, white, and bejeweled hand as she reflected for a fewmoments. 

"And now listen, Phoebe. What I want you to do is very simple. "

It was so simple that it was told in five minutes, and then Lady Audleyretired into her bed-room, and curled herself up cozily under theeider-down quilt. She was a chilly creature, and loved to bury herselfin soft wrappings of satin and fur. 

"Kiss me, Phoebe, " she said, as the girl arranged the curtains. "I hearSir Michael's step in the anteroom; you will meet him as you go out, andyou may as well tell him that you are going up by the first trainto-morrow morning to get my dress from Madam Frederick for the dinner atMorton Abbey. "

It was late the next morning when Lady Audley went down tobreakfast--past ten o'clock. While she was sipping her coffee a servantbrought her a sealed packet, and a book for her to sign. 

"A telegraphic message!" she cried; for the convenient word telegram hadnot yet been invented. "What can be the matter?"

She looked up at her husband with wide-open, terrified eyes, and seemedhalf afraid to break the seal. The envelope was addressed to Miss LucyGraham, at Mr. Dawson's, and had been sent on from the village. 

"Read it, my darling, " he said, "and do not be alarmed; it may benothing of any importance. "

It came from a Mrs. Vincent, the schoolmistress with whom she had livedbefore entering Mr. Dawson's family. The lady was dangerously ill, andimplored her old pupil to go and see her. 

"Poor soul! she always meant to leave me her money, " said Lucy, with amournful smile. "She has never heard of the change in my fortunes. DearSir Michael, I must go to her. "

"To be sure you must, dearest. If she was kind to my poor girl in heradversity, she has a claim upon her prosperity that shall never beforgotten. Put on your bonnet, Lucy; we shall be in time to catch theexpress. "

"You will go with me?"

"Of course, my darling. Do you suppose I would let you go alone?"

"I was sure you would go with me, " she said, thoughtfully. 

"Does your friend send any address?"

"No; but she always lived at Crescent Villa, West Brompton; and no doubtshe lives there still. "

There was only time for Lady Audley to hurry on her bonnet and shawlbefore she heard the carriage drive round to the door, and Sir Michaelcalling to her at the foot of the staircase. 

Her suite of rooms, as I have said, opened one out of another, andterminated in an octagon antechamber hung with oil-paintings. Even inher haste she paused deliberately at the door of this room, double-locked it, and dropped the key into her pocket. This door oncelocked cut off all access to my lady's apartments. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

BEFORE THE STORM. 

So the dinner at Audley Court was postponed, and Miss Alicia had to waitstill longer for an introduction to the handsome young widower, Mr. George Talboys. 

I am afraid, if the real truth is to be told, there was, perhaps, something of affectation in the anxiety this young lady expressed tomake George's acquaintance; but if poor Alicia for a moment calculatedupon arousing any latent spark of jealousy lurking in her cousin'sbreast by this exhibition of interest, she was not so well acquaintedwith Robert Audley's disposition as she might have been. Indolent, handsome, and indifferent, the young barrister took life as altogethertoo absurd a mistake for any one event in its foolish course to be for amoment considered seriously by a sensible man. 

His pretty, gipsy-faced cousin might have been over head and ears inlove with him; and she might have told him so, in some charming, roundabout, womanly fashion, a hundred times a day for all the threehundred and sixty-five days in the year; but unless she had waited forsome privileged 29th of February, and walked straight up to him, saying, "Robert, please will you marry me?" I very much doubt if he would everhave discovered the state of her feelings. 

Again, had he been in love with her himself, I fancy that the tenderpassion would, with him, have been so vague and feeble a sentiment thathe might have gone down to his grave with a dim sense of some uneasysensation which might be love or indigestion, and with, beyond this, noknowledge whatever of his state. 

So it was not the least use, my poor Alicia, to ride about the lanesaround Audley during those three days which the two young men spent inEssex; it was wasted trouble to wear that pretty cavalier hat and plume, and to be always, by the most singular of chances, meeting Robert andhis friend. The black curls (nothing like Lady Audley's featheryringlets, but heavy clustering locks, that clung about your slenderbrown throat), the red and pouting lips, the nose inclined to be_retrousse_, the dark complexion, with its bright crimson flush, alwaysready to glance up like a signal light in a dusky sky, when you camesuddenly upon your apathetic cousin--all this coquettish _espiegle_, brunette beauty was thrown away upon the dull eyes of Robert Audley, andyou might as well have taken your rest in the cool drawing-room at theCourt, instead of working your pretty mare to death under the hotSeptember sun. 

Now fishing, except to the devoted disciple of Izaak Walton, is not themost lively of occupations; therefore, it is scarcely, perhaps, to bewondered that on the day after Lady Audley's departure, the two youngmen (one of whom was disabled by that heart wound which he bore soquietly, from really taking pleasure in anything, and the other of whomlooked upon almost all pleasure as a negative kind of trouble) began togrow weary of the shade of the willows overhanging the winding streamsabout Audley. 

"Figtree Court is not gay in the long vacation, " said Robert, reflectively: "but I think, upon the whole, it's better than this; atany rate, it's near a tobacconist's, " he added, puffing resignedly at anexecrable cigar procured from the landlord of the Sun Inn. 

George Talboys, who had only consented to the Essex expedition inpassive submission to his friend, was by no means inclined to object totheir immediate return to London. "I shall be glad to get back, Bob, " hesaid, "for I want to take a run down to Southampton; I haven't seen thelittle one for upward of a month. "

He always spoke of his son as "the little one;" always spoke of himmournfully rather than hopefully. He accounted for this by saying thathe had a fancy that the child would never learn to love him; and worseeven than this fancy, a dim presentiment that he would not live to seehis little Georgey reach manhood. 

"I'm not a romantic man, Bob, " he would say sometimes, "and I never reada line of poetry in my life that was any more to me than so many wordsand so much jingle; but a feeling has come over me, since my wife'sdeath, that I am like a man standing upon a long, low shore, withhideous cliffs frowning down upon him from behind, and the rising tidecrawling slowly but surely about his feet. It seems to grow nearer andnearer every day, that black, pitiless tide; not rushing upon me with agreat noise and a mighty impetus, but crawling, creeping, stealing, gliding toward me, ready to close in above my head when I am leastprepared for the end. "

Robert Audley stared at his friend in silent amazement; and, after apause of profound deliberation, said solemnly, "George Talboys, I couldunderstand this if you had been eating heavy suppers. Cold pork, now, especially if underdone, might produce this sort of thing. You wantchange of air, my dear boy; you want the refreshing breezes of FigtreeCourt, and the soothing air of Fleet street. Or, stay, " he added, suddenly, "I have it! You've been smoking our friend the landlord'scigars; that accounts for everything. "

They met Alicia Audley on her mare about half an hour after they hadcome to the determination of leaving Essex early the next morning. Theyoung lady was very much surprised and disappointed at hearing hercousin's determination, and for that very reason pretended to take thematter with supreme indifference. 

"You are very soon tired of Audley, Robert, " she said, carelessly; "butof course you have no friends here, except your relations at the Court;while in London, no doubt, you have the most delightful society and--"

"I get good tobacco, " murmured Robert, interrupting his cousin. "Audleyis the dearest old place, but when a man has to smoke dried cabbageleaves, you know, Alicia--"

"Then you are really going to-morrow morning?"

"Positively--by the express train that leaves at 10. 50. "

"Then Lady Audley will lose an introduction to Mr. Talboys, and Mr. Talboys will lose the chance of seeing the prettiest woman in Essex. "

"Really--" stammered George. 

"The prettiest woman in Essex would have a poor chance of getting muchadmiration out of my friend, George Talboys, " said Robert. "His heart isat Southampton, where he has a curly-headed little urchin, about as highas his knee, who calls him 'the big gentleman, ' and asks him forsugar-plums. "

"I am going to write to my step-mother by to-night's post, " said Alicia. "She asked me particularly in her letter how long you were going tostop, and whether there was any chance of her being back in time toreceive you. "

Miss Audley took a letter from the pocket of her riding-jacket as shespoke--a pretty, fairy-like note, written on shining paper of a peculiarcreamy hue. 

"She says in her postcript, 'Be sure you answer my question about Mr. Audley and his friend, you volatile, forgetful Alicia!'"

"What a pretty hand she writes!" said Robert, as his cousin folded thenote. 

"Yes, it is pretty, is it not? Look at it, Robert. "

She put the letter into his hand, and he contemplated it lazily for afew minutes, while Alicia patted the graceful neck of her chestnut mare, which was anxious to be off once more. 

"Presently, Atalanta, presently. Give me back my note, Bob. "

"It is the prettiest, most coquettish little hand I ever saw. Do youknow, Alicia, I have no great belief in those fellows who ask you forthirteen postage stamps, and offer to tell you what you have never beenable to find out yourself; but upon my word I think that if I had neverseen your aunt, I should know what she was like by this slip of paper. Yes, here it all is--the feathery, gold-shot, flaxen curls, the penciledeyebrows, the tiny, straight nose, the winning, childish smile; all tobe guessed in these few graceful up-strokes and down-strokes. George, look here!"

But absent-minded and gloomy George Talboys had strolled away along themargin of the ditch, and stood striking the bulrushes with his cane, half a dozen paces away from Robert and Alicia. 

"Nevermind, " said the young lady, impatiently; for she by no meansrelished this long disquisition upon my lady's note. "Give me theletter, and let me go; it's past eight, and I must answer it byto-night's post. Come, Atalanta! Good-by, Robert--good-by, Mr. Talboys. A pleasant journey to town. "

The chestnut mare cantered briskly through the lane, and Miss Audley wasout of sight before those two big, bright tears that stood in her eyesfor one moment, before her pride sent them, back again, rose from herangry heart. 

"To have only one cousin in the world, " she cried, passionately, "mynearest relation after papa, and for him to care about as much for me ashe would for a dog!"

By the merest of accidents, however, Robert and his friend did not go bythe 10. 50 express on the following morning, for the young barristerawoke with such a splitting headache, that he asked George to send him acup of the strongest green tea that had ever been made at the Sun, andto be furthermore so good as to defer their journey until the next day. Of course George assented, and Robert Audley spent the forenoon in adarkened room with a five-days'-old Chelmsford paper to entertainhimself withal. 

"It's nothing but the cigars, George, " he said, repeatedly. "Get me outof the place without my seeing the landlord; for if that man and I meetthere will be bloodshed. "

Fortunately for the peace of Audley, it happened to be market-day atChelmsford; and the worthy landlord had ridden off in his chaise-cart topurchase supplies for his house--among other things, perhaps, a freshstock of those very cigars which had been so fatal in their effect uponRobert. 

The young men spent a dull, dawdling, stupid, unprofitable day; andtoward dusk Mr. Audley proposed that they should stroll down to theCourt, and ask Alicia to take them over the house. 

"It will kill a couple of hours, you know, George: and it seems a greatpity to drag you away from Audley without having shown you the oldplace, which, I give you my honor, is very well worth seeing. "

The sun was low in the skies as they took a short cut through themeadows, and crossed a stile into the avenue leading to the archway--alurid, heavy-looking, ominous sunset, and a deathly stillness in theair, which frightened the birds that had a mind to sing, and left thefield open to a few captious frogs croaking in the ditches. Still as theatmosphere was, the leaves rustled with that sinister, shivering motionwhich proceeds from no outer cause, but is rather an instinctive shudderof the frail branches, prescient of a coming storm. That stupid clock, which knew no middle course, and always skipped from one hour to theother, pointed to seven as the young men passed under the archway; but, for all that, it was nearer eight. 

They found Alicia in the lime-walk, wandering listlessly up and downunder the black shadow of the trees, from which every now and then awithered leaf flapped slowly to the ground. 

Strange to say, George Talboys, who very seldom observed anything, tookparticular notice of this place. 

"It ought to be an avenue in a churchyard, " he said. "How peacefully thedead might sleep under this somber shade! I wish the churchyard atVentnor was like this. "

They walked on to the ruined well; and Alicia told them some old legendconnected with the spot--some gloomy story, such as those alwaysattached to an old house, as if the past were one dark page of sorrowand crime. 

"We want to see the house before it is dark, Alicia, " said Robert. 

"Then we must be quick. " she answered. "Come. "

She led the way through an open French window, modernized a few yearsbefore, into the library, and thence to the hall. 

In the hall they passed my lady's pale-faced maid, who looked furtivelyunder her white eyelashes at the two young men. 

They were going up-stairs, when Alicia turned and spoke to the girl. 

"After we have been in the drawing-room, I should like to show thesegentlemen Lady Audley's rooms. Are they in good order, Phoebe?"

"Yes, miss; but the door of the anteroom is locked, and I fancy that mylady has taken the key to London. "

"Taken the key! Impossible!" cried Alicia. 

"Indeed, miss, I think she has. I cannot find it, and it always used tobe in the door. "

"I declare, " said Alicia, impatiently, "that is not at all unlike mylady to have taken this silly freak into her head. I dare say she wasafraid we should go into her rooms, and pry about among her prettydresses, and meddle with her jewelry. It is very provoking, for the bestpictures in the house are in that antechamber. There is her ownportrait, too, unfinished but wonderfully like. "

"Her portrait!" exclaimed Robert Audley. "I would give anything to seeit, for I have only an imperfect notion of her face. Is there no otherway of getting into the room, Alicia?"

"Another way?"

"Yes; is there any door, leading through some of the other rooms, bywhich we can contrive to get into hers?"

His cousin shook her head, and conducted them into a corridor wherethere were some family portraits. She showed them a tapestried chamber, the large figures upon the faded canvas looking threatening in the duskylight. 

"That fellow with the battle-ax looks as if he wanted to split George'shead open, " said Mr. Audley, pointing to a fierce warrior, whoseuplifted arm appeared above George Talboys' dark hair. 

"Come out of this room, Alicia, " added the young man, nervously; "Ibelieve it's damp, or else haunted. Indeed, I believe all ghosts to bethe result of damp or dyspepsia. You sleep in a damp bed--you awakesuddenly in the dead of the night with a cold shiver, and see an oldlady in the court costume of George the First's time, sitting at thefoot of the bed. The old lady's indigestion, and the cold shiver is adamp sheet. "

There were lighted candles in the drawing-room. No new-fangled lamps hadever made their appearance at Audley Court. Sir Michael's rooms werelighted by honest, thick, yellow-looking wax candles, in massive silvercandlesticks, and in sconces against the walls. 

There was very little to see in the drawing-room; and George Talboyssoon grew tired of staring at the handsome modern furniture, and at afew pictures of some of the Academicians. 

"Isn't there a secret passage, or an old oak chest, or something of thatkind, somewhere about the place, Alicia?" asked Robert. 

"To be sure!" cried Miss Audley, with a vehemence that startled hercousin; "of course. Why didn't I think of it before? How stupid of me, to be sure!"

"Why stupid?"

"Because, if you don't mind crawling upon your hands and knees, you cansee my lady's apartments, for that passage communicates with herdressing-room. She doesn't know of it herself, I believe. How astonishedshe'd be if some black-visored burglar, with a dark-lantern, were torise through the floor some night as she sat before her looking-glass, having her hair dressed for a party!"

"Shall we try the secret passage, George?" asked Mr. Audley. 

"Yes, if you wish it. "

Alicia led them into the room which had once been her nursery. It wasnow disused, except on very rare occasions when the house was full ofcompany. 

Robert Audley lifted a corner of the carpet, according to his cousin'sdirections, and disclosed a rudely-cut trap-door in the oak flooring. 

"Now listen to me, " said Alicia. "You must let yourself down by thehands into the passage, which is about four feet high; stoop your head, walk straight along it till you come to a sharp turn which will take youto the left, and at the extreme end of it you will find a short ladderbelow a trap-door like this, which you will have to unbolt; that dooropens into the flooring of my lady's dressing-room, which is onlycovered with a square Persian carpet that you can easily manage toraise. You understand me?"

"Perfectly. "

"Then take the light; Mr. Talboys will follow you. I give you twentyminutes for your inspection of the paintings--that is, about a minuteapiece--and at the end of that time I shall expect to see you return. "

Robert obeyed her implicitly, and George submissively following hisfriend, found himself, in five minutes, standing amidst the elegantdisorder of Lady Audley's dressing-room. 

She had left the house in a hurry on her unlooked-for journey to London, and the whole of her glittering toilette apparatus lay about on themarble dressing-table. The atmosphere of the room was almost oppressivefor the rich odors of perfumes in bottles whose gold stoppers had notbeen replaced. A bunch of hot-house flowers was withering upon a tinywriting-table. Two or three handsome dresses lay in a heap upon theground, and the open doors of a wardrobe revealed the treasures within. Jewelry, ivory-backed hair-brushes, and exquisite china were scatteredhere and there about the apartment. George Talboys saw his bearded faceand tall, gaunt figure reflected in the glass, and wondered to see howout of place he seemed among all these womanly luxuries. 

They went from the dressing-room to the boudoir, and through the boudoirinto the ante-chamber, in which there were, as Alicia had said, abouttwenty valuable paintings, besides my lady's portrait. 

My lady's portrait stood on an easel, covered with a green baize in thecenter of the octagonal chamber. It had been a fancy of the artist topaint her standing in this very room, and to make his background afaithful reproduction of the pictured walls. I am afraid the young manbelonged to the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, for he had spent a mostunconscionable time upon the accessories of this picture--upon my lady'scrispy ringlets and the heavy folds of her crimson velvet dress. 

The two young men looked at the paintings on the walls first, leavingthis unfinished portrait for a _bonne bouche_. 

By this time it was dark, the candle carried by Robert only making onenucleus of light as he moved about holding it before the pictures one byone. The broad, bare window looked out upon the pale sky, tinged withthe last cold flicker of the twilight. The ivy rustled against the glasswith the same ominous shiver as that which agitated every leaf in thegarden, prophetic of the storm that was to come. 

"There are our friend's eternal white horses, " said Robert, standingbeside a Wouvermans. "Nicholas Poussin--Salvator--ha--hum! Now for theportrait. "

He paused with his hand on the baize, and solemnly addressed his friend. 

"George Talboys, " he said, "we have between us only one wax candle, avery inadequate light with which to look at a painting. Let me, therefore, request that you will suffer us to look at it one at a time;if there is one thing more disagreeable than another, it is to have aperson dodging behind your back and peering over your shoulder, whenyou're trying to see what a picture's made of. "

George fell back immediately. He took no more interest in any lady'spicture than in all the other wearinesses of this troublesome world. Hefell back, and leaning his forehead against the window-panes, looked outat the night. 

When he turned round he saw that Robert had arranged the easel veryconveniently, and that he had seated himself on a chair before it forthe purpose of contemplating the painting at his leisure. 

He rose as George turned round. 

"Now, then, for your turn, Talboys, " he said. "It's an extraordinarypicture. "

He took George's place at the window, and George seated himself in thechair before the easel. 

Yes, the painter must have been a pre-Raphaelite. No one but apre-Raphaelite would have painted, hair by hair, those feathery massesof ringlets, with every glimmer of gold, and every shadow of pale brown. No one but a pre-Raphaelite would have so exaggerated every attribute ofthat delicate face as to give a lurid brightness to the blondecomplexion, and a strange, sinister light to the deep blue eyes. No onebut a pre-Raphaelite could have given to that pretty pouting mouth thehard and almost wicked look it had in the portrait. 

It was so like, and yet so unlike. It was as if you had burnedstrange-colored fires before my lady's face, and by their influencebrought out new lines and new expressions never seen in it before. Theperfection of feature, the brilliancy of coloring, were there; but Isuppose the painter had copied quaint mediaeval monstrosities until hisbrain had grown bewildered, for my lady, in his portrait of her, hadsomething of the aspect of a beautiful fiend. 

Her crimson dress, exaggerated like all the rest in this strangepicture, hung about her in folds that looked like flames, her fair headpeeping out of the lurid mass of color as if out of a raging furnace. Indeed the crimson dress, the sunshine on the face, the red goldgleaming in the yellow hair, the ripe scarlet of the pouting lips, theglowing colors of each accessory of the minutely painted background, allcombined to render the first effect of the painting by no means anagreeable one. 

But strange as the picture was, it could not have made any greatimpression on George Talboys, for he sat before it for about a quarterof an hour without uttering a word--only staring blankly at the paintedcanvas, with the candlestick grasped in his strong right hand, and hisleft arm hanging loosely by his side. He sat so long in this attitude, that Robert turned round at last. 

"Why, George, I thought you had gone to sleep!"

"I had almost. "

"You've caught a cold from standing in that damp tapestried room. Markmy words, George Talboys, you've caught a cold; you're as hoarse as araven. But come along. "

Robert Audley took the candle from his friend's hand, and crept backthrough the secret passage, followed by George--very quiet, but scarcelymore quiet than usual. 

They found Alicia in the nursery waiting for them. 

"Well?" she said, interrogatively. 

"We managed it capitally. But I don't like the portrait; there'ssomething odd about it. "

"There is, " said Alicia; "I've a strange fancy on that point. I thinkthat sometimes a painter is in a manner inspired, and is able to see, through the normal expression of the face, another expression that isequally a part of it, though not to be perceived by common eyes. We havenever seen my lady look as she does in that picture; but I think thatshe _could_ look so. "

"Alicia, " said Robert Audley, imploringly, "don't be German!"

"But, Robert--"

"Don't be German, Alicia, if you love me. The picture is--the picture:and my lady is--my lady. That's my way of taking things, and I'm notmetaphysical; don't unsettle me. "

He repeated this several times with an air of terror that was perfectlysincere; and then, having borrowed an umbrella in case of beingovertaken by the coming storm, left the Court, leading passive GeorgeTalboys away with him. The one hand of the stupid clock had skipped tonine by the time they reached the archway; but before they could passunder its shadow they had to step aside to allow a carriage to dash pastthem. It was a fly from the village, but Lady Audley's fair face peepedout at the window. Dark as it was, she could see the two figures of theyoung men black against the dusk. 

"Who is that?" she asked, putting out her head. "Is it the gardener?"

"No, my dear aunt, " said Robert, laughing; "it is your most dutifulnephew. "

He and George stopped by the archway while the fly drew up at the door, and the surprised servants came out to welcome their master andmistress. 

"I think the storm will hold off to-night, " said the baronet looking upat the sky; "but we shall certainly have it tomorrow. "

CHAPTER IX. 

AFTER THE STORM. 

Sir Michael was mistaken in his prophecy upon the weather. The storm didnot hold off until next day, but burst with terrible fury over thevillage of Audley about half an hour before midnight. 

Robert Audley took the thunder and lightning with the same composurewith which he accepted all the other ills of life. He lay on a sofa inthe sitting-room, ostensibly reading the five-days-old Chelmsford paper, and regaling himself occasionally with a few sips from a large tumblerof cold punch. But the storm had quite a different effect upon GeorgeTalboys. His friend was startled when he looked at the young man's whiteface as he sat opposite the open window listening to the thunder, andstaring at the black sky, rent every now and then by forked streaks ofsteel-blue lightning. 

"George, " said Robert, after watching him for some time, "are youfrightened of the lightning?"

"No, " he answered, curtly. 

"But, dear boy, some of the most courageous men have been frightened ofit. It is scarcely to be called a fear: it is constitutional. I am sureyou are frightened of it. "

"No, I am not. "

"But, George, if you could see yourself, white and haggard, with yourgreat hollow eyes staring out at the sky as if they were fixed upon aghost. I tell you I know that you are frightened. "

"And I tell you that I am not. "

"George Talboys, you are not only afraid of the lightning, but you aresavage with yourself for being afraid, and with me for telling you ofyour fear. "

"Robert Audley, if you say another word to me, I shall knock you down, "cried George, furiously; having said which, Mr. Talboys strode out ofthe room, banging the door after him with a violence that shook thehouse. Those inky clouds, which had shut in the sultry earth as if witha roof of hot iron, poured out their blackness in a sudden deluge asGeorge left the room; but if the young man was afraid of the lightning, he certainly was not afraid of the rain; for he walked straightdown-stairs to the inn door, and went out into the wet high road. Hewalked up and down, up and down, in the soaking shower for about twentyminutes, and then, re-entering the inn, strode up to his bedroom. 

Robert Audley met him on the landing, with his hair beaten about hiswhite face, and his garments dripping wet. 

"Are you going to bed, George?"

"Yes. "

"But you have no candle. "

"I don't want one. "

"But look at your clothes, man! Do you see the wet streaming down yourcoat-sleeves? What on earth made you go out upon such a night?"

"I am tired, and want to go to bed--don't bother me. "

"You'll take some hot brandy-and-water, George?"

Robert Audley stood in his friend's way as he spoke, anxious to preventhis going to bed in the state he was in; but George pushed him fiercelyaside, and, striding past him, said, in the same hoarse voice Robert hadnoticed at the Court:

"Let me alone, Robert Audley, and keep clear of me if you can. "

Robert followed George to his bedroom, but the young man banged the doorin his face, so there was nothing for it but to leave Mr. Talboys tohimself, to recover his temper as best he might. 

"He was irritated at my noticing his terror of the lightning, " thoughRobert, as he calmly retired to rest, serenely indifferent to thethunder, which seemed to shake him in his bed, and the lightning playingfitfully round the razors in his open dressing-case. 

The storm rolled away from the quiet village of Audley, and when Robertawoke the next morning it was to see bright sunshine, and a peep ofcloudless sky between the white curtains of his bedroom window. 

It was one of those serene and lovely mornings that sometimes succeed astorm. The birds sung loud and cheerily, the yellow corn uplifted itselfin the broad fields, and waved proudly after its sharp tussle with thetempest, which had done its best to beat down the heavy ears with cruelwind and driving rain half the night through. The vine-leaves clusteringround Robert's window fluttered with a joyous rustling, shaking therain-drops in diamond showers from every spray and tendril. 

Robert Audley found his friend waiting for him at the breakfast-table. 

George was very pale, but perfectly tranquil--if anything, indeed, morecheerful than usual. 

He shook Robert by the hand with something of that hearty manner forwhich he had been distinguished before the one affliction of his lifeovertook and shipwrecked him. 

"Forgive me, Bob, " he said, frankly, "for my surly temper of last night. You were quite correct in your assertion; the thunderstorm _did_ upsetme. It always had the same effect upon me in my youth. "

"Poor old boy! Shall we go up by the express, or shall we stop here anddine with my uncle to-night?" asked Robert. 

"To tell the truth, Bob, I would rather do neither. It's a gloriousmorning. Suppose we stroll about all day, take another turn with the rodand line, and go up to town by the train that leaves here at 6. 15 in theevening?"

Robert Audley would have assented to a far more disagreeable propositionthan this, rather than have taken the trouble to oppose his friend, sothe matter was immediately agreed upon; and after they had finishedtheir breakfast, and ordered a four o'clock dinner, George Talboys tookthe fishing-rod across his broad shoulders, and strode out of the housewith his friend and companion. 

But if the equable temperament of Mr. Robert Audley had been undisturbedby the crackling peals of thunder that shook the very foundations of theSun Inn, it had not been so with the more delicate sensibilties of hisuncle's young wife. Lady Audley confessed herself terribly frightened ofthe lightning. She had her bedstead wheeled into a corner of the room, and with the heavy curtains drawn tightly round her, she lay with herface buried in the pillow, shuddering convulsively at every sound of thetempest without. Sir Michael, whose stout heart had never known a fear, almost trembled for this fragile creature, whom it was his happyprivilege to protect and defend. My lady would not consent to undresstill nearly three o'clock in the morning, when the last lingering pealof thunder had died away among the distant hills. Until that hour shelay in the handsome silk dress in which she had traveled, huddledtogether among the bedclothes, only looking up now and then with ascared face to ask if the storm was over. 

Toward four o'clock her husband, who spent the night in watching by herbedside, saw her drop off into a deep sleep, from which she did notawake for nearly five hours. 

But she came into the breakfast-room, at half-past nine o'clock, singinga little Scotch melody, her cheeks tinged with as delicate a pink as thepale hue of her muslin morning dress. Like the birds and the flowers, she seemed to recover her beauty and joyousness in the morning sunshine. She tripped lightly out onto the lawn, gathering a last lingeringrosebud here and there, and a sprig or two of geranium, and returningthrough the dewy grass, warbling long cadences for very happiness ofheart, and looking as fresh and radiant as the flowers in her hands. Thebaronet caught her in his strong arms as she came in through the openwindow. 

"My pretty one, " he said, "my darling, what happiness to see you yourown merry self again! Do you know, Lucy, that once last night, when youlooked out through the dark-green bed-curtains, with your poor, whiteface, and the purple rims round your hollow eyes, I had almost adifficulty to recognize my little wife in that terrified, agonized-looking creature, crying out about the storm. Thank God for themorning sun, which has brought back the rosy cheeks and bright smile! Ihope to Heaven, Lucy, I shall never again see you look as you did lastnight. "

She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and then was only tall enough to reachhis white beard. She told him, laughing, that she had always been asilly, frightened creature--frightened of dogs, frightened of cattle, frightened of a thunderstorm, frightened of a rough sea. "Frightened ofeverything and everybody but my dear, noble, handsome husband, " shesaid. 

She had found the carpet in her dressing-room disarranged, and hadinquired into the mystery of the secret passage. She chid Miss Alicia ina playful, laughing way, for her boldness in introducing two great meninto my lady's rooms. 

"And they had the audacity to look at my picture, Alicia, " she said, with mock indignation. "I found the baize thrown on the ground, and agreat man's glove on the carpet. Look!"

"She held up a thick driving glove as she spoke. It was George's, whichhe had dropped looking at the picture. 

"I shall go up to the Sun, and ask those boys to dinner, " Sir Michaelsaid, as he left the Court upon his morning walk around his farm. 

Lady Audley flitted from room to room in the bright Septembersunshine--now sitting down to the piano to trill out a ballad, or thefirst page of an Italian bravura, or running with rapid fingers througha brilliant waltz--now hovering about a stand of hot-house flowers, doing amateur gardening with a pair of fairy-like, silver-mountedembroidery scissors--now strolling into her dressing-room to talk toPhoebe Marks, and have her curls rearranged for the third or fourthtime; for the ringlets were always getting into disorder, and gave nolittle trouble to Lady Audley's maid. 

My dear lady seemed, on this particular September day, restless fromvery joyousness of spirit, and unable to stay long in one place, oroccupy herself with one thing. 

While Lady Audley amused herself in her own frivolous fashion, the twoyoung men strolled slowly along the margin of the stream until theyreached a shady corner where the water was deep and still, and the longbranches of the willows trailed into the brook. 

George Talboys took the fishing-rod, while Robert stretched himself atfull length on a railway rug, and balancing his hat upon his nose as ascreen from the sunshine, fell fast asleep. 

Those were happy fish in the stream on the banks of which Mr. Talboyswas seated. They might have amused themselves to their hearts' contentwith timid nibbles at this gentleman's bait without in any mannerendangering their safety; for George only stared vacantly in the water, holding his rod in a loose, listless hand, and with a strange, far-awaylook in his eyes. As the church clock struck two he threw down his rod, and, striding away along the bank, left Robert Audley to enjoy a napwhich, according to that gentleman's habits, was by no means unlikely tolast for two or three hours. About a quarter of a mile further on Georgecrossed a rustic bridge, and struck into the meadows which led to AudleyCourt. 

The birds had sung so much all the morning, that they had, perhaps, bythis time grown tired; the lazy cattle were asleep in the meadows; SirMichael was still away on his morning's ramble; Miss Alicia hadscampered off an hour before on her chestnut mare; the servants were allat dinner in the back part of the house; and my lady had strolled, bookin hand, into the shadowy lime-walk; so the gray old building had neverworn a more peaceful aspect than on that bright afternoon when GeorgeTalboys walked across the lawn to ring a sonorous peal at the sturdy, iron-bound oak door. 

The servant who answered his summons told him that Sir Michael was out, and my lady walking in the lime-tree avenue. 

He looked a little disappointed at this intelligence, and mutteringsomething about wishing to see my lady, or going to look for my lady(the servant did not clearly distinguish his words), strode away fromthe door without leaving either card or message for the family. 

It was full an hour and a half after this when Lady Audley returned tothe house, not coming from the lime-walk, but from exactly the oppositedirection, carrying her open book in her hand, and singing as she came. Alicia had just dismounted from her mare, and stood in the low-archeddoorway, with her great Newfoundland dog by her side. 

The dog, which had never liked my lady, showed his teeth with asuppressed growl. 

"Send that horrid animal away, Alicia, " Lady Audley said, impatiently. "The brute knows that I am frightened of him, and takes advantage of myterror. And yet they call the creatures generous and noble-hearted! Bah, Caesar! I hate you, and you hate me; and if you met me in the dark insome narrow passage you would fly at my throat and strangle me, wouldn'tyou?"

My lady, safely sheltered behind her step-daughter, shook her yellowcurls at the angry animal, and defied him maliciously. 

"Do you know, Lady Audley, that Mr. Talboys, the young widower, has beenhere asking for Sir Michael and you?"

Lucy Audley lifted her penciled eyebrows. "I thought they were coming todinner, " she said. "Surely we shall have enough of them then. "

She had a heap of wild autumn flowers in the skirt of her muslin dress. She had come through the fields at the back of the Court, gathering thehedge-row blossoms in her way. She ran lightly up the broad staircase toher own rooms. George's glove lay on her boudoir table. Lady Audley rungthe bell violently, and it was answered by Phoebe Marks. "Take thatlitter away, " she said, sharply. The girl collected the glove and a fewwithered flowers and torn papers lying on the table into her apron. 

"What have you been doing all this morning?" asked my lady. "Not wastingyour time, I hope?"

"No, my lady, I have been altering the blue dress. It is rather dark onthis side of the house, so I took it up to my own room, and worked atthe window. "

The girl was leaving the room as she spoke, but she turned around andlooked at Lady Audley as if waiting for further orders. 

Lucy looked up at the same moment, and the eyes of the two women met. 

"Phoebe Marks, " said my lady, throwing herself into an easy-chair, andtrifling with the wild flowers in her lap, "you are a good, industriousgirl, and while I live and am prosperous, you shall never want a firmfriend or a twenty-pound note. "

CHAPTER X. 

MISSING. 

When Robert Audley awoke he was surprised to see the fishing-rod lyingon the bank, the line trailing idly in the water, and the float bobbingharmlessly up and down in the afternoon sunshine. The young barristerwas a long time stretching his arms and legs in various directions toconvince himself, by means of such exercise, that he still retained theproper use of those members; then, with a mighty effort, he contrived torise from the grass, and having deliberately folded his railway rug intoa convenient shape for carrying over his shoulder, he strolled away tolook for George Talboys. 

Once or twice he gave a sleepy shout, scarcely loud enough to scare thebirds in the branches above his head, or the trout in the stream at hisfeet: but receiving no answer, grew tired of the exertion, and dawdledon, yawning as he went, and still looking for George Talboys. 

By-and-by he took out his watch, and was surprised to find that it was aquarter past four. 

"Why, the selfish beggar must have gone home to his dinner!" hemuttered, reflectively; "and yet that isn't much like him, for he seldomremembers even his meals unless I jog his memory. "

Even a good appetite, and the knowledge that his dinner would verylikely suffer by this delay, could not quicken Mr. Robert Audley'sconstitutional dawdle, and by the time he strolled in at the front doorof the Sun, the clocks were striking five. He so fully expected to findGeorge Talboys waiting for him in the little sitting-room, that theabsence of that gentleman seemed to give the apartment a dreary look, and Robert groaned aloud. 

"This is lively!" he said. "A cold dinner, and nobody to eat it with!"

The landlord of the Sun came himself to apologize for his ruined dishes. 

"As fine a pair of ducks, Mr. Audley, as ever you clapped eyes on, butburnt up to a cinder, along of being kep' hot. "

"Never mind the ducks, " Robert said impatiently; "where's Mr. Talboys?"

"He ain't been in, sir, since you went out together this morning. "

"What!" cried Robert. "Why, in heaven's name, what has the man done withhimself?"

He walked to the window and looked out upon the broad, white high road. There was a wagon laden with trusses of hay crawling slowly past, thelazy horses and the lazy wagoner drooping their heads with a weary stoopunder the afternoon's sunshine. There was a flock of sheep stragglingabout the road, with a dog running himself into a fever in the endeavorto keep them decently together. There were some bricklayers justreleased from work--a tinker mending some kettles by the roadside; therewas a dog-cart dashing down the road, carrying the master of the Audleyhounds to his seven o'clock dinner; there were a dozen common villagesights and sounds that mixed themselves up into a cheerful bustle andconfusion; but there was no George Talboys. 

"Of all the extraordinary things that ever happened to me in the wholecourse of my life, " said Mr. Robert Audley, "this is the mostmiraculous!"

The landlord still in attendance, opened his eyes as Robert made thisremark. What could there be extraordinary in the simple fact of agentleman being late for his dinner?"

"I shall go and look for him, " said Robert, snatching up his hat andwalking straight out of the house. 

But the question was where to look for him. He certainly was not by thetrout stream, so it was no good going back there in search of him. Robert was standing before the inn, deliberating on what was best to bedone, when the landlord came out after him. 

"I forgot to tell you, Mr. Audley, as how your uncle called here fiveminutes after you was gone, and left a message, asking of you and theother gentleman to go down to dinner at the Court. "

"Then I shouldn't wonder, " said Robert, "if George Talboys has gone downto the Court to call upon my uncle. It isn't like him, but it's justpossible that he has done it. "

It was six o'clock when Robert knocked at the door of his uncle's house. He did not ask to see any of the family, but inquired at once for hisfriend. 

Yes, the servant told him; Mr. Talboys had been there at two o'clock ora little after. 

"And not since?"

"No, not since. "

Was the man sure that it was at two Mr. Talboys called? Robert asked. 

"Yes, perfectly sure. He remembered the hour because it was theservants' dinner hour, and he had left the table to open the door to Mr. Talboys. 

"Why, what can have become of the man?" thought Robert, as he turned hisback upon the Court. "From two till six--four good hours--and no signsof him!"

If any one had ventured to tell Mr. Robert Audley that he could possiblyfeel a strong attachment to any creature breathing, that cynicalgentleman would have elevated his eyebrows in supreme contempt at thepreposterous notion. Yet here he was, flurried and anxious, bewilderinghis brain by all manner of conjectures about his missing friend; andfalse to every attribute of his nature, walking fast. 

"I haven't walked fast since I was at Eton, " he murmured, as he hurriedacross one of Sir Michael's meadows in the direction of the village;"and the worst of it is, that I haven't the most remote idea where I amgoing. "

Here he crossed another meadow, and then seating himself upon a stile, rested his elbows upon his knees, buried his face in his hands, and sethimself seriously to think the matter out. 

"I have it, " he said, after a few minutes' thought; "the railwaystation!" He sprang over the stile, and started off in the direction ofthe little red brick building. 

There was no train expected for another half hour, and the clerk wastaking his tea in an apartment on one side of the office, on the door ofwhich was inscribed in large, white letters, "Private. "

But Mr. Audley was too much occupied with the one idea of looking forhis friend to pay any attention to this warning. He strode at once tothe door, and rattling his cane against it, brought the clerk out of hissanctum in a perspiration from hot tea, and with his mouth full of breadand butter. 

"Do you remember the gentleman that came down to Audley with me, Smithers?" asked Robert. 

"Well, to tell you the real truth, Mr. Audley, I can't say that I do. You came by the four o'clock, if you remember, and there's always a goodmany passengers by that train. "

"You don't remember him, then?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir. "

"That's provoking! I want to know, Smithers, whether he has taken aticket for London since two o'clock to-day. He's a tall, broad-chestedyoung fellow, with a big brown beard. You couldn't well mistake him. "

"There was four or five gentlemen as took tickets for the 3. 30 up, " saidthe clerk rather vaguely, casting an anxious glance over his shoulder athis wife, who looked by no means pleased at this interruption to theharmony of the tea-table. 

"Four or five gentlemen! But did either of them answer to thedescription of my friend?"

"Well, I think one of them had a beard, sir. "

"A dark-brown beard?"

"Well, I don't know, but it was brownish-like. "

"Was he dressed in gray?"

"I believe it was gray; a great many gents wear gray. He asked for theticket sharp and short-like, and when he'd got it walked straight outonto the platform whistling. "

"That's George, " said Robert. "Thank you, Smithers; I needn't troubleyou any more. It's as clear as daylight, " he muttered, as he left thestation; "he's got one of his gloomy fits on him, and he's gone back toLondon without saying a word about it. I'll leave Audley myselfto-morrow morning; and for to-night--why, I may as well go down to theCourt and make the acquaintance of my uncle's young wife. They don'tdine till seven; if I get back across the fields I shall be in time. Bob--otherwise Robert Audley--this sort of thing will never do; you arefalling over head and ears in love with your aunt. "

CHAPTER XI. 

THE MARK UPON MY LADY'S WRIST. 

Robert found Sir Michael and Lady Audley in the drawing-room. My ladywas sitting on a music-stool before the grand piano, turning over theleaves of some new music. She twirled upon the revolving seat, making arustling with her silk flounces, as Mr. Robert Audley's name wasannounced; then, leaving the piano, she made her nephew a pretty, mockceremonious courtesy. 

"Thank you so much for the sables, " she said, holding out her littlefingers, all glittering and twinkling with the diamonds she wore uponthem; "thank you for those beautiful sables. How good it was of you toget them for me. "

Robert had almost forgotten the commission he had executed for LadyAudley during his Russian expedition. His mind was so full of GeorgeTalboys that he only acknowledged nay lady's gratitude by a bow. 

"Would you believe it, Sir Michael?" he said. "That foolish chum of minehas gone back to London leaving me in the lurch. "

"Mr. George Talboys returned to town?" exclaimed my lady, lifting hereyebrows. "What a dreadful catastrophe!" said Alicia, maliciously, "since Pythias, in the person of Mr. Robert Audley, cannot exist forhalf an hour without Damon, commonly known as George Talboys. "

"He's a very good fellow, " Robert said, stoutly; "and to tell the honesttruth, I'm rather uneasy about him. "

"Uneasy about him!" My lady was quite anxious to know why Robert wasuneasy about his friend. 

"I'll tell you why, Lady Audley, " answered the young barrister. "Georgehad a bitter blow a year ago in the death of his wife. He has never gotover that trouble. He takes life pretty quietly--almost as quietly as Ido--but he often talks very strangely, and I sometimes think that oneday this grief will get the better of him, and he will do somethingrash. "

Mr. Robert Audley spoke vaguely, but all three of his listeners knewthat the something rash to which he alluded was that one deed for whichthere is no repentance. 

There was a brief pause, during which Lady Audley arranged her yellowringlets by the aid of the glass over the console table opposite to her. 

"Dear me!" she said, "this is very strange. I did not think men werecapable of these deep and lasting affections. I thought that one prettyface was as good as another pretty face to them; and that when numberone with blue eyes and fair hair died, they had only to look out fornumber two, with dark eyes and black hair, by way of variety. "

"George Talboys is not one of those men. I firmly believe that hiswife's death broke his heart. "

"How sad!" murmured Lady Audley. "It seems almost cruel of Mrs. Talboysto die, and grieve her poor husband so much. "

"Alicia was right, she is childish, " thought Robert as he looked at hisaunt's pretty face. 

My lady was very charming at the dinner-table; she professed the mostbewitching incapacity for carving the pheasant set before her, andcalled Robert to her assistance. 

"I could carve a leg of mutton at Mr. Dawson's, " she said, laughing;"but a leg of mutton is so easy, and then I used to stand up. "

Sir Michael watched the impression my lady made upon his nephew with aproud delight in her beauty and fascination. 

"I am so glad to see my poor little woman in her usual good spirits oncemore, " he said. "She was very down-hearted yesterday at a disappointmentshe met with in London. "

"A disappointment!"

"Yes, Mr. Audley, a very cruel one, " answered my lady. "I received theother morning a telegraphic message from my dear old friend andschool-mistress, telling me that she was dying, and that if I wanted tosee her again, I must hasten to her immediately. The telegraphicdispatch contained no address, and of course, from that verycircumstance, I imagined that she must be living in the house in which Ileft her three years ago. Sir Michael and I hurried up to townimmediately, and drove straight to the old address. The house wasoccupied by strange people, who could give me no tidings of my friend. It is in a retired place, where there are very few tradespeople about. Sir Michael made inquiries at the few shops there are, but, after takingan immense deal of trouble, could discover nothing whatever likely tolead to the information we wanted. I have no friends in London, and hadtherefore no one to assist me except my dear, generous husband, who didall in his power, but in vain, to find my friend's new residence. "

"It was very foolish not to send the address in the telegraphicmessage, " said Robert. 

"When people are dying it is not so easy to think of all these things, "murmured my lady, looking reproachfully at Mr. Audley with her soft blueeyes. 

In spite of Lady Audley's fascination, and in spite of Robert's veryunqualified admiration of her, the barrister could not overcome a vaguefeeling of uneasiness on this quiet September evening. 

As he sat in the deep embrasure of a mullioned window, talking to mylady, his mind wandered away to shady Figtree Court, and he thought ofpoor George Talboys smoking his solitary cigar in the room with thebirds and canaries. 

"I wish I'd never felt any friendliness for the fellow, " he thought. "Ifeel like a man who has an only son whose life has gone wrong with him. I wish to Heaven I could give him back his wife, and send him down toVentnor to finish his days in peace. "

Still my lady's pretty musical prattle ran on as merrily andcontinuously as the babble in some brook; and still Robert's thoughtswandered, in spite of himself, to George Talboys. 

He thought of him hurrying down to Southampton by the mail train to seehis boy. He thought of him as he had often seen him spelling over theshipping advertisements in the _Times_, looking for a vessel to take himback to Australia. Once he thought of him with a shudder, lying cold andstiff at the bottom of some shallow stream with his dead face turnedtoward the darkening sky. 

Lady Audley noticed his abstraction, and asked him what he was thinkingof. 

"George Talboys, " he answered abruptly. 

She gave a little nervous shudder. 

"Upon my word, " she said, "you make me quite uncomfortable by the way inwhich you talk of Mr. Talboys. One would think that somethingextraordinary had happened to him. "

"God forbid! But I cannot help feeling uneasy about him. "

Later in the evening Sir Michael asked for some music, and my lady wentto the piano. Robert Audley strolled after her to the instrument to turnover the leaves of her music; but she played from memory, and he wasspared the trouble his gallantry would have imposed upon him. 

He carried a pair of lighted candles to the piano, and arranged themconveniently for the pretty musician. She struck a few chords, and thenwandered into a pensive sonata of Beethoven's. It was one of the manyparadoxes in her character, that love of somber and melancholy melodies, so opposite to her gay nature. 

Robert Audley lingered by her side, and as he had no occupation inturning over the leaves of her music, he amused himself by watching herjeweled, white hands gliding softly over the keys, with the lace sleevesdropping away from, her graceful, arched wrists. He looked at her prettyfingers one by one; this one glittering with a ruby heart; thatencircled by an emerald serpent; and about them all a starry glitter ofdiamonds. From the fingers his eyes wandered to the rounded wrists: thebroad, flat, gold bracelet upon her right wrist dropped over her hand, as she executed a rapid passage. She stopped abruptly to rearrange it;but before she could do so Robert Audley noticed a bruise upon herdelicate skin. 

"You have hurt your arm, Lady Audley!" he exclaimed. She hastilyreplaced the bracelet. 

"It is nothing, " she said. "I am unfortunate in having a skin which theslightest touch bruises. "

She went on playing, but Sir Michael came across the room to look intothe matter of the bruise upon his wife's pretty wrist. 

"What is it, Lucy?" he asked; "and how did it happen?"

"How foolish you all are to trouble yourselves about anything soabsurd!" said Lady Audley, laughing. "I am rather absent in mind, andamused myself a few days ago by tying a piece of ribbon around my arm sotightly, that it left a bruise when I removed it. "

"Hum!" thought Robert. "My lady tells little childish white lies; thebruise is of a more recent date than a few days ago; the skin has onlyjust begun to change color. "

Sir Michael took the slender wrist in his strong hand. 

"Hold the candle, Robert, " he said, "and let us look at this poor littlearm. "

It was not one bruise, but four slender, purple marks, such as mighthave been made by the four fingers of a powerful hand, that had graspedthe delicate wrist a shade too roughly. A narrow ribbon, bound tightly, might have left some such marks, it is true, and my lady protested oncemore that, to the best of her recollection, that must have been how theywere made. 

Across one of the faint purple marks there was a darker tinge, as if aring worn on one of those strong and cruel fingers had been ground intothe tender flesh. 

"I am sure my lady must tell white lies, " thought Robert, "for I can'tbelieve the story of the ribbon. "

He wished his relations good-night and good-by at about half past teno'clock; he should run up to London by the first train to look forGeorge in Figtree Court. 

"If I don't find him there I shall go to Southampton, " he said; "and ifI don't find him there--"

"What then?" asked my lady. 

"I shall think that something strange has happened. "

Robert Audley felt very low-spirited as he walked slowly home betweenthe shadowy meadows; more low-spirited still when he re-entered thesitting room at Sun Inn, where he and George had lounged together, staring out of the window and smoking their cigars. 

"To think, " he said, meditatively, "that it is possible to care so muchfor a fellow! But come what may, I'll go up to town after him the firstthing to-morrow morning; and, sooner than be balked in finding him, I'llgo to the very end of the world. "

With Mr. Audley's lymphatic nature, determination was so much theexception rather than the rule, that when he did for once in his liferesolve upon any course of action, he had a certain dogged, iron-likeobstinacy that pushed him on to the fulfillment of his purpose. 

The lazy bent of his mind, which prevented him from thinking of half adozen things at a time, and not thinking thoroughly of any one of them, as is the manner of your more energetic people, made him remarkablyclear-sighted upon any point to which he ever gave his seriousattention. 

Indeed, after all, though solemn benchers laughed at him, and risingbarristers shrugged their shoulders under rustling silk gowns, whenpeople spoke of Robert Audley, I doubt if, had he ever taken the troubleto get a brief, he might not have rather surprised the magnates whounderrated his abilities. 

CHAPTER XII. 

STILL MISSING. 

The September sunlight sparkled upon the fountain in the Temple Gardenswhen Robert Audley returned to Figtree Court early the followingmorning. 

He found the canaries singing in the pretty little room in which Georgehad slept, but the apartment was in the same prim order in which thelaundress had arranged it after the departure of the two young men--nota chair displaced, or so much as the lid of a cigar-box lifted, tobespeak the presence of George Talboys. With a last, lingering hope, hesearched upon the mantelpieces and tables of his rooms, on the chance offinding some letter left by George. 

"He may have slept here last night, and started for Southampton earlythis morning, " he thought. "Mrs. Maloney has been here, very likely, tomake everything tidy after him. "

But as he sat looking lazily around the room, now and then whistling tohis delighted canaries, a slipshod foot upon the staircase withoutbespoke the advent of that very Mrs. Maloney who waited upon the twoyoung men. 

No, Mr. Talboys had not come home; she had looked in as early as sixo'clock that morning, and found the chambers empty. 

"Had anything happened to the poor, dear gentleman?" she asked, seeingRobert Audley's pale face. 

He turned around upon her quite savagely at this question. 

Happened to him! What should happen to him? They had only parted at twoo'clock the day before. 

Mrs. Maloney would have related to him the history of a poor dear youngengine-driver, who had once lodged with her, and who went out, aftereating a hearty dinner, in the best of spirits, to meet with his deathfrom the concussion of an express and a luggage train; but Robert put onhis hat again, and walked straight out of the house before the honestIrishwoman could begin her pitiful story. 

It was growing dusk when he reached Southampton. He knew his way to thepoor little terrace of houses, in a full street leading down to thewater, where George's father-in-law lived. Little Georgey was playing atthe open parlor window as the young man walked down the street. 

Perhaps it was this fact, and the dull and silent aspect of the house, which filled Robert Audley's mind with a vague conviction that the manhe came to look for was not there. The old man himself opened the door, and the child peeped out of the parlor to see the strange gentleman. 

He was a handsome boy, with his father's brown eyes and dark wavinghair, and with some latent expression which was not his father's andwhich pervaded his whole face, so that although each feature of thechild resembled the same feature in George Talboys, the boy was notactually like him. 

Mr. Maldon was delighted to see Robert Audley; he remembered having hadthe pleasure of meeting him at Ventnor, on the melancholy occasionof--He wiped his watery old eyes by way of conclusion to the sentence. Would Mr. Audley walk in? Robert strode into the parlor. The furniturewas shabby and dingy, and the place reeked with the smell of staletobacco and brandy-and-water. The boy's broken playthings, and the oldman's broken clay pipes and torn, brandy-and-water-stained newspaperswere scattered upon the dirty carpet. Little Georgey crept toward thevisitor, watching him furtively out of his big, brown eyes. Robert tookthe boy on his knee, and gave him his watch-chain to play with while hetalked to the old man. 

"I need scarcely ask the question that I come to ask, " he said; "I wasin hopes I should have found your son-in-law here. "

"What! you knew that he was coming to Southampton?"

"Knew that he was coming?" cried Robert, brightening up. "He _is_ here, then?"

"No, he is not here now; but he has been here. "

"When?"

"Late last night; he came by the mail. "

"And left again immediately?"

"He stayed little better than an hour. "

"Good Heaven!" said Robert, "what useless anxiety that man has given me!What can be the meaning of all this?"

"You knew nothing of his intention, then?"

"Of what intention?"

"I mean of his determination to go to Australia. "

"I know that it was always in his mind more or less, but not more justnow than usual. "

"He sails to-night from Liverpool. He came here at one o'clock thismorning to have a look at the boy, he said, before he left England, perhaps never to return. He told me he was sick of the world, and thatthe rough life out there was the only thing to suit him. He stayed anhour, kissed the boy without awaking him, and left Southampton by themail that starts at a quarter-past two. "

"What can be the meaning of all this?" said Robert. "What could be hismotive for leaving England in this manner, without a word to me, hismost intimate friend--without even a change of clothes; for he has lefteverything at my chambers? It is the most extraordinary proceeding!"

The old man looked very grave. "Do you know, Mr. Audley, " he said, tapping his forehead significantly, "I sometimes fancy that Helen'sdeath had a strange effect upon poor George. "

"Pshaw!" cried Robert, contemptuously; "he felt the blow most cruelly, but his brain was as sound as yours or mine. "

"Perhaps he will write to you from Liverpool, " said George'sfather-in-law. He seemed anxious to smooth over any indignation thatRobert might feel at his friend's conduct. 

"He ought, " said Robert, gravely, "for we've been good friends from thedays when we were together at Eton. It isn't kind of George Talboys totreat me like this. "

But even at the moment that be uttered the reproach a strange thrill ofremorse shot through his heart. 

"It isn't like him, " he said, "it isn't like George Talboys. "

Little Georgey caught at the sound. "That's my name, " he said, "and mypapa's name--the big gentleman's name. "

"Yes, little Georgey, and your papa came last night and kissed you inyour sleep. Do you remember?"

"No, " said the boy, shaking his curly little head. 

"You must have been very fast asleep, little Georgey, not to see poorpapa. "

The child did not answer, but presently, fixing his eyes upon Robert'sface, he said abruptly:

"Where's the pretty lady?"

"What pretty lady?"

"The pretty lady that used to come a long while ago. "

"He means his poor mamma, " said the old man. 

"No, " cried the boy resolutely, "not mamma. Mamma was always crying. Ididn't like mamma--"

"Hush, little Georgey!"

"But I didn't, and she didn't like me. She was always crying. I mean thepretty lady; the lady that was dressed so fine, and that gave me my goldwatch. "

"He means the wife of my old captain--an excellent creature, who took agreat fancy to Georgey, and gave him some handsome presents. "

"Where's my gold watch? Let me show the gentleman my gold watch, " criedGeorgey. 

"It's gone to be cleaned, Georgey, " answered his grandfather. 

"It's always going to be cleaned, " said the boy. 

"The watch is perfectly safe, I assure you, Mr. Audley, " murmured theold man, apologetically; and taking out a pawnbroker's duplicate, hehanded it to Robert. 

It was made out in the name of Captain Mortimer: "Watch, set withdiamonds, �11. "

"I'm often hard pressed for a few shillings, Mr. Audley, " said the oldman. "My son-in-law has been very liberal to me; but there are others, there are others, Mr. Audley--and--and--I've not been treated well. " Hewiped away some genuine tears as he said this in a pitiful, cryingvoice. "Come, Georgey, it's time the brave little man was in bed. Comealong with grandpa. Excuse me for a quarter of an hour, Mr. Audley. "

The boy went very willingly. At the door of the room the old man lookedback at his visitor, and said in the same peevish voice, "This is a poorplace for me to pass my declining years in, Mr. Audley. I've made manysacrifices, and I make them still, but I've not been treated well. "

Left alone in the dusky little sitting-room, Robert Audley folded hisarms, and sat absently staring at the floor. 

George was gone, then; he might receive some letter of explanationperhaps, when he returned to London; but the chances were that he wouldnever see his old friend again. 

"And to think that I should care so much for the fellow!" he said, lifting his eyebrows to the center of his forehead. 

"The place smells of stale tobacco like a tap-room, " he mutteredpresently; "there can be no harm in my smoking a cigar here. "

He took one from the case in his pocket: there was a spark of fire inthe little grate, and he looked about for something to light his cigarwith. 

A twisted piece of paper lay half burned upon the hearthrug; he pickedit up, and unfolded it, in order to get a better pipe-light by foldingit the other way of the paper. As he did so, absently glancing at thepenciled writing upon the fragment of thin paper, a portion of a namecaught his eye--a portion of the name that was most in his thoughts. Hetook the scrap of paper to the window, and examined it by the declininglight. 

It was part of a telegraphic dispatch. The upper portion had been burntaway, but the more important part, the greater part of the messageitself, remained. 

"--alboys came to last night, and left by themail for London, on his way to Liverpool, whence he was to sail forSydney. "

The date and the name and address of the sender of the message had beenburnt with the heading. Robert Audley's face blanched to a deathlywhiteness. He carefully folded the scrap of paper, and placed it betweenthe leaves of his pocket-book. 

"My God!" he said, "what is the meaning of this? I shall go to Liverpoolto-night, and make inquiries there!"

CHAPTER XIII. 

TROUBLED DREAMS. 

Robert Audley left Southampton by the mail, and let himself into hischambers just as the dawn was creeping cold and gray into the solitaryrooms, and the canaries were beginning to rustle their feathers feeblyin the early morning. 

There were several letters in the box behind the door, but there wasnone from George Talboys. 

The young barrister was worn out by a long day spent in hurrying fromplace to place. The usual lazy monotony of his life had been broken asit had never been broken before in eight-and-twenty tranquil, easy-goingyears. His mind was beginning to grow confused upon the point of time. It seemed to him months since he had lost sight of George Talboys. Itwas so difficult to believe that it was less than forty-eight hours agothat the young man had left him asleep under the willows by the troutstream. 

His eyes were painfully weary for want of sleep. He searched about theroom for some time, looking in all sorts of impossible places for aletter from George Talboys, and then threw himself dressed upon hisfriend's bed, in the room with the canaries and geraniums. 

"I shall wait for to-morrow morning's post, " he said; "and if thatbrings no letter from George, I shall start for Liverpool without amoment's delay. "

He was thoroughly exhausted, and fell into a heavy sleep--a sleep whichwas profound without being in any way refreshing, for he was tormentedall the time by disagreeable dreams--dreams which were painful, not fromany horror in themselves, but from a vague and wearying sense of theirconfusion and absurdity. 

At one time he was pursuing strange people and entering strange housesin the endeavor to unravel the mystery of the telegraphic dispatch; atanother time he was in the church-yard at Ventnor, gazing at theheadstone George had ordered for the grave of his dead wife. Once in thelong, rambling mystery of these dreams he went to the grave, and foundthis headstone gone, and on remonstrating with the stonemason, was toldthat the man had a reason for removing the inscription; a reason thatRobert would some day learn. 

In another dream he saw the grave of Helen Talboys open, and while hewaited, with the cold horror lifting up his hair, to see the dead womanrise and stand before him with her stiff, charnel-house drapery clingingabout her rigid limbs, his uncle's wife tripped gaily put of the opengrave, dressed in the crimson velvet robes in which the artist hadpainted her, and with her ringlets flashing like red gold in theunearthly light that shone about her. 

But into all these dreams the places he had last been in, and the peoplewith whom he had last been concerned, were dimly interwoven--sometimeshis uncle; sometimes Alicia; oftenest of all my lady; the trout streamin Essex; the lime-walk at the Court. Once he was walking in the blackshadows of this long avenue, with Lady Audley hanging on his arm, whensuddenly they heard a great knocking in the distance, and his uncle'swife wound her slender arms around him, crying out that it was the dayof judgment, and that all wicked secrets must now be told. Looking ather as she shrieked this in his ear, he saw that her face had grownghastly white, and that her beautiful golden ringlets were changing intoserpents, and slowly creeping down her fair neck. 

He started from his dream to find that there was some one reallyknocking at the outer door of his chambers. 

It was a dreary, wet morning, the rain beating against the windows, andthe canaries twittering dismally to each other--complaining, perhaps, ofthe bad weather. Robert could not tell how long the person had beenknocking. He had mixed the sound with his dreams, and when he woke hewas only half conscious of other things. 

"It's that stupid Mrs. Maloney, I dare say, " he muttered. "She may knockagain for all I care. Why can't she use her duplicate key, instead ofdragging a man out of bed when he's half dead with fatigue. "

The person, whoever it was, did knock again, and then desisted, apparently tired out; but about a minute afterward a key turned in thedoor. 

"She had her key with her all the time, then, " said Robert. "I'm veryglad I didn't get up. "

The door between the sitting-room and bed-room was half open, and hecould see the laundress bustling about, dusting the furniture, andrearranging things that had never been disarranged. 

"Is that you, Mrs. Maloney?" he asked. 

"Yes, sir, "

"Then why, in goodness' name, did you make that row at the door, whenyou had a key with you all the time?"

"A row at the door, sir?"

"Yes; that infernal knocking. "

"Sure I never knocked, Mister Audley, but walked straight in with mykay--"

"Then who did knock? There's been some one kicking up a row at that doorfor a quarter of an hour, I should think; you must have met him goingdown-stairs. "

"But I'm rather late this morning, sir, for I've been in Mr. Martin'srooms first, and I've come straight from the floor above. "

"Then you didn't see any one at the door, or on the stairs?"

"Not a mortal soul, sir. "

"Was ever anything so provoking?" said Robert. "To think that I shouldhave let this person go away without ascertaining who he was, or what hewanted! How do I know that it was not some one with a message or aletter from George Talboys?"

"Sure if it was, sir, he'll come again, " said Mrs. Maloney, soothingly. 

"Yes, of course, if it was anything of consequence he'll come again, "muttered Robert. The fact was, that from the moment of finding thetelegraphic message at Southampton, all hope of hearing of George hadfaded out of his mind. He felt that there was some mystery involved inthe disappearance of his friend--some treachery toward himself, ortoward George. What if the young man's greedy old father-in-law hadtried to separate them on account of the monetary trust lodged in RobertAudley's hands? Or what if, since even in these civilized days all kindsof unsuspected horrors are constantly committed--what if the old man haddecoyed George down to Southampton, and made away with him in order toget possession of that �20, 000, left in Robert's custody for littleGeorgey's use?

But neither of these suppositions explained the telegraphic message, andit was the telegraphic message which had filled Robert's mind with avague sense of alarm. The postman brought no letter from George Talboys, and the person who had knocked at the door of the chambers did notreturn between seven and nine o'clock, so Robert Audley left FigtreeCourt once more in search of his friend. This time he told the cabman todrive to the Euston Station, and in twenty minutes he was on theplatform, making inquiries about the trains. 

The Liverpool express had started half an hour before he reached thestation, and he had to wait an hour and a quarter for a slow train totake him to his destination. 

Robert Audley chafed cruelly at this delay. Half a dozen vessels mightsail for Australia while he roamed up and down the long platform, tumbling over trucks and porters, and swearing at his ill-luck. 

He bought the _Times_ newspaper, and looked instinctively at the secondcolumn, with a morbid interest in the advertisements of peoplemissing--sons, brothers, and husbands who had left their homes, never toreturn or to be heard of more. 

There was one advertisement of a young man found drowned somewhere onthe Lambeth shore. 

What if that should have been George's fate? No; the telegraphic messageinvolved his father-in-law in the fact of his disappearance, and everyspeculation about him must start from that one point. 

It was eight o'clock in the evening when Robert got into Liverpool; toolate for anything except to make inquiries as to what vessel had sailedwithin the last two days for the antipodes. 

An emigrant ship had sailed at four o'clock that afternoon--the_Victoria Regia_, bound for Melbourne. 

The result of his inquiries amounted to this--If he wanted to find outwho had sailed in the _Victoria Regia_, he must wait till the nextmorning, and apply for information of that vessel. 

Robert Audley was at the office at nine o'clock the next morning, andwas the first person after the clerks who entered it. 

He met with every civility from the clerk to whom he applied. The youngman referred to his books, and running his pen down the list ofpassengers who had sailed in the _Victoria Regia_, told Robert thatthere was no one among them of the name of Talboys. He pushed hisinquiries further. Had any of the passengers entered their names withina short time of the vessel's sailing?

One of the other clerks looked up from his desk as Robert asked thisquestion. Yes, he said; he remembered a young man's coming into theoffice at half-past three o'clock in the afternoon, and paying hispassage money. His name was the last on the list--Thomas Brown. 

Robert Audley shrugged his shoulders. There could have been no possiblereason for George's taking a feigned name. He asked the clerk who hadlast spoken if he could remember the appearance of this Mr. ThomasBrown. 

No; the office was crowded at the time; people were running in and out, and he had not taken any particular notice of this last passenger. 

Robert thanked them for their civility, and wished them good-morning. Ashe was leaving the office, one of the young men called after him:

"Oh, by-the-by, sir, " he said, "I remember one thing about this Mr. Thomas Brown--his arm was in a sling. "

There was nothing more for Robert Audley to do but to return to town. Here-entered his chambers at six o'clock that evening, thoroughly worn outonce more with his useless search. 

Mrs. Maloney brought him his dinner and a pint of wine from a tavern inthe Strand. The evening was raw and chilly, and the laundress hadlighted a good fire in the sitting-room grate. 

After eating about half a mutton-chop, Robert sat with his wine untastedupon the table before him, smoking cigars and staring into the blaze. 

"George Talboys never sailed for Australia, " he said, after long andpainful reflection. "If he is alive, he is still in England; and if heis dead, his body is hidden in some corner of England. "

He sat for hours smoking and thinking--trouble and gloomy thoughtsleaving a dark shadow upon his moody face, which neither the brilliantlight of the gas nor the red blaze of the fire could dispel. 

Very late in the evening he rose from his chair, pushed away the table, wheeled his desk over to the fire-place, took out a sheet of fools-cap, and dipped a pen in the ink. 

But after doing this he paused, leaned his forehead upon his hand, andonce more relapsed into thought. 

"I shall draw up a record of all that has occurred between our goingdown to Essex and to-night, beginning at the very beginning. "

He drew up this record in short, detached sentences, which he numberedas he wrote. 

It ran thus:

"_Journal of Facts connected with the Disappearance of George Talboys, inclusive of Facts which have no apparent Relation to thatCircumstance. _"

In spite of the troubled state of his mind, he was rather inclined to beproud of the official appearance of this heading. He sat for some timelooking at it with affection, and with the feather of his pen in hismouth. "Upon my word, " he said, "I begin to think that I ought to havepursued my profession, instead of dawdling my life away as I have done. "

He smoked half a cigar before he had got his thoughts in proper train, and then began to write:

"1. I write to Alicia, proposing to take George down to the Court. "

"2. Alicia writes, objecting to the visit, on the part of Lady Audley. "

"3. We go to Essex in spite of that objection. I see my lady. My ladyrefuses to be introduced to George on that particular evening on thescore of fatigue. "

"4. Sir Michael invites George and me to dinner for the followingevening. "

"5. My lady receives a telegraphic dispatch the next morning whichsummons her to London. "

"6. Alicia shows me a letter from my lady, in which she requests to betold when I and my friend, Mr. Talboys, mean to leave Essex. To thisletter is subjoined a postscript, reiterating the above request. "

"7. We call at the Court, and ask to see the house. My lady's apartmentsare locked. "

"8. We get at the aforesaid apartments by means of a secret passage, theexistence of which is unknown to my lady. In one of the rooms we findher portrait. "

"9. George is frightened at the storm. His conduct is exceedinglystrange for the rest of the evening. "

"10. George quite himself again the following morning. I propose leavingAudley Court immediately; he prefers remaining till the evening. "

"11. We go out fishing. George leaves me to go to the Court. "

"12. The last positive information I can obtain of him in Essex is atthe Court, where the servant says he thinks Mr. Talboys told him hewould go and look for my lady in the grounds. "

"13. I receive information about him at the station which may or may notbe correct. "

"14. I hear of him positively once more at Southampton, where, accordingto his father-in-law, he had been for an hour on the previous night. "

"15. The telegraphic message. "

When Robert Audley had completed this brief record, which he drew upwith great deliberation, and with frequent pauses for reflection, alterations and erasures, he sat for a long time contemplating thewritten page. 

At last he read it carefully over, stopping at some of the numberedparagraphs, and marking some of them with a pencil cross; then he foldedthe sheet of foolscap, went over to a cabinet on the opposite side ofthe room, unlocked it, and placed the paper in that very pigeon-holeinto which he had thrust Alicia's letter--the pigeon-hole marked_Important_. 

Having done this, he returned to his easy-chair by the fire, pushed awayhis desk, and lighted a cigar. "It's as dark as midnight from first tolast, " he said; "and the clew to the mystery must be found either atSouthampton or in Essex. Be it how it may, my mind is made up. I shallfirst go to Audley Court, and look for George Talboys in a narrowradius. "

CHAPTER XIV. 

PHOEBE'S SUITOR. 

"Mr. George Talboys. --Any person who has met this gentleman since the7th inst. , or who possesses any information respecting him subsequent tothat date, will be liberally rewarded on communicating with A. Z. , 14Chancery Lane. "

Sir Michael Audley read the above advertisement in the second column ofthe _Times_, as he sat at breakfast with my lady and Alicia two or threedays after Robert's return to town. 

"Robert's friend has not yet been heard of, then, " said the baronet, after reading the advertisement to his wife and daughter. 

"As for that, " replied my lady, "I cannot help wondering that any onecan be silly enough to advertise for him. The young man was evidently ofa restless, roving disposition--a sort of Bamfyld Moore Carew of modernlife, whom no attraction could ever keep in one spot. "

Though the advertisement appeared three successive times, the party atthe Court attached very little importance to Mr. Talboys disappearance;and after this one occasion his name was never again mentioned by eitherSir Michael, my lady, or Alicia. 

Alicia Audley and her pretty stepmother were by no means any betterfriends after that quiet evening on which the young barrister had dinedat the Court. 

"She is a vain, frivolous, heartless little coquette, " said Alicia, addressing herself to her Newfoundland dog Caesar, who was the solerecipient of the young lady's confidences; "she is a practiced andconsummate flirt, Caesar; and not contented with setting her yellowringlets and her silly giggle at half the men in Essex, she must needsmake that stupid cousin of mine dance attendance upon her. I haven'tcommon patience with her. "

In proof of which last assertion Miss Alice Audley treated herstepmother with such very palpable impertinence that Sir Michael felthimself called upon to remonstrate with his only daughter. 

"The poor little woman is very sensitive, you know, Alicia, " the baronetsaid, gravely, "and she feels your conduct most acutely. "

"I don't believe it a bit, papa, " answered Alicia, stoutly. "You thinkher sensitive because she has soft little white hands, and big blue eyeswith long lashes, and all manner of affected, fantastical ways, whichyou stupid men call fascinating. Sensitive! Why, I've seen her do cruelthings with those slender white fingers, and laugh at the pain sheinflicted. I'm very sorry, papa, " she added, softened a little by herfather's look of distress; "though she has come between us, and robbedpoor Alicia of the love of that dear, generous heart, I wish I couldlike her for your sake; but I can't, I can't, and no more can Caesar. She came up to him once with her red lips apart, and her little whiteteeth glistening between them, and stroked his great head with her softhand; but if I had not had hold of his collar, he would have flown ather throat and strangled her. She may bewitch every man in Essex, butshe'd never make friends with my dog. "

"Your dog shall be shot, " answered Sir Michael angrily, "if his vicioustemper ever endangers Lucy. "

The Newfoundland rolled his eyes slowly round in the direction of thespeaker, as if he understood every word that had been said. Lady Audleyhappened to enter the room at this very moment, and the animal cowereddown by the side of his mistress with a suppressed growl. There wassomething in the manner of the dog which was, if anything, moreindicative of terror than of fury; incredible as it appears that Caesarshould be frightened by so fragile a creature as Lucy Audley. 

Amicable as was my lady's nature, she could not live long at the Courtwithout discovering Alicia's dislike to her. She never alluded to it butonce; then, shrugging her graceful white shoulders, she said, with asigh:

"It seems very hard that you cannot love me, Alicia, for I have neverbeen used to make enemies; but since it seems that it must be so, Icannot help it. If we cannot be friends, let us be neutral. You won'ttry to injure me?"

"Injure you!" exclaimed Alicia; "how should I injure you?"

"You'll not try to deprive me of your father's affection?"

"I may not be as amiable as you are, my lady, and I may not have thesame sweet smiles and pretty words for every stranger I meet, but I amnot capable of a contemptible meanness; and even if I were, I think youare so secure of my father's love, that nothing but your own act willever deprive you of it. "

"What a severe creature you are, Alicia!" said my lady, making a littlegrimace. "I suppose you mean to infer by all that, that I'm deceitful. Why, I can't help smiling at people, and speaking prettily to them. Iknow I'm no _better_ than the rest of the world; but I can't help it ifI'm _pleasanter_. It's constitutional. "

Alicia having thus entirely shut the door upon all intimacy between LadyAudley and herself, and Sir Michael being chiefly occupied inagricultural pursuits and manly sports, which kept him away from home, it was perhaps natural that my lady, being of an eminently socialdisposition, should find herself thrown a good deal upon herwhite-eyelashed maid for society. 

Phoebe Marks was exactly the sort of a girl who is generally promotedfrom the post of lady's maid to that of companion. She had justsufficient education to enable her to understand her mistress when Lucychose to allow herself to run riot in a species of intellectualtarantella, in which her tongue went mad to the sound of its own rattle, as the Spanish dancer at the noise of his castanets. Phoebe knew enoughof the French language to be able to dip into the yellow-paper-coverednovels which my lady ordered from the Burlington Arcade, and todiscourse with her mistress upon the questionable subjects of theseromances. The likeness which the lady's maid bore to Lucy Audley was, perhaps, a point of sympathy between the two women. It was not to becalled a striking likeness; a stranger might have seen them bothtogether, and yet have failed to remark it. But there were certain dimand shadowy lights in which, meeting Phoebe Marks gliding softly throughthe dark oak passages of the Court, or under the shrouded avenues in thegarden, you might have easily mistaken her for my lady. 

Sharp October winds were sweeping the leaves from the limes in the longavenue, and driving them in withered heaps with a ghostly rustling noisealong the dry gravel walks. The old well must have been half choked upwith the leaves that drifted about it, and whirled in eddying circlesinto its black, broken mouth. On the still bosom of the fish-pond thesame withered leaves slowly rotted away, mixing themselves with thetangled weeds that discolored the surface of the water. All thegardeners Sir Michael could employ could not keep the impress ofautumn's destroying hand from the grounds about the Court. 

"How I hate this desolate month!" my lady said, as she walked about thegarden, shivering beneath her sable mantle. "Every thing dropping toruin and decay, and the cold flicker of the sun lighting up the uglinessof the earth, as the glare of gas-lamps lights the wrinkles of an oldwoman. Shall I ever grow old, Phoebe? Will my hair ever drop off as theleaves are falling from those trees, and leave me wan and bare likethem? What is to become of me when I grow old?"

She shivered at the thought of this more than she had done at the cold, wintry breeze, and muffling herself closely in her fur, walked so fastthat her maid had some difficulty in keeping up with her. 

"Do you remember, Phoebe, " she said, presently, relaxing her pace, "doyou remember that French story we read--the story of a beautiful womanwho had committed some crime--I forget what--in the zenith of her powerand loveliness, when all Paris drank to her every night, and when thepeople ran away from the carriage of the king to flock about hers, andget a peep at her face? Do you remember how she kept the secret of whatshe had done for nearly half a century, spending her old age in herfamily chateau, beloved and honored by all the province as anuncanonized saint and benefactress to the poor; and how, when her hairwas white, and her eyes almost blind with age, the secret was revealedthrough one of those strange accidents by which such secrets always arerevealed in romances, and she was tried, found guilty, and condemned tobe burned alive? The king who had worn her colors was dead and gone; thecourt of which she had been a star had passed away; powerfulfunctionaries and great magistrates, who might perhaps have helped her, were moldering in the graves; brave young cavaliers, who would have diedfor her, had fallen upon distant battle-fields; she had lived to see theage to which she had belonged fade like a dream; and she went to thestake, followed by only a few ignorant country people, who forgot allher bounties, and hooted at her for a wicked sorceress. "

"I don't care for such dismal stories, my lady, " said Phoebe Marks witha shudder. "One has no need to read books to give one the horrors inthis dull place. "

Lady Audley shrugged her shoulders and laughed at her maid's candor. 

"It is a dull place, Phoebe, " she said, "though it doesn't do to say soto my dear old husband. Though I am the wife of one of the mostinfluential men in the county, I don't know that I wasn't nearly as welloff at Mr. Dawson's; and yet it's something to wear sables that costsixty guineas, and have a thousand pounds spent on the decoration ofone's apartments. "

Treated as a companion by her mistress, in the receipt of the mostliberal wages, and with perquisites such as perhaps lady's maid neverhad before, it was strange that Phoebe Marks should wish to leave hersituation; but it was not the less a fact that she was anxious toexchange all the advantages of Audley Court for the very unpromisingprospect which awaited her as the wife of her Cousin Luke. 

The young man had contrived in some manner to associate himself with theimproved fortunes of his sweetheart. He had never allowed Phoebe anypeace till she had obtained for him, by the aid of my lady'sinterference, a situation as undergroom of the Court. 

He never rode out with either Alicia or Sir Michael; but on one of thefew occasions upon which my lady mounted the pretty little graythoroughbred reserved for her use, he contrived to attend her in herride. He saw enough, in the very first half hour they were out, todiscover that, graceful as Lucy Audley might look in her long blue clothhabit, she was a timid horsewoman, and utterly unable to manage theanimal she rode. 

Lady Audley remonstrated with her maid upon her folly in wishing tomarry the uncouth groom. 

The two women were seated together over the fire in my lady'sdressing-room, the gray sky closing in upon the October afternoon, andthe black tracery of ivy darkening the casement windows. 

"You surely are not in love with the awkward, ugly creature are you, Phoebe?" asked my lady sharply. 

The girl was sitting on a low stool at her mistress feet. She did notanswer my lady's question immediately, but sat for some time lookingvacantly into the red abyss in the hollow fire. 

Presently she said, rather as if she had been thinking aloud thananswering Lucy's question:

"I don't think I can love him. We have been together from children, andI promised, when I was little better than fifteen, that I'd be his wife. I daren't break that promise now. There have been times when I've madeup the very sentence I meant to say to him, telling him that I couldn'tkeep my faith with him; but the words have died upon my lips, and I'vesat looking at him, with a choking sensation, in my throat that wouldn'tlet me speak. I daren't refuse to marry him. I've often watched andwatched him, as he has sat slicing away at a hedge-stake with his greatclasp-knife, till I have thought that it is just such men as he who havedecoyed their sweethearts into lonely places, and murdered them forbeing false to their word. When he was a boy he was always violent andrevengeful. I saw him once take up that very knife in a quarrel with hismother. I tell you, my lady, I must marry him. "

"You silly girl, you shall do nothing of the kind!" answered Lucy. "Youthink he'll murder you, do you? Do you think, then, if murder is in him, you would be any safer as his wife? If you thwarted him, or made himjealous; if he wanted to marry another woman, or to get hold of somepoor, pitiful bit of money of yours, couldn't he murder you then? I tellyou you sha'n't marry him, Phoebe. In the first place I hate the man;and, in the next place I can't afford to part with you. We'll give him afew pounds and send him about his business. "

Phoebe Marks caught my lady's hand in hers, and clasped themconvulsively. 

"My lady--my good, kind mistress!" she cried, vehemently, "don't try tothwart me in this--don't ask me to thwart him. I tell you I must marryhim. You don't know what he is. It will be my ruin, and the ruin ofothers, if I break my word. I must marry him!"

"Very well, then, Phoebe, " answered her mistress, "I can't oppose you. There must be some secret at the bottom of all this. " "There is, mylady, " said the girl, with her face turned away from Lucy. 

"I shall be very sorry to lose you; but I have promised to stand yourfriend in all things. What does your cousin mean to do for a livingwhen, you are married?"

"He would like to take a public house. "

"Then he shall take a public house, and the sooner he drinks himself todeath the better. Sir Michael dines at a bachelor's party at MajorMargrave's this evening, and my step-daughter is away with her friendsat the Grange. You can bring your cousin into the drawing-room afterdinner, and I'll tell him what I mean to do for him. "

"You are very good, my lady, " Phoebe answered with a sigh. 

Lady Audley sat in the glow of firelight and wax candles in theluxurious drawing-room; the amber damask cushions of the sofacontrasting with her dark violet velvet dress, and her rippling hairfalling about her neck in a golden haze. Everywhere around her were theevidences of wealth and splendor; while in strange contrast to all this, and to her own beauty; the awkward groom stood rubbing his bullet headas my lady explained to him what she intended to do for her confidentialmaid. Lucy's promises were very liberal, and she had expected that, uncouth as the man was, he would, in his own rough manner, haveexpressed his gratitude. 

To her surprise he stood staring at the floor without uttering a word inanswer to her offer. Phoebe was standing close to his elbow, and seemeddistressed at the man's rudeness. 

"Tell my lady how thankful you are, Luke, " she said. 

"But I'm not so over and above thankful, " answered her lover, savagely. "Fifty pound ain't much to start a public. You'll make it a hundred, mylady?"

"I shall do nothing of the kind, " said Lady Audley, her clear blue eyesflashing with indignation, "and I wonder at your impertinence in askingit. "

"Oh, yes, you will, though, " answered Luke, with quiet insolence thathad a hidden meaning. "You'll make it a hundred, my lady. "

Lady Audley rose from her seat, looked the man steadfastly in the facetill his determined gaze sunk under hers; then walking straight up toher maid, she said in a high, piercing voice, peculiar to her in momentsof intense agitation:

"Phoebe Marks, you have told _this man_!"

The girl fell on her knees at my lady's feet. 

"Oh, forgive me, forgive me!" she cried. "He forced it from me, or Iwould never, never have told!"

CHAPTER XV. 

ON THE WATCH. 

Upon a lowering morning late in November, with the yellow fog low uponthe flat meadows, and the blinded cattle groping their way through thedim obscurity, and blundering stupidly against black and leaflesshedges, or stumbling into ditches, undistinguishable in the hazyatmosphere; with the village church looming brown and dingy through theuncertain light; with every winding path and cottage door, every gableend and gray old chimney, every village child and straggling cur seemingstrange and weird of aspect in the semi-darkness, Phoebe Marks and herCousin Luke made their way through the churchyard of Audley, andpresented themselves before a shivering curate, whose surplice hung indamp folds, soddened by the morning mist, and whose temper was notimproved by his having waited five minutes for the bride and bridegroom. 

Luke Marks, dressed in his ill-fitting Sunday clothes, looked by nomeans handsomer than in his every-day apparel; but Phoebe, arrayed in arustling silk of delicate gray, that had been worn about half a dozentimes by her mistress, looked, as the few spectators of the ceremonyremarked, "quite the lady. "

A very dim and shadowy lady, vague of outline, and faint of coloring, with eyes, hair, complexion and dress all melting into such pale anduncertain shades that, in the obscure light of the foggy Novembermorning a superstitious stranger might have mistaken the bride for theghost of some other bride, dead and buried in the vault below thechurch. 

Mr. Luke Marks, the hero of the occasion, thought very little of allthis. He had secured the wife of his choice, and the object of hislife-long ambition--a public house. My lady had provided theseventy-five pounds necessary for the purchase of the good-will andfixtures, with the stock of ales and spirits, of a small inn in thecenter of a lonely little village, perched on the summit of a hill, andcalled Mount Stanning. It was not a very pretty house to look at; it hadsomething of a tumble-down, weather-beaten appearance, standing, as itdid, upon high ground, sheltered only by four or five bare and overgrownpoplars, that had shot up too rapidly for their strength, and had ablighted, forlorn look in consequence. The wind had had its own way withthe Castle Inn, and had sometimes made cruel use of its power. It wasthe wind that battered and bent the low, thatched roofs of outhouses andstables, till they hung over and lurched forward, as a slouched hathangs over the low forehead of some village ruffian; it was the windthat shook and rattled the wooden shutters before the narrow casements, till they hung broken and dilapidated upon their rusty hinges; it wasthe wind that overthrew the pigeon house, and broke the vane that hadbeen imprudently set up to tell the movements of its mightiness; it, wasthe wind that made light of any little bit of wooden trellis-work, orcreeping plant, or tiny balcony, or any modest decoration whatsoever, and tore and scattered it in its scornful fury; it was the wind thatleft mossy secretions on the discolored surface of the plaster walls; itwas the wind, in short, that shattered, and ruined, and rent, andtrampled upon the tottering pile of buildings, and then flew shriekingoff, to riot and glory in its destroying strength. The dispiritedproprietor grew tired of his long struggle with this mighty enemy; sothe wind was left to work its own will, and the Castle Inn fell slowlyto decay. But for all that it suffered without, it was not the lessprosperous within doors. Sturdy drovers stopped to drink at the littlebar; well-to-do farmers spent their evenings and talked politics in thelow, wainscoted parlor, while their horses munched some suspiciousmixture of moldy hay and tolerable beans in the tumble-down stables. Sometimes even the members of the Audley hunt stopped to drink and baittheir horses at the Castle Inn; while, on one grand andnever-to-be-forgotten occasion, a dinner had been ordered by the masterof the hounds for some thirty gentlemen, and the proprietor drivennearly mad by the importance of the demand. 

So Luke Marks, who was by no means troubled with an eye for thebeautiful, thought himself very fortunate in becoming the landlord ofthe Castle Inn, Mount Stanning. 

A chaise-cart was waiting in the fog to convey the bride and bridegroomto their new home; and a few of the villagers, who had known Phoebe froma child, were lingering around the churchyard gate to bid her good-by. Her pale eyes were still paler from the tears she had shed, and the redrims which surrounded them. The bridegroom was annoyed at thisexhibition of emotion. 

"What are you blubbering for, lass?" he said, fiercely. "If you didn'twant to marry me you should have told me so. I ain't going to murderyou, am I?"

The lady's maid shivered as he spoke to her, and dragged her little silkmantle closely around her. 

"You're cold in all this here finery, " said Luke, staring at her costlydress with no expression of good-will. "Why can't women dress accordingto their station? You won't have no silk gownds out of my pocket, I cantell you. "

He lifted the shivering girl into the chaise, wrapped a rough great-coatabout her, and drove off through the yellow fog, followed by a feeblecheer from two or three urchins clustered around the gate. 

A new maid was brought from London to replace Phoebe Marks about theperson of my lady--a very showy damsel, who wore a black satin gown, androse-colored ribbons in her cap, and complained bitterly of the dullnessof Audley Court. 

But Christmas brought visitors to the rambling old mansion. A countrysquire and his fat wife occupied the tapestried chamber; merry girlsscampered up and down the long passages, and young men stared out of thelatticed windows, watching for southerly winds and cloudy skies; therewas not an empty stall in the roomy old stables; an extempore forge hadbeen set up in the yard for the shoeing of hunters; yelping dogs madethe place noisy with their perpetual clamor; strange servants herdedtogether on the garret story; and every little casement hidden awayunder some pointed gable, and every dormer window in the quaint oldroof, glimmered upon the winter's night with its separate taper, till, coming suddenly upon Audley Court, the benighted stranger, misled by thelight, and noise, and bustle of the place, might have easily fallen intoyoung Marlowe's error, and have mistaken the hospitable mansion for agood, old-fashioned inn, such as have faded from this earth since thelast mail coach and prancing tits took their last melancholy journey tothe knacker's yard. 

Among other visitors Mr. Robert Audley came down to Essex for thehunting season, with half a dozen French novels, a case of cigars, andthree pounds of Turkish tobacco in his portmanteau. 

The honest young country squires, who talked all breakfast time ofFlying Dutchman fillies and Voltigeur colts; of glorious runs of sevenhours' hard riding over three counties, and a midnight homeward ride ofthirty miles upon their covert hacks; and who ran away from thewell-spread table with their mouths full of cold sirloin, to look atthat off pastern, or that sprained forearm, or the colt that had justcome back from the veterinary surgeon's, set down Robert Audley, dawdling over a slice of bread and marmalade, as a person utterlyunworthy of any remark whatsoever. 

The young barrister had brought a couple of dogs with him; and thecountry gentleman who gave fifty pounds for a pointer; and traveled acouple of hundred miles to look at a leash of setters before be struck abargain, laughed aloud at the two miserable curs, one of which hadfollowed Robert Audley through Chancery Lane, and half the length ofHolborn; while his companion had been taken by the barrister _vi etarmis_ from a coster-monger who was ill-using him. And as Robertfurthermore insisted on having these two deplorable animals under hiseasy-chair in the drawing-room, much to the annoyance of my lady, who, as we know, hated all dogs, the visitors at Audley Court looked upon thebaronet's nephew as an inoffensive species of maniac. 

During other visits to the Court Robert Audley had made a feeble show ofjoining in the sports of the merry assembly. He had jogged across half adozen ploughed fields on a quiet gray pony of Sir Michael's, and drawingup breathless and panting at door of some farm-house, had expressed hisintention of following the hounds no further _that_ morning. He had evengone so far as to put on, with great labor, a pair of skates, with aview to taking a turn on the frozen surface of the fishpond, and hadfallen ignominously at the first attempt, lying placidly extended on theflat of his back until such time as the bystanders should think fit topick him up. He had occupied the back seat in a dog-cart during apleasant morning drive, vehemently protesting against being taken uphill, and requiring the vehicle to be stopped every ten minutes in orderto readjust the cushions. But this year he showed no inclination for anyof these outdoor amusements, and he spent his time entirely in loungingin the drawing-room, and making himself agreeable, after his own lazyfashion, to my lady and Alicia. 

Lady Audley received her nephew's attentions in that gracefulhalf-childish fashion which her admirers found so charming; but Aliciawas indignant at the change in her cousin's conduct. 

"You were always a poor, spiritless fellow, Bob, " said the young lady, contemptuously, as she bounced into the drawing-room in herriding-habit, after a hunting breakfast, from which Robert had absentedhimself, preferring a cup of tea in my lady's boudoir; "but this year Idon't know what has come to you. You are good for nothing but to hold askein of silk or read Tennyson to Lady Audley. "

"My dear, hasty, impetuous Alicia, don't be violent, " said the young manimploringly. "A conclusion isn't a five-barred gate; and you needn'tgive your judgment its head, as you give your mare Atalanta hers, whenyou're flying across country at the heels of an unfortunate fox. LadyAudley interests me, and my uncle's county friends do not. Is that asufficient answer, Alicia?"

Miss Audley gave her head a little scornful toss. 

"It's as good an answer as I shall ever get from, you, Bob, " she said, impatiently; "but pray amuse yourself in your own way; loll in aneasy-chair all day, with those two absurd dogs asleep on your knees;spoil my lady's window-curtains with your cigars and annoy everybody inthe house with your stupid, inanimate countenance. "

Mr. Robert Audley opened his handsome gray eyes to their widest extentat this tirade, and looked helplessly at Miss Alicia. 

The young lady was walking up and down the room, slashing the skirt ofher habit with her riding-whip. Her eyes sparkled with an angry flash, and a crimson glow burned under her clear brown skin. The youngbarrister knew very well, by these diagnostics, that his cousin was in apassion. 

"Yes, " she repeated, "your stupid, inanimate countenance. Do you know, Robert Audley, that with all your mock amiability, you are brimful ofconceit and superciliousness. You look down upon our amusements; youlift up your eyebrows, and shrug your shoulders, and throw yourself backin your chair, and wash your hands of us and our pleasures. You are aselfish, cold-hearted Sybarite--"

"Alicia! Good--gracious--me!"

The morning paper dropped out of his hands, and he sat feebly staring athis assailant. 

"Yes, _selfish_, Robert Audley! You take home half-starved dogs, becauseyou like half-starved dogs. You stoop down, and pat the head of everygood-for-nothing cur in the village street, because you likegood-for-nothing curs. You notice little children, and give themhalfpence, because it amuses you to do so. But you lift your eyebrows aquarter of a yard when poor Sir Harry Towers tells a stupid story, andstare the poor fellow out of countenance with your lazy insolence. As toyour amiability, you would let a man hit you, and say 'Thank you' forthe blow, rather than take the trouble to hit him again; but youwouldn't go half a mile out of your way to serve your dearest friend. Sir Harry is worth twenty of you, though he _did_ write to ask if mym-a-i-r Atalanta had recovered from the sprain. He can't spell, or lifthis eyebrows to the roots of his hair; but he would go through fire andwater for the girl he loves; while _you_--"

At this very point, when Robert was most prepared to encounter hiscousin's violence, and when Miss Alicia seemed about to make herstrongest attack, the young lady broke down altogether, and burst intotears. 

Robert sprang from his easy-chair, upsetting his dogs on the carpet. 

"Alicia, my darling, what is it?"

"It's--it's--it's the feather of my hat that got into my eyes, " sobbedhis cousin; and before he could investigate the truth of this assertionAlicia had darted out of the room. 

Robert Audley was preparing to follow her, when he heard her voice inthe court-yard below, amidst the tramping of horses and the clamor ofvisitors, dogs, and grooms. Sir Harry Towers, the most aristocraticyoung sportsman in the neighborhood, had just taken her little foot inhis hand as she sprung into her saddle. 

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Robert, as he watched the merry party ofequestrians until they disappeared under the archway. "What does allthis mean? How charmingly she sits her horse! What a pretty figure, too, and a fine, candid, brown, rosy face: but to fly at a fellow like that, without the least provocation! That's the consequence of letting a girlfollow the hounds. She learns to look at everything in life as she doesat six feet of timber or a sunk fence; she goes through the world as shegoes across country--straight ahead, and over everything. Such a nicegirl as she might have been, too, if she'd been brought up in FigtreeCourt! If ever I marry, and have daughters (which remote contingency mayHeaven forefend!) they shall be educated in Paper Buildings, take theirsole exercise in the Temple Gardens, and they shall never go beyond thegates till they are marriageable, when I will walk them straight acrossFleet street to St. Dunstan's church, and deliver them into the hands oftheir husbands. "

With such reflections as these did Mr. Robert Audley beguile the timeuntil my lady re-entered the drawing-room, fresh and radiant in herelegant morning costume, her yellow curls glistening with the perfumedwaters in which she had bathed, and her velvet-covered sketch-book inher arms. She planted a little easel upon a table by the window, seatedherself before it, and began to mix the colors upon her palette, Robertwatching her out of his half-closed eyes. 

"You are sure my cigar does not annoy you, Lady Audley?"

"Oh, no indeed; I am quite used to the smell of tobacco. Mr. Dawson, thesurgeon, smoked all the evening when I lived in his house. "

"Dawson is a good fellow, isn't he?" Robert asked, carelessly. 

My lady burst into her pretty, gushing laugh. 

"The dearest of good creatures, " she said. "He paid me five-and-twentypounds a year--only fancy, five-and-twenty pounds! That made six poundsfive a quarter. How well I remember receiving the money--six dingy oldsovereigns, and a little heap of untidy, dirty silver, that camestraight from the till in the surgery! And then how glad I was to getit! While _now_--I can't help laughing while I think of it--these colorsI am using cost a guinea each at Winsor & Newton's--the carmine andultramarine thirty shillings. I gave Mrs. Dawson one of my silk dressesthe other day, and the poor thing kissed me, and the surgeon carried thebundle home under his cloak. "

My lady laughed long and joyously at the thought. Her colors were mixed;she was copying a water-colored sketch of an impossibly Turneresqueatmosphere. The sketch was nearly finished, and she had only to put insome critical little touches with the most delicate of her sablepencils. She prepared herself daintily for the work, looking sideways atthe painting. 

All this time Mr. Robert Audley's eyes were fixed intently on her prettyface. 

"It _is_ a change, " he said, after so long a pause that my lady mighthave forgotten what she had been talking of, "it _is_ a change! Somewomen would do a great deal to accomplish such a change as that. "

Lady Audley's clear blue eyes dilated as she fixed them suddenly on theyoung barrister. The wintry sunlight, gleaming full upon her face from aside window, lit up the azure of those beautiful eyes, till their colorseemed to flicker and tremble betwixt blue and green, as the opal tintsof the sea change upon a summer's day. The small brush fell from herhand, and blotted out the peasant's face under a widening circle ofcrimson lake. 

Robert Audley was tenderly coaxing the crumbled leaf of his cigar withcautious fingers. 

"My friend at the corner of Chancery Lane has not given me such goodManillas as usual, " he murmured. "If ever you smoke, my dear aunt (and Iam told that many women take a quiet weed under the rose), be verycareful how you choose your cigars. "

My lady drew a long breath, picked up her brush, and laughed aloud atRobert's advice. 

"What an eccentric creature you are, Mr. Audley I Do you know that yousometimes puzzle me--"

"Not more than you puzzle me, dear aunt. "

My lady put away her colors and sketch book, and seating herself in thedeep recess of another window, at a considerable distance from RobertAudley, settled to a large piece of Berlin-wool work--a piece ofembroidery which the Penelopes of ten or twelve years ago were very fondof exercising their ingenuity upon--the Olden Time at Bolton Abbey. 

Seated in the embrasure of this window, my lady was separated fromRobert Audley by the whole length of the room, and the young man couldonly catch an occasional glimpse of her fair face, surrounded by itsbright aureole of hazy, golden hair. 

Robert Audley had been a week at the Court, but as yet neither he nor mylady had mentioned the name of George Talboys. 

This morning, however, after exhausting the usual topics ofconversation, Lady Audley made an inquiry about her nephew's friend;"That Mr. George--George--" she said, hesitating. 

"Talboys, " suggested Robert. 

"Yes, to be sure--Mr. George Talboys. Rather a singular name, by-the-by, and certainly, by all accounts, a very singular person. Have you seenhim lately?"

"I have not seen him since the 7th of September last--the day upon whichhe left me asleep in the meadows on the other side of the village. "

"Dear me!" exclaimed my lady, "what a very strange young man this Mr. George Talboys must be! Pray tell me all about it. "

Robert told, in a few words, of his visit to Southampton and his journeyto Liverpool, with their different results, my lady listening veryattentively. 

In order to tell this story to better advantage, the young man left hischair, and, crossing the room, took up his place opposite to LadyAudley, in the embrasure of the window. 

"And what do you infer from all this?" asked my lady, after a pause. 

"It is so great a mystery to me, " he answered, "that I scarcely dare todraw any conclusion whatever; but in the obscurity I think I can gropemy way to two suppositions, which to me seem almost certainties. "

"And they are--"

"First, that George Talboys never went beyond Southampton. Second, thathe never went to Southampton at all. "

"But you traced him there. His father-in-law had seen him. "

"I have reason to doubt his father-in-law's integrity. "

"Good gracious me!" cried my lady, piteously. "What do you mean by allthis?"

"Lady Audley, " answered the young man, gravely, "I have never practicedas a barrister. I have enrolled myself in the ranks of a profession, themembers of which hold solemn responsibilities and have sacred duties toperform; and I have shrunk from those responsibilities and duties, as Ihave from all the fatigues of this troublesome life. But we aresometimes forced into the very position we have most avoided, and I havefound myself lately compelled to think of these things. Lady Audley, didyou ever study the theory of circumstantial evidence?"

"How can you ask a poor little woman about such horrid things?"exclaimed my lady. 

"Circumstantial evidence, " continued the young man, as if he scarcelyheard Lady Audley's interruption--"that wonderful fabric which is builtout of straws collected at every point of the compass, and which is yetstrong enough to hang a man. Upon what infinitesimal trifles maysometimes hang the whole secret of some wicked mystery, inexplicableheretofore to the wisest upon the earth! A scrap of paper, a shred ofsome torn garment, the button off a coat, a word dropped incautiouslyfrom the overcautious lips of guilt, the fragment of a letter, theshutting or opening of a door, a shadow on a window-blind, the accuracyof a moment tested by one of Benson's watches--a thousand circumstancesso slight as to be forgotten by the criminal, but links of iron in thewonderful chain forged by the science of the detective officer; and lo!the gallows is built up; the solemn bell tolls through the dismal grayof the early morning, the drop creaks under the guilty feet, and thepenalty of crime is paid. "

Faint shadows of green and crimson fell upon my lady's face from thepainted escutcheons in the mullioned window by which she sat; but everytrace of the natural color of that face had faded out, leaving it aghastly ashen gray. 

Sitting quietly in her chair, her head fallen back upon the amber damaskcushions, and her little hands lying powerless in her lap, Lady Audleyhad fainted away. 

"The radius grows narrower day by day, " said Robert Audley. "GeorgeTalboys never reached Southampton. "

CHAPTER XVI. 

ROBERT AUDLEY GETS HIS CONGE. 

The Christmas week was over, and one by one the country visitors droppedaway from Audley Court. The fat squire and his wife abandoned the gray, tapestried chamber, and left the black-browed warriors looming from thewall to scowl upon and threaten new guests, or to glare vengefully uponvacancy. The merry girls on the second story packed, or caused to bepacked, their trunks and imperials, and tumbled gauze ball-dresses weretaken home that had been brought fresh to Audley. Blundering old familychariots, with horses whose untrimmed fetlocks told of rougher work thaneven country roads, were brought round to the broad space before thegrim oak door, and laden with chaotic heaps of womanly luggage. Prettyrosy faces peeped out of carriage windows to smile the last farewellupon the group at the hall door, as the vehicle rattled and rumbledunder the ivied archway. Sir Michael was in request everywhere. Shakinghands with the young sportsmen; kissing the rosy-cheeked girls;sometimes even embracing portly matrons who came to thank him for theirpleasant visit; everywhere genial, hospitable, generous, happy, andbeloved, the baronet hurried from room to room, from the hall to thestables, from the stables to the court-yard, from the court-yard to thearched gateway to speed the parting guest. 

My lady's yellow curls flashed hither and thither like wandering gleamsof sunshine on these busy days of farewell. Her great blue eyes had apretty, mournful look, in charming unison with the soft pressure of herlittle hand, and that friendly, though perhaps rather stereotypedspeech, in which she told her visitors how she was so sorry to losethem, and how she didn't know what she should do till they came oncemore to enliven the court by their charming society. 

But however sorry my lady might be to lose her visitors, there was atleast one guest whose society she was not deprived of. Robert Audleyshowed no intention of leaving his uncle's house. He had no professionalduties, he said; Figtree Court was delightfully shady in hot weather, but there was a sharp corner round which the wind came in the summermonths, armed with avenging rheumatisms and influenzas. Everybody was sogood to him at the Court, that really he had no inclination to hurryaway. 

Sir Michael had but one answer to this: "Stay, my dear boy; stay, mydear Bob, as long as ever you like. I have no son, and you stand to mein the place of one. Make yourself agreeable to Lucy, and make the Courtyour home as long as you live. "

To which Robert would merely reply by grasping his uncle's handvehemently, and muttering something about "a jolly old prince. "

It was to be observed that there was sometimes a certain vague sadnessin the young man's tone when he called Sir Michael "a jolly old prince;"some shadow of affectionate regret that brought a mist into Robert'seyes, as he sat in a corner of the room looking thoughtfully at thewhite-bearded baronet. 

Before the last of the young sportsmen departed, Sir Harry Towersdemanded and obtained an interview with Miss Alicia Audley in the oaklibrary--an interview in which considerable emotion was displayed by thestalwart young fox-hunter; so much emotion, indeed, and of such agenuine and honest character, that Alicia fairly broke down as she toldhim she should forever esteem and respect him for his true and nobleheart, but that he must never, never, unless he wished to cause her themost cruel distress, ask more from her than this esteem and respect. 

Sir Harry left the library by the French window opening into thepond-garden. He strolled into that very lime-walk which George Talboyshad compared to an avenue in a churchyard, and under the leafless treesfought the battle of his brave young heart. 

"What a fool I am to feel it like this!" he cried, stamping his footupon the frosty ground. "I always knew it would be so; I always knewthat she was a hundred times too good for me. God bless her! How noblyand tenderly she spoke; how beautiful she looked with the crimsonblushes under her brown skin, and the tears in her big, grayeyes--almost as handsome as the day she took the sunk fence, and let meput the brush in her hat as we rode home! God bless her! I can get overanything as long as she doesn't care for that sneaking lawyer. But Icouldn't stand that. "

That sneaking lawyer, by which appellation Sir Harry alluded to Mr. Robert Audley, was standing in the hall, looking at a map of the midlandcounties, when Alicia came out of the library, with red eyes, after herinterview with the fox-hunting baronet. 

Robert, who was short-sighted, had his eyes within half an inch of thesurface of the map as the young lady approached him. 

"Yes, " he said, "Norwich _is_ in Norfolk, and that fool, young Vincent, said it was in Herefordshire. Ha, Alicia, is that you?"

He turned round so as to intercept Miss Audley on her way to thestaircase. 

"Yes, " replied his cousin curtly, trying to pass him. 

"Alicia, you have been crying. "

The young lady did not condescend to reply. 

"You have been crying, Alicia. Sir Harry Towers, of Towers Park, in thecounty of Herts, has been making you an offer of his hand, eh?"

"Have you been listening at the door, Mr. Audley?"

"I have not, Miss Audley. On principle, I object to listen, and inpractice I believe it to be a very troublesome proceeding; but I am abarrister, Miss Alicia, and able to draw a conclusion by induction. Doyou know what inductive evidence is, Miss Audley?"

"No, " replied Alicia, looking at her cousin as a handsome young panthermight look at its daring tormentor. 

"I thought not. I dare say Sir Harry would ask if it was a new kind ofhorse-ball. I knew by induction that the baronet was going to make youan offer; first, because he came downstairs with his hair parted on thewrong side, and his face as pale as a tablecloth; secondly, because hecouldn't eat any breakfast, and let his coffee go the wrong way; and, thirdly, because he asked for an interview with you before he left theCourt. Well, how's it to be, Alicia? Do we marry the baronet, and ispoor Cousin Bob to be the best man at the wedding?"

"Sir Harry Towers is a noble-hearted young man, " said Alicia, stilltrying to pass her cousin. 

"But do we accept him--yes or no? Are we to be Lady Towers, with asuperb estate in Hertfordshire, summer quarters for our hunters, and adrag with outriders to drive us across to papa's place in Essex? Is itto be so, Alicia, or not?"

"What is that to you, Mr. Robert Audley?" cried Alicia, passionately. "What do _you_ care what becomes of me, or whom I marry? If I married achimney-sweep you'd only lift up your eyebrows and say, 'Bless my soul, she was always eccentric. ' I have refused Sir Harry Towers; but when Ithink of his generous and unselfish affection, and compare it with theheartless, lazy, selfish, supercilious indifference of other men, I've agood mind to run after him and tell him--"

"That you'll retract, and be my Lady Towers?"

"Yes. "

"Then don't, Alicia, don't, " said Robert Audley, grasping his cousin'sslender little wrist, and leading her up-stairs. "Come into thedrawing-room with me, Alicia, my poor little cousin; my charming, impetuous, alarming little cousin. Sit down here in this mullionedwindow, and let us talk seriously and leave off quarreling if we can. "

The cousins had the drawing-room all to themselves. Sir Michael was out, my lady in her own apartments, and poor Sir Harry Towers walking up anddown upon the gravel walk, darkened with the flickering shadows of theleafless branches in the cold winter sunshine. 

"My poor little Alicia, " said Robert, as tenderly as if he had beenaddressing some spoiled child, "do you suppose that because people don'twear vinegar tops, or part their hair on the wrong side, or conductthemselves altogether after the manner of well-meaning maniacs, by wayof proving the vehemence of their passion--do you suppose because ofthis, Alicia Audley, that they may not be just as sensible of the meritsof a dear little warm-hearted and affectionate girl as ever theirneighbors can be? Life is such a very troublesome matter, when all issaid and done, that it's as well even to take its blessings quietly. Idon't make a great howling because I can get good cigars one door fromthe corner of Chancery Lane, and have a dear, good girl for my cousin;but I am not the less grateful to Providence that it is so. "

Alicia opened her gray eyes to their widest extent, looking her cousinfull in the face with a bewildered stare. Robert had picked up theugliest and leanest of his attendant curs, and was placidly stroking theanimal's ears. 

"Is this all you have to say to me, Robert?" asked Miss Audley, meekly. 

"Well, yes, I think so, " replied her cousin, after considerabledeliberation. "I fancy that what I wanted to say was this--don't marrythe fox-hunting baronet if you like anybody else better; for if you'llonly be patient and take life easily, and try and reform yourself ofbanging doors, bouncing in and out rooms, talking of the stables, andriding across country, I've no doubt the person you prefer will make youa very excellent husband. "

"Thank you, cousin, " said Miss Audley, crimsoning with bright, indignantblushes up to the roots of her waving brown hair; "but as you may notknow the person I prefer, I think you had better not take upon yourselfto answer for him. "

Robert pulled the dog's ears thoughtfully for some moments. 

"No, to be sure, " he said, after a pause. "Of course, if I don't knowhim--I thought I did. "

"_Did you?_" exclaimed Alicia; and opening the door with a violence thatmade her cousin shiver, she bounced out of the drawing-room. 

"I only said I thought I knew him, " Robert called after her; and, then, as he sunk into an easy-chair, he murmured thoughtfully: "Such a nicegirl, too, if she didn't bounce. "

So poor Sir Harry Towers rode away from Audley Court, looking verycrestfallen and dismal. 

He had very little pleasure in returning to the stately mansion, hiddenamong sheltering oaks and venerable beeches. The square, red brickhouse, gleaming at the end of a long arcade of leafless trees was to beforever desolate, he thought, since Alicia would not come to be itsmistress. 

A hundred improvements planned and thought of were dismissed from hismind as useless now. The hunter that Jim the trainer was breaking in fora lady; the two pointer pups that were being reared for the nextshooting season; the big black retriever that would have carriedAlicia's parasol; the pavilion in the garden, disused since his mother'sdeath, but which he had meant to have restored for Miss Audley--allthese things were now so much vanity and vexation of spirit. 

"What's the good of being rich if one has no one to help spend one'smoney?" said the young baronet. "One only grows a selfish beggar, andtakes to drinking too much port. It's a hard thing that a girl canrefuse a true heart and such stables as we've got at the park. Itunsettles a man somehow. "

Indeed, this unlooked for rejection had very much unsettled the fewideas which made up the small sum of the baronet's mind. 

He had been desperately in love with Alicia ever since the last huntingseason, when he had met her at the county ball. His passion, cherishedthrough the slow monotony of a summer, had broken out afresh in themerry winter months, and the young man's _mauvaise honte_ alone haddelayed the offer of his hand. But he had never for a moment supposedthat he would be refused; he was so used to the adulation of mothers whohad daughters to marry, and of even the daughters themselves; he hadbeen so accustomed to feel himself the leading personage in an assembly, although half the wits of the age had been there, and he could only say"Haw, to be sure!" and "By Jove--hum!" he had been so spoiled by theflatteries of bright eyes that looked, or seemed to look, the brighterwhen he drew near, that without being possessed of one shadow ofpersonal vanity, he had yet come to think that he had only to make anoffer to the prettiest girl in Essex to behold himself immediatelyaccepted. 

"Yes, " he would say complacently to some admiring satellite, "I know I'ma good match, and I know what makes the gals so civil. They're verypretty, and they're very friendly to a fellow; but I don't care about'em. They're all alike--they can only drop their eyes and say, 'Lor', Sir Harry, why do you call that curly black dog a retriever?' or 'Oh SirHarry, and did the poor mare really sprain her pastern shoulder-blade?'I haven't got much brains myself, I know, " the baronet would adddeprecatingly; "and I don't want a strong-minded woman, who writes booksand wears green spectacles; but, hang it! I like a gal who knows whatshe's talking about. "

So when Alicia said "No, " or rather made that pretty speech about esteemand respect, which well-bred young ladies substitute for the obnoxiousmonosyllable, Sir Harry Towers felt that the whole fabric of the futurehe had built so complacently was shivered into a heap of dingy ruins. 

Sir Michael grasped him warmly by the hand just before the young manmounted his horse in the court-yard. 

"I'm very sorry, Towers, " he said. "You're as good a fellow as everbreathed, and would have made my girl an excellent husband; but you knowthere's a cousin, and I think that--"

"Don't say that, Sir Michael, " interrupted the fox-hunter, energetically. "I can get over anything but that. A fellow whose handupon the curb weighs half a ton (why, he pulled the Cavalier's mouth topieces, sir, the day you let him ride the horse); a fellow who turns hiscollars down, and eats bread and marmalade! No, no, Sir Michael; it's aqueer world, but I can't think that of Miss Audley. There must be someone in the background, sir; it can't be the cousin. "

Sir Michael shook his head as the rejected suitor rode away. 

"I don't know about that, " he muttered. "Bob's a good lad, and the girlmight do worse; but he hangs back as if he didn't care for her. There'ssome mystery--there's some mystery!"

The old baronet said this in that semi-thoughtful tone with which wespeak of other people's affairs. The shadows of the early wintertwilight, gathering thickest under the low oak ceiling of the hall, andthe quaint curve of the arched doorway, fell darkly round his handsomehead; but the light of his declining life, his beautiful and belovedyoung wife, was near him, and he could see no shadows when she was by. 

She came skipping through the hall to meet him, and, shaking her goldenringlets, buried her bright head on her husband's breast. 

"So the last of our visitors is gone, dear, and we're all alone, " shesaid. "Isn't that nice?"

"Yes, darling, " he answered fondly, stroking her bright hair. 

"Except Mr. Robert Audley. How long is that nephew of yours going tostay here?"

"As long as he likes, my pet; he's always welcome, " said the baronet;and then, as if remembering himself, he added, tenderly: "But not unlesshis visit is agreeable to you, darling; not if his lazy habits, or hissmoking, or his dogs, or anything about him is displeasing to you. "

Lady Audley pursed up her rosy lips and looked thoughtfully at theground. 

"It isn't that, " she said, hesitatingly. "Mr. Audley is a very agreeableyoung man, and a very honorable young man; but you know, Sir Michael, I'm rather a young aunt for such a nephew, and--"

"And what, Lucy?" asked the baronet, fiercely. 

"Poor Alicia is rather jealous of any attention Mr. Audley pays me, and--and--I think it would be better for her happiness if your nephewwere to bring his visit to a close. "

"He shall go to-night, Lucy, " exclaimed Sir Michael. "I am a blind, neglectful fool not to have thought of this before. My lovely littledarling, it was scarcely just to Bob to expose the poor lad to yourfascinations. I know him to be as good and true-hearted a fellow as everbreathed, but--but--he shall go tonight. "

"But you won't be too abrupt, dear? You won't be rude?"

"Rude! No, Lucy. I left him smoking in the lime-walk. I'll go and tellhim that he must get out of the house in an hour. "

So in that leafless avenue, under whose gloomy shade George Talboys hadstood on that thunderous evening before the day of his disappearance, Sir Michael Audley told his nephew that the Court was no home for him, and that my lady was too young and pretty to accept the attentions of ahandsome nephew of eight-and-twenty. 

Robert only shrugged his shoulders and elevated his thick, blackeyebrows as Sir Michael delicately hinted all this. 

"I have been attentive to my lady, " he said. "She interests me;" andthen, with a change in his voice, and an emotion not common to him, heturned to the baronet, and grasping his hand, exclaimed, "God forbid, mydear uncle, that I should ever bring trouble upon such a noble heart asyours! God forbid that the slightest shadow of dishonor should ever fallupon your honored head--least of all through agency of mine. "

The young man uttered these few words in a broken and disjointed fashionin which Sir Michael had never heard him speak, before, and then turningaway his head, fairly broke down. 

He left the court that night, but he did not go far. Instead of takingthe evening train for London, he went straight up to the little villageof Mount Stanning, and walking into the neatly-kept inn, asked PhoebeMarks if he could be accommodated with apartments. 

CHAPTER XVII. 

AT THE CASTLE INN. 

The little sitting-room into which Phoebe Marks ushered the baronet'snephew was situated on the ground floor, and only separated by alath-and-plaster partition from the little bar-parlor occupied by theinnkeeper and his wife. 

It seemed as though the wise architect who had superintended thebuilding of the Castle Inn had taken especial care that nothing but thefrailest and most flimsy material should be used, and that the wind, having a special fancy for this unprotected spot, should have full playfor the indulgence of its caprices. 

To this end pitiful woodwork had been used instead of solid masonry;rickety ceilings had been propped up by fragile rafters, and beams thatthreatened on every stormy night to fall upon the heads of those beneaththem; doors whose specialty was never to be shut, yet always to bebanging; windows constructed with a peculiar view to letting in thedraft when they were shut, and keeping out the air when they were open. The hand of genius had devised this lonely country inn; and there wasnot an inch of woodwork, or trowelful of plaster employed in all therickety construction that did not offer its own peculiar weak point toevery assault of its indefatigable foe. 

Robert looked about him with a feeble smile of resignation. 

It was a change, decidedly, from the luxurious comforts of Audley Court, and it was rather a strange fancy of the young barrister to preferloitering at this dreary village hostelry to returning to his snugchambers in Figtree Court. 

But he had brought his Lares and Penates with him, in the shape of hisGerman pipe, his tobacco canister, half a dozen French novels, and histwo ill-conditioned, canine favorites, which sat shivering before thesmoky little fire, barking shortly and sharply now and then, by way ofhinting for some slight refreshment. 

While Mr. Robert Audley contemplated his new quarters, Phoebe Markssummoned a little village lad who was in the habit of running errandsfor her, and taking him into the kitchen, gave him a tiny note, carefully folded and sealed. 

"You know Audley Court?"

"Yes, mum. "

"If you'll run there with this letter to-night, and see that it's putsafely in Lady Audley's hands, I'll give you a shilling. "

"Yes, mum. "

"You understand? Ask to see my lady; you can say you've a message--not anote, mind--but a message from Phoebe Marks; and when you see her, givethis into her own hand. "

"Yes, mum. "

"You won't forget?"

"No, mum. "

"Then be off with you. "

The boy waited for no second bidding, but in another moment was scuddingalong the lonely high road, down the sharp descent that led to Audley. 

Phoebe Marks went to the window, and looked out at the black figure ofthe lad hurrying through the dusky winter evening. 

"If there's any bad meaning in his coming here, " she thought, "my ladywill know of it in time, at any rate, "

Phoebe herself brought the neatly arranged tea-tray, and the littlecovered dish of ham and eggs which had been prepared for thisunlooked-for visitor. Her pale hair was as smoothly braided, and herlight gray dress fitted as precisely as of old. The same neutral tintspervaded her person and her dress; no showy rose-colored ribbons orrustling silk gown proclaimed the well-to-do innkeeper's wife. PhoebeMarks was a person who never lost her individuality. Silent andself-constrained, she seemed to hold herself within herself, and take nocolor from the outer world. 

Robert looked at her thoughtfully as she spread the cloth, and drew thetable nearer to the fireplace. 

"That, " he thought, "is a woman who could keep a secret. "

The dogs looked rather suspiciously at the quiet figure of Mrs. Marksgliding softly about the room, from the teapot to the caddy, and fromthe caddy to the kettle singing on the hob. 

"Will you pour out my tea for me, Mrs. Marks?" said Robert, seatinghimself on a horsehair-covered arm-chair, which fitted him as tightly inevery direction as if he had been measured for it. 

"You have come straight from the Court, sir?" said Phoebe, as she handedRobert the sugar-basin. 

"Yes; I only left my uncle's an hour ago. "

"And my lady, sir, was she quite well?"

"Yes, quite well. "

"As gay and light-hearted as ever, sir?"

"As gay and light-hearted as ever. "

Phoebe retired respectfully after having given Mr. Audley his tea, butas she stood with her hand upon the lock of the door he spoke again. 

"You knew Lady Audley when she was Miss Lucy Graham, did you not?" heasked. 

"Yes, sir. I lived at Mrs. Dawson's when my lady was governess there. "

"Indeed! Was she long in the surgeon's family?"

"A year and a half, sir. "

"And she came from London?"

"Yes, sir. "

"And she was an orphan, I believe?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Always as cheerful as she is now?"

"Always, sir. "

Robert emptied his teacup and handed it to Mrs. Marks. Their eyes met--alazy look in his, and an active, searching glance in hers. 

"This woman would be good in a witness-box, " he thought; "it would take aclever lawyer to bother her in a cross-examination. "

He finished his second cup of tea, pushed away his plate, fed his dogs, and lighted his pipe, while Phoebe carried off the tea-tray. 

The wind came whistling up across the frosty open country, and throughthe leafless woods, and rattled fiercely at the window-frames. 

"There's a triangular draught from those two windows and the door thatscarcely adds to the comfort of this apartment, " murmured Robert; "andthere certainly are pleasanter sensations than that of standing up toone's knees in cold water. "

He poked the fire, patted his dogs, put on his great coat, rolled arickety old sofa close to the hearth, wrapped his legs in his railwayrug, and stretching himself at full length upon the narrow horsehaircushion, smoked his pipe, and watched the bluish-gray wreaths curlingupward to the dingy ceiling. 

"No, " he murmured, again; "that is a woman who can keep a secret. Acounsel for the prosecution could get very little out of her. "

I have said that the bar-parlor was only separated from the sitting-roomoccupied by Robert by a lath-and-plaster partition. The young barristercould hear the two or three village tradesmen and a couple of farmerslaughing and talking round the bar, while Luke Marks served them fromhis stock of liquors. 

Very often he could even hear their words, especially the landlord's, for he spoke in a coarse, loud voice, and had a more boastful mannerthan any of his customers. 

"The man is a fool, " said Robert, as he laid down his pipe. "I'll go andtalk to him by-and-by. "

He waited till the few visitors to the Castle had dropped away one byone, and when Luke Marks had bolted the door upon the last of hiscustomers, he strolled quietly into the bar-parlor, where the landlordwas seated with his wife. 

Phoebe was busy at a little table, upon which stood a prim work-box, with every reel of cotton and glistening steel bodkin in its appointedplace. She was darning the coarse gray stockings that adorned herhusband's awkward feet, but she did her work as daintily as if they hadbeen my lady's delicate silken hose. 

I say that she took no color from external things, and that the vagueair of refinement that pervaded her nature clung to her as closely inthe society of her boorish husband at the Castle Inn as in Lady Audley'sboudoir at the Court. 

She looked up suddenly as Robert entered the bar-parlor. There was someshade of vexation in her pale gray eyes, which changed to an expressionof anxiety--nay, rather of almost terror--as she glanced from Mr. Audleyto Luke Marks. 

"I have come in for a few minutes' chat before I go to bed, " saidRobert, settling himself very comfortably before the cheerful fire. "Would you object to a cigar, Mrs. Marks? I mean, of course, to mysmoking one, " he added, explanatorily. 

"Not at all, sir. "

"It would be a good 'un her objectin' to a bit o' 'bacca, " growled Mr. Marks, "when me and the customers smokes all day. "

Robert lighted his cigar with a gilt-paper match of Phoebe's making thatadorned the chimney-piece, and took half a dozen reflective puffs beforehe spoke. 

"I want you to tell me all about Mount Stanning, Mr. Marks, " he said, presently. 

"Then that's pretty soon told, " replied Luke, with a harsh, gratinglaugh. "Of all the dull holes as ever a man set foot in, this is aboutthe dullest. Not that the business don't pay pretty tidy; I don'tcomplain of that; but I should ha' liked a public at Chelmsford, orBrentwood, or Romford, or some place where there's a bit of life in thestreets; and I might have had it, " he added, discontentedly, "if folkshadn't been so precious stingy. "

As her husband muttered this complaint in a grumbling undertone, Phoebelooked up from her work and spoke to him. 

"We forgot the brew-house door, Luke, " she said. "Will you come with meand help me put up the bar?"

"The brew-house door can bide for to-night, " said Mr. Marks; "I ain'tagoin' to move now. I've seated myself for a comfortable smoke. "

He took a long clay pipe from a corner of the fender as he spoke, andbegan to fill it deliberately. 

"I don't feel easy about that brew-house door, Luke, " remonstrated hiswife; "there are always tramps about, and they can get in easily whenthe bar isn't up. "

"Go and put the bar up yourself, then, can't you?" answered Mr. Marks. 

"It's too heavy for me to lift. "

"Then let it bide, if you're too fine a lady to see to it yourself. You're very anxious all of a sudden about this here brew-house door. Isuppose you don't want me to open my mouth to this here gent, that'sabout it. Oh, you needn't frown at me to stop my speaking! You're alwaysputting in your tongue and clipping off my words before I've half said'em; but I won't stand it. "

"Do you hear? I won't stand it!"

Phoebe Marks shrugged her shoulders, folded her work, shut her work-box, and crossing her hands in her lap, sat with her gray eyes fixed upon herhusband's bull-like face. 

"Then you don't particularly care to live at Mount Stanning?" saidRobert, politely, as if anxious to change the conversation. 

"No, I don't, " answered Luke; "and I don't care who knows it; and, as Isaid before, if folks hadn't been so precious stingy, I might have had apublic in a thrivin' market town, instead of this tumble-down old place, where a man has his hair blowed off his head on a windy day. What'sfifty pound, or what's a hundred pound--"

"Luke! Luke!"

"No, you're not goin' to stop my mouth with all your 'Luke, Lukes!'"answered Mr. Marks to his wife's remonstrance. "I say again, what's ahundred pound?"

"No, " answered Robert Audley, with wonderful distinctness, andaddressing his words to Luke Marks, but fixing his eyes upon Phoebe'sanxious face. "What, indeed, is a hundred pounds to a man possessed ofthe power which you hold, or rather which your wife holds, over theperson in question. "

"Phoebe's face, at all times almost colorless, seemed scarcely capableof growing paler; but as her eyelids drooped under Robert Audley'ssearching glance, a visible change came over the pallid hues of hercomplexion. 

"A quarter to twelve, " said Robert, looking at his watch. 

"Late hours for such a quiet village as Mount Stanning. Good-night, myworthy host. Good-night, Mrs. Marks. You needn't send me my shavingwater till nine o'clock to-morrow morning. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

ROBERT RECEIVES A VISITOR WHOM HE HAD SCARCELY EXPECTED. 

Eleven o'clock struck the next morning, and found Mr. Robert Audleystill lounging over the well ordered little breakfast table, with one ofhis dogs at each side of his arm-chair, regarding him with watchful eyesand opened mouths, awaiting the expected morsel of ham or toast. Roberthad a county paper on his knees, and made a feeble effort now and thento read the first page, which was filled with advertisements of farmingstock, quack medicines, and other interesting matter. 

The weather had changed, and the snow, which had for the last few daysbeen looming blackly in the frosty sky, fell in great feathery flakesagainst the windows, and lay piled in the little bit of garden-groundwithout. 

The long, lonely road leading toward Audley seemed untrodden by afootstep, as Robert Audley looked out at the wintry landscape. 

"Lively, " he said, "for a man used to the fascinations of Temple Bar. "

As he watched the snow-flakes falling every moment thicker and fasterupon the lonely road, he was surprised by seeing a brougham drivingslowly up the hill. 

"I wonder what unhappy wretch has too restless a spirit to stop at homeon such a morning as this, " he muttered, as he returned to the arm-chairby the fire. 

He had only reseated himself a few moments when Phoebe Marks entered theroom to announce Lady Audley. 

"Lady Audley! Pray beg her to come in, " said Robert; and then, as Phoebeleft the room to usher in this unexpected visitor, he muttered betweenhis teeth--"A false move, my lady, and one I never looked for from you. "

Lucy Audley was radiant on this cold and snowy January morning. Otherpeople's noses are rudely assailed by the sharp fingers of the grimice-king, but not my lady's; other people's lips turn pale and blue withthe chilling influence of the bitter weather, but my lady's prettylittle rosebud of a mouth retained its brightest coloring and cheeriestfreshness. 

She was wrapped in the very sables which Robert Audley had brought fromRussia, and carried a muff that the young man thought seemed almost asbig as herself. 

She looked a childish, helpless, babyfied little creature; and Robertlooked down upon her with some touch of pity in his eyes, as she came upto the hearth by which he was standing, and warmed her tiny gloved handsat the blaze. 

"What a morning, Mr. Audley!" she said, "what a morning!"

"Yes, indeed! Why did you come out in such weather?"

"Because I wished to see you--particularly. "

"Indeed!"

"Yes, " said my lady, with an air of considerable embarrassment, playingwith the button of her glove, and almost wrenching it off in herrestlessness--"yes, Mr. Audley, I felt that you had not been welltreated; that--that you had, in short, reason to complain; and that anapology was due to you. "

"I do not wish for any apology, Lady Audley. "

"But you are entitled to one, " answered my lady, quietly. "Why, my dearRobert, should we be so ceremonious toward each other? You were verycomfortable at Audley; we were very glad to have you there; but, mydear, silly husband must needs take it into his foolish head that it isdangerous for his poor little wife's peace of mind to have a nephew ofeight or nine and twenty smoking his cigars in her boudoir, and, behold!our pleasant little family circle is broken up. "

Lucy Audley spoke with that peculiar childish vivacity which seemed sonatural to her, Robert looking down almost sadly at her bright, animatedface. 

"Lady Audley, " he said, "Heaven forbid that either you or I should everbring grief or dishonor upon my uncle's generous heart! Better, perhaps, that I should be out of the house--better, perhaps, that I had neverentered it!"

My lady had been looking at the fire while her nephew spoke, but at hislast words she lifted her head suddenly, and looked him full in the facewith a wondering expression--an earnest, questioning gaze, whose fullmeaning the young barrister understood. 

"Oh, pray do not be alarmed, Lady Audley, " he said, gravely. "You haveno sentimental nonsense, no silly infatuation, borrowed from Balzac orDumas _fils_, to fear from me. The benchers of the Inner Temple willtell you that Robert Audley is troubled with none of the epidemics whoseoutward signs are turn-down collars and Byronic neckties. I say that Iwish I had never entered my uncle's house during the last year; but Isay it with a far more solemn meaning than any sentimental one. "

My lady shrugged her shoulders. 

"If you insist on talking in enigmas, Mr. Audley, " she said, "you mustforgive a poor little woman if she declines to answer them. "

Robert made no reply to this speech. 

"But tell me, " said my lady, with an entire change of tone, "what couldhave induced you to come up to this dismal place?"

"Curiosity. "

"Curiosity?"

"Yes; I felt an interest in that bull-necked man, with the dark-red hairand wicked gray eyes. A dangerous man, my lady--a man in whose power Ishould not like to be. "

A sudden change came over Lady Audley's face; the pretty, roseate flushfaded out from her cheeks, and left them waxen white, and angry flasheslightened in her blue eyes. 

"What have I done to you, Robert Audley, " she cried, passionately--"whathave I done to you that you should hate me so?"

He answered her very gravely:

"I had a friend, Lady Audley, whom I loved very dearly, and since I havelost him I fear that my feelings toward other people are strangelyembittered. "

"You mean the Mr. Talboys who went to Australia?"

"Yes, I mean the Mr. Talboys who I was told set out for Liverpool withthe idea of going to Australia. "

"And you do not believe in his having sailed for Australia?"

"I do not. "

"But why not?"

"Forgive me, Lady Audley, if I decline to answer that question. "

"As you please, " she said, carelessly. 

"A week after my friend disappeared, " continued Robert, "I posted anadvertisement to the Sydney and Melbourne papers, calling upon him if hewas in either city when the advertisement appeared, to write and tell meof his whereabouts, and also calling on any one who had met him, eitherin the colonies or on the voyage out, to give me any informationrespecting him. George Talboys left Essex, or disappeared from Essex, onthe 6th of September last. I ought to receive some answer to thisadvertisement by the end of this month. To-day is the 27th; the timedraws very near. "

"And if you receive no answer?" asked Lady Audley. 

"If I receive no answer I shall think that my fears have been notunfounded, and I shall do my best to act. "

"What do you mean by that?"

"Ah, Lady Audley, you remind me how very powerless I am in this matter. My friend might have been made away with in this very inn, and I mightstay here for a twelvemonth, and go away at the last as ignorant of hisfate as if I had never crossed the threshold. What do we know of themysteries that may hang about the houses we enter? If I were to goto-morrow into that commonplace, plebeian, eight-roomed house in whichMaria Manning and her husband murdered their guest, I should have noawful prescience of that bygone horror. Foul deeds have been done underthe most hospitable roofs; terrible crimes have been committed amid thefairest scenes, and have left no trace upon the spot where they weredone. I do not believe in mandrake, or in bloodstains that no time canefface. I believe rather that we may walk unconsciously in an atmosphereof crime, and breathe none the less freely. I believe that we may lookinto the smiling face of a murderer, and admire its tranquil beauty. "

My lady laughed at Robert's earnestness. 

"You seem to have quite a taste for discussing these horrible subjects, "she said, rather scornfully; "you ought to have been a detective policeofficer. "

"I sometimes think I should have been a good one. "

"Why?"

"Because I am patient. "

"But to return to Mr. George Talboys, whom we lost sight of in youreloquent discussion. What if you receive no answer to youradvertisements?"

"I shall then consider myself justified in concluding my friend isdead. "

"Yes, and then--?"

"I shall examine the effects he left at my chambers. "

"Indeed! and what are they? Coats, waistcoats, varnished boots, andmeerschaum pipes, I suppose, " said Lady Audley, laughing. 

"No; letters--letters from his friends, his old schoolfellows, hisfather, his brother officers. "

"Yes?"

"Letters, too, from his wife. "

My lady was silent for some few moments, looking thoughtfully at thefire. 

"Have you ever seen any of the letters written by the late Mrs. Talboys?" she asked presently. 

"Never. Poor soul! her letters are not likely to throw much light uponmy friend's fate. I dare say she wrote the usual womanly scrawl. Thereare very few who write so charming and uncommon a hand as yours, LadyAudley. "

"Ah, you know my hand, of course. "

"Yes, I know it very well indeed. "

My lady warmed her hands once more, and then taking up the big muffwhich she had laid aside upon a chair, prepared to take her departure. 

"You have refused to accept my apology, Mr. Audley, " she said; "but Itrust you are not the less assured of my feelings toward you. "

"Perfectly assured, Lady Audley. "

"Then good-by, and let me recommend you not to stay long in thismiserable draughty place, if you do not wish to take rheumatism back toFigtree Court. "

"I shall return to town to-morrow morning to see after my letters. "

"Then once more good-by. "

She held out her hand; he took it loosely in his own. It seemed such afeeble little hand that he might have crushed it in his strong grasp, had he chosen to be so pitiless. 

He attended her to her carriage, and watched it as it drove off, nottoward Audley, but in the direction of Brentwood, which was about sixmiles from Mount Stanning. 

About an hour and a half after this, as Robert stood at the door of theinn, smoking a cigar and watching the snow falling in the whitenedfields opposite, he saw the brougham drive back, empty this time, to thedoor of the inn. 

"Have you taken Lady Audley back to the Court?" he said to the coachman, who had stopped to call for a mug of hot spiced ale. 

"No, sir; I've just come from the Brentwood station. My lady started forLondon by the 12. 40 train. "

"For town?"

"Yes, sir. "

"My lady gone to London!" said Robert, as he returned to the littlesitting-room. "Then I'll follow her by the next train; and if I'm notvery much mistaken, I know where to find her. "

He packed his portmanteau, paid his bill, fastened his dogs togetherwith a couple of leathern collars and a chain, and stepped into therumbling fly kept by the Castle Inn for the convenience of MountStanning. He caught an express that left Brentwood at three o'clock, andsettled himself comfortably in a corner of an empty first-classcarriage, coiled up in a couple of railway rugs, and smoking a cigar inmild defiance of the authorities. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE WRITING IN THE BOOK. 

It was exactly five minutes past four as Mr. Robert Audley stepped outupon the platform at Shoreditch, and waited placidly until such time ashis dogs and his portmanteau should be delivered up to the attendantporter who had called his cab, and undertaken the general conduct of hisaffairs, with that disinterested courtesy which does such infinitecredit to a class of servitors who are forbidden to accept the tributeof a grateful public. 

Robert Audley waited with consummate patience for a considerable time;but as the express was generally a long train, and as there were a greatmany passengers from Norfolk carrying guns and pointers, and otherparaphernalia of a critical description, it took a long while to makematters agreeable to all claimants, and even the barrister's seraphicindifference to mundane affairs nearly gave way. 

"Perhaps, when that gentleman who is making such a noise about a pointerwith liver-colored spots, has discovered the particular pointer andspots that he wants--which happy combination of events scarcely seemslikely to arrive--they'll give me my luggage and let me go. Thedesigning wretches knew at a glance that I was born to be imposed upon;and that if they were to trample the life out of me upon this veryplatform, I should never have the spirit to bring an action against thecompany. "

Suddenly an idea seemed to strike him, and he left the porter tostruggle for the custody of his goods, and walked round to the otherside of the station. 

He heard a bell ring, and looking at the clock, had remembered that thedown train for Colchester started at this time. He had learned what itwas to have an earnest purpose since the disappearance of GeorgeTalboys; and he reached the opposite platform in time to see thepassengers take their seats. 

There was one lady who had evidently only just arrived at the station;for she hurried on to the platform at the very moment that Robertapproached the train, and almost ran against that gentleman in her hasteand excitement. 

"I beg your pardon, " she began, ceremoniously; then raising her eyesfrom Mr. Audley's waistcoat, which was about on a level with her prettyface, she exclaimed, "Robert, you in London already?"

"Yes, Lady Audley; you were quite right; the Castle Inn is a dismalplace, and--"

"You got tired of it--I knew you would. Please open the carriage doorfor me: the train will start in two minutes. "

Robert Audley was looking at his uncle's wife with rather a puzzledexpression of countenance. 

"What does it mean?" he thought. "She is altogether a different being tothe wretched, helpless creature who dropped her mask for a moment, andlooked at me with her own pitiful face, in the little room at MountStanning, four hours ago. What has happened to cause the change?"

He opened the door for her while he thought this, and helped her tosettle herself in her seat, spreading her furs over her knees, andarranging the huge velvet mantle in which her slender little figure wasalmost hidden. 

"Thank you very much; how good you are to me, " she said, as he did this. "You will think me very foolish to travel upon such a day, without mydear darling's knowledge too; but I went up to town to settle a veryterrific milliner's bill, which I did not wish my best of husbands tosee; for, indulgent as he is, he might think me extravagant; and Icannot bear to suffer even in his thoughts. "

"Heaven forbid that you ever should, Lady Audley, " Robert said, gravely. 

She looked at him for a moment with a smile, which had something defiantin its brightness. 

"Heaven forbid it, indeed, " she murmured. "I don't think I ever shall. "

The second bell rung, and the train moved as she spoke. The last RobertAudley saw of her was that bright defiant smile. 

"Whatever object brought her to London has been successfullyaccomplished, " he thought. "Has she baffled me by some piece of womanlyjugglery? Am I never to get any nearer to the truth, but am I to betormented all my life by vague doubts, and wretched suspicions, whichmay grow upon me till I become a monomaniac? Why did she come toLondon?"

He was still mentally asking himself this question as he ascended thestairs in Figtree Court, with one of his dogs under each arm, and hisrailway rugs over his shoulder. 

He found his chambers in their accustomed order. The geraniums had beencarefully tended, and the canaries had retired for the night under coverof a square of green baize, testifying to the care of honest Mrs. Maloney. Robert cast a hurried glance round the sitting-room; thensetting down the dogs upon the hearth-rug, he walked straight into thelittle inner chamber which served as his dressing-room. 

It was in this room that he kept disused portmanteaus, battered japannedcases, and other lumber; and it was in this room that George Talboys hadleft his luggage. Robert lifted a portmanteau from the top of a largetrunk, and kneeling down before it with a lighted candle in his hand, carefully examined the lock. 

To all appearance it was exactly in the same condition in which Georgehad left it, when he laid his mourning garments aside and placed them inthis shabby repository with all other memorials of his dead wife. Robertbrushed his coat sleeve across the worn, leather-covered lid, upon whichthe initials G. T. Were inscribed with big brass-headed nails; but Mrs. Maloney, the laundress, must have been the most precise of housewives, for neither the portmanteau nor the trunk were dusty. 

Mr. Audley dispatched a boy to fetch his Irish attendant, and paced upand down his sitting-room waiting anxiously for her arrival. 

She came in about ten minutes, and, after expressing her delight in thereturn of "the master, " humbly awaited his orders. 

"I only sent for you to ask if anybody has been here; that is to say, ifanybody has applied to you for the key of my rooms to-day--any lady?"

"Lady? No, indeed, yer honor; there's been no lady for the kay; barrin'it's the blacksmith. "

"The blacksmith!"

"Yes; the blacksmith your honor ordered to come to-day. "

"I order a blacksmith!" exclaimed Robert. "I left a bottle of Frenchbrandy in the cupboard, " he thought, "and Mrs. M. Has been evidentlyenjoying herself. "

"Sure, and the blacksmith your honor tould to see to the locks, " repliedMrs. Maloney. "It's him that lives down in one of the little streets bythe bridge, " she added, giving a very lucid description of the man'swhereabouts. 

Robert lifted his eyebrows in mute despair. 

"If you'll sit down and compose yourself, Mrs. M. , " he said--heabbreviated her name thus on principle, for the avoidance of unnecessarylabor--"perhaps we shall be able by and by to understand each other. Yousay a blacksmith has been here?"

"Sure and I did, sir. "

"To-day?"

"Quite correct, sir. "

Step by step Mr. Audley elicited the following information. A locksmithhad called upon Mrs. Maloney that afternoon at three o'clock, and hadasked for the key of Mr. Audley's chambers, in order that he might lookto the locks of the doors, which he stated were all out of repair. Hedeclared that he was acting upon Mr. Audley's own orders, conveyed tohim by a letter from the country, where the gentleman was spending hisChristmas. Mrs. Maloney, believing in the truth of this statement, hadadmitted the man to the chambers, where he stayed about half an hour. 

"But you were with him while he examined the locks, I suppose?" Mr. Audley asked. 

"Sure I was, sir, in and out, as you may say, all the time, for I'vebeen cleaning the stairs this afternoon, and I took the opportunity tobegin my scouring while the man was at work. "

"Oh, you were in and out all the time. If you _could_ conveniently giveme a plain answer, Mrs. M. , I should be glad to know what was thelongest time that you were _out_ while the locksmith was in mychambers?"

But Mrs. Maloney could not give a plain answer. It might have been tenminutes; though she didn't think it was as much. It might have been aquarter of an hour; but she was sure it wasn't more. It didn't _seem_ toher more than five minutes, but "thim stairs, your honor;" and here sherambled off into a disquisition upon the scouring of stairs in general, and the stairs outside Robert's chambers in particular. 

Mr. Audley sighed the weary sigh of mournful resignation. 

"Never mind, Mrs. M. , " he said; "the locksmith had plenty of time to doanything he wanted to do, I dare say, without your being any the wiser. "

Mrs. Maloney stared at her employer with mingled surprise and alarm. 

"Sure, there wasn't anything for him to stale, your honor, barrin' thebirds and the geran'ums, and--"

"No, no, I understand. There, that'll do, Mrs. M. Tell me where the manlives, and I'll go and see him. "

"But you'll have a bit of dinner first, sir?"

"I'll go and see the locksmith before I have my dinner. "

He took up his hat as he announced his determination, and walked towardthe door. 

"The man's address, Mrs. M?"

The Irishwoman directed him to a small street at the back of St. Bride'sChurch, and thither Mr. Robert Audley quietly strolled, through the miryslush which simple Londoners call _snow_. 

He found the locksmith, and, at the sacrifice of the crown of his hat, contrived to enter the low, narrow doorway of a little open shop. A jetof gas was flaring in the unglazed window, and there was a very merryparty in the little room behind the shop; but no one responded toRobert's "Hulloa!" The reason of this was sufficiently obvious. Themerry party was so much absorbed in its own merriment as to be deaf toall commonplace summonses from the outer world; and it was only whenRobert, advancing further into the cavernous little shop, made so boldas to open the half-glass door which separated him from themerry-makers, that he succeeded in obtaining their attention. 

A very jovial picture of the Teniers school was presented to Mr. RobertAudley upon the opening of this door. 

The locksmith, with his wife and family, and two or three droppers-in ofthe female sex, were clustered about a table, which was adorned by twobottles; not vulgar bottles of that colorless extract of the juniperberry, much affected by the masses; but of _bona fide_ port andsherry--fiercely strong sherry, which left a fiery taste in the mouth, nut-brown sherry--rather unnaturally brown, if anything--and fine oldport; no sickly vintage, faded and thin from excessive age: but a rich, full-bodied wine, sweet and substantial and high colored. 

The locksmith was speaking as Robert Audley opened the door. 

"And with that, " he said, "she walked off, as graceful as you please. "

The whole party was thrown into confusion by the appearance of Mr. Audley, but it was to be observed that the locksmith was moreembarrassed than his companions. He set down his glass so hurriedly, that he spilt his wine, and wiped his mouth nervously with the back ofhis dirty hand. 

"You called at my chambers to-day, " Robert said, quietly. "Don't let medisturb you, ladies. " This to the droppers-in. "You called at mychambers to-day, Mr. White, and--"

The man interrupted him. 

"I hope, sir, you will be so good as to look over the mistake, " hestammered. "I'm sure, sir, I'm very sorry it should have occurred. I wassent for to another gentleman's chambers, Mr. Aulwin, in Garden Court;and the name slipped my memory; and havin' done odd jobs before for you, I thought it must be you as wanted me to-day; and I called at Mrs. Maloney's for the key accordin'; but directly I see the locks in yourchambers, I says to myself, the gentleman's locks ain't out of order;the gentleman don't want all his locks repaired. "

"But you stayed half an hour. "

"Yes, sir; for there was _one_ lock out of order--the door nighest thestaircase--and I took it off and cleaned it and put it on again. I won'tcharge you nothin' for the job, and I hope as you'll be as good as tolook over the mistake as has occurred, which I've been in businessthirteen years come July, and--"

"Nothing of this kind ever happened before, I suppose, " said Robert, gravely. "No, it's altogether a singular kind of business, not likely tocome about every day. You've been enjoying yourself this evening I see, Mr. White. You've done a good stroke of work to-day, I'll wager--made alucky hit, and you're what you call 'standing treat, ' eh?"

Robert Audley looked straight into the man's dingy face as he spoke. Thelocksmith was not a bad-looking fellow, and there was nothing that heneed have been ashamed of in his face, except the dirt, and that, asHamlet's mother says, "is common;" but in spite of this, Mr. White'seyelids dropped under the young barrister's calm scrutiny, and hestammered out some apologetic sort of speech about his "missus, " and hismissus' neighbors, and port wine and sherry wine, with as much confusionas if he, an honest mechanic in a free country, were called upon toexcuse himself to Robert Audley for being caught in the act of enjoyinghimself in his own parlor. 

Robert cut him short with a careless nod. 

"Pray don't apologize, " he said; "I like to see people enjoy themselves. Good-night, Mr. White good-night, ladies. "

He lifted his hat to "the missus, " and the missus' neighbors, who weremuch fascinated by his easy manner and his handsome face, and left theshop. 

"And so, " he muttered to himself as he went back to his chambers, "'withthat she walked off as graceful as you please. 'Who was it that walkedoff; and what was the story which the locksmith was telling when Iinterrupted him at that sentence? Oh, George Talboys, George Talboys, amI ever to come any I nearer to the secret of your fate? Am I comingnearer to it now, slowly but surely? Is the radius to grow narrower dayby day until it draws a dark circle around the home of those I love? Howis it all to end?"

He sighed wearily as he walked slowly back across the flaggedquadrangles in the Temple to his own solitary chambers. 

Mrs. Maloney had prepared for him that bachelor's dinner, which, howeverexcellent and nutritious in itself, has no claim to the special charm ofnovelty. She had cooked for him a mutton-chop, which was soddeningitself between two plates upon the little table near the fire. 

Robert Audley sighed as he sat down to the familiar meal, rememberinghis uncle's cook with a fond, regretful sorrow. 

"Her cutlets a la Maintenon made mutton seem more than mutton; asublimated meat that could scarcely have grown upon any mundane sheep, "he murmured sentimentally, "and Mrs. Maloney's chops are apt to betough; but such is life--what does it matter?"

He pushed away his plate impatiently after eating a few mouthfuls. 

"I have never eaten a good dinner at this table since I lost GeorgeTalboys, " he said. "The place seems as gloomy as if the poor fellow haddied in the next room, and had never been taken away to be buried. Howlong ago that September afternoon appears as I look back at it--thatSeptember afternoon upon which I parted with him alive and well; andlost him as suddenly and unaccountably as if a trap-door had opened inthe solid earth and let him through to the antipodes!"

Mr. Audley rose from the dinner-table and walked over to the cabinet inwhich he kept the document he had drawn up relating to George Talboys. He unlocked the doors of his cabinet, took the paper from thepigeon-hole marked important, and seated himself at his desk to write. He added several paragraphs to those in the document, numbering thefresh paragraphs as carefully as he had numbered the old ones. 

"Heaven help us all, " he muttered once; "is this paper with which noattorney has had any hand to be my first brief?"

He wrote for about half an hour, then replaced the document in thepigeon-hole, and locked the cabinet. When he had done this, he took acandle in his hand, and went into the room in which were his ownportmanteaus and the trunk belonging to George Talboys. 

He took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and tried them one by one. Thelock of the shabby old trunk was a common one, and at the fifth trialthe key turned easily. 

"There'd be no need for any one to break open such a lock as this, "muttered Robert, as he lifted the lid of the trunk. 

He slowly emptied it of its contents, taking out each articleseparately, and laying it carefully upon a chair by his side. He handledthe things with a respectful tenderness, as if he had been lifting thedead body of his lost friend. One by one he laid the neatly foldedmourning garments on the chair. He found old meerschaum pipes, andsoiled, crumpled gloves that had once been fresh from the Parisianmaker; old play-bills, whose biggest letters spelled the names of actorswho were dead and gone; old perfume-bottles, fragrant with essences, whose fashion had passed away; neat little parcels of letters, eachcarefully labeled with the name of the writer; fragments of oldnewspapers; and a little heap of shabby, dilapidated books, each ofwhich tumbled into as many pieces as a pack of cards in Robert'sincautious hand. But among all the mass of worthless litter, each scrapof which had once had its separate purpose, Robert Audley looked in vainfor that which he sought--the packet of letters written to the missingman by his dead wife Helen Talboys. He had heard George allude more thanonce to the existence of these letters. He had seen him once sorting thefaded papers with a reverent hand; and he had seen him replace them, carefully tied together with a faded ribbon which had once been Helen's, among the mourning garments in the trunk. Whether he had afterwardremoved them, or whether they had been removed since his disappearanceby some other hand, it was not easy to say; but they were gone. 

Robert Audley sighed wearily as he replaced the things in the empty box, one by one, as he had taken them out. He stopped with the little heap oftattered books in his hand, and hesitated for a moment. 

"I will keep these out, " he muttered, "there maybe something to help mein one of them. "

George's library was no very brilliant collection of literature. Therewas an old Greek Testament and the Eton Latin Grammar; a French pamphleton the cavalry sword-exercise; an odd volume of Tom Jones with one halfof its stiff leather cover hanging to it by a thread; Byron's Don Juan, printed in a murderous type, which must have been invented for thespecial advantage of oculists and opticians; and a fat book in a fadedgilt and crimson cover. 

Robert Audley locked the trunk and took the books under his arm. Mrs. Maloney was clearing away the remains of his repast when he returned tothe sitting-room. He put the books aside on a little table in a cornerof the fire-place, and waited patiently while the laundress finished herwork. He was in no humor even for his meerschaum, consoler; theyellow-papered fictions on the shelves above his head seemed stale andprofitless--he opened a volume of Balzac, but his uncle's wife's goldencurls danced and trembled in a glittering haze, alike upon themetaphysical diablerie of the _Peau de Chagrin_, and the hideous socialhorrors of "_Cousine Bette_. " The volume dropped from his hand, and hesat wearily watching Mrs. Maloney as she swept up the ashes on thehearth, replenished the fire, drew the dark damask curtains, suppliedthe simple wants of the canaries, and put on her bonnet in the disusedclerk's office, prior to bidding her employer good-night. As the doorclosed upon the Irishwoman, he arose impatiently from his chair, andpaced up and down the room. 

"Why do I go on with this, " he said, "when I know that it is leading me, step by step, day by day, hour by hour, nearer to that conclusion which, of all others, I should avoid? Am I tied to a wheel, and must I go withits every revolution, let it take me where it will? Or can I sit downhere to-night and say I have done my duty to my missing friend, I havesearched for him patiently, but I have searched in vain? Should I bejustified in doing this? Should I be justified in letting the chainwhich I have slowly put together, link by link, drop at this point, ormust I go on adding fresh links to that fatal chain until the last rivetdrops into its place and the circle is complete? I think, and I believe, that I shall never see my friend's face again; and that no exertion ofmine can ever be of any benefit to him. In plainer, crueler words Ibelieve him to be dead. Am I bound to discover how and where he died? orbeing, as I think, on the road to that discovery, shall I do a wrong tothe memory of George Talboys by turning back or stopping still? What amI to do?--what am I to do?"

He rested his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. Theone purpose which had slowly grown up in his careless nature until ithad become powerful enough to work a change in that very nature, madehim what he had never been before--a Christian; conscious of his ownweakness; anxious to keep to the strict line of duty; fearful to swervefrom the conscientious discharge of the strange task that had beenforced upon him; and reliant on a stronger hand than his own to pointthe way which he was to go. Perhaps he uttered his first earnest prayerthat night, seated by his lonely fireside, thinking of George Talboys. When he raised his head from that long and silent revery, his eyes had abright, determined glance, and every feature in his face seemed to weara new expression. 

"Justice to the dead first, " he said; "mercy to the living afterward. "

He wheeled his easy-chair to the table, trimmed the lamp, and settledhimself to the examination of the books. 

He took them up, one by one, and looked carefully through them, firstlooking at the page on which the name of the owner is ordinarilywritten, and then searching for any scrap of paper which might have beenleft within the leaves. On the first page of the Eton Latin Grammar thename of Master Talboys was written in a prim, scholastic hand; theFrench pamphlet had a careless G. T. Scrawled on the cover in pencil, inGeorge's big, slovenly calligraphy: the Tom Jones had evidently beenbought at a book-stall, and bore an inscription, dated March 14th, 1788, setting forth that the book was a tribute of respect to Mr. Thos. Scrowton, from his obedient servant, James Anderley; the Don Juan andthe Testament were blank. Robert Audley breathed more freely; he hadarrived at the last but one of the books without any result whatever, and there only remained the fat gilt-and-crimson-bound volume to beexamined before his task was finished. 

It was an annual of the year 1845. The copper-plate engravings of lovelyladies, who had flourished in that day, were yellow and spotted withmildew; the costumes grotesque and outlandish; the simpering beautiesfaded and commonplace. Even the little clusters of verses (in which thepoet's feeble candle shed its sickly light upon the obscurities of theartist's meaning) had an old-fashioned twang; like music on a lyre, whose strings are slackened by the damps of time. Robert Audley did notstop to read any of the mild productions. He ran rapidly through theleaves, looking for any scrap of writing or fragment of a letter whichmight have been used to mark a place. He found nothing but a bright ringof golden hair, of that glittering hue which is so rarely seen exceptupon the head of a child--a sunny lock, which curled as naturally as thetendril of a vine; and was very opposite in texture, if not different inhue, to the soft, smooth tresses which the landlady at Ventnor had givento George Talboys after his wife's death. Robert Audley suspended hisexamination of the book, and folded this yellow lock in a sheet ofletter paper, which he sealed with his signet-ring, and laid aside, withthe memorandum about George Talboys and Alicia's letter, in thepigeon-hole marked important. He was going to replace the fat annualamong the other books, when he discovered that the two blank leaves atthe beginning were stuck together. He was so determined to prosecute hissearch to the very uttermost, that he took the trouble to part theseleaves with the sharp end of his paper-knife, and he was rewarded forhis perseverance by finding an inscription upon one of them. Thisinscription was in three parts, and in three different hands. The firstparagraph was dated as far back as the year in which the annual had beenpublished, and set forth that the book was the property of a certainMiss Elizabeth Ann Bince, who had obtained the precious volume as areward for habits of order, and for obedience to the authorities ofCamford House Seminary, Torquay. The second paragraph was dated fiveyears later, and was in the handwriting of Miss Bince herself, whopresented the book, as a mark of undying affection and unfading esteem(Miss Bince was evidently of a romantic temperament) to her belovedfriend, Helen Maldon. The third paragraph was dated September, 1853, andwas in the hand of Helen Maldon, who gave the annual to George Talboys;and it was at the sight of this third paragraph that Mr. Robert Audley'sface changed from its natural hue to a sickly, leaden pallor. 

"I thought it would be so, " said the young man, shutting the book with aweary sigh. "God knows I was prepared for the worst, and the worst hascome. I can understand all now. My next visit must be to Southampton. Imust place the boy in better hands. "

CHAPTER XX

MRS. PLOWSON

Among the packet of letters which Robert Audley had found in George'strunk, there was one labeled with the name of the missing man'sfather--the father, who had never been too indulgent a friend to hisyounger son, and who had gladly availed himself of the excuse affordedby George's imprudent marriage to abandon the young man to his ownresources. Robert Audley had never seen Mr. Harcourt Talboys; butGeorge's careless talk of his father had given his friend some notion ofthat gentleman's character. He had written to Mr. Talboys immediatelyafter the disappearance of George, carefully wording his letter, whichvaguely hinted at the writer's fear of some foul play in the mysteriousbusiness; and, after the lapse of several weeks, he had received aformal epistle, in which Mr. Harcourt Talboys expressly declared that hehad washed his hands of all responsibility in his son George's affairsupon the young man's wedding-day; and that his absurd disappearance wasonly in character with his preposterous marriage. The writer of thisfatherly letter added in a postscript that if George Talboys had any lowdesign of alarming his friends by this pretended disappearance, andthereby playing on their feelings with a view to pecuniary advantage, hewas most egregiously deceived in the character of those persons withwhom he had to deal. 

Robert Audley had answered this letter by a few indignant lines, informing Mr. Talboys that his son was scarcely likely to hide himselffor the furtherance of any deep-laid design on the pockets of hisrelatives, as he had left twenty thousand pounds in his bankers' handsat the time of his disappearance. After dispatching this letter, Roberthad abandoned all thought of assistance from the man who, in the naturalcourse of things, should have been most interested in George's fate; butnow that he found himself advancing every day some step nearer to theend that lay so darkly before him, his mind reverted to this heartlesslyindifferent Mr. Harcourt Talboys. 

"I will run into Dorsetshire after I leave Southampton, " he said, "andsee this man. If _he_ is content to let his son's fate rest a dark andcruel mystery to all who knew him--if he is content to go down to hisgrave uncertain to the last of this poor fellow's end--why should I tryto unravel the tangled skein, to fit the pieces of the terrible puzzle, and gather together the stray fragments which, when collected, may makesuch a hideous whole? I will go to him and lay my darkest doubts freelybefore him. It will be for him to say what I am to do. "

Robert Audley started by an early express for Southampton. The snow laythick and white upon the pleasant country through which he went; and theyoung barrister had wrapped himself in so many comforters and railwayrugs as to appear a perambulating mass of woollen goods, rather than aliving member of a learned profession. He looked gloomily out of themisty window, opaque with the breath of himself and an elderly Indianofficer, who was his only companion, and watched the fleeting landscape, which had a certain phantom-like appearance in its shroud of snow. Hewrapped himself in the vast folds of his railway rug, with a peevishshiver, and felt inclined to quarrel with the destiny which compelledhim to travel by an early train upon a pitiless winter's day. 

"Who would have thought that I could have grown so fond of the fellow, "he muttered, "or feel so lonely without him? I've a comfortable littlefortune in the three per cents. ; I'm heir presumptive to my uncle'stitle; and I know of a certain dear little girl who, as I think, woulddo her best to make me happy; but I declare that I would freely give upall, and stand penniless in the world to-morrow, if this mystery couldbe satisfactorily cleared away, and George Talboys could stand by myside. "

He reached Southampton between eleven and twelve o'clock, and walkedacross the platform, with the snow drifting in his face, toward the pierand the lower end of the town. The clock of St. Michael's Church wasstriking twelve as he crossed the quaint old square in which thatedifice stands, and groped his way through the narrow streets leadingdown to the water. 

Mr. Maldon had established his slovenly household gods in one of thosedreary thoroughfares which speculative builders love to raise upon somemiserable fragment of waste ground hanging to the skirts of a prosperoustown. Brigsome's Terrace was, perhaps, one of the most dismal blocks ofbuilding that was ever composed of brick and mortar since the firstmason plied his trowel and the first architect drew his plan. Thebuilder who had speculated in the ten dreary eight-roomed prison-houseshad hung himself behind the parlor door of an adjacent tavern while thecarcases were yet unfinished. The man who had bought the brick andmortar skeletons had gone through the bankruptcy court while thepaper-hangers were still busy in Brigsome's Terrace, and had whitewashedhis ceilings and himself simultaneously. Ill luck and insolvency clungto the wretched habitations. The bailiff and the broker's man were aswell known as the butcher and the baker to the noisy children who playedupon the waste ground in front of the parlor windows. Solvent tenantswere disturbed at unhallowed hours by the noise of ghostly furniturevans creeping stealthily away in the moonless night. Insolvent tenantsopenly defied the collector of the water-rate from their ten-roomedstrongholds, and existed for weeks without any visible means ofprocuring that necessary fluid. 

Robert Audley looked about him with a shudder as he turned from thewaterside into this poverty-stricken locality. A child's funeral wasleaving one of the houses as he approached, and he thought with a thrillof horror that if the little coffin had held George's son, he would havebeen in some measure responsible for the boy's death. 

"The poor child shall not sleep another night in this wretched hovel, "he thought, as he knocked at the door of Mr. Maldon's house. "He is thelegacy of my best friend, and it shall be my business to secure hissafety. "

A slipshod servant girl opened the door and looked at Mr. Audley rathersuspiciously as she asked him, very much through her nose, what hepleased to want. The door of the little sitting room was ajar, andRobert could hear the clattering of knives and forks and the childishvoice of little George prattling gayly. He told the servant that he hadcome from London, that he wanted to see Master Talboys, and that hewould announce himself; and walking past her, without further ceremonyhe opened the door of the parlor. The girl stared at him aghast as hedid this; and as if struck by some sudden and terrible conviction, threwher apron over her head and ran out into the snow. She darted across thewaste ground, plunged into a narrow alley, and never drew breath tillshe found herself upon the threshold of a certain tavern called theCoach and Horses, and much affected by Mr. Maldon. The lieutenant'sfaithful retainer had taken Robert Audley for some new and determinedcollector of poor's rates--rejecting that gentleman's account of himselfas an artful fiction devised for the destruction of parochialdefaulters--and had hurried off to give her master timely warning of theenemy's approach. 

When Robert entered the sitting-room he was surprised to find littleGeorge seated opposite to a woman who was doing the honors of a shabbyrepast, spread upon a dirty table-cloth, and flanked by a pewter beermeasure. The woman rose as Robert entered, and courtesied very humbly tothe young barrister. She looked about fifty years of age, and wasdressed in rusty widow's weeds. Her complexion was insipidly fair, andthe two smooth bands of hair beneath her cap were of that sunless, flaxen hue which generally accompanies pink cheeks and white eyelashes. She had been a rustic beauty, perhaps, in her time, but her features, although tolerably regular in their shape, had a mean, pinched look, asif they had been made too small for her face. This defect was peculiarlynoticeable in her mouth, which was an obvious misfit for the set ofteeth it contained. She smiled as she courtesied to Mr. Robert Audley, and her smile, which laid bare the greater part of this set of square, hungry-looking teeth, by no means added to the beauty of her personalappearance. 

"Mr. Maldon is not at home, sir, " she said, with insinuating civility;"but if it's for the water-rate, he requested me to say that--"

She was interrupted by little George Talboys, who scrambled down fromthe high chair upon which he had been perched, and ran to Robert Audley. 

"I know you, " he said; "you came to Ventnor with the big gentleman, andyou came here once, and you gave me some money, and I gave it to gran'pato take care of, and gran'pa kept it, and he always does. "

Robert Audley took the boy in his arms, and carried him to a littletable in the window. 

"Stand there, Georgey, " he said, "I want to have a good look at you. "

He turned the boy's face to the light, and pushed the brown curls offhis forehead with both hands. 

"You are growing more like your father every day, Georgey; and you'regrowing quite a man, too, " he said; "would you like to go to school?"

"Oh, yes, please, I should like it very much, " the boy answered, eagerly. "I went to school at Miss Pevins' once--day-school, youknow--round the corner in the next street; but I caught the measles, andgran'pa wouldn't let me go any more, for fear I should catch the measlesagain; and gran'pa won't let me play with the little boys in the street, because they're rude boys; he said blackguard boys; but he said Imustn't say blackguard boys, because it's naughty. He says damn anddevil, but he says he may because he's old. I shall say damn and devilwhen I'm old; and I should like to go to school, please, and I can goto-day, if you like; Mrs. Plowson will get my frocks ready, won't you, Mrs. Plowson?"

"Certainly, Master Georgey, if your grandpapa wishes it, " the womananswered, looking rather uneasily at Mr. Robert Audley. 

"What on earth is the matter with this woman, " thought Robert as heturned from the boy to the fair-haired widow, who was edging herselfslowly toward the table upon which little George Talboys stood talkingto his guardian. "Does she still take me for a tax-collector withinimical intentions toward these wretched goods and chattels; or can thecause of her fidgety manner lie deeper still. That's scarcely likely, though; for whatever secrets Lieutenant Maldon may have, it's not veryprobable that this woman has any knowledge of them. "

Mrs. Plowson had edged herself close to the little table by this time, and was making a stealthy descent upon the boy, when Robert turnedsharply round. 

"What are you going to do with the child?" he said. 

"I was only going to take him away to wash his pretty face, sir, andsmooth his hair, " answered the woman, in the most insinuating tone inwhich she had spoken of the water-rate. "You don't see him to anyadvantage, sir, while his precious face is dirty. I won't be fiveminutes making him as neat as a new pin. "

She had her long, thin arms about the boy as she spoke, and she wasevidently going to carry him off bodily, when Robert stopped her. 

"I'd rather see him as he is, thank you, " he said. "My time inSouthampton isn't very long, and I want to hear all that the little mancan tell me. "

The little man crept closer to Robert, and looked confidingly into thebarrister's gray eyes. 

"I like you very much, " he said. "I was frightened of you when you camebefore, because I was shy. I am not shy now--I am nearly six years old. "

Robert patted the boy's head encouragingly, but he was not looking atlittle George; he was watching the fair-haired widow, who had moved tothe window, and was looking out at the patch of waste ground. 

"You're rather fidgety about some one, ma'am, I'm afraid, " said Robert. 

She colored violently as the barrister made this remark, and answeredhim in a confused manner. 

"I was looking for Mr. Maldon, sir, " she said; "he'll be so disappointedif he doesn't see you. "

"You know who I am, then?"

"No, sir, but--"

The boy interrupted her by dragging a little jeweled watch from hisbosom and showing it to Robert. 

"This is the watch the pretty lady gave me, " he said. "I've got itnow--but I haven't had it long, because the jeweler who cleans it is anidle man, gran'pa says, and always keeps it such a long time; andgran'pa says it will have to be cleaned again, because of the taxes. Healways takes it to be cleaned when there's taxes--but he says if he wereto lose it the pretty lady would give me another. Do you know the prettylady?"

"No, Georgey, but tell me about her. "

Mrs. Plowson made another descent upon the boy. She was armed with apocket-handkerchief this time, and displayed great anxiety about thestate of little George's nose, but Robert warded off the dreaded weapon, and drew the child away from his tormentor. 

"The boy will do very well, ma'am, " he said, "if you'll be good enoughto let him alone for five minutes. Now, Georgey, suppose you sit on myknee, and tell me all about the pretty lady. "

The child clambered from the table onto Mr. Audley's knees, assistinghis descent by a very unceremonious manipulation of his guardian'scoat-collar. 

"I'll tell you all about the pretty lady, " he said, "because I like youvery much. Gran'pa told me not to tell anybody, but I'll tell you, youknow, because I like you, and because you're going to take me to school. The pretty lady came here one night--long ago--oh, so long ago, " saidthe boy, shaking his head, with a face whose solemnity was expressive ofsome prodigious lapse of time. "She came when I was not nearly so big asI am now--and she came at night--after I'd gone to bed, and she came upinto my room, and sat upon the bed, and cried--and she left the watchunder my pillow, and she--Why do you make faces at me, Mrs. Plowson? Imay tell this gentleman, " Georgey added, suddenly addressing the widow, who was standing behind Robert's shoulder. 

Mrs. Plowson mumbled some confused apology to the effect that she wasafraid Master George was troublesome. 

"Suppose you wait till I say so, ma'am, before you stop the littlefellow's mouth, " said Robert Audley, sharply. "A suspicious person mightthink from your manner that Mr. Maldon and you had some conspiracybetween you, and that you were afraid of what the boy's talk may letslip. "

He rose from his chair, and looked full at Mrs. Plowson as he said this. The fair-haired widow's face was as white as her cap when she tried toanswer him, and her pale lips were so dry that she was compelled to wetthem with her tongue before the words would come. 

The little boy relieved her embarrassment. 

"Don't be cross to Mrs. Plowson, " he said. "Mrs. Plowson is very kind tome. Mrs. Plowson is Matilda's mother. You don't know Matilda. PoorMatilda was always crying; she was ill, she--"

The boy was stopped by the sudden appearance of Mr. Maldon, who stood onthe threshold of the parlor door staring at Robert Audley with ahalf-drunken, half-terrified aspect, scarcely consistent with thedignity of a retired naval officer. The servant girl, breathless andpanting, stood close behind her master. Early in the day though it was, the old man's speech was thick and confused, as he addressed himselffiercely to Mrs. Plowson. 

"You're a prett' creature to call yoursel' sensible woman?" he said. "Why don't you take th' chile 'way, er wash 's face? D'yer want to ruinme? D'yer want to 'stroy me? Take th' chile 'way! Mr. Audley, sir, I'mver' glad to see yer; ver' 'appy to 'ceive yer in m' humbl' 'bode, " theold man added with tipsy politeness, dropping into a chair as he spoke, and trying to look steadily at his unexpected visitor. 

"Whatever this man's secrets are, " thought Robert, as Mrs. Plowsonhustled little George Talboys out of the room, "that woman has nounimportant share of them. Whatever the mystery may be, it grows darkerand thicker at every step; but I try in vain to draw back or to stopshort upon the road, for a stronger hand than my own is pointing the wayto my lost friend's unknown grave. "

CHAPTER XXI. 

LITTLE GEORGEY LEAVES HIS OLD HOME. 

"I am going to take your grandson away with me, Mr. Maldon, " Robert saidgravely, as Mrs. Plowson retired with her young charge. 

The old man's drunken imbecility was slowly clearing away like the heavymists of a London fog, through which the feeble sunshine struggles dimlyto appear. The very uncertain radiance of Lieutenant Maldon's intellecttook a considerable time in piercing the hazy vapors of rum-and-water;but the flickering light at last faintly glimmered athwart the clouds, and the old man screwed his poor wits to the sticking-point. 

"Yes, yes, " he said, feebly; "take the boy away from his poor oldgrandfather; I always thought so. "

"You always thought that I should take him away?" scrutinizing thehalf-drunken countenance with a searching glance. "Why did you think so, Mr. Maldon?"

The fogs of intoxication got the better of the light of sobriety for amoment, and the lieutenant answered vaguely:

"Thought so--'cause I thought so. "

Meeting the young barrister's impatient frown, he made another effort, and the light glimmered again. 

"Because I thought you or his father would fetch 'm away. "

"When I was last in this house, Mr. Maldon, you told me that GeorgeTalboys had sailed for Australia. "

"Yes, yes--I know, I know, " the old man answered, confusedly, shufflinghis scanty limp gray hairs with his two wandering hands--"I know; but hemight have come back--mightn't he? He was restless, and--and--queer inhis mind, perhaps, sometimes. He might have come back. "

He repeated this two or three times in feeble, muttering tones; gropingabout on the littered mantle-piece for a dirty-looking clay pipe, andfilling and lighting it with hands that trembled violently. 

Robert Audley watched those poor, withered, tremulous fingers droppingshreds of tobacco upon the hearth rug, and scarcely able to kindle alucifer for their unsteadiness. Then walking once or twice up and downthe little room, he left the old man to take a few puffs from the greatconsoler. 

Presently he turned suddenly upon the half-pay lieutenant with a darksolemnity in his handsome face. 

"Mr. Maldon, " he said, slowly watching the effect of every syllable ashe spoke, "George Talboys never sailed for Australia--that I know. Morethan this, he never came to Southampton; and the lie you told me on the8th of last September was dictated to you by the telegraphic messagewhich you received on that day. "

The dirty clay pipe dropped from the tremulous hand, and shiveredagainst the iron fender, but the old man made no effort to find a freshone; he sat trembling in every limb, and looking, Heaven knows howpiteously, at Robert Audley. 

"The lie was dictated to you, and you repeated your lesson. But you nomore saw George Talboys here on the 7th of September than I see him inthis room now. You thought you had burnt the telegraphic message, butyou had only burnt a part of it--the remainder is in my possession. "

Lieutenant Maldon was quite sober now. 

"What have I done?" he murmured, hopelessly. "Oh, my God! what have Idone?"

"At two o'clock on the 7th of September last, " continued the pitiless, accusing voice, "George Talboys was seen alive and well at a house inEssex. "

Robert paused to see the effect of these words. They had produced nochange in the old man. He still sat trembling from head to foot, andstaring with the fixed and solid gaze of some helpless wretch whoseevery sense is gradually becoming numbed by terror. 

"At two o'clock on that day, " remarked Robert Audley, "my poor friendwas seen alive and well at ----, at the house of which I speak. Fromthat hour to this I have never been able to hear that he has been seenby any living creature. I have taken such steps as _must_ have resultedin procuring the information of his whereabouts, were he alive. I havedone this patiently and carefully--at first, even hopefully. Now I knowthat he is dead. "

Robert Audley had been prepared to witness some considerable agitationin the old man's manner, but he was not prepared for the terribleanguish, the ghastly terror, which convulsed Mr. Maldon's haggard faceas he uttered the last word. 

"No, no, no, no, " reiterated the lieutenant, in a shrill, half-screamingvoice; "no, no! For God's sake, don't say that! Don't think it--don'tlet _me_ think it--don't let me dream of it! Not dead--anything butdead! Hidden away, perhaps--bribed to keep out of the way, perhaps; butnot dead--not dead--not dead!"

He cried these words aloud, like one beside himself, beating his handsupon his gray head, and rocking backward and forward in his chair. Hisfeeble hands trembled no longer--they were strengthened by someconvulsive force that gave them a new power. 

"I believe, " said Robert, in the same solemn, relentless voice, "that myfriend left Essex; and I believe he died on the 7th of September last. "

The wretched old man, still beating his hands among his thin gray hair, slid from his chair to the ground, and groveled at Robert's feet. 

"Oh! no, no--for God's, no!" he shrieked hoarsely. "No! you don't knowwhat you say--you don't know what your words mean!"

"I know their weight and value only too well--as well as I see you do, Mr. Maldon. God help us!"

"Oh, what am I doing? what am I doing?" muttered the old man, feebly;then raising himself from the ground with an effort, he drew himself tohis full hight, and said, in a manner which was new to him, and whichwas not without a certain dignity of his own--that dignity which must bealways attached to unutterable misery, in whatever form it mayappear--he said, gravely:

"You have no right to come here and terrify a man who has been drinking, and who is not quite himself. You have no right to do it, Mr. Audley. Even the--the officer, sir, who--who--. " He did not stammer, but hislips trembled so violently that his words seemed to be shaken intopieces by their motion. "The officer, I repeat, sir, who arrestsa--thief, or a--. " He stopped to wipe his lips, and to still them if hecould by doing so, which he could not. "A thief or a murderer--" Hisvoice died suddenly away upon the last word, and it was only by themotion of those trembling lips that Robert knew what he meant. "Giveshim warning, sir, fair warning, that he may say nothing which shallcommit himself--or--or--other people. The--the--law, sir, has thatamount of mercy for a--a--suspected criminal. But you, sir, --you come tomy house, and you come at a time when--when--contrary to my usualhabits--which, as people will tell you, are sober--you take theopportunity to--terrify me--and it is not right, sir--it is--"

Whatever he would have said died away into inarticulate gasps, whichseemed to choke him, and sinking into a chair, he dropped his face uponthe table, and wept aloud. Perhaps in all the dismal scenes of domesticmisery which had been acted in those spare and dreary houses--in all thepetty miseries, the burning shames, the cruel sorrows, the bitterdisgraces which own poverty for their father--there had never been sucha scene as this. An old man hiding his face from the light of day, andsobbing aloud in his wretchedness. Robert Audley contemplated thepainful picture with a hopeless and pitying face. 

"If I had known this, " he thought, "I might have spared him. It wouldhave been better, perhaps, to have spared him. "

The shabby room, the dirt, the confusion, the figure of the old man, with his gray head upon the soiled tablecloth, amid the muddled _debris_of a wretched dinner, grew blurred before the sight of Robert Audley ashe thought of another man, as old as this one, but, ah! how widelydifferent in every other quality! who might come by and by to feel thesame, or even a worse anguish, and to shed, perhaps, yet bitterer tears. The moment in which the tears rose to his eyes and dimmed the piteousscene before him, was long enough to take him back to Essex, and to showhim the image of his uncle, stricken by agony and shame. 

"Why do I go on with this?" he thought; "how pitiless I am, and howrelentlessly I am carried on. It is not myself; it is the hand which isbeckoning me further and further upon the dark road, whose end I darenot dream of. "

He thought this, and a hundred times more than this, while the old mansat with his face still hidden, wrestling with his anguish, but withoutpower to keep it down. 

"Mr. Maldon, " Robert Audley said, after a pause, "I do not ask you toforgive me for what I have brought upon you, for the feeling is strongwithin me that it must have come to you sooner or later--if not throughme, through some one else. There are--" he stopped for a momenthesitating. The sobbing did not cease; it was sometimes low, sometimesloud, bursting out with fresh violence, or dying away for an instant, but never ceasing. "There are some things which, as people say, cannotbe hidden. I think there is truth in that common saying which had itsorigin in that old worldly wisdom which people gathered from experienceand not from books. If--if I were content to let my friend rest in hishidden grave, it is but likely that some stranger who had never heardthe name of George Talboys, might fall by the remotest accident upon thesecret of his death. To-morrow, perhaps; or ten years hence, or inanother generation, when the--the hand that wronged him is as cold ashis own. If I _could_ let the matter rest; if--if I could leave Englandforever, and purposely fly from the possibility of ever coming acrossanother clew to the secret, I would do it--I would gladly, thankfully doit--but I _cannot_! A hand which is stronger than my own beckons me on. I wish to take no base advantage of you, less than of all other people;but I must go on; I must go on. If there is any warning you would giveto any one, give it. If the secret toward which I am traveling day byday, hour by hour, involves any one in whom you have an interest, letthat person fly before I come to the end. Let them leave this country;let them leave all who know them--all whose peace their wickedness hasendangered; let them go away--they shall not be pursued. But if theyslight your warning--if they try to hold their present position indefiance of what it will be in your power to tell them--let them bewareof me, for, when the hour comes, I swear that I will not spare them. "

The old man looked up for the first time, and wiped his wrinkled faceupon a ragged silk handkerchief. 

"I declare to you that I do not understand you, " he said. "I solemnlydeclare to you that I cannot understand; and I do not believe thatGeorge Talboys is dead. "

"I would give ten years of my own life if I could see him alive, "answered Robert, sadly. "I am sorry for you, Mr. Malden--I am sorry forall of us. "

"I do not believe that my son-in-law is dead, " said the lieutenant; "Ido not believe that the poor lad is dead. "

He endeavored in a feeble manner to show to Robert Audley that his wildoutburst of anguish had been caused by his grief for the loss of George;but the pretense was miserably shallow. 

Mrs. Plowson re-entered the room, leading little Georgey, whose faceshone with that brilliant polish which yellow soap and friction canproduce upon the human countenance. 

"Dear heart alive!" exclaimed Mrs. Plowson, "what has the poor oldgentleman been taking on about? We could hear him in the passage, sobbin' awful. "

Little George crept up to his grandfather, and smoothed the wet andwrinkled face with his pudgy hand. 

"Don't cry, gran'pa, " he said, "don't cry. You shall have my watch to becleaned, and the kind jeweler shall lend you the money to pay the taxmanwhile he cleans the watch--I don't mind, gran'pa. Let's go to thejeweler, the jeweler in High street, you know, with golden balls paintedupon his door, to show that he comes from Lombar--Lombardshire, " saidthe boy, making a dash at the name. "Come, gran'pa. "

The little fellow took the jeweled toy from his bosom and made for thedoor, proud of being possessed of a talisman, which he had seen so oftenmade useful. 

"There are wolves at Southampton, " he said, with rather a triumphant nodto Robert Audley. "My gran'pa says when he takes my watch that he doesit to keep the wolf from the door. Are there wolves where you live?"

The young barrister did not answer the child's question, but stopped himas he was dragging his grandfather toward the door. 

"Your grandpapa does not want the watch to-day, Georgey, " he said, gravely. 

"Why is he sorry, then?" asked Georgey, naively; "when he wants thewatch he is always sorry, and beats his poor forehead so"--the boystopped to pantomime with his small fists--"and says that she--the prettylady, I think he means--uses him very hard, and that he can't keep thewolf from the door; and then I say, 'Gran'pa, have the watch;' and thenhe takes me in his arms, and says, 'Oh, my blessed angel! how can I robmy blessed angel?' and then he cries, but not like to-day--not loud, youknow; only tears running down his poor cheeks, not so that you couldhear him in the passage. "

Painful as the child's prattle was to Robert Audley, it seemed a reliefto the old man. He did not hear the boy's talk, but walked two or threetimes up and down the little room and smoothed his rumpled hair andsuffered his cravat to be arranged by Mrs. Plowson, who seemed veryanxious to find out the cause of his agitation. 

"Poor dear old gentleman, " she said, looking at Robert. 

"What has happened to upset him so?"

"His son-in-law is dead, " answered Mr. Audley, fixing his eyes upon Mrs. Plowson's sympathetic face. "He died, within a year and a half after thedeath of Helen Talboys, who lies burried in Ventnor churchyard. "

The face into which he was looking changed very slightly, but the eyesthat had been looking at him shifted away as he spoke, and Mrs. Plowsonwas obliged to moisten her white lips with her tongue before sheanswered him. 

"Poor Mr. Talboys dead!" she said; "that is bad news indeed, sir. "

Little George looked wistfully up at his guardian's face as this wassaid. 

"Who's dead?" he said. "George Talboys is my name. Who's dead?"

"Another person whose name is Talboys, Georgey. "

"Poor person! Will he go to the pit-hole?"

The boy had that notion of death which is generally imparted to childrenby their wise elders, and which always leads the infant mind to the opengrave and rarely carries it any higher. 

"I should like to _see_ him put in the pit-hole, " Georgey remarked, after a pause. He had attended several infant funerals in theneighborhood, and was considered valuable as a mourner on account of hisinteresting appearance. He had come, therefore, to look upon theceremony of interment as a solemn festivity; in which cake and wine, anda carriage drive were the leading features. 

"You have no objection to my taking Georgey away with me, Mr. Maldon?"asked Robert Audley. 

The old man's agitation had very much subsided by this time. He hadfound another pipe stuck behind the tawdry frame of the looking-glass, and was trying to light it with a bit of twisted newspaper. 

"You do not object, Mr. Maldon?"

"No, sir--no, sir; you are his guardian, and you have a right to takehim where you please. He has been a very great comfort to me in mylonely old age, but I have been prepared to lose him. I--I may not havealways done my duty to him, sir, in--in the way of schooling, and--andboots. The number of boots which boys of his age wear out, sir, is noteasily realized by the mind of a young man like yourself; he has beenkept away from school, perhaps, sometimes, and occasionally worn shabbyboots when our funds have got low; but he has not been unkindly treated. No, sir; if you were to question him for a week, I don't think you'dhear that his poor old grandfather ever said a harsh word to him. "

Upon this, Georgie, perceiving the distress of his old protector, set upa terrible howl, and declared that he would never leave him. 

"Mr. Maldon, " said Robert Audley, with a tone which was half-mournful, half-compassionate, "when I looked at my position last night, I did notbelieve that I could ever come to think it more painful than I thoughtit then. I can only say--God have mercy upon us all. I feel it my dutyto take the child away, but I shall take him straight from your house tothe best school in Southampton; and I give you my honor that I willextort nothing from his innocent simplicity which can in any manner--Imean, " he said, breaking off abruptly, "I mean this. I will not seek tocome one step nearer the secret through him. I--I am not a detectiveofficer, and I do not think the most accomplished detective would liketo get his information from a child. "

The old man did not answer; he sat with his face shaded by his hand, andwith his extinguished pipe between the listless fingers of the other. 

"Take the boy away, Mrs. Plowson, " he said, after a pause; "take himaway and put his things on. He is going with Mr. Audley. "

"Which I do say that it's not kind of the gentleman to take his poorgrandpa's pet away, " Mrs. Plowson exclaimed, suddenly, with respectfulindignation. 

"Hush, Mrs. Plowson, " the old man answered, piteously; "Mr. Audley isthe best judge. I--I haven't many years to live; I sha'n't troubleanybody long. "

The tears oozed slowly through the dirty fingers with which he shadedhis blood-shot eyes, as he said this. 

"God knows, I never injured your friend, sir, " he said, by-and-by, whenMrs. Plowson and Georgey had returned, "nor even wished him any ill. Hewas a good son-in-law to me--better than many a son. I never did him anywilful wrong, sir. I--I spent his money, perhaps, but I am sorry forit--I am very sorry for it now. But I don't believe he is dead--no, sir;no, I don't believe it!" exclaimed the old man, dropping his hand fromhis eyes, and looking with new energy at Robert Audley. "I--I don'tbelieve it, sir! How--how should he be dead?"

Robert did not answer this eager questioning. He shook his headmournfully, and, walking to the little window, looked out across a rowof straggling geraniums at the dreary patch of waste ground on which thechildren were at play. 

Mrs. Plowson returned with little Georgey muffled in a coat andcomforter, and Robert took the boy's hand. 

The little fellow sprung toward the old man, and clinging about him, kissed the dirty tears from his faded cheeks. 

"Don't be sorry for me, gran'pa, " he said; "I am going to school tolearn to be a clever man, and I shall come home to see you and Mrs. Plowson, sha'n't I?" he added, turning to Robert. 

"Yes, my dear, by-and-by. "

"Take him away, sir--take him away, " cried Mr. Maldon; "you are breakingmy heart. "

The little fellow trotted away contentedly at Robert's side. He was verywell pleased at the idea of going to school, though he had been happyenough with his drunken old grandfather, who had always displayed amaudlin affection for the pretty child, and had done his best to spoilGeorgey, by letting him have his own way in everything; in consequenceof which indulgence, Master Talboys had acquired a taste for late hours, hot suppers of the most indigestible nature, and sips of rum-and-waterfrom his grandfather's glass. 

He communicated his sentiments upon many subjects to Robert Audley, asthey walked to the Dolphin Hotel; but the barrister did not encouragehim to talk. 

It was no very difficult matter to find a good school in such a place asSouthampton. Robert Audley was directed to a pretty house between theBar and the Avenue, and leaving Georgey to the care of a good-naturedwaiter, who seemed to have nothing to do but to look out of the window, and whisk invisible dust off the brightly polished tables, the barristerwalked up the High street toward Mr. Marchmont's academy for younggentlemen. 

He found Mr. Marchmont a very sensible man, and he met a file oforderly-looking young gentlemen walking townward under the escort of acouple of ushers as he entered the house. 

He told the schoolmaster that little George Talboys had been left in hischarge by a dear friend, who had sailed for Australia some monthsbefore, and whom he believed to be dead. He confided him to Mr. Marchmont's especial care, and he further requested that no visitorsshould be admitted to see the boy unless accredited by a letter fromhimself. Having arranged the matter in a very few business-like words, he returned to the hotel to fetch Georgey. 

He found the little man on intimate terms with the idle waiter, who hadbeen directing Master Georgey's attention to the different objects ofinterest in the High street. 

Poor Robert had about as much notion of the requirements of a child ashe had of those of a white elephant. He had catered for silkworms, guinea-pigs, dormice, canary-birds, and dogs, without number, during hisboyhood, but he had never been called upon to provide for a young personof five years old. 

He looked back five-and-twenty years, and tried to remember his own dietat the age of five. 

"I've a vague recollection of getting a good deal of bread and milk andboiled mutton, " he thought; "and I've another vague recollection of notliking them. I wonder if this boy likes bread and milk and boiledmutton. "

He stood pulling his thick mustache and staring thoughtfully at thechild for some minutes before he could get any further. 

"I dare say you're hungry, Georgey?" he said, at last. 

The boy nodded, and the waiter whisked some more invisible dust from thenearest table as a preparatory step toward laying a cloth. 

"Perhaps you'd like some lunch?" Mr. Audley suggested, still pulling hismustache. 

The boy burst out laughing. 

"Lunch!" he cried. "Why, it's afternoon, and I've had my dinner. "

Robert Audley felt himself brought to a standstill. What refreshmentcould he possibly provide for a boy who called it afternoon at threeo'clock?

"You shall have some bread and milk, Georgey, " he said, presently. "Waiter, bread and milk, and a pint of hock. "

Master Talboys made a wry face. 

"I never have bread and milk, " he said, "I don't like it. I like whatgran'pa calls something savory. I should like a veal cutlet. Gran'patold me he dined here once, and the veal cutlets were lovely, gran'pasaid. Please may I have a veal cutlet, with egg and bread-crumb, youknow, and lemon-juice you know?" he added to the waiter: "Gran'pa knowsthe cook here. The cook's such a nice gentleman, and once gave me ashilling, when gran'pa brought me here. The cook wears better clothesthan gran'pa--better than yours, even, " said Master Georgey, pointing toRobert's rough great-coat with a depreciating nod. 

Robert Audley stared aghast. How was he to deal with this epicure offive years old, who rejected bread and milk and asked for veal cutlets?

"I'll tell you what I'll do with you, little Georgey, " he exclaimed, after a pause--"_I'll give you a dinner!_"

The waiter nodded briskly. 

"Upon my word, sir, " he said, approvingly, "I think the little gentlemanwill know how to eat it. "

"I'll give you a dinner, Georgey, " repeated Robert--"some stewed eels, alittle Julienne, a dish of cutlets, a bird, and a pudding. What do yousay to that, Georgey?"

"I don't think the young gentleman will object to it when he sees it, sir, " said the waiter. "Eels, Julienne, cutlets, bird, pudding--I'll goand tell the cook, sir. What time, sir?"

"Well, we'll say six, and Master Georgey will get to his new school bybedtime. You can contrive to amuse the child for this afternoon, I daresay. I have some business to settle, and sha'n't be able to take himout. I shall sleep here to-night. Good-by, Georgey; take care ofyourself and try and get your appetite in order against six o'clock. "

Robert Audley left the boy in charge of the idle waiter, and strolleddown to the water side, choosing that lonely bank which leads away underthe moldering walls of the town toward the little villages beside thenarrowing river. 

He had purposely avoided the society of the child, and he walked throughthe light drifting snow till the early darkness closed upon him. 

He went back to the town, and made inquiries at the station about thetrains for Dorsetshire. 

"I shall start early to-morrow morning, " he thought, "and see George'sfather before nightfall. I will tell him all--all but the interest whichI take in--in the suspected person, and he shall decide what is next tobe done. "

Master Georgey did very good justice to the dinner which Robert hadordered. He drank Bass' pale ale to an extent which considerably alarmedhis entertainer, and enjoyed himself amazingly, showing an appreciationof roast pheasant and bread-sauce which was beyond his years. At eighto'clock a fly was brought out for his accommodation, and he departed inthe highest spirits, with a sovereign in his pocket, and a letter fromRobert to Mr. Marchmont, inclosing a check for the young gentleman'soutfit. 

"I'm glad I'm going to have new clothes, " he said, as he bade Robertgood-by; "for Mrs. Plowson has mended the old ones ever so many times. She can have them now, for Billy. "

"Who's Billy?" Robert asked, laughing at the boy's chatter. 

"Billy is poor Matilda's little boy. He's a common boy, you know. Matilda was common, but she--"

But the flyman snapping his whip at this moment, the old horse joggedoff, and Robert Audley heard no more of Matilda. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

COMING TO A STANDSTILL. 

Mr. Harcourt Talboys lived in a prim, square, red-brick mansion, withina mile of a little village called Grange Heath, in Dorsetshire. Theprim, square, red-brick mansion stood in the center of prim, squaregrounds, scarcely large enough to be called a park, too large to becalled anything else--so neither the house nor the grounds had any name, and the estate was simply designated Squire Talboys'. 

Perhaps Mr. Harcourt Talboys was the last person in this world with whomit was possible to associate the homely, hearty, rural old English titleof squire. He neither hunted nor farmed. He had never worn crimson, pink, or top-boots in his life. A southerly wind and a cloudy sky werematters of supreme indifference to him, so long as they did not in anyway interfere with his own prim comforts; and he only cared for thestate of the crops inasmuch as it involved the hazard of certain rentswhich he received for the farms upon his estate. He was a man of aboutfifty years of age, tall, straight, bony and angular, with a square, pale face, light gray eyes, and scanty dark hair, brushed from eitherear across a bald crown, and thus imparting to his physiognomy somefaint resemblance to that of a terrier--a sharp, uncompromising, hard-headed terrier--a terrier not to be taken in by the cleverestdog-stealer who ever distinguished himself in his profession. 

Nobody ever remembered getting upon what is popularly called the blindside of Harcourt Talboys. He was like his own square-built, northern-fronted, shelterless house. There were no shady nooks in hischaracter into which one could creep for shelter from his hard daylight. He was all daylight. He looked at everything in the same broad glare ofintellectual sunlight, and would see no softening shadows that mightalter the sharp outlines of cruel facts, subduing them to beauty. I donot know if I express what I mean, when I say that there were no curvesin his character--that his mind ran in straight lines, never divergingto the right or the left to round off their pitiless angles. With himright was right, and wrong was wrong. He had never in his merciless, conscientious life admitted the idea that circumstances might mitigatethe blackness of wrong or weaken the force of right. He had cast off hisonly son because his only son had disobeyed him, and he was ready tocast off his only daughter at five minutes' notice for the same reason. 

If this square-built, hard-headed man could be possessed of such aweakness as vanity, he was certainly vain of his hardness. He was vainof that inflexible squareness of intellect, which made him thedisagreeable creature that he was. He was vain of that unwaveringobstinacy which no influence of love or pity had ever been known to bendfrom its remorseless purpose. He was vain of the negative force of anature which had never known the weakness of the affections, or thestrength which may be born of that very weakness. 

If he had regretted his son's marriage, and the breach of his ownmaking, between himself and George, his vanity had been more powerfulthan his regret, and had enabled him to conceal it. Indeed, unlikely asit appears at the first glance that such a man as this could have beenvain, I have little doubt that vanity was the center from which radiatedall the disagreeable lines in the character of Mr. Harcourt Talboys. Idare say Junius Brutus was vain, and enjoyed the approval ofawe-stricken Rome when he ordered his son off for execution. HarcourtTalboys would have sent poor George from his presence between thereversed fasces of the lictors, and grimly relished his own agony. Heaven only knows how bitterly this hard man may have felt theseparation between himself and his only son, or how much the moreterrible the anguish might have been made by that unflinchingself-conceit which concealed the torture. 

"My son did me an unpardonable wrong by marrying the daughter of adrunken pauper, " Mr. Talboys would answer to any one who had thetemerity to speak to him about George, "and from that hour I had nolonger a son. I wish him no ill. He is simply dead to me. I am sorry forhim, as I am sorry for his mother who died nineteen years ago. If youtalk to me of him as you would talk of the dead, I shall be ready tohear you. If you speak of him as you would speak of the living, I mustdecline to listen. "

I believe that Harcourt Talboys hugged himself upon the gloomy Romangrandeur of this speech, and that he would like to have worn a toga, andwrapped himself sternly in its folds, as he turned his back upon poorGeorge's intercessor. George never in his own person made any effort tosoften his father's verdict. He knew his father well enough to know thatthe case was hopeless. 

"If I write to him, he will fold my letter with the envelope inside, andindorse it with my name and the date of its arrival, " the young manwould say, "and call everybody in the house to witness that it had notmoved him to one softening recollection or one pitiful thought. He willstick to his resolution to his dying day. I dare say, if the truth wasknown, he is glad that his only son has offended him and given him theopportunity of parading his Roman virtues. "

George had answered his wife thus when she and her father had urged himto ask assistance from Harcourt Talboys. 

"No my darling, " he would say, conclusively. "It's very hard, perhaps, to be poor, but we will bear it. We won't go with pitiful faces to thestern father, and ask him to give us food and shelter, only to berefused in long, Johnsonian sentences, and made a classical example forthe benefit of the neighborhood. No, my pretty one; it is easy tostarve, but it is difficult to stoop. "

Perhaps poor Mrs. George did not agree very heartily to the first ofthese two propositions. She had no great fancy for starving, and shewhimpered pitifully when the pretty pint bottles of champagne, withCliquot's and Moet's brands upon their corks, were exchanged forsixpenny ale, procured by a slipshod attendant from the nearestbeer-shop. George had been obliged to carry his own burden and lend ahelping hand with that of his wife, who had no idea of keeping herregrets or disappointments a secret. 

"I thought dragoons were always rich, " she used to say, peevishly. "Girls always want to marry dragoons; and tradespeople always want toserve dragoons; and hotel-keepers to entertain dragoons; and theatricalmanagers to be patronized by dragoons. Who could have ever expected thata dragoon would drink sixpenny ale, smoke horrid bird's-eye tobacco, andlet his wife wear a shabby bonnet?"

If there were any selfish feelings displayed in such speeches as these, George Talboys had never discovered it. He had loved and believed in hiswife from the first to the last hour of his brief married life. The lovethat is not blind is perhaps only a spurious divinity after all; forwhen Cupid takes the fillet from his eyes it is a fatally certainindication that he is preparing to spread his wings for a flight. Georgenever forgot the hour in which he had first become bewitched byLieutenant Maldon's pretty daughter, and however she might have changed, the image which had charmed him then, unchanged and unchanging, represented her in his heart. 

Robert Audley left Southampton by a train which started before daybreak, and reached Wareham station early in the day. He hired a vehicle atWareham to take him over to Grange Heath. 

The snow had hardened upon the ground, and the day was clear and frosty, every object in the landscape standing in sharp outline against the coldblue sky. The horses' hoofs clattered upon the ice-bound road, the ironshoes striking on the ground that was almost as iron as themselves. Thewintry day bore some resemblance to the man to whom Robert was going. Like him, it was sharp, frigid, and uncompromising: like him, it wasmerciless to distress and impregnable to the softening power ofsunshine. It would accept no sunshine but such January radiance as wouldlight up the bleak, bare country without brightening it; and thusresembled Harcourt Talboys, who took the sternest side of every truth, and declared loudly to the disbelieving world that there never had been, and never could be, any other side. 

Robert Audley's heart sunk within him as the shabby hired vehiclestopped at a stern-looking barred fence, and the driver dismounted toopen a broad iron gate which swung back with a clanking noise and wascaught by a great iron tooth, planted in the ground, which snapped atthe lowest bar of the gate as if it wanted to bite. 

This iron gate opened into a scanty plantation of straight-limbedfir-trees, that grew in rows and shook their sturdy winter foliagedefiantly in the very teeth of the frosty breeze. A straight graveledcarriage-drive ran between these straight trees across a smoothly keptlawn to a square red-brick mansion, every window of which winked andglittered in the January sunlight as if it had been that moment cleanedby some indefatigable housemaid. 

I don't know whether Junius Brutus was a nuisance in his own house, butamong other of his Roman virtues, Mr. Talboys owned an extreme aversionto disorder, and was the terror of every domestic in his establishment. 

The windows winked and the flight of stone steps glared in the sunlight, the prim garden walks were so freshly graveled that they gave a sandy, gingery aspect to the place, reminding one unpleasantly of red hair. Thelawn was chiefly ornamented with dark, wintry shrubs of a funerealaspect which grew in beds that looked like problems in algebra; and theflight of stone steps leading to the square half-glass door of the hallwas adorned with dark-green wooden tubs containing the same sturdyevergreens. 

"If the man is anything like his house, " Robert thought, "I don't wonderthat poor George and he parted. "

At the end of a scanty avenue the carriage-drive turned a sharp corner(it would have been made to describe a curve in any other man's grounds)and ran before the lower windows of the house. The flyman dismounted atthe steps, ascended them, and rang a brass-handled bell, which flew backto its socket, with an angry, metallic snap, as if it had been insultedby the plebeian touch of the man's hand. 

A man in black trousers and a striped linen jacket, which was evidentlyfresh from the hands of the laundress, opened the door. Mr. Talboys wasat home. Would the gentleman send in his card?

Robert waited in the hall while his card was taken to the master of thehouse. 

The hall was large and lofty, paved with stone. The panels of the oakenwainscot shone with the same uncompromising polish which was on everyobject within and without the red-bricked mansion. 

Some people are so weak-minded as to affect pictures and statues. Mr. Harcourt Talboys was far too practical to indulge in any foolishfancies. A barometer and an umbrella-stand were the only adornments ofhis entrance-hall. 

Robert Audley looked at these while his name was being submitted toGeorge's father. 

The linen-jacketed servant returned presently. He was a square, pale-faced man of almost forty, and had the appearance of havingoutlived every emotion to which humanity is subject. 

"If you will step this way, sir, " he said, "Mr. Talboys will see you, although he is at breakfast. He begged me to state that everybody inDorsetshire was acquainted with his breakfast hour. "

This was intended as a stately reproof to Mr. Robert Audley. It had, however, very small effect upon the young barrister. He merely liftedhis eyebrows in placid deprecation of himself and everybody else. 

"I don't belong to Dorsetshire, " he said. "Mr. Talboys might have knownthat, if he'd done me the honor to exercise his powers of ratiocination. Drive on, my friend. "

The emotionless man looked at Robert Audley with a vacant stare ofunmitigated horror, and opening one of the heavy oak doors, led the wayinto a large dining-room furnished with the severe simplicity of anapartment which is meant to be ate in, but never lived in; and at top ofa table which would have accommodated eighteen persons Robert beheld Mr. Harcourt Talboys. 

Mr. Talboys was robed in a dressing-gown of gray cloth, fastened abouthis waist with a girdle. It was a severe looking garment, and wasperhaps the nearest approach to the toga to be obtained within the rangeof modern costume. He wore a buff waistcoat, a stiffly starched cambriccravat, and a faultless shirt collar. The cold gray of his dressing gownwas almost the same as the cold gray of his eyes, and the pale buff ofhis waistcoat was the pale buff of his complexion. 

Robert Audley had not expected to find Harcourt Talboys at all likeGeorge in his manners or disposition, but he had expected to see somefamily likeness between the father and the son. There was none. It wouldhave been impossible to imagine any one more unlike George than theauthor of his existence. Robert scarcely wondered at the cruel letter hereceived from Mr. Talboys when he saw the writer of it. Such a man couldscarcely have written otherwise. 

There was a second person in the large room, toward whom Robert glancedafter saluting Harcourt Talboys, doubtful how to proceed. This secondperson was a lady, who sat at the last of a range of four windows, employed with some needlework, the kind which is generally called plainwork, and with a large wicker basket, filled with calicoes and flannels, standing by her. 

The whole length of the room divided this lady from Robert, but he couldsee that she was young, and that she was like George Talboys. 

"His sister!" he thought in that one moment, during which he ventured toglance away from the master of the house toward the female figure at thewindow. "His sister, no doubt. He was fond of her, I know. Surely, sheis not utterly indifferent as to his fate?"

The lady half rose from her seat, letting her work, which was large andawkward, fall from her lap as she did so, and dropping a reel of cotton, which rolled away upon the polished oaken flooring beyond the margin ofthe Turkey carpet. 

"Sit down, Clara, " said the hard voice of Mr. Talboys. 

That gentleman did not appear to address his daughter, nor had his facebeen turned toward her when she rose. It seemed as if he had known it bysome social magnetism peculiar to himself; it seemed, as his servantswere apt disrespectfully to observe, as if he had eyes in the back ofhis head. 

"Sit down, Clara, " he repeated, "and keep your cotton in your workbox. "

The lady blushed at this reproof, and stooped to look for the cotton. Mr. Robert Audley, who was unabashed by the stern presence of the masterof the house, knelt on the carpet, found the reel, and restored it toits owner; Harcourt Talboys staring at the proceeding with an expressionof unmitigated astonishment. 

"Perhaps, Mr. ----, Mr. Robert Audley!" he said, looking at the cardwhich he held between his finger and thumb, "perhaps when you havefinished looking for reels of cotton, you will be good enough to tell meto what I owe the honor of this visit?"

He waved his well-shaped hand with a gesture which might have beenadmired in the stately John Kemble; and the servant, understanding thegesture, brought forward a ponderous red-morocco chair. 

The proceeding was so slow and solemn, that Robert had at first thoughtthat something extraordinary was about to be done; but the truth dawnedupon him at last, and he dropped into the massive chair. 

"You may remain, Wilson, " said Mr. Talboys, as the servant was about towithdraw; "Mr. Audley would perhaps like coffee. "

Robert had eaten nothing that morning, but he glanced at the longexpanse of dreary table-cloth, the silver tea and coffee equipage, thestiff splendor, and the very little appearance of any substantialentertainment, and he declined Mr. Talboys' invitation. 

"Mr. Audley will not take coffee, Wilson, " said the master of the house. "You may go. "

The man bowed and retired, opening and shutting the door as cautiouslyas if he were taking a liberty in doing it at all, or as if the respectdue to Mr. Talboys demanded his walking straight through the oaken panellike a ghost in a German story. 

Mr. Harcourt Talboys sat with his gray eyes fixed severely on hisvisitor, his elbows on the red-morocco arms of his chair, and hisfinger-tips joined. It was the attitude in which, had he been JuniusBrutus, he would have sat at the trial of his son. Had Robert Audleybeen easily to be embarrassed, Mr. Talboys might have succeeded inmaking him feel so: as he would have sat with perfect tranquility uponan open gunpowder barrel lighting his cigar, he was not at all disturbedupon this occasion. The father's dignity seemed a very small thing tohim when he thought of the possible causes of the son's disappearance. 

"I wrote to you some time since, Mr. Talboys, " he said quietly, when hesaw that he was expected to open the conversation. 

Harcourt Talboys bowed. He knew that it was of his lost son that Robertcame to speak. Heaven grant that his icy stoicism was the paltryaffectation of a vain man, rather than the utter heartlessness whichRobert thought it. He bowed across his finger-tips at his visitor. Thetrial had begun, and Junius Brutus was enjoying himself. 

"I received your communication, Mr. Audley, " he said. "It is among otherbusiness letters: it was duly answered. "

"That letter concerned your son. "

There was a little rustling noise at the window where the lady sat, asRobert said this: he looked at her almost instantaneously, but she didnot seem to have stirred. She was not working, but she was perfectlyquiet. 

"She's as heartless as her father, I expect, though she is like George, "thought Mr. Audley. 

"If your letter concerned the person who was once my son, perhaps, sir, "said Harcourt Talboys, "I must ask you to remember that I have no longera son. "

"You have no reason to remind me of that, Mr. Talboys, " answered Robert, gravely; "I remember it only too well. I have fatal reason to believethat you have no longer a son. I have bitter cause to think that he isdead. "

It may be that Mr. Talboys' complexion faded to a paler shade of buff asRobert said this; but he only elevated his bristling gray eyebrows andshook his head gently. 

"No, " he said, "no, I assure you, no. "

"I believe that George Talboys died in the month of September. "

The girl who had been addressed as Clara, sat with work primly foldedupon her lap, and her hands lying clasped together on her work, andnever stirred when Robert spoke of his friend's death. He could notdistinctly see her face, for she was seated at some distance from him, and with her back to the window. 

"No, no, I assure you, " repeated Mr. Talboys, "you labor under a sadmistake. "

"You believe that I am mistaken in thinking your son dead?" askedRobert. 

"Most certainly, " replied Mr. Talboys, with a smile, expressive of theserenity of wisdom. "Most certainly, my dear sir. The disappearance wasa very clever trick, no doubt, but it was not sufficiently clever todeceive me. You must permit me to understand this matter a little betterthan you, Mr. Audley, and you must also permit me to assure you of threethings. In the first place, your friend is not dead. In the secondplace, he is keeping out of the way for the purpose of alarming me, oftrifling with my feelings as a--as a man who was once his father, and ofultimately obtaining my forgiveness. In the third place, he will notobtain that forgiveness, however long he may please to keep out of theway; and he would therefore act wisely by returning to his ordinaryresidence and avocations without delay. "

"Then you imagine him to purposely hide himself from all who know him, for the purpose of--"

"For the purpose of influencing _me_, " exclaimed Mr. Talboys, who, taking a stand upon his own vanity, traced every event in life from thatone center, and resolutely declined to look at it from any other pointof view. "For the purpose of influencing me. He knew the inflexibilityof my character; to a certain degree he was acquainted with me, and knewthat all attempts at softening my decision, or moving me from the fixedpurpose of my life, would fail. He therefore tried extraordinary means;he has kept out of the way in order to alarm me, and when after due timehe discovers that he has not alarmed me, he will return to his oldhaunts. When he does so, " said Mr. Talboys, rising to sublimity, "I willforgive him. Yes, sir, I will forgive him. I shall say to him: You haveattempted to deceive me, and I have shown you that I am not to bedeceived; you have tried to frighten me, and I have convinced you that Iam not to be frightened; you did not believe in my generosity, I willshow you that I can be generous. "

Harcourt Talboys delivered himself of these superb periods with astudied manner, that showed they had been carefully composed long ago. 

Robert Audley sighed as he heard them. 

"Heaven grant that you may have an opportunity of saying this to yourson, sir, " he answered sadly. "I am very glad to find that you arewilling to forgive him, but I fear that you will never see him againupon this earth. I have a great deal to say to you upon this--this sadsubject, Mr. Talboys; but I would rather say it to you alone, " he added, glancing at the lady in the window. 

"My daughter knows my ideas upon this subject, Mr. Audley, " saidHarcourt Talboys; "there is no reason why she should not hear all youhave to say. Miss Clara Talboys, Mr. Robert Audley, " he added, wavinghis hand majestically. 

The young lady bent her head in recognition of Robert's bow. 

"Let her hear it, " he thought. "If she has so little feeling as to showno emotion upon such a subject, let her hear the worst I have to tell. "

There was a few minutes' pause, during which Robert took some papersfrom his pocket; among them the document which he had writtenimmediately after George's disappearance. 

"I shall require all your attention, Mr. Talboys, " he said, "for thatwhich I have to disclose to you is of a very painful nature. Your sonwas my very dear friend--dear to me for many reasons. Perhaps most ofall dear, because I had known him and been with him through the greattrouble of his life; and because he stood comparatively alone in theworld--cast off by you who should have been his best friend, bereft ofthe only woman he had ever loved. "

"The daughter of a drunken pauper, " Mr. Talboys remarked, parenthetically. 

"Had he died in his bed, as I sometimes thought be would, " continuedRobert Audley, "of a broken heart, I should have mourned for him verysincerely, even though I had closed his eyes with my own hands, and hadseen him laid in his quiet resting-place. I should have grieved for myold schoolfellow, and for the companion who had been dear to me. Butthis grief would have been a very small one compared to that which Ifeel now, believing, as I do only too firmly, that my poor friend hasbeen murdered. "

"Murdered!"

The father and daughter simultaneously repeated the horrible word. Thefather's face changed to a ghastly duskiness of hue; the daughter's facedropped upon her clasped hands, and was never lifted again throughoutthe interview. 

"Mr. Audley, you are mad!" exclaimed Harcourt Talboys; "you are mad, orelse you are commissioned by your friend to play upon my feelings. Iprotest against this proceeding as a conspiracy, and I--I revoke myintended forgiveness of the person who was once my son!"

He was himself again as he said this. The blow had been a sharp one, butits effect had been momentary. 

"It is far from my wish to alarm you unnecessarily, sir, " answeredRobert. "Heaven grant that you may be right and I wrong. I pray for it, but I cannot think it--I cannot even hope it. I come to you for advice. I will state to you plainly and dispassionately the circumstances whichhave aroused my suspicions. If you say those suspicions are foolish andunfounded I am ready to submit to your better judgment. I will leaveEngland; and I abandon my search for the evidence wanting to--to confirmmy fears. If you say go on, I will go on. "

Nothing could be more gratifying to the vanity of Mr. Harcourt Talboysthan this appeal. He declared himself ready to listen to all that Robertmight have to say, and ready to assist him to the uttermost of hispower. 

He laid some stress upon this last assurance, deprecating the value ofhis advice with an affectation that was as transparent as his vanityitself. 

Robert Audley drew his chair nearer to that of Mr. Talboys, andcommenced a minutely detailed account of all that had occurred to Georgefrom the time of his arrival in England to the hour of hisdisappearance, as well as all that had occurred since his disappearancein any way touching upon that particular subject. Harcourt Talboyslistened with demonstrative attention, now and then interrupting thespeaker to ask some magisterial kind of question. Clara Talboys neveronce lifted her face from her clasped hands. 

The hands of the clock pointed to a quarter past eleven when Robertbegan his story. The clock struck twelve as he finished. 

He had carefully suppressed the names of his uncle and his uncle's wifein relating the circumstances in which they had been concerned. 

"Now, sir, " he said, when the story had been told, "I await yourdecision. You have heard my reasons for coming to this terribleconclusion. In what manner do these reasons influence you?"

"They don't in any way turn me from my previous opinion, " answered Mr. Harcourt Talboys, with the unreasoning pride of an obstinate man. "Istill think, as I thought before, that my son is alive, and that hisdisappearance is a conspiracy against myself. I decline to become thevictim of that conspiracy, "

"And you tell me to stop?" asked Robert, solemnly. 

"I tell you only this: If you go on, you go on for your ownsatisfaction, not for mine. I see nothing in what you have told me toalarm me for the safety of--your friend. "

"So be it, then!" exclaimed Robert, suddenly; "from this moment I washmy hands of this business. From this moment the purpose of my life shallbe to forget it. "

He rose as he spoke, and took his hat from the table on which he hadplaced it. He looked at Clara Talboys. Her attitude had never changedsince she had dropped her face upon her hands. "Good morning, Mr. Talboys, " he said, gravely. "God grant that you are right. God grantthat I am wrong. But I fear a day will come when you will have reason toregret your apathy respecting the untimely fate of your only son. "

He bowed gravely to Mr. Harcourt Talboys and to the lady, whose face washidden by her hands. 

He lingered for a moment looking at Miss Talboys, thinking that shewould look up, that she would make some sign, or show some desire todetain him. 

Mr. Talboys rang for the emotionless servant, who led Robert off to thehall-door with the solemnity of manner which would have been in perfectkeeping had he been leading him to execution. 

"She is like her father, " thought Mr. Audley, as he glanced for the lasttime at the drooping head. "Poor George, you had need of one friend inthis world, for you have had very few to love you. "

CHAPTER XXIII

CLARA. 

Robert Audley found the driver asleep upon the box of his lumberingvehicle. He had been entertained with beer of so hard a nature as toinduce temporary strangulation in the daring imbiber thereof, and he wasvery glad to welcome the return of his fare. The old white horse, wholooked as if he had been foaled in the year in which the carriage hadbeen built, and seemed, like the carriage, to have outlived the fashion, was as fast asleep as his master, and woke up with a jerk as Robert camedown the stony flight of steps, attended by his executioner, who waitedrespectfully till Mr. Audley had entered the vehicle and been turnedoff. 

The horse, roused by a smack of his driver's whip and a shake of theshabby reins, crawled off in a semi-somnambulent state; and Robert, withhis hat very much over his eyes, thought of his missing friend. 

He had played in these stiff gardens, and under these dreary firs, yearsago, perhaps--if it were possible for the most frolicsome youth to beplayful within the range of Mr. Harcourt Talboys' hard gray eyes. He hadplayed beneath these dark trees, perhaps, with the sister who had heardof his fate to day without a tear. Robert Audley looked at the rigidprimness of the orderly grounds, wondering how George could have grownup in such a place to be the frank, generous, careless friend whom hehad known. How was it that with his father perpetually before his eyes, he had not grown up after the father's disagreeable model, to be anuisance to his fellow-men? How was it? Because we have Some One higherthan our parents to thank for the souls which make us great or small;and because, while family noses and family chins may descend in orderlysequence from father to son, from grandsire to grandchild, as thefashion of the fading flowers of one year is reproduced in the buddingblossoms of the next, the spirit, more subtle than the wind which blowsamong those flowers, independent of all earthly rule, owns no order butthe harmonious law of God. 

"Thank God!" thought Robert Audley; "thank God! it is over. My poorfriend must rest in his unknown grave; and I shall not be the means ofbringing disgrace upon those I love. It will come, perhaps, sooner orlater, but it will not come through me. The crisis is past, and I amfree. "

He felt an unutterable relief in this thought. His generous naturerevolted at the office into which he had found himself drawn--the officeof spy, the collector of damning facts that led on to horribledeductions. 

He drew a long breath--a sigh of relief at his release. It was all overnow. 

The fly was crawling out of the gate of the plantation as he thoughtthis, and he stood up in the vehicle to look back at the drearyfir-trees, the gravel paths, the smooth grass, and the greatdesolate-looking, red-brick mansion. 

He was startled by the appearance of a woman running, almost flying, along the carriage-drive by which he had come, and waving a handkerchiefin her uplifted hand. 

He stared at this singular apparition for some moments in silent wonderbefore he was able to reduce his stupefaction into words. 

"Is it _me_ the flying female wants?" he exclaimed, at last. "You'dbetter stop, perhaps" he added, to the flyman. "It is an age ofeccentricity, an abnormal era of the world's history. She may want me. Very likely I left my pocket-handkerchief behind me, and Mr. Talboys hassent this person with it. Perhaps I'd better get out and go and meether. It's civil to send my handkerchief. "

Mr. Robert Audley deliberately descended from the fly and walked slowlytoward the hurrying female figure, which gained upon him rapidly. 

He was rather short sighted, and it was not until she came very near tohim that he saw who she was. 

"Good Heaven!" he exclaimed, "it's Miss Talboys. "

It was Miss Talboys, flushed and breathless, with a woolen shawl thrownover her head. 

Robert Audley now saw her face clearly for the first time, and he sawthat she was very handsome. She had brown eyes, like George's, a palecomplexion (she had been flushed when she approached him, but the colorfaded away as she recovered her breath), regular features, with amobility of expression which bore record of every change of feeling. Hesaw all this in a few moments, and he wondered only the more at thestoicism of her manner during his interview with Mr. Talboys. There wereno tears in her eyes, but they were bright with a feverishluster--terribly bright and dry--and he could see that her lips trembledas she spoke to him. 

"Miss Talboys, " he said, "what can I--why--"

She interrupted him suddenly, catching at his wrist with her disengagedhand--she was holding her shawl in the other. 

"Oh, let me speak to you, " she cried--"let me speak to you, or I shallgo mad. I heard it all. I believe what you believe, and I shall go madunless I can do something--something toward avenging his death. "

For a few moments Robert Audley was too much bewildered to answer her. Of all things possible upon earth he had least expected to behold herthus. 

"Take my arm, Miss Talboys, " he said. "Pray calm yourself. Let us walk alittle way back toward the house, and talk quietly. I would not havespoken as I did before you had I known--"

"Had you known that I loved my brother?" she said, quickly. "How shouldyou know that I loved him? How should any one think that I loved him, when I have never had power to give him a welcome beneath that roof, ora kindly word from his father? How should I dare to betray my love forhim in that house when I knew that even a sister's affection would beturned to his disadvantage? You do not know my father, Mr. Audley. I do. I knew that to intercede for George would have been to ruin his cause. Iknew that to leave matters in my father's hands, and to trust to time, was my only chance of ever seeing that dear brother again. And Iwaited--waited patiently, always hoping for the best; for I knew that myfather loved his only son. I see your contemptuous smile, Mr. Audley, and I dare say it is difficult for a stranger to believe that underneathhis affected stoicism my father conceals some degree of affection forhis children--no very warm attachment perhaps, for he has always ruledhis life by the strict law of duty. Stop, " she said, suddenly, layingher hand upon his arm, and looking back through the straight avenue ofpines; "I ran out of the house by the back way. Papa must not see metalking to you, Mr. Audley, and he must not see the fly standing at thegate. Will you go into the high-road and tell the man to drive on alittle way? I will come out of the plantation by a little gate furtheron, and meet you in the road. "

"But you will catch cold, Miss Talboys, " remonstrated Robert, looking ather anxiously, for he saw that she was trembling. "You are shiveringnow. "

"Not with cold, " she answered. "I am thinking of my brother George. Ifyou have any pity for the only sister of your lost friend, do what I askyou, Mr. Audley. I must speak to you--I must speak to you--calmly, if Ican. "

She put her hand to her head as if trying to collect her thoughts, andthen pointed to the gate. Robert bowed and left her. He told the man todrive slowly toward the station, and walked on by the side of the tarredfence surrounding Mr. Talboys' grounds. About a hundred yards beyond theprincipal entrance he came to a little wooden gate in the fence, andwaited at it for Miss Talboys. 

She joined him presently, with her shawl still over her head, and hereyes still bright and tearless. 

"Will you walk with me inside the plantation?" she said. "We might beobserved on the high-road. "

He bowed, passed through the gate, and shut it behind him. 

When she took his offered arm he found that she was stilltrembling--trembling very violently. 

"Pray, pray calm yourself, Miss Talboys, " he said; "I may have beendeceived in the opinion which I have formed; I may--"

"No, no, no, " she exclaimed, "you are not deceived. My brother has beenmurdered. Tell me the name of that woman--the woman whom you suspect ofbeing concerned in his disappearance--in his murder. "

"That I cannot do until--"

"Until when?"

"Until I know that she is guilty. "

"You told my father that you would abandon all idea of discovering thetruth--that you would rest satisfied to leave my brother's fate ahorrible mystery never to be solved upon this earth; but you will not doso, Mr. Audley--you will not be false to the memory of your friend. Youwill see vengeance done upon those who have destroyed him. You will dothis, will you not?"

A gloomy shadow spread itself like a dark veil over Robert Audley'shandsome face. 

He remembered what he had said the day before at Southampton:

"A hand that is stronger than my own is beckoning me onward, upon thedark road. "

A quarter of an hour before, he had believed that all was over, and thathe was released from the dreadful duty of discovering the secret ofGeorge's death. Now this girl, this apparently passionless girl, hadfound a voice, and was urging him on toward his fate. 

"If you knew what misery to me may be involved in discovering the truth, Miss Talboys, " he said, "you would scarcely ask me to pursue thisbusiness any farther?"

"But I do ask you, " she answered, with suppressed passion--I do ask you. I ask you to avenge my brother's untimely death. Will you do so? Yes orno?"

"What if I answer no?"

"Then I will do it myself, " she exclaimed, looking at him with herbright brown eyes. "I myself will follow up the clew to this mystery; Iwill find this woman--though you refuse to tell me in what part ofEngland my brother disappeared. I will travel from one end of the worldto the other to find the secret of his fate, if you refuse to find itfor me. I am of age; my own mistress; rich, for I have money left me byone of my aunts; I shall be able to employ those who will help me in mysearch, and I will make it to their interest to serve me well. Choosebetween the two alternatives, Mr. Audley. Shall you or I find mybrother's murderer?"

He looked in her face, and saw that her resolution was the fruit of notransient womanish enthusiasm which would give way under the iron handof difficulty. Her beautiful features, naturally statuesque in theirnoble outlines, seemed transformed into marble by the rigidity of herexpression. The face in which he looked was the face of a woman whomdeath only could turn from her purpose. 

"I have grown up in an atmosphere of suppression, " she said, quietly; "Ihave stifled and dwarfed the natural feelings of my heart, until theyhave become unnatural in their intensity; I have been allowed neitherfriends nor lovers. My mother died when I was very young. My father hasalways been to me what you saw him to-day. I have had no one but mybrother. All the love that my heart can hold has been centered upon him. Do you wonder, then, that when I hear that his young life has been endedby the hand of treachery, that I wish to see vengeance done upon thetraitor? Oh, my God, " she cried, suddenly clasping her hands, andlooking up at the cold winter sky, "lead me to the murderer of mybrother, and let mine be the hand to avenge his untimely death. "

Robert Audley stood looking at her with awe-stricken admiration. Herbeauty was elevated into sublimity by the intensity of her suppressedpassion. She was different to all other women that he had ever seen. Hiscousin was pretty, his uncle's wife was lovely, but Clara Talboys wasbeautiful. Niobe's face, sublimated by sorrow, could scarcely have beenmore purely classical than hers. Even her dress, puritan in its graysimplicity, became her beauty better than a more beautiful dress wouldhave become a less beautiful woman. 

"Miss Talboys, " said Robert, after a pause, "your brother shall not beunavenged. He shall not be forgotten. I do not think that anyprofessional aid which you could procure would lead you as surely to thesecret of this mystery as I can lead you, if you are patient and trustme. "

"I will trust you, " she answered, "for I see that you will help me. "

"I believe that it is my destiny to do so, " she said, solemnly. 

In the whole course of his conversation with Harcourt Talboys, RobertAudley had carefully avoided making any deductions from thecircumstances which he had submitted to George's father. He had simplytold the story of the missing man's life, from the hour of his arrivingin London to that of his disappearance; but he saw that Clara Talboyshad arrived at the same conclusion as himself, and that it was tacitlyunderstood between them. 

"Have you any letters of your brother's, Miss Talboys?" he asked. 

"Two. One written soon after his marriage, the other written atLiverpool, the night before he sailed for Australia. "

"Will you let me see them?"

"Yes, I will send them to you if you will give me your address You willwrite to me from time to time, will you not, to tell me whether you areapproaching the truth. I shall be obliged to act secretly here, but I amgoing to leave home in two or three months, and I shall be perfectlyfree then to act as I please. "

"You are not going to leave England?" Robert asked. 

"Oh no! I am only going to pay a long-promised visit to some friends inEssex. "

Robert started so violently as Clara Talboys said this, that she lookedsuddenly at his face. The agitation visible there, betrayed a part ofhis secret. 

"My brother George disappeared in Essex, " she said. 

He could not contradict her. 

"I am sorry you have discovered so much, " he replied. "My positionbecomes every day more complicated, every day more painful. Good-bye. "

She gave him her hand mechanically, when he held out his; but it wascold as marble, and lay listlessly in his own, and fell like a log ather side when he released it. 

"Pray lose no time in returning to the house, " he said earnestly. "Ifear you will suffer from this morning's work. "

"Suffer!" she exclaimed, scornfully. "You talk to me of suffering, whenthe only creature in this world who ever loved me has been taken from itin the bloom of youth. What can there be for me henceforth butsuffering? What is the cold to me?" she said, flinging back her shawland baring her beautiful head to the bitter wind. "I would walk fromhere to London barefoot through the snow, and never stop by the way, ifI could bring him back to life. What would I not do to bring him back?What would I not do?"

The words broke from her in a wail of passionate sorrow; and claspingher hands before her face, she wept for the first time that day. Theviolence of her sobs shook her slender frame, and she was obliged tolean against the trunk of a tree for support. 

Robert looked at her with a tender compassion in his face; she was solike the friend whom he had loved and lost, that it was impossible forhim to think of her as a stranger; impossible to remember that they hadmet that morning for the first time. 

"Pray, pray be calm, " he said: "hope even against hope. We may both bedeceived; your brother may still live. "

"Oh! if it were so, " she murmured, passionately; "if it could be so. "

"Let us try and hope that it may be so. "

"No, " she answered, looking at him through her tears, "let us hope fornothing but revenge. Good-by, Mr. Audley. Stop; your address. "

He gave her a card, which she put into the pocket of her dress. 

"I will send you George's letters, " she said; "they may help you. Good-by. "

She left him half bewildered by the passionate energy of her manner, andthe noble beauty of her face. He watched her as she disappeared amongthe straight trunks of the fir-trees, and then walked slowly out of theplantation. 

"Heaven help those who stand between me and the secret, " he thought, "for they will be sacrificed to the memory of George Talboys. "

CHAPTER XXIV. 

GEORGE'S LETTERS. 

Robert Audley did not return to Southampton, but took a ticket for thefirst up town train that left Wareham, and reached Waterloo Bridge anhour or two after dark. The snow, which had been hard and crisp inDorsetshire, was a black and greasy slush in the Waterloo Road, thawedby the flaring lamps of the gin-palaces and the glaring gas in thebutchers' shops. 

Robert Audley shrugged his shoulders as he looked at the dingy streetsthrough which the Hansom carried him, the cab-man choosing--with thatdelicious instinct which seems innate in the drivers of hackneyvehicles--all those dark and hideous thoroughfares utterly unknown tothe ordinary pedestrian. 

"What a pleasant thing life is, " thought the barrister. "What anunspeakable boon--what an overpowering blessing! Let any man make acalculation of his existence, subtracting the hours in which he has been_thoroughly_ happy--really and entirely at his ease, without one_arriere pensee_ to mar his enjoyment--without the most infinitesimalcloud to overshadow the brightness of his horizon. Let him do this, andsurely he will laugh in utter bitterness of soul when he sets down thesum of his felicity, and discovers the pitiful smallness of the amount. He will have enjoyed himself for a week or ten days in thirty years, perhaps. In thirty years of dull December, and blustering March, andshowery April, and dark November weather, there may have been seven oreight glorious August days, through which the sun has blazed incloudless radiance, and the summer breezes have breathed perpetual balm. How fondly we recollect these solitary days of pleasure, and hope fortheir recurrence, and try to plan the circumstances that made thembright; and arrange, and predestinate, and diplomatize with fate for arenewal of the remembered joy. As if any joy could ever be built up outof such and such constituent parts! As if happiness were not essentiallyaccidental--a bright and wandering bird, utterly irregular in itsmigrations; with us one summer's day, and forever gone from us on thenext! Look at marriages, for instance, " mused Robert, who was asmeditative in the jolting vehicle, for whose occupation he was to paysixpence a mile, as if he had been riding a mustang on the wildloneliness of the prairies. "Look at marriage! Who is to say which shallbe the one judicious selection out of nine hundred and ninety-ninemistakes! Who shall decide from the first aspect of the slimy creature, which is to be the one eel out of the colossal bag of snakes? That girlon the curbstone yonder, waiting to cross the street when my chariotshall have passed, may be the one woman out of every female creature inthis vast universe who could make me a happy man. Yet I pass herby--bespatter her with the mud from my wheels, in my helpless ignorance, in my blind submission to the awful hand of fatality. If that girl, Clara Talboys, had been five minutes later, I should have leftDorsetshire thinking her cold, hard, and unwomanly, and should have goneto my grave with that mistake part and parcel of my mind. I took her fora stately and heartless automaton; I know her now to be a noble andbeautiful woman. What an incalculable difference this may make in mylife. When I left that house, I went out into the winter day with thedetermination of abandoning all further thought of the secret ofGeorge's death. I see her, and she forces me onward upon the loathsomepath--the crooked by-way of watchfulness and suspicion. How can I say tothis sister of my dead friend, 'I believe that your brother has beenmurdered! I believe that I know by whom, but I will take no step to setmy doubts at rest, or to confirm my fears'? I cannot say this. Thiswoman knows half my secret; she will soon possess herself of the rest, and then--and then--"

The cab stopped in the midst of Robert Audley's meditation, and he hadto pay the cabman, and submit to all the dreary mechanism of life, whichis the same whether we are glad or sorry--whether we are to be marriedor hung, elevated to the woolsack, or disbarred by our brother bencherson some mysterious technical tangle of wrong-doing, which is a socialenigma to those outside the _forum domesticum_ of the Middle Temple. 

We are apt to be angry with this cruel hardness in our life--thisunflinching regularity in the smaller wheels and meaner mechanism of thehuman machine, which knows no stoppage or cessation, though themainspring be forever hollow, and the hands pointing to purposelessfigures on a shattered dial. 

Who has not felt, in the first madness of sorrow, an unreasoning rageagainst the mute propriety of chairs and tables, the stiff squareness ofTurkey carpets, the unbending obstinacy of the outward apparatus ofexistence? We want to root up gigantic trees in a primeval forest, andto tear their huge branches asunder in our convulsive grasp; and theutmost that we can do for the relief of our passion is to knock over aneasy-chair, or smash a few shillings' worth of Mr. Copeland'smanufacture. 

Madhouses are large and only too numerous; yet surely it is strange theyare not larger, when we think of how many helpless wretches must beattheir brains against this hopeless persistency of the orderly outwardworld, as compared with the storm and tempest, the riot and confusionwithin--when we remember how many minds must tremble upon the narrowboundary between reason and unreason, mad to-day and sane to-morrow, madyesterday and sane to-day. 

Robert Audley had directed the cabman to drop him at the corner ofChancery Lane, and he ascended the brilliantly-lighted staircase leadingto the dining-saloon of The London, and seated himself at one of thesnug tables with a confused sense of emptiness and weariness, ratherthan any agreeable sensation of healthy hunger. He had come to theluxurious eating-house to dine, because it was absolutely necessary toeat something somewhere, and a great deal easier to get a very gooddinner from Mr. Sawyer than a very bad one from Mrs. Maloney, whose mindran in one narrow channel of chops and steaks, only variable by smallcreeks and outlets in the way of "broiled sole" or "boiledmack'-_rill_. " The solicitous waiter tried in vain to rouse poor Robertto a proper sense of the solemnity of the dinner question. He mutteredsomething to the effect that the man might bring him anything he liked, and the friendly waiter, who knew Robert as a frequent guest at thelittle tables, went back to his master with a doleful face, to say thatMr. Audley, from Figtree Court, was evidently out of spirits. Robert atehis dinner, and drank a pint of Moselle; but he had poor appreciation ofthe excellence of the viands or the delicate fragrance of the wine. Themental monologue still went on, and the young philosopher of the modernschool was arguing the favorite modern question of the nothingness ofeverything, and the folly of taking too much trouble to walk upon a roadthat went nowhere, or to compass a work that meant nothing. 

"I accept the dominion of that pale girl, with the statuesque featuresand the calm brown eyes, " he thought. "I recognize the power of a mindsuperior to my own, and I yield to it, and bow down to it. I've beenacting for myself, and thinking for myself, for the last few months, andI'm tired of the unnatural business. I've been false to the leadingprinciple of my life, and I've suffered for the folly. I found two grayhairs in my head the week before last, and an impertinent crow hasplanted a delicate impression of his foot under my right eye. Yes, I'mgetting old upon the right side; and why--why should it be so?"

He pushed away his plate and lifted his eyebrows, staring at the crumbsupon the glistening damask, as he pondered the question. 

"What the devil am I doing in this _galere_?" he asked. "But I am in it, and I can't get out of it; so I better submit myself to the brown-eyedgirl, and do what she tells me patiently and faithfully. What awonderful solution to life's enigma there is in petticoat government!Man might lie in the sunshine, and eat lotuses, and fancy it 'alwaysafternoon, ' if his wife would let him! But she won't, bless herimpulsive heart and active mind! She knows better than that. Who everheard of a woman taking life as it ought to be taken? Instead ofsupporting it as an unavoidable nuisance, only redeemable by itsbrevity, she goes through it as if it were a pageant or a procession. She dresses for it, and simpers and grins, and gesticulates for it. Shepushes her neighbors, and struggles for a good place in the dismalmarch; she elbows, and writhes, and tramples, and prances to the one endof making the most of the misery. She gets up early and sits up late, and is loud, and restless, and noisy, and unpitying. She drags herhusband on to the woolsack, or pushes him into Parliament. She driveshim full butt at the dear, lazy machinery of government, and knocks andbuffets him about the wheels, and cranks, and screws, and pulleys; untilsomebody, for quiet's sake, makes him something that she wanted him tobe made. That's why incompetent men sometimes sit in high places, andinterpose their poor, muddled intellects between the things to be doneand the people that can do them, making universal confusion in thehelpless innocence of well-placed incapacity. The square men in theround holes are pushed into them by their wives. The Eastern potentatewho declared that women were at the bottom of all mischief, should havegone a little further and seen why it is so. It is because women are_never lazy_. They don't know what it is to be quiet. They areSemiramides, and Cleopatras, and Joans of Arc, Queen Elizabeths, andCatharines the Second, and they riot in battle, and murder, and clamorand desperation. If they can't agitate the universe and play at ballwith hemispheres, they'll make mountains of warfare and vexation out ofdomestic molehills, and social storms in household teacups. Forbid themto hold forth upon the freedom of nations and the wrongs of mankind, andthey'll quarrel with Mrs. Jones about the shape of a mantle or thecharacter of a small maid-servant. To call them the weaker sex is toutter a hideous mockery. They are the stronger sex, the noisier, themore persevering, the most self-assertive sex. They want freedom ofopinion, variety of occupation, do they? Let them have it. Let them belawyers, doctors, preachers, teachers, soldiers, legislators--anythingthey like--but let them be quiet--if they can. "

Mr. Audley pushed his hands through the thick luxuriance of his straightbrown hair, and uplifted the dark mass in his despair. 

"I hate women, " he thought, savagely. "They're bold, brazen, abominablecreatures, invented for the annoyance and destruction of theirsuperiors. Look at this business of poor George's! It's all woman's workfrom one end to the other. He marries a woman, and his father casts himoff penniless and professionless. He hears of the woman's death and hebreaks his heart--his good honest, manly heart, worth a million of thetreacherous lumps of self-interest and mercenary calculation which beatsin women's breasts. He goes to a woman's house and he is never seenalive again. And now I find myself driven into a corner by anotherwoman, of whose existence I had never thought until this day. And--andthen, " mused Mr. Audley, rather irrelevantly, "there's Alicia, too;_she's_ another nuisance. She'd like me to marry her I know; and she'llmake me do it, I dare say, before she's done with me. But I'd muchrather not; though she is a dear, bouncing, generous thing, bless herpoor little heart. "

Robert paid his bill and rewarded the waiter liberally. The youngbarrister was very willing to distribute his comfortable little incomeamong the people who served him, for he carried his indifference to allthings in the universe, even to the matter of pounds, shillings andpence. Perhaps he was rather exceptional in this, as you may frequentlyfind that the philosopher who calls life an empty delusion is prettysharp in the investment of his moneys, and recognizes the tangiblenature of India bonds, Spanish certificates, and Egyptian scrip--ascontrasted with the painful uncertainty of an Ego or a non-Ego inmetaphysics. 

The snug rooms in Figtree Court seemed dreary in their orderly quiet toRobert Audley upon this particular evening. He had no inclination forhis French novels, though there was a packet of uncut romances, comicand sentimental, ordered a month before, waiting his pleasure upon oneof the tables. He took his favorite meerschaum and dropped into hisfavorite chair with a sigh. 

"It's comfortable, but it seems so deuced lonely to-night. If poorGeorge were sitting opposite to me, or--or even George's sister--she'svery like him--existence might be a little more endurable. But when afellow's lived by himself for eight or ten years he begins to be badcompany. "

He burst out laughing presently as he finished his first pipe. 

"The idea of my thinking of George's sister, " he thought; "what apreposterous idiot I am!"

The next day's post brought him a letter in a firm but feminine hand, which was strange to him. He found the little packet lying on hisbreakfast-table, beside the warm French roll wrapped in a napkin by Mrs. Maloney's careful but rather dirty hands. He contemplated the envelopefor some minutes before opening it--not in any wonder as to hiscorrespondent, for the letter bore the postmark of Grange Heath, and heknew that there was only one person who was likely to write to him fromthat obscure village, but in that lazy dreaminess which was a part ofhis character. 

"From Clara Talboys, " he murmured slowly, as he looked critically at theclearly-shaped letters of his name and address. "Yes, from ClaraTalboys, most decidedly; I recognized a feminine resemblance to poorGeorge's hand; neater than his, and more decided than his, but verylike, very like. "

He turned the letter over and examined the seal, which bore his friend'sfamiliar crest. 

"I wonder what she says to me?" he thought. "It's a long letter, I daresay; she's the kind of woman who would write a long letter--a letterthat will urge me on, drive me forward, wrench me out of myself, I've nodoubt. But that can't be helped--so here goes!"

He tore open the envelope with a sigh of resignation. It containednothing but George's two letters, and a few words written on the flap:"I send the letters; please preserve and return them--C. T. "

The letter, written from Liverpool, told nothing of the writer's lifeexcept his sudden determination of starting for a new world, to redeemthe fortunes that had been ruined in the old. The letter written almostimmediately after George's marriage, contained a full description of hiswife--such a description as a man could only write within three weeks ofa love match--a description in which every feature was minutelycatalogued, every grace of form or beauty of expression fondly dweltupon, every charm of manner lovingly depicted. 

Robert Audley read the letter three times before he laid it down. 

"If George could have known for what a purpose this description wouldserve when he wrote it, " thought the young barrister, "surely his handwould have fallen paralyzed by horror, and powerless to shape onesyllable of these tender words. "

CHAPTER XXV. 

RETROGRADE INVESTIGATION. 

The dreary London January dragged its dull length slowly out. The lastslender records of Christmas time were swept away, and Robert Audleystill lingered in town--still spent his lonely evenings in his quietsitting-room in Figtree Court--still wandered listlessly in the TempleGardens on sunny mornings, absently listening to the children's babble, idly watching their play. He had many friends among the inhabitants ofthe quaint old buildings round him; he had other friends far away inpleasant country places, whose spare bedrooms were always at Bob'sservice, whose cheerful firesides had snugly luxurious chairs speciallyallotted to him. But he seemed to have lost all taste for companionship, all sympathy with the pleasures and occupations of his class, since thedisappearance of George Talboys. Elderly benchers indulged in facetiousobservations upon the young man's pale face and moody manner. Theysuggested the probability of some unhappy attachment, some feminineill-usage as the secret cause of the change. They told him to be of goodcheer, and invited him to supper-parties, at which "lovely woman, withall her faults, God bless her, " was drunk by gentlemen who shed tears asthey proposed the toast, and were maudlin and unhappy in their cupstoward the close of the entertainment. Robert had no inclination for thewine-bibbing and the punch-making. The one idea of his life had becomehis master. He was the bonden slave of one gloomy thought--one horriblepresentiment. A dark cloud was brooding above his uncle's house, and itwas his hand which was to give the signal for the thunder-clap, and thetempest that was to ruin that noble life. 

"If she would only take warning and run away, " he said to himselfsometimes. "Heaven knows, I have given her a fair chance. Why doesn'tshe take it and run away?"

He heard sometimes from Sir Michael, sometimes from Alicia. The younglady's letter rarely contained more than a few curt lines informing himthat her papa was well; and that Lady Audley was in very high spirits, amusing herself in her usual frivolous manner, and with her usualdisregard for other people. 

A letter from Mr. Marchmont, the Southampton schoolmaster, informedRobert that little Georgey was going on very well, but that he wasbehindhand in his education, and had not yet passed the intellectualRubicon of words of two syllables. Captain Maldon had called to see hisgrandson, but that privilege had been withheld from him, in accordancewith Mr. Audley's instructions. The old man had furthermore sent aparcel of pastry and sweetmeats to the little boy, which had also beenrejected on the ground of indigestible and bilious tendencies in theedibles. 

Toward the close of February, Robert received a letter from his cousinAlicia, which hurried him one step further forward toward his destiny, by causing him to return to the house from which he had become in amanner exiled at the instigation of his uncle's wife, "Papa is very ill, " Alicia wrote; "not dangerously ill, thank God; butconfined to his room by an attack of low fever which has succeeded aviolent cold. Come and see him, Robert, if you have any regard for yournearest relations. He has spoken about you several times; and I know hewill be glad to have you with him. Come at once, but say nothing aboutthis letter. 

"From your affectionate cousin, ALICIA. "

A sick and deadly terror chilled Robert Audley's heart, as he read thisletter--a vague yet hideous fear, which he dared not shape into anydefinite form. 

"Have I done right?" he thought, in the first agony of this newhorror--"have I done right to tamper with justice; and to keep thesecret of my doubts in the hope that I was shielding those I love fromsorrow and disgrace? What shall I do if I find him ill, very ill, dyingperhaps, dying upon her breast! What shall I do?"

One course lay clear before him; and the first step of that course was arapid journey to Audley Court. He packed his portmanteau, jumped into acab, and reached the railway station within an hour of his receipt ofAlicia's letter, which had come by the afternoon post. 

The dim village lights flickered faintly through the growing dusk whenRobert reached Audley. He left his portmanteau with the station-master, and walked at a leisurely pace through the quiet lanes that led away tothe still loneliness of the Court. The over-arching trees stretchedtheir leafless branches above his head, bare and weird in the duskylight. A low moaning wind swept across the flat meadow land, and tossedthose rugged branches hither and thither against the dark gray sky. Theylooked like the ghostly arms of shrunken and withered giants, beckoningRobert to his uncle's house. They looked like threatening phantoms inthe chill winter twilight, gesticulating to him to hasten upon hisjourney. The long avenue so bright and pleasant when the perfumed limesscattered their light bloom upon the pathway, and the dog-rose leavesfloated on the summer air, was terribly bleak and desolate in thecheerless interregnum that divides the homely joys of Christmas from thepale blush of coming spring--a dead pause in the year, in which Natureseems to lie in a tranced sleep, awaiting the wondrous signal for thebudding of the flower. 

A mournful presentiment crept into Robert Audley's heart as he drewnearer to his uncle's house. Every changing outline in the landscape wasfamiliar to him; every bend of the trees; every caprice of theuntrammeled branches; every undulation in the bare hawthorn hedge, broken by dwarf horse-chestnuts, stunted willows, blackberry and hazelbushes. 

Sir Michael had been a second father to the young man, a generous andnoble friend, a grave and earnest adviser; and perhaps the strongestsentiment of Robert's heart was his love for the gray-bearded baronet. But the grateful affection was so much a part of himself, that it seldomfound an outlet in words, and a stranger would never have fathomed thedepth of feeling which lay, a deep and powerful current, beneath thestagnant surface of the barrister's character. 

"What would become of this place if my uncle were to die?" he thought, and he drew nearer to the ivied archway, and the still water-pools, coldly gray in the twilight. "Would other people live in the old house, and sit under the low oak ceilings in the homely familiar rooms?"

That wonderful faculty of association, so interwoven with the inmostfibers of even the hardest nature, filled the young man's breast with aprophetic pain as he remembered that, however long or late, the day mustcome on which the oaken shutters would be closed for awhile, and thesunshine shut out of the house he loved. It was painful to him even toremember this; as it must always be painful to think of the narrow leasethe greatest upon this earth can ever hold of its grandeurs. Is it sowonderful that some wayfarers drop asleep under the hedges, scarcelycaring to toil onward on a journey that leads to no abiding habitation?Is it wonderful that there have been quietists in the world ever sinceChrist's religion was first preached upon earth. Is it strange thatthere is a patient endurance and tranquil resignation, calm expectationof that which is to come on the further shore of the dark flowing river?Is it not rather to be wondered that anybody should ever care to begreat for greatness' sake; for any other reason than pureconscientiousness; the simple fidelity of the servant who fears to layhis talents by in a napkin, knowing that indifference is near akin todishonesty? If Robert Audley had lived in the time of Thomas a'Kempis, he would very likely have built himself a narrow hermitage amid someforest loneliness, and spent his life in tranquil imitation of thereputed author of _The Imitation_. As it was, Figtree Court was apleasant hermitage in its way, and for breviaries and Books of Hours, Iam ashamed to say the young barrister substituted Paul de Kock andDumas, fils. But his sins were of so simply negative an order, that itwould have been very easy for him to have abandoned them for negativevirtues. 

Only one solitary light was visible in the long irregular range ofwindows facing the archway, as Robert passed under the gloomy shade ofthe rustling ivy, restless in the chill moaning of the wind. Herecognized that lighted window as the large oriel in his uncle's room. When last he had looked at the old house it had been gay with visitors, every window glittering like a low star in the dusk; now, dark andsilent, it faced the winter's night like some dismal baronialhabitation, deep in a woodland solitude. 

The man who opened the door to the unlooked-for visitor, brightened ashe recognized his master's nephew. 

"Sir Michael will be cheered up a bit, sir, by the sight of you, " hesaid, as he ushered Robert Audley into the fire-lit library, whichseemed desolate by reason of the baronet's easy-chair standing empty onthe broad hearth-rug. "Shall I bring you some dinner here, sir, beforeyou go up-stairs?" the servant asked. "My lady and Miss Audley havedined early during my master's illness, but I can bring you anything youwould please to take, sir. "

"I'll take nothing until I have seen my uncle, " Robert answered, hurriedly; "that is to say, if I can see him at once. He is not too illto receive me, I suppose?" he added, anxiously. 

"Oh, no, sir--not too ill; only a little low, sir. This way, if youplease. "

He conducted Robert up the short flight of shallow oaken stairs to theoctagon chamber in which George Talboys had sat long five months before, staring absently at my lady's portrait. The picture was finished now, and hung in the post of honor opposite the window, amidst Claudes, Poussins and Wouvermans, whose less brilliant hues were killed by thevivid coloring of the modern artist. The bright face looked out of thattangled glitter of golden hair, in which the Pre-Raphaelites delight, with a mocking smile, as Robert paused for a moment to glance at thewell-remembered picture. Two or three moments afterward he had passedthrough my lady's boudoir and dressing-room and stood upon the thresholdof Sir Michael's room. The baronet lay in a quiet sleep, his arm layingoutside the bed, and his strong hand clasped in his young wife'sdelicate fingers. Alicia sat in a low chair beside the broad openhearth, on which the huge logs burned fiercely in the frosty atmosphere. The interior of this luxurious bedchamber might have made a strikingpicture for an artist's pencil. The massive furniture, dark and somber, yet broken up and relieved here and there by scraps of gilding, andmasses of glowing color; the elegance of every detail, in which wealthwas subservient to purity of taste; and last, but greatest inimportance, the graceful figures of the two women, and the noble form ofthe old man would have formed a worthy study for any painter. 

Lucy Audley, with her disordered hair in a pale haze of yellow goldabout her thoughtful face, the flowing lines of her soft muslindressing-gown falling in straight folds to her feet, and clasped at thewaist by a narrow circlet of agate links might have served as a modelfor a mediaeval saint, in one of the tiny chapels hidden away in thenooks and corners of a gray old cathedral, unchanged by Reformation orCromwell; and what saintly martyr of the Middle Ages could have borne aholier aspect than the man whose gray beard lay upon the dark silkencoverlet of the stately bed?

Robert paused upon the threshold, fearful of awaking his uncle. The twoladies had heard his step, cautious though he had been, and lifted theirheads to look at him. My lady's face, quietly watching the sick man, hadworn an anxious earnestness which made it only more beautiful; but thesame face recognizing Robert Audley, faded from its delicate brightness, and looked scared and wan in the lamplight. 

"Mr. Audley!" she cried, in a faint, tremulous voice. 

"Hush!" whispered Alicia, with a warning gesture; "you will wake papa. How good of you to come, Robert, " she added, in the same whisperedtones, beckoning to her cousin to take an empty chair near the bed. 

The young man seated himself in the indicated seat at the bottom of thebed, and opposite to my lady, who sat close beside the pillows. Helooked long and earnestly at the face of the sleeper; still longer, still more earnestly at the face of Lady Audley, which was slowlyrecovering its natural hues. 

"He has not been very ill, has he?" Robert asked, in the same key asthat in which Alicia had spoken. 

My lady answered the question. 

"Oh, no, not dangerously ill, " she said, without taking her eyes fromher husband's face; "but still we have been anxious, very, veryanxious. "

Robert never relaxed his scrutiny of that pale face. 

"She shall look at me, " he thought; "I will make her meet my eyes, and Iwill read her as I have read her before. She shall know how useless herartifices are with me. "

He paused for a few minutes before he spoke again. The regular breathingof the sleeper the ticking of a gold hunting-watch at the head of thebed, and the crackling of the burning logs, were the only sounds thatbroke the stillness. 

"I have no doubt you have been anxious, Lady Audley, " Robert said, aftera pause, fixing my lady's eyes as they wandered furtively to his face. "There is no one to whom my uncle's life I can be of more value than toyou. Your happiness, your prosperity, your _safety_ depend alike uponhis existence. "

The whisper in which he uttered these words was too low to reach theother side of the room, where Alicia sat. 

Lucy Audley's eyes met those of the speaker with some gleam of triumphin their light. 

"I know that, " she said. "Those who strike me must strike through him. "

She pointed to the sleeper as she spoke, still looking at Robert Audley. She defied him with her blue eyes, their brightness intensified by thetriumph in their glance. She defied him with her quiet smile--a smile offatal beauty, full of lurking significance and mysterious meaning--thesmile which the artist had exaggerated in his portrait of Sir Michael'swife. 

Robert turned away from the lovely face, and shaded his eyes with hishand; putting a barrier between my lady and himself; a screen whichbaffled her penetration and provoked her curiosity. Was he stillwatching her or was he thinking? and of what was he thinking?

Robert had been seated at the bedside for upward of an hour before hisuncle awoke. The baronet was delighted at his nephew's coming. 

"It was very good of you to come to me, Bob, " he said. "I have beenthinking of you a good deal since I have been ill. You and Lucy must begood friends, you know, Bob; and you must learn to think of her as youraunt, sir; though she is young and beautiful; and--and--you understand, eh?"

Robert grasped his uncle's hand, but he looked down as he answered: "Ido understand you, sir, " he said, quietly; "and I give you my word ofhonor that I am steeled against my lady's fascinations. She knows thatas well as I do. "

Lucy Audley made a little grimace with her pretty little lips. "Bah, yousilly Robert, " she exclaimed; "you take everything _au serieux_. If Ithought you were rather too young for a nephew, it was only in my fearof other people's foolish gossip; not from any--"

She hesitated for a moment, and escaped any conclusion to her sentenceby the timely intervention of Mr. Dawson, her late employer, who enteredthe room upon his evening visit while she was speaking. 

He felt the patient's pulse; asked two or three questions; pronouncedthe baronet to be steadily improving; exchanged a few commonplaceremarks with Alicia and Lady Audley, and prepared to leave the room. Robert rose and accompanied him to the door. 

"I will light you to the staircase, " he said, taking a candle from oneof the tables, and lighting it at the lamp. 

"No, no, Mr. Audley, pray do not trouble yourself, " expostulated thesurgeon; "I know my way very well indeed. "

Robert insisted, and the two men left the room together. As they enteredthe octagon ante-chamber the barrister paused and shut the door behindhim. 

"Will you see that the door is closed, Mr. Dawson?" he said, pointing tothat which opened upon the staircase. "I wish to have a few moments'private conversation with you. "

"With much pleasure, " replied the surgeon, complying with Robert'srequest; "but if you are at all alarmed about your uncle, Mr. Audley, Ican set your mind at rest. There is no occasion for the leastuneasiness. Had his illness been at all serious I should havetelegraphed immediately for the family physician. "

"I am sure that you would have done your duty, sir, " answered Robert, gravely. "But I am not going to speak of my uncle. I wish to ask you twoor three questions about another person. "

"Indeed. "

"The person who once lived in your family as Miss Lucy Graham; theperson who is now Lady Audley. "

Mr. Dawson looked up with an expression of surprise upon his quiet face. 

"Pardon me, Mr. Audley, " he answered; "you can scarcely expect me toanswer any questions about your uncle's wife without Sir Michael'sexpress permission. I can understand no motive which can prompt you toask such questions--no worthy motive, at least. " He looked severely atthe young man, as much as to say: "You have been falling in love withyour uncle's pretty wife, sir, and you want to make me a go-between insome treacherous flirtation; but it won't do, sir, it won't do. "

"I always respected the lady as Miss Graham, sir, " he said, "and Iesteem her doubly as Lady Audley--not on account of her alteredposition, but because she is the wife of one of the noblest men inChristendom. "

"You cannot respect my uncle or my uncle's honor more sincerely than Ido, " answered Robert. "I have no unworthy motive for the questions I amabout to ask; and you must answer them. "

"_Must!_" echoed Mr. Dawson, indignantly. 

"Yes, you are my uncle's friend. It was at your house he met the womanwho is now his wife. She called herself an orphan, I believe, andenlisted his pity as well as his admiration in her behalf. She told himthat she stood alone in the world, did she not?--without a friend orrelative. This was all I could ever learn of her antecedents. "

"What reason have you to wish to know more?" asked the surgeon. 

"A very terrible reason, " answered Robert Audley. "For some months pastI have struggled with doubts and suspicions which have embittered mylife. They have grown stronger every day; and they will not be set atrest by the commonplace sophistries and the shallow arguments with whichmen try to deceive themselves rather than believe that which of allthings upon earth they most fear to believe. I do not think that thewoman who bears my uncle's name, is worthy to be his wife. I may wrongher. Heaven grant that it is so. But if I do, the fatal chain ofcircumstantial evidence never yet linked itself so closely about aninnocent person. I wish to set my doubts at rest or--or to confirm myfears. There is but one manner in which I can do this. I must trace thelife of my uncle's wife backward, minutely and carefully, from thisnight to a period of six years ago. This is the twenty-fourth ofFebruary, fifty-nine. I want to know every record of her life betweento-night and the February of the year fifty-three. "

"And your motive is a worthy one?"

"Yes, I wish to clear her from a very dreadful suspicion. "

"Which exists only in your mind?"

"And in the mind of one other person. "

"May I ask who that person is?"

"No, Mr. Dawson, " answered Robert, decisively; "I cannot reveal anythingmore than what I have already told you. I am a very irresolute, vacillating man in most things. In this matter I am compelled to bedecided. I repeat once more that I _must_ know the history of LucyGraham's life. If you refuse to help me to the small extent in yourpower, I will find others who will help me. Painful as it would become, I will ask my uncle for the information which you would withhold, ratherthan be baffled in the first step of my investigation. "

Mr. Dawson was silent for some minutes. 

"I cannot express how much you have astonished and alarmed me, Mr. Audley. " he said. "I can tell you so little about Lady Audley'santecedents, that it would be mere obstinacy to withhold the smallamount of information I possess. I have always considered your uncle'swife one of the most amiable of women. I _cannot_ bring myself to thinkher otherwise. It would be an uprooting of one of the strongestconvictions of my life were I compelled to think her otherwise. You wishto follow her life backward from the present hour to the yearfifty-three?"

"I do. "

"She was married to your uncle last June twelvemonth, in the midsummerof fifty-seven. She had lived in my house a little more than thirteenmonths. She became a member of my household upon the fourteenth of May, in the year fifty-six. "

"And she came to you--"

"From a school at Brompton, a school kept by a lady of the name ofVincent. It was Mrs. Vincent's strong recommendation that induced me toreceive Miss Graham into my family without any more special knowledge ofher antecedents. "

"Did you see this Mrs. Vincent?"

"I did not. I advertised for a governess, and Miss Graham answered myadvertisement. In her letter she referred me to Mrs. Vincent, theproprietress of a school in which she was then residing as juniorteacher. My time is always so fully occupied, that I was glad to escapethe necessity of a day's loss in going from Audley to London to inquireabout the young lady's qualifications. I looked for Mrs. Vincent's namein the directory, found it, and concluded that she was a responsibleperson, and wrote to her. Her reply was perfectly satisfactory;--MissLucy Graham was assiduous and conscientious; as well as fully qualifiedfor the situation I offered. I accepted this reference, and I had nocause to regret what may have been an indiscretion. And now, Mr. Audley, I have told you all that I have the power to tell. "

"Will you be so kind as to give me the address of this Mrs. Vincent?"asked Robert, taking out his pocketbook. 

"Certainly; she was then living at No. 9 Crescent Villas, Brompton. "

"Ah, to be sure, " muttered Mr. Audley, a recollection of last Septemberflashing suddenly back upon him as the surgeon spoke. 

"Crescent Villas--yes, I have heard the address before from Lady Audleyherself. This Mrs. Vincent telegraphed to my uncle's wife early in lastSeptember. She was ill--dying, I believe--and sent for my lady; but hadremoved from her old house and was not to be found. "

"Indeed! I never heard Lady Audley mention the circumstance. "

"Perhaps not. It occurred while I was down here. Thank you, Mr. Dawson, for the information you have so kindly and honestly given me. It takesme back two and a-half years in the history of my lady's life; but Ihave still a blank of three years to fill up before I can exonerate herfrom my terrible suspicion. Good evening. "

Robert shook hands with the surgeon and returned to his uncle's room. Hehad been away about a quarter of an hour. Sir Michael had fallen asleeponce more, and my lady's loving hands had lowered the heavy curtains andshaded the lamp by the bedside. Alicia and her father's wife were takingtea in Lady Audley's boudoir, the room next to the antechamber in whichRobert and Mr. Dawson had been seated. 

Lucy Audley looked up from her occupation among the fragile china cupsand watched Robert rather anxiously as he walked softly to his uncle'sroom and back again to the boudoir. She looked very pretty and innocent, seated behind the graceful group of delicate opal china and glitteringsilver. Surely a pretty woman never looks prettier than when making tea. The most feminine and most domestic of all occupations imparts a magicharmony to her every movement, a witchery to her every glance. Thefloating mists from the boiling liquid in which she infuses the soothingherbs; whose secrets are known to her alone, envelope her in a cloud ofscented vapor, through which she seems a social fairy, weaving potentspells with Gunpowder and Bohea. At the tea-table she reigns omnipotent, unapproachable. What do men know of the mysterious beverage? Read howpoor Hazlitt made his tea, and shudder at the dreadful barbarism. Howclumsily the wretched creatures attempt to assist the witch president ofthe tea-tray; how hopelessly they hold the kettle, how continually theyimperil the frail cups and saucers, or the taper hands of the priestess. To do away with the tea-table is to rob woman of her legitimate empire. To send a couple of hulking men about among your visitors, distributinga mixture made in the housekeeper's room, is to reduce the most socialand friendly of ceremonies to a formal giving out of rations. Better thepretty influence of the tea cups and saucers gracefully wielded in awoman's hand than all the inappropriate power snatched at the point ofthe pen from the unwilling sterner sex. Imagine all the women of Englandelevated to the high level of masculine intellectuality, superior tocrinoline; above pearl powder and Mrs. Rachael Levison; above taking thepains to be pretty; above tea-tables and that cruelly scandalous andrather satirical gossip which even strong men delight in; and what adrear, utilitarian, ugly life the sterner sex must lead. 

My lady was by no means strong-minded. The starry diamonds upon herwhite fingers flashed hither and thither among the tea-things, and shebent her pretty head over the marvelous Indian tea-caddy of sandal-woodand silver, with as much earnestness as if life held no higher purposethan the infusion of Bohea. 

"You'll take a cup of tea with us, Mr. Audley?" she asked, pausing withthe teapot in her hand to look up at Robert, who was standing near thedoor. 

"If you please. "

"But you have not dined, perhaps? Shall I ring and tell them to bringyou something a little more substantial than biscuits and transparentbread and butter?"

"No, thank you, Lady Audley. I took some lunch before I left town. I'lltrouble you for nothing but a cup of tea. "

He seated himself at the little table and looked across it at his CousinAlicia, who sat with a book in her lap, and had the air of being verymuch absorbed by its pages. The bright brunette complexion had lost itsglowing crimson, and the animation of the young lady's manner wassuppressed--on account of her father's illness, no doubt, Robertthought. 

"Alicia, my dear, " the barrister said, after a very leisurelycontemplation of his cousin, "you're not looking well. "

Miss Audley shrugged her shoulders, but did not condescend to lift hereyes from her book. 

"Perhaps not, " she answered, contemptuously. "What does it matter? I'mgrowing a philosopher of your school, Robert Audley. What does itmatter? Who cares whether I am well or ill?"

"What a spitfire she is, " thought the barrister. He always knew hiscousin was angry with him when she addressed him as "Robert Audley. "

"You needn't pitch into a fellow because he asks you a civil question, Alicia, " he said, reproachfully. "As to nobody caring about your health, that's nonsense. _I_ care. " Miss Audley looked up with a bright smile. "Sir Harry Towers cares. " Miss Audley returned to her book with a frown. 

"What are you reading there, Alicia?" Robert asked, after a pause, during which he had sat thoughtfully stirring his tea. 

"_Changes and Chances_. "

"A novel?"

"Yes. "

"Who is it by?"

"The author of _Follies and Faults_, " answered Alicia, still pursuingher study of the romance upon her lap. 

"Is it interesting?"

Miss Audley pursed up her mouth and shrugged her shoulders. 

"Not particularly, " she said. 

"Then I think you might have better manners than to read it while yourfirst cousin is sitting opposite you, " observed Mr. Audley, with somegravity, "especially as he has only come to pay you a flying visit, andwill be off to-morrow morning. "

"To-morrow morning!" exclaimed my lady, looking up suddenly. 

Though the look of joy upon Lady Audley's face was as brief as a flashof lightning on a summer sky, it was not unperceived by Robert. 

"Yes, " he said; "I shall be obliged to run up to London to-morrow onbusiness, but I shall return the next day, if you will allow me, LadyAudley, and stay here till my uncle recovers. "

"But you are not seriously alarmed about him, are you?" asked my lady, anxiously. 

"You do not think him very ill?"

"No, " answered Robert. "Thank Heaven, I think there is not the slightestcause for apprehension. "

My lady sat silent for a few moments, looking at the empty teacups witha prettily thoughtful face--a face grave with the innocent seriousnessof a musing child. 

"But you were closeted such a long time with Mr. Dawson, just now, " shesaid, after this brief pause. "I was quite alarmed at the length of yourconversation. Were you talking of Sir Michael all the time?"

"No; not all the time?"

My lady looked down at the teacups once more. 

"Why, what could you find to say to Mr. Dawson, or he to say to you?"she asked, after another pause. "You are almost strangers to eachother. "

"Suppose Mr. Dawson wished to consult me about some law business. "

"Was it that?" cried Lady Audley, eagerly. 

"It would be rather unprofessional to tell you if it were so, my lady, "answered Robert, gravely. 

My lady bit her lip, and relapsed into silence. Alicia threw down herbook, and watched her cousin's preoccupied face. He talked to her nowand then for a few minutes, but it was evidently an effort to him toarouse himself from his revery. 

"Upon my word, Robert Audley, you are a very agreeable companion, "exclaimed Alicia at length, her rather limited stock of patience quiteexhausted by two or three of these abortive attempts at conversation. "Perhaps the next time you come to the Court you will be good enough tobring your _mind_ with you. By your present inanimate appearance, Ishould imagine that you had left your intellect, such as it is, somewhere in the Temple. You were never one of the liveliest of people, but latterly you have really grown almost unendurable. I suppose you arein love, Mr. Audley, and are thinking of the honored object of youraffections. "

He was thinking of Clara Talboys' uplifted face, sublime in itsunutterable grief; of her impassioned words still ringing in his ears asclearly as when they were first spoken. Again he saw her looking at himwith her bright brown eyes. Again he heard that solemn question: "Shallyou or I find my brother's murderer?" And he was in Essex; in the littlevillage from which he firmly believed George Talboys had never departed. He was on the spot at which all record of his friend's life ended assuddenly as a story ends when the reader shuts the book. And could hewithdraw now from the investigation in which he found himself involved?Could he stop now? For any consideration? No; a thousand times no! Notwith the image of that grief-stricken face imprinted on his mind. Notwith the accents of that earnest appeal ringing on his ear. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

SO FAR AND NO FARTHER. 

Robert left Audley the next morning by an early train, and reachedShoreditch a little after nine o'clock. He did not return to hischambers, but called a cab and drove straight to Crescent Villas, WestBrompton. He knew that he should fail in finding the lady he went toseek at this address, as his uncle had failed a few months before, buthe thought it possible to obtain some clew to the schoolmistress' newresidence, in spite of Sir Michael's ill-success. 

"Mrs. Vincent was in a dying state, according to the telegraphicmessage, " Robert thought. "If I do find her, I shall at least succeed indiscovering whether that message was genuine. "

He found Crescent Villas after some difficulty. The houses were large, but they lay half imbedded among the chaos of brick and rising mortararound them. New terraces, new streets, new squares led away intohopeless masses of stone and plaster on every side. The roads weresticky with damp clay, which clogged the wheels of the cab and buriedthe fetlocks of the horse. The desolations--that awful aspect ofincompleteness and discomfort which pervades a new and unfinishedneighborhood--had set its dismal seal upon the surrounding streets whichhad arisen about and intrenched Crescent Villas; and Robert wasted fortyminutes by his watch, and an hour and a quarter by the cabman'sreckoning, in driving up and down uninhabited streets and terraces, trying to find the Villase; whose chimney-tops were frowning down uponhim black and venerable, amid groves of virgin plaster, undimmed by timeor smoke. 

But having at last succeeded in reaching his destination, Mr. Audleyalighted from the cab, directed the driver to wait for him at a certaincorner, and set out upon his voyage of discovery. 

"If I were a distinguished Q. C. , I could not do this sort of thing, " hethought; "my time would be worth a guinea or so a minute, and I shouldbe retained in the great case of Hoggs vs. Boggs, going forward thisvery day before a special jury at Westminster Hall. As it is, I canafford to be patient. "

He inquired for Mrs. Vincent at the number which Mr. Dawson had givenhim. The maid who opened the door had never heard that lady's name; butafter going to inquire of her mistress, she returned to tell Robert thatMrs. Vincent had lived there, but that she had left two months beforethe present occupants had entered the house, "and missus has been herefifteen months, " the girl added emphatically. 

"But you cannot tell where she went on leaving here?" Robert asked, despondingly. 

"No, sir; missus says she believes the lady failed, and that she leftsudden like, and didn't want her address to be known in theneighborhood. "

Mr. Audley felt himself at a standstill once more. If Mrs. Vincent hadleft the place in debt, she had no doubt scrupulously concealed herwhereabouts. There was little hope, then, of learning her address fromthe tradespeople; and yet, on the other hand, it was just possible thatsome of her sharpest creditors might have made it their business todiscover the defaulter's retreat. 

He looked about him for the nearest shops, and found a baker's, astationer's, and a fruiterer's a few paces from the Crescent. Threeempty-looking, pretentious shops, with plate-glass windows, and ahopeless air of gentility. 

He stopped at the baker's, who called himself a pastrycook andconfectioner, and exhibited some specimens of petrified sponge-cake inglass bottles, and some highly-glazed tarts, covered with green gauze. 

"She _must_ have bought bread, " Robert thought, as he deliberated beforethe baker's shop; "and she is likely to have bought it at the handiestplace. I'll try the baker. "

The baker was standing behind his counter, disputing the items of a billwith a shabby-genteel young woman. He did not trouble himself to attendto Robert Audley until he had settled the dispute, but he looked up ashe was receipting the bill, and asked the barrister what he pleased towant. 

"Can you tell me the address of a Mrs. Vincent, who lived at No. 9Crescent Villas a year and a half ago?" Mr. Audley inquired, mildly. 

"No, I can't, " answered the baker, growing very red in the face, andspeaking in an unnecessarily loud voice; "and what's more, I wish Icould. That lady owes me upward of eleven pound for bread, and it'srather more than I can afford to lose. If anybody can tell me where shelives, I shall be much obliged to 'em for so doing. "

Robert Audley shrugged his shoulders and wished the man good-morning. Hefelt that his discovery of the lady's whereabouts would involve moretrouble than he had expected. He might have looked for Mrs. Vincent'sname in the Post-Office directory, but he thought it scarcely likelythat a lady who was on such uncomfortable terms with her creditors, would afford them so easy a means of ascertaining her residence. 

"If the baker can't find her, how should I find her?" he thought, despairingly. "If a resolute, sanguine, active and energetic creature, such as the baker, fail to achieve this business, how can a lymphaticwretch like me hope to accomplish it? Where the baker has been defeated, what preposterous folly it would be for me to try to succeed. "

Mr. Audley abandoned himself to these gloomy reflections as he walkedslowly back toward the corner at which he had left the cab. Abouthalf-way between the baker's shop and this corner he was arrested byhearing a woman's step close at his side, and a woman's voice asking himto stop. He turned and found himself face to face with theshabbily-dressed woman whom he had left settling her account with thebaker. 

"Eh, what?" he asked, vaguely. "Can I do anything for you, ma'am? DoesMrs. Vincent owe _you_ money, too?"

"Yes, sir, " the woman answered, with a semi-genteel manner whichcorresponded with the shabby gentility of her dress. "Mrs. Vincent is inmy debt; but it isn't that, sir. I--I want to know, please, what yourbusiness may be with her--because--because--"

"You can give me her address if you choose, ma'am. That's what you meanto say, isn't it?"

The woman hesitated a little, looking rather suspiciously at Robert. 

"You're not connected with--with the tally business, are you, sir?" sheasked, after considering Mr. Audley's personal appearance for a fewmoments. 

"The _what_, ma'am?" asked the young barrister, staring aghast at hisquestioner. 

"I'm sure I beg your pardon, sir, " exclaimed the little woman, seeingthat she had made some awful mistake. "I thought you might have been, you know. Some of the gentlemen who collect for the tally shops do dressso very handsome; and I know Mrs. Vincent owes a good deal of money. "

Robert Audley laid his hand upon the speaker's arm. 

"My dear madam, " he said, "I want to know nothing of Mrs. Vincent'saffairs. So far from being concerned in what you call _the tallybusiness_, I have not the remotest idea what you mean by thatexpression. You may mean a political conspiracy; you may mean some newspecies of taxes. Mrs. Vincent does not owe _me_ any money, howeverbadly she may stand with that awful-looking baker. I never saw her in mylife; but I wish to see her to-day for the simple purpose of asking hera few very plain questions about a young lady who once resided in herhouse. If you know where Mrs. Vincent lives and will give me heraddress, you will be doing me a great favor. "

He took out his card-case and handed a card to the woman, who examinedthe slip of pasteboard anxiously before she spoke again. 

"I'm sure you look and speak like a gentleman, sir, " she said, after abrief pause, "and I hope you will excuse me if I've seemed mistrustfullike; but poor Mrs. Vincent has had dreadful difficulties, and I'm theonly person hereabouts that she's trusted with her addresses. I'm adressmaker, sir, and I've worked for her for upward of six years, andthough she doesn't pay me regular, you know, sir, she gives me a littlemoney on account now and then, and I get on as well as I can. I may tellyou where she lives, then, sir? You haven't deceived me, have you?"

"On my honor, no. "

"Well, then sir, " said the dressmaker, dropping her voice as if shethought the pavement beneath her feet, or the iron railings before thehouses by her side, might have ears to hear her, "it's Acacia Cottage, Peckham Grove. I took a dress there yesterday for Mrs. Vincent. "

"Thank you, " said Robert, writing the address in his pocketbook. "I amvery much obliged to you, and you may rely upon it, Mrs. Vincent shallnot suffer any inconvenience through me. "

He lifted his hat, bowed to the little dressmaker, and turned back tothe cab. 

"I have beaten the baker, at any rate, " he thought. "Now for the secondstage, traveling backward, in my lady's life. "

The drive from Brompton to the Peckham Road was a very long one, andbetween Crescent Villas and Acacia Cottage, Robert Audley had ampleleisure for reflection. He thought of his uncle lying weak and ill inthe oak-room at Audley Court. He thought of the beautiful blue eyeswatching Sir Michael's slumbers; the soft, white hands tending on hiswaking moments; the low musical voice soothing his loneliness, cheeringand consoling his declining years. What a pleasant picture it might havebeen, had he been able to look upon it ignorantly, seeing no more thanothers saw, looking no further than a stranger could look. But with theblack cloud which he saw brooding over it, what an arch mockery, what adiabolical delusion it seemed. 

Peckham Grove--pleasant enough in the summer-time--has rather a dismalaspect upon a dull February day, when the trees are bare and leafless, and the little gardens desolate. Acacia Cottage bore small token of thefitness of its nomenclature, and faced the road with its stuccoed wallssheltered only by a couple of attenuated poplars. But it announced thatit was Acacia Cottage by means of a small brass plate upon one of thegate-posts, which was sufficient indication for the sharp-sightedcabman, who dropped Mr. Audley upon the pavement before the little gate. 

Acacia Cottage was much lower in the social scale than Crescent Villas, and the small maid-servant who came to the low wooden gate and parleyedwith Mr. Audley, was evidently well used to the encounter of relentlesscreditors across the same feeble barricade. 

She murmured the familiar domestic fiction of the uncertainty regardingher mistress's whereabouts; and told Robert that if he would please tostate his name and business, she would go and see if Mrs. Vincent was athome. 

Mr. Audley produced a card, and wrote in pencil under his own name: "aconnection of the late Miss Graham. "

He directed the small servant to carry his card to her mistress, andquietly awaited the result. 

The servant returned in about five minutes with the key of the gate. Hermistress was at home, she told Robert as she admitted him, and would behappy to see the gentleman. 

The square parlor into which Robert was ushered bore in every scrap ofornament, in every article of furniture, the unmistakable stamp of thatspecies of poverty which is most comfortless because it is neverstationary. The mechanic who furnishes his tiny sitting-room withhalf-a-dozen cane chairs, a Pembroke table, a Dutch clock, a tinylooking-glass, a crockery shepherd and shepherdess, and a set ofgaudily-japanned iron tea-trays, makes the most of his limitedpossessions, and generally contrives to get some degree of comfort outof them; but the lady who loses the handsome furniture of the house sheis compelled to abandon and encamps in some smaller habitation with theshabby remainder--bought in by some merciful friend at the sale of hereffects--carries with her an aspect of genteel desolation and tawdrymisery not easily to be paralleled in wretchedness by any other phasewhich poverty can assume. 

The room which Robert Audley surveyed was furnished with the shabbierscraps snatched from the ruin which had overtaken the imprudentschoolmistress in Crescent Villas. A cottage piano, a chiffonier, sixsizes too large for the room, and dismally gorgeous in gilded moldingsthat were chipped and broken; a slim-legged card-table, placed in thepost of honor, formed the principal pieces of furniture. A threadbarepatch of Brussels carpet covered the center of the room, and formed anoasis of roses and lilies upon a desert of shabby green drugget. Knittedcurtains shaded the windows, in which hung wire baskets ofhorrible-looking plants of the cactus species, that grew downward, likesome demented class of vegetation, whose prickly and spider-like membershad a fancy for standing on their heads. 

The green-baize covered card-table was adorned with gaudily-boundannuals or books of beauty, placed at right angles; but Robert Audleydid not avail himself of these literary distractions. He seated himselfupon one of the rickety chairs, and waited patiently for the advent ofthe schoolmistress. He could hear the hum of half-a-dozen voices in aroom near him, and the jingling harmonies of a set of variations in _DehConte_, upon a piano, whose every wire was evidently in the last stageof attenuation. 

He had waited for about a quarter of an hour, when the door was opened, and a lady, very much dressed, and with the setting sunlight of fadedbeauty upon her face, entered the room. 

"Mr. Audley, I presume, " she said, motioning to Robert to reseathimself, and placing herself in an easy-chair opposite to him. "You willpardon me, I hope, for detaining you so long; my duties--"

"It is I who should apologize for intruding upon you, " Robert answered, politely; "but my motive for calling upon you is a very serious one, andmust plead my excuse. You remember the lady whose name I wrote upon mycard?"

"Perfectly. "

"May I ask how much you know of that lady's history since her departurefrom your house?"

"Very little. In point of fact, scarcely anything at all. Miss Graham, Ibelieve, obtained a situation in the family of a surgeon resident inEssex. Indeed, it was I who recommended her to that gentleman. I havenever heard from her since she left me. "

"But you have communicated with her?" Robert asked, eagerly. 

"No, indeed. "

Mr. Audley was silent for a few moments, the shadow of gloomy thoughtsgathering darkly on his face. 

"May I ask if you sent a telegraphic dispatch to Miss Graham early inlast September, stating that you were dangerously ill, and that youwished to see her?"

Mrs. Vincent smiled at her visitor's question. 

"I had no occasion to send such a message, " she said; "I have never beenseriously ill in my life. "

Robert Audley paused before he asked any further questions, and scrawleda few penciled words in his note-book. 

"If I ask you a few straightforward questions about Miss Lucy Graham, madam, " he said. "Will you do me the favor to answer them without askingmy motive in making such inquiries?"

"Most certainly, " replied Mrs. Vincent. "I know nothing to Miss Graham'sdisadvantage, and have no justification for making a mystery of thelittle I do know. "

"Then will you tell me at what date the young lady first came to you?"

Mrs. Vincent smiled and shook her head. She had a pretty smile--thefrank smile of a woman who had been admired, and who has too long feltthe certainty of being able to please, to be utterly subjugated by anyworldly misfortune. 

"It's not the least use to ask me, Mr. Audley, " she said. "I'm the mostcareless creature in the world; I never did, and never could rememberdates, though I do all in my power to impress upon my girls howimportant it is for their future welfare that they should know whenWilliam the Conqueror began to reign, and all that kind of thing. But Ihaven't the remotest idea when Miss Graham came to me, although I knowit was ages ago, for it was the very summer I had my peach-colored silk. But we must consult Tonks--Tonks is sure to be right. "

Robert Audley wondered who or what Tonks could be; a diary, perhaps, ora memorandum-book--some obscure rival of Letsome. 

Mrs. Vincent rung the bell, which was answered by the maid-servant whohad admitted Robert. 

"Ask Miss Tonks to come to me, " she said. "I want to see herparticularly. "

In less than five minutes Miss Tonks made her appearance. She was wintryand rather frost-bitten in aspect, and seemed to bring cold air in thescanty folds of her somber merino dress. She was no age in particular, and looked as if she had never been younger, and would never grow older, but would remain forever working backward and forward in her narrowgroove, like some self-feeding machine for the instruction of youngladies. 

"Tonks, my dear, " said Mrs. Vincent, without ceremony, "this gentlemanis a relative of Miss Graham's. Do you remember how long it is since shecame to us at Crescent Villas?"

"She came in August, 1854, " answered Miss Tonks; "I think it was theeighteenth of August, but I'm not quite sure that it wasn't theseventeenth. I know it was on a Tuesday. "

"Thank you, Tonks; you are a most invaluable darling, " exclaimed Mrs. Vincent, with her sweetest smile. It was, perhaps, because of theinvaluable nature of Miss Tonks' services that she had received noremuneration whatever from her employer for the last three or fouryears. Mrs. Vincent might have hesitated to pay from very contempt forthe pitiful nature of the stipend as compared with the merits of theteacher. 

"Is there anything else that Tonks or I can tell you, Mr. Audley?" askedthe schoolmistress. "Tonks has a far better memory than I have. "

"Can you tell me where Miss Graham came from when she entered yourhousehold?" Robert inquired. 

"Not very precisely, " answered Mrs. Vincent. "I have a vague notion thatMiss Graham said something about coming from the seaside, but she didn'tsay where, or if she did I have forgotten it. Tonks, did Miss Grahamtell you where she came from?"

"Oh, no!" replied Miss Tonks, shaking her grim little headsignificantly. "Miss Graham told me nothing; she was too clever forthat. She knows how to keep her own secrets, in spite of her innocentways and her curly hair, " Miss Tonks added, spitefully. 

"You think she had secrets?" Robert asked, rather eagerly. 

"I know she had, " replied Miss Tonks, with frosty decision; "all mannerof secrets. I wouldn't have engaged such a person as junior teacher in arespectable school, without so much as one word of recommendation fromany living creature. "

"You had no reference, then, from Miss Graham?" asked Robert, addressingMrs. Vincent. 

"No, " the lady answered, with some little embarrassment; "I waived that. Miss Graham waived the question of salary; I could not do less thanwaive the question of reference. She quarreled with her papa, she toldme, and she wanted to find a home away from all the people she had everknown. She wished to keep herself quite separate from these people. Shehad endured so much, she said, young as she was, and she wanted toescape from her troubles. How could I press her for a reference underthese circumstances, especially when I saw that she was a perfect lady. You know that Lucy Graham was a perfect lady, Tonks, and it is veryunkind for you to say such cruel things about my taking her without areference. "

"When people make favorites, they are apt to be deceived in them, " MissTonks answered, with icy sententiousness, and with no very perceptiblerelevance to the point in discussion. 

"I never made her a favorite, you jealous Tonks, " Mrs. Vincent answered, reproachfully. "I never said she was as useful as you, dear. You know Inever did. "

"Oh, no!" replied Miss Tonks, with a chilling accent, "you never saidshe was useful. She was only ornamental; a person to be shown off tovisitors, and to play fantasias on the drawing-room piano. "

"Then you can give me no clew to Miss Graham's previous history?" Robertasked, looking from the schoolmistress to her teacher. He saw veryclearly that Miss Tonks bore an envious grudge against Lucy Graham--agrudge which even the lapse of time had not healed. 

"If this woman knows anything to my lady's detriment, she will tell it, "he thought. "She will tell it only too willingly. "

But Miss Tonks appeared to know nothing whatever; except that MissGraham had sometimes declared herself an ill-used creature, deceived bythe baseness of mankind, and the victim of unmerited sufferings, in theway of poverty and deprivation. Beyond this, Miss Tonks could tellnothing; and although she made the most of what she did know, Robertsoon sounded the depth of her small stock of information. 

"I have only one more question to ask, " he said at last. "It is this:Did Miss Graham leave any books or knick-knacks, or any other kind ofproperty whatever, behind her, when she left your establishment?"

"Not to my knowledge, " Mrs. Vincent replied. 

"Yes, " cried Miss Tonks, sharply. "She did leave something. She left abox. It's up-stairs in my room. I've got an old bonnet in it. Would youlike to see the box?" she asked, addressing Robert. 

"If you will be so good as to allow me, " he answered, "I should verymuch like to see it. "

"I'll fetch it down, " said Miss Tonks. "It's not very big. "

She ran out of the room before Mr. Audley had time to utter any politeremonstrance. 

"How pitiless these women are to each other, " he thought, while theteacher was absent. "This one knows intuitively that there is somedanger to the other lurking beneath my questions. She sniffs the comingtrouble to her fellow female creature, and rejoices in it, and wouldtake any pains to help me. What a world it is, and how these women takelife out of her hands. Helen Maldon, Lady Audley, Clara Talboys, and nowMiss Tonks--all womankind from beginning to end. "

Miss Tonks re-entered while the young barrister was meditating upon theinfamy of her sex. She carried a dilapidated paper-covered bonnet-box, which she submitted to Robert's inspection. 

Mr. Audley knelt down to examine the scraps of railway labels andaddresses which were pasted here and there upon the box. It had beenbattered upon a great many different lines of railway, and had evidentlytraveled considerably. Many of the labels had been torn off, butfragments of some of them remained, and upon one yellow scrap of paperRobert read the letters, TURI. 

"The box has been to Italy, " he thought. "Those are the first fourletters of the word Turin, and the label is a foreign one. "

The only direction which had not been either defaced or torn away wasthe last, which bore the name of Miss Graham, passenger to London. Looking very closely at this label, Mr. Audley discovered that it hadbeen pasted over another. 

"Will you be so good as to let me have a little water and a piece ofsponge?" he said. "I want to get off this upper label. Believe me that Iam justified in what I am doing. "

Miss Tonks ran out of the room and returned immediately with a basin ofwater and a sponge. 

"Shall I take off the label?" she asked. 

"No, thank you, " Robert answered, coldly. "I can do it very wellmyself. "

He damped the upper label several times before he could loosen the edgesof the paper; but after two or three careful attempts the moistenedsurface peeled off, without injury to the underneath address. 

Miss Tonks could not contrive to read this address across Robert'sshoulder, though she exhibited considerable dexterity in her endeavorsto accomplish that object. 

Mr. Audley repeated his operations upon the lower label, which heremoved from the box, and placed very carefully between two blank leavesof his pocket-book. 

"I need intrude upon you no longer, ladies, " he said, when he had donethis. "I am extremely obliged to you for having afforded me all theinformation in your power. I wish you good-morning. "

Mrs. Vincent smiled and bowed, murmuring some complacent conventionalityabout the delight she had felt in Mr. Audley's visit. Miss Tonks, moreobservant, stared at the white change, which had come over the youngman's face since he had removed the upper label from the box. 

Robert walked slowly away from Acacia Cottage. "If that which I havefound to-day is no evidence for a jury, " he thought, "it is surelyenough to convince my uncle that he has married a designing and infamouswoman. "

CHAPTER XXVII. 

BEGINNING AT THE OTHER END. 

Robert Audley walked slowly through the leafless grove, under the bareand shadowless trees in the gray February atmosphere, thinking as hewent of the discovery he had just made. 

"I have that in my pocket-book, " he pondered, "which forms theconnecting link between the woman whose death George Talboys read of inthe _Times_ newspaper and the woman who rules in my uncle's house. Thehistory of Lucy Graham ends abruptly on the threshold of Mrs. Vincent'sschool. She entered that establishment in August, 1854. Theschoolmistress and her assistant can tell me this but they cannot tellme whence she came. They cannot give me one clew to the secrets of herlife from the day of her birth until the day she entered that house. Ican go no further in this backward investigation of my lady'santecedents. What am I to do, then, if I mean to keep my promise toClara Talboys?"

He walked on for a few paces revolving this question in his mind, with adarker shadow than the shadows of the gathering winter twilight on hisface, and a heavy oppression of mingled sorrow and dread weighing downhis heart. 

"My duty is clear enough, " he thought--"not the less clear because itleads me step by step, carrying ruin and desolation with me, to the homeI love. I must begin at the other end--I must begin at the other end, and discover the history of Helen Talboys from the hour of George'sdeparture until the day of the funeral in the churchyard at Ventnor. "

Mr. Audley hailed a passing hansom, and drove back to his chambers. 

He reached Figtree Court in time to write a few lines to Miss Talboys, and to post his letter at St. Martin's-le-Grand off before six o'clock. 

"It will save me a day, " he thought, as he drove to the General PostOffice with this brief epistle. 

He had written to Clara Talboys to inquire the name of the littleseaport town in which George had met Captain Maldon and his daughter:for in spite of the intimacy between the two young men, Robert Audleyknew very few particulars of his friend's brief married life. 

From the hour in which George Talboys had read the announcement of hiswife's death in the columns of the _Times_, he had avoided all mentionof the tender history which had been so cruelly broken, the familiarrecord which had been so darkly blotted out. 

There was so much that was painful in that brief story! There was suchbitter self-reproach involved in the recollection of that desertionwhich must have seemed so cruel to her who waited and watched at home!Robert Audley comprehended this, and he did not wonder at his friend'ssilence. The sorrowful story had been tacitly avoided by both, andRobert was as ignorant of the unhappy history of this one year in hisschoolfellow's life as if they had never lived together in friendlycompanionship in those snug Temple chambers. 

The letter, written to Miss Talboys by her brother George, within amonth of his marriage, was dated Harrowgate. It was at Harrowgate, therefore, Robert concluded, the young couple spent their honeymoon. 

Robert Audley had requested Clara Talboys to telegraph an answer to hisquestion, in order to avoid the loss of a day in the accomplishment ofthe investigation he had promised to perform. 

The telegraphic answer reached Figtree Court before twelve o'clock thenext day. 

The name of the seaport town was Wildernsea, Yorkshire. 

Within an hour of the receipt of this message, Mr. Audley arrived at theKing's-cross station, and took his ticket for Wildernsea by an expresstrain that started at a quarter before two. 

The shrieking engine bore him on the dreary northward journey, whirlinghim over desert wastes of flat meadow-land and bare cornfields, faintlytinted with fresh sprouting green. This northern road was strange andunfamiliar to the young barrister, and the wide expanse of the wintrylandscape chilled him by its aspect of bare loneliness. The knowledge ofthe purpose of his journey blighted every object upon which his absentglances fixed themselves for a moment, only to wander wearily away; onlyto turn inward upon that far darker picture always presenting itself tohis anxious mind. 

It was dark when the train reached the Hull terminus, but Mr. Audley'sjourney was not ended. Amidst a crowd of porters and scattered heaps ofthat incongruous and heterogeneous luggage with which travelers incumberthemselves, he was led, bewildered and half asleep, to another trainwhich was to convey him along the branch line that swept pastWildernsea, and skirted the border of the German Ocean. 

Half an hour after leaving Hull, Robert felt the briny freshness of thesea upon the breeze that blew in at the open window of the carriage, andan hour afterward the train stopped at a melancholy station, built amida sandy desert, and inhabited by two or three gloomy officials, one ofwhom rung a terrific peal upon a harshly clanging bell as the trainapproached. 

Mr. Audley was the only passenger who alighted at the dismal station. The train swept on to the gayer scenes before the barrister had time tocollect his senses, or to pick up the portmanteau which had beendiscovered with some difficulty amid a black cavern of baggage onlyilluminated by one lantern. 

"I wonder whether settlers in the backwoods of America feel as solitaryand strange as I feel to-night?" he thought, as he stared hopelesslyabout him in the darkness. 

He called to one of the officials, and pointed to his portmanteau. 

"Will you carry that to the nearest hotel for me?" he asked--"that is tosay, if I can get a good bed there. "

The man laughed as he shouldered the portmanteau. 

"You can get thirty beds, I dare say, sir, if you wanted 'em, " he said. "We ain't over busy at Wildernsea at this time o' year. This way, sir. "

The porter opened a wooden door in the station wall, and Robert Audleyfound himself upon a wide bowling-green of smooth grass, whichsurrounded a huge, square building, that loomed darkly on him throughthe winter's night, its black solidity only relieved by two lightedwindows, far apart from each other, and glimmering redly like beacons onthe darkness. 

"This is the Victoria Hotel, sir, " said the porter. "You wouldn'tbelieve the crowds of company we have down here in the summer. "

In the face of the bare grass-plat, the tenantless wooden alcoves, andthe dark windows of the hotel, it was indeed rather difficult to imaginethat the place was ever gay with merry people taking pleasure in thebright summer weather; but Robert Audley declared himself willing tobelieve anything the porter pleased to tell him, and followed his guidemeekly to a little door at the side of the big hotel, which led into acomfortable bar, where the humbler classes of summer visitors wereaccommodated with such refreshments as they pleased to pay for, withoutrunning the gantlet of the prim, white-waistcoated waiters on guard atthe principal entrance. 

But there were very few attendants retained at the hotel in the bleakFebruary season, and it was the landlord himself who ushered Robert intoa dreary wilderness of polished mahogany tables and horsehair cushionedchairs, which he called the coffee-room. 

Mr. Audley seated himself close to the wide steel fender, and stretchedhis cramped legs upon the hearth-rug, while the landlord drove the pokerinto the vast pile of coal, and sent a ruddy blaze roaring upwardthrough the chimney. 

"If you would prefer a private room, sir--" the man began. 

"No, thank you, " said Robert, indifferently; "this room seems quiteprivate enough just now. If you will order me a mutton chop and a pintof sherry, I shall be obliged. "

"Certainly, sir. "

"And I shall be still more obliged if you will favor me with a fewminutes' conversation before you do so. "

"With very great pleasure, sir, " the landlord answered, good-naturedly. "We see so very little company at this season of the year, that we areonly too glad to oblige those gentlemen who do visit us. Any informationwhich I can afford you respecting the neighborhood of Wildernsea and itsattractions, " added the landlord, unconsciously quoting a smallhand-book of the watering-place which he sold in the bar, "I shall bemost happy to--"

"But I don't want to know anything about the neighborhood ofWildernsea, " interrupted Robert, with a feeble protest against thelandlord's volubility. "I want to ask you a few questions about somepeople who once lived here. "

The landlord bowed and smiled, with an air which implied his readinessto recite the biographies of all the inhabitants of the little seaport, if required by Mr. Audley to do so. 

"How many years have you lived here?" Robert asked, taking hismemorandum book from his pocket. "Will it annoy you if I make notes ofyour replies to my questions?"

"Not at all, sir, " replied the landlord, with a pompous enjoyment of theair of solemnity and importance which pervaded this business. "Anyinformation which I can afford that is likely to be of ultimate value--"

"Yes, thank you, " Robert murmured, interrupting the flow of words. "Youhave lived here--"

"Six years, sir. "

"Since the year fifty-three?"

"Since November, in the year fifty-two, sir. I was in business at Hullprior to that time. This house was only completed in the October beforeI entered it. "

"Do you remember a lieutenant in the navy, on half-pay, I believe, atthat time, called Maldon?"

"Captain Maldon, sir?"

"Yes, commonly called Captain Maldon. I see you do remember him. "

"Yes, sir. Captain Maldon was one of our best customers. He used tospend his evenings in this very room, though the walls were damp at thattime, and we weren't able to paper the place for nearly a twelvemonthafterward. His daughter married a young officer that came here with hisregiment, at Christmas time in fifty-two. They were married here, sir, and they traveled on the Continent for six months, and came back hereagain. But the gentleman ran away to Australia, and left the lady, aweek or two after her baby was born. The business made quite a sensationin Wildernsea, sir, and Mrs. --Mrs. --I forgot the name--"

"Mrs. Talboys, " suggested Robert. 

"To be sure, sir, Mrs. Talboys. Mrs. Talboys was very much pitied by theWildernsea folks, sir, I was going to say, for she was very pretty, andhad such nice winning ways that she was a favorite with everybody whoknew her. "

"Can you tell me how long Mr. Maldon and his daughter remained atWildernsea after Mr. Talboys left them?" Robert asked. 

"Well--no, sir, " answered the landlord, after a few moments'deliberation. "I can't say exactly how long it was. I know Mr. Maldonused to sit here in this very parlor, and tell people how badly hisdaughter had been treated, and how he'd been deceived by a young manhe'd put so much confidence in; but I can't say how long it was beforehe left Wildernsea. But Mrs. Barkamb could tell you, sir, " added thelandlord, briskly. 

"Mrs. Barkamb. "

"Yes, Mrs. Barkamb is the person who owns No. 17 North Cottages, thehouse in which Mr. Maldon and his daughter lived. She's a nice, civilspoken, motherly woman, sir, and I'm sure she'll tell you anything youmay want to know. "

"Thank you, I will call upon Mrs. Barkamb to-morrow. Stay--one morequestion. Should you recognize Mrs. Talboys if you were to see her?"

"Certainly, sir. As sure as I should recognize one of my own daughters. "

Robert Audley wrote Mrs. Barkamb's address in his pocket-book, ate hissolitary dinner, drank a couple of glasses of sherry, smoked a cigar, and then retired to the apartment in which a fire had been lighted forhis comfort. 

He soon fell asleep, worn out with the fatigue of hurrying from place toplace during the last two days; but his slumber was not a heavy one, andhe heard the disconsolate moaning of the wind upon the sandy wastes, andthe long waves rolling in monotonously upon the flat shore. Minglingwith these dismal sounds, the melancholy thoughts engendered by hisjoyless journey repeated themselves in never-varying succession in thechaos of his slumbering brain, and made themselves into visions ofthings that never had been and never could be upon this earth, but whichhad some vague relation to real events remembered by the sleeper. 

In those troublesome dreams he saw Audley Court, rooted up from amidstthe green pastures and the shady hedgerows of Essex, standing bare andunprotected upon that desolate northern shore, threatened by the rapidrising of a boisterous sea, whose waves seemed gathering upward todescend and crush the house he loved. As the hurrying waves rollednearer and nearer to the stately mansion, the sleeper saw a pale, starryface looking out of the silvery foam, and knew that it was my lady, transformed into a mermaid, beckoning his uncle to destruction. Beyondthat rising sea great masses of cloud, blacker than the blackest ink, more dense than the darkest night, lowered upon the dreamer's eye; butas he looked at the dismal horizon the storm-clouds slowly parted, andfrom a narrow rent in the darkness a ray of light streamed out upon thehideous waves, which slowly, very slowly, receded, leaving the oldmansion safe and firmly rooted on the shore. 

Robert awoke with the memory of this dream in his mind, and a sensationof physical relief, as if some heavy weight, which had oppressed him allthe night, had been lifted from his breast. 

He fell asleep again, and did not awake until the broad winter sunlightshone upon the window-blind, and the shrill voice of the chambermaid athis door announced that it was half-past eight o'clock. At aquarter-before ten he had left Victoria Hotel, and was making his wayalong the lonely platform in front of a row of shadowless houses thatfaced the sea. 

This row of hard, uncompromising, square-built habitations stretchedaway to the little harbor, in which two or three merchant vessels and acouple of colliers were anchored. Beyond the harbor there loomed, grayand cold upon the wintry horizon, a dismal barrack, parted from theWildernsea houses by a narrow creek, spanned by an iron drawbridge. Thescarlet coat of the sentinel who walked backward and forward between twocannons, placed at remote angles before the barrack wall, was the onlyscrap of color that relieved the neutral-tinted picture of the graystone houses and the leaden sea. 

On one side of the harbor a long stone pier stretched out far away intothe cruel loneliness of the sea, as if built for the especialaccommodation of some modern Timon, too misanthropical to be satisfiedeven with the solitude of Wildernsea, and anxious to get still furtheraway from his fellow-creatures. 

It was on that pier George Talboys had first met his wife, under theblazing glory of a midsummer sky, and to the music of a braying band. Itwas there that the young cornet had first yielded to that sweetdelusion, that fatal infatuation which had exercised so dark aninfluence upon his after-life. 

Robert looked savagely at this solitary watering-place--the shabbyseaport. 

"It is such a place as this, " he thought, "that works a strong man'sruin. He comes here, heart whole and happy, with no better experience ofwomen than is to be learned at a flower-show or in a ball-room; with nomore familiar knowledge of the creature than he has of the far-awaysatellites or the remoter planets; with a vague notion that she is awhirling teetotum in pink or blue gauze, or a graceful automaton for thedisplay of milliners' manufacture. He comes to some place of this kind, and the universe is suddenly narrowed into about half a dozen acres; themighty scheme of creation is crushed into a bandbox. The far-awaycreatures whom he had seen floating about him, beautiful and indistinct, are brought under his very nose; and before he has time to recover hisbewilderment, hey presto, the witchcraft has begun; the magic circle isdrawn around him! the spells are at work, the whole formula of sorceryis in full play, and the victim is as powerless to escape as themarble-legged prince in the Eastern story. "

Ruminating in this wise, Robert Audley reached the house to which he hadbeen directed as the residence of Mrs. Barkamb. He was admittedimmediately by a prim, elderly servant, who ushered him into asitting-room as prim and elderly-looking as herself. Mrs. Barkamb, acomfortable matron of about sixty years of age, was sitting in anarm-chair before a bright handful of fire in the shining grate. Anelderly terrier, whose black-and-tan coat was thickly sprinkled withgray, reposed in Mrs. Barkamb's lap. Every object in the quietsitting-room had an elderly aspect of simple comfort and precision, which is the evidence of outward repose. 

"I should like to live here, " Robert thought, "and watch the gray seaslowly rolling over the gray sand under the still, gray sky. I shouldlike to live here, and tell the beads upon my rosary, and repent andrest. "

He seated himself in the arm-chair opposite Mrs. Barkamb, at that lady'sinvitation, and placed his hat upon the ground. The elderly terrierdescended from his mistress' lap to bark at and otherwise take objectionto this hat. 

"You were wishing, I suppose, sir, to take one--be quiet, Dash--one ofthe cottages, " suggested Mrs. Barkamb, whose mind ran in one narrowgroove, and whose life during the last twenty years had been anunvarying round of house-letting. 

Robert Audley explained the purpose of his visit. 

"I come to ask one simple question, " he said, in conclusion, "I wish todiscover the exact date of Mrs. Talboys' departure from Wildernsea. Theproprietor of the Victoria Hotel informed me that you were the mostlikely person to afford me that information. "

Mrs. Barkamb deliberated for some moments. 

"I can give you the date of Captain Maldon's departure, " she said, "forhe left No. 17 considerably in my debt, and I have the whole business inblack and white; but with regard to Mrs. Talboys--"

Mrs. Barkamb paused for a few moments before resuming. 

"You are aware that Mrs. Talboys left rather abruptly?" she asked. 

"I was not aware of that fact. "

"Indeed! Yes, she left abruptly, poor little woman! She tried to supportherself after her husband's desertion by giving music lessons; she was avery brilliant pianist, and succeeded pretty well, I believe. But Isuppose her father took her money from her, and spent it in publichouses. However that might be, they had a very serious misunderstandingone night; and the next morning Mrs. Talboys left Wildernsea, leavingher little boy, who was out at nurse in the neighborhood. "

"But you cannot tell me the date of her leaving?"

"I'm afraid not, " answered Mrs. Barkamb; "and yet, stay. Captain Maldonwrote to me upon the day his daughter left. He was in very greatdistress, poor old gentleman, and he always came to me in his troubles. If I could find that letter, it might be dated, you know--mightn't it, now?"

Mr. Audley said that it was only probable the letter was dated. 

Mrs. Barkamb retired to a table in the window on which stood anold-fashioned mahogany desk, lined with green baize, and suffering froma plethora of documents, which oozed out of it in every direction. Letters, receipts, bills, inventories and tax-papers were mingled inhopeless confusion; and among these Mrs. Barkamb set to work to searchfor Captain Maldon's letter. 

Mr. Audley waited very patiently, watching the gray clouds sailingacross the gray sky, the gray vessels gliding past upon the gray sea. 

After about ten minutes' search, and a great deal of rustling, crackling, folding and unfolding of the papers, Mrs. Barkamb uttered anexclamation of triumph. 

"I've got the letter, " she said; "and there's a note inside it from Mrs. Talboys. "

Robert Audley's pale face flushed a vivid crimson as he stretched outhis hand to receive the papers. 

"The persons who stole Helen Maldon's love-letters from George's trunkin my chambers might have saved themselves the trouble, " he thought. 

The letter from the old lieutenant was not long, but almost every otherword was underscored. 

"My generous friend, " the writer began--Mr. Maldon had tried the lady'sgenerosity pretty severely during his residence in her house, rarelypaying his rent until threatened with the intruding presence of thebroker's man--"I am in the depths of despair. My daughter has left me!You may imagine my feelings! We had a few words last night upon thesubject of money matters, which subject has always been a disagreeableone between us, and on rising this morning I found I was deserted! Theenclosed from Helen was waiting for me on the parlor table. 

"Yours in distraction and despair, "HENRY MALDON. 

"NORTH COTTAGES, August 16th, 1854. "

The note from Mrs. Talboys was still more brief. It began abruptly thus:

"I am weary of my life here, and wish, if I can, to find a new one. I goout into the world, dissevered from every link which binds me to thehateful past, to seek another home and another fortune. Forgive me if Ihave been fretful, capricious, changeable. You should forgive me, foryou know why I have been so. You know the secret which is the key to mylife. 

"HELEN TALBOYS. "

These lines were written in a hand that Robert Audley knew only toowell. 

He sat for a long time pondering silently over the letter written byHelen Talboys. 

What was the meaning of those two last sentences--"You should forgiveme, for you know _why_ I have been so. You know the _secret_ which isthe key to my life?"

He wearied his brain in endeavoring to find a clew to the significationof these two sentences. He could remember nothing, nor could he imagineanything that would throw a light upon their meaning. The date ofHelen's departure, according to Mr. Maldon's letter, was the 16th ofAugust, 1854. Miss Tonks had declared that Lucy Graham entered theschool at Crescent Villas upon the 17th or 18th of August in the sameyear. Between the departure of Helen Talboys from the Yorkshirewatering-place and the arrival of Lucy Graham at the Brompton school, not more than eight-and-forty hours could have elapsed. This made a verysmall link in the chain of circumstantial evidence, perhaps; but it wasa link, nevertheless, and it fitted neatly into its place. 

"Did Mr. Maldon hear from his daughter after she had left Wildernsea?"Robert asked. 

"Well, I believe he did hear from her, " Mrs. Barkamb answered; "but Ididn't see much of the old gentleman after that August. I was obliged tosell him up in November, poor fellow, for he owed me fifteen months'rent; and it was only by selling his poor little bits of furniture thatI could get him out of my place. We parted very good friends, in spiteof my sending in the brokers; and the old gentleman went to London withthe child, who was scarcely a twelvemonth old. "

Mrs. Barkamb had nothing more to tell, and Robert had no furtherquestions to ask. He requested permission to retain the two letterswritten by the lieutenant and his daughter, and left the house with themin his pocket-book. 

He walked straight back to the hotel, where he called for a time-table. An express for London left Wildernsea at a quarter past one. Robert senthis portmanteau to the station, paid his bill, and walked up and downthe stone terrace fronting the sea, waiting for the starting of thetrain. 

"I have traced the histories of Lucy Graham and Helen Talboys to avanishing point, " he thought; "my next business is to discover thehistory of the woman who lies buried in Ventnor churchyard. "

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

HIDDEN IN THE GRAVE. 

Upon his return from Wildernsea, Robert Audley found a letter from hisCousin Alicia, awaiting him at his chambers. 

"Papa is much better, " the young lady wrote, "and is very anxious tohave you at the Court. For some inexplicable reason, my stepmother hastaken it into her head that your presence is extremely desirable, andworries me with her frivolous questions about your movements. So praycome without delay, and set these people at rest. Your affectionatecousin, A. A. "

"So my lady is anxious to know my movements, " thought Robert Audley, ashe sat brooding and smoking by his lonely fireside. "She is anxious; andshe questions her step-daughter in that pretty, childlike manner whichhas such a bewitching air of innocent frivolity. Poor little creature;poor unhappy little golden-haired sinner; the battle between us seemsterribly unfair. Why doesn't she run away while there is still time? Ihave given her fair warning, I have shown her my cards, and workedopenly enough in this business, Heaven knows. Why doesn't she run away?"

He repeated this question again and again as he filled and emptied hismeerschaum, surrounding himself with the blue vapor from his pipe untilhe looked like some modern magician seated in his laboratory. 

"Why doesn't she run away? I would bring no needless shame upon thathouse, of all other houses upon this wide earth. I would only do my dutyto my missing friend, and to that brave and generous man who has pledgedhis faith to a worthless woman. Heaven knows I have no wish to punish. Heaven knows I was never born to be the avenger of guilt or thepersecutor of the guilty. I only wish to do my duty. I will give her onemore warning, a full and fair one, and then--"

His thoughts wandered away to that gloomy prospect in which he saw nogleam of brightness to relieve the dull, black obscurity thatencompassed the future, shutting in his pathway on every side, andspreading a dense curtain around and about him, which Hope was powerlessto penetrate. He was forever haunted by the vision of his uncle'sanguish, forever tortured by the thought of that ruin and desolationwhich, being brought about by his instrumentality, would seem in amanner his handiwork. But amid all, and through all, Clara Talboys, withan imperious gesture, beckoned him onward to her brother's unknowngrave. 

"Shall I go down to Southampton, " he thought, "and endeavor to discoverthe history of the woman who died at Ventnor? Shall I work underground, bribing the paltry assistants in that foul conspiracy, until I find myway to the thrice guilty principal? No! not till I have tried othermeans of discovering the truth. Shall I go to that miserable old man, and charge him with his share in the shameful trick which I believe tohave been played upon my poor friend? No; I will not torture thatterror-stricken wretch as I tortured him a few weeks ago. I will gostraight to that arch-conspirator, and will tear away the beautiful veilunder which she hides her wickedness, and will wring from her the secretof my friend's fate, and banish her forever from the house which herpresence has polluted. "

He started early the next morning for Essex, and reached Audley beforeeleven o'clock. 

Early as it was, my lady was out. She had driven to Chelmsford upon ashopping expedition with her step-daughter. She had several calls tomake in the neighborhood of the town, and was not likely to return untildinner-time. Sir Michael's health was very much improved, and he wouldcome down stairs in the afternoon. Would Mr. Audley go to his uncle'sroom?

No; Robert had no wish to meet that generous kinsman. What could he sayto him? How could he smooth the way to the trouble that was tocome?--how soften the cruel blow of the great grief that was preparingfor that noble and trusting heart?

"If I could forgive her the wrong done to my friend, " Robert thought, "Ishould still abhor her for the misery her guilt must bring upon the manwho has believed in her. "

He told his uncle's servant that he would stroll into the village, andreturn before dinner. He walked slowly away from the Court, wanderingacross the meadows between his uncle's house and the village, purposeless and indifferent, with the great trouble and perplexity ofhis life stamped upon his face and reflected in his manner. 

"I will go into the churchyard, " he thought, "and stare at thetombstones. There is nothing I can do that will make me more gloomy thanI am. "

He was in those very meadows through which he had hurried from AudleyCourt to the station upon the September day in which George Talboys haddisappeared. He looked at the pathway by which he had gone upon thatday, and remembered his unaccustomed hurry, and the vague feeling ofterror which had taken possession of him immediately upon losing sightof his friend. 

"Why did that unaccountable terror seize upon me, " he thought. "Why wasit that I saw some strange mystery in my friend's disappearance? Was ita monition, or a monomania? What if I am wrong after all? What if thischain of evidence which I have constructed link by link, is woven out ofmy own folly? What if this edifice of horror and suspicion is a merecollection of crotchets--the nervous fancies of a hypochondriacalbachelor? Mr. Harcourt Talboys sees no meaning in the events out ofwhich I have made myself a horrible mystery. I lay the separate links ofthe chain before him, and he cannot recognize their fitness. He isunable to put them together. Oh, my God, if it should be in myself allthis time that the misery lies; if--" he smiled bitterly, and shook hishead. "I have the handwriting in my pocket-book which is the evidence ofthe conspiracy, " he thought. "It remains for me to discover the darkerhalf of my lady's secret. "

He avoided the village, still keeping to the meadows. The church lay alittle way back from the straggling High street, and a rough wooden gateopened from the churchyard into a broad meadow, that was bordered by arunning stream, and sloped down into a grassy valley dotted by groups ofcattle. 

Robert slowly ascended the narrow hillside pathway leading up to thegate in the churchyard. The quiet dullness of the lonely landscapeharmonized with his own gloom. The solitary figure of an old manhobbling toward a stile at the further end of the wide meadow was theonly human creature visible upon the area over which the young barristerlooked. The smoke slowly ascending from the scattered houses in the longHigh street was the only evidence of human life. The slow progress ofthe hands of the old clock in the church steeple was the only token bywhich a traveler could perceive that a sluggish course of rustic lifehad not come to a full stop in the village of Audley. 

Yes, there was one other sign. As Robert opened the gate of thechurchyard, and strolled listessly into the little inclosure, he becameaware of the solemn music of an organ, audible through a half-openwindow in the steeple. 

He stopped and listened to the slow harmonies of a dreamy melody thatsounded like an extempore composition of an accomplished player. 

"Who would have believed that Audley church could boast such an organ?"thought Robert. "When last I was here, the national schoolmaster used toaccompany his children by a primitive performance of common chords. Ididn't think the old organ had such music in it. "

He lingered at the gate, not caring to break the lazy spell woven abouthim by the monotonous melancholy of the organist's performance. Thetones of the instrument, now swelling to their fullest power, nowsinking to a low, whispering softness, floated toward him upon the mistywinter atmosphere, and had a soothing influence, that seemed to comforthim in his trouble. 

He closed the gate softly, and crossed the little patch of gravel beforethe door of the church. The door had been left ajar--by the organist, perhaps. Robert Audley pushed it open, and walked into the square porch, from which a flight of narrow stone steps wound upward to the organ-loftand the belfry. Mr. Audley took off his hat, and opened the door betweenthe porch and the body of the church. He stepped softly into the holyedifice, which had a damp, moldy smell upon week-days. He walked downthe narrow aisle to the altar-rails, and from that point of observationtook a survey of the church. The little gallery was exactly opposite tohim, but the scanty green curtains before the organ were closely drawn, and he could not get a glimpse of the player. 

The music, still rolled on. The organist had wandered into a melody ofMendelssohn's, a strain whose dreamy sadness went straight to Robert'sheart. He loitered in the nooks and corners of the church, examining thedilapidated memorials of the well-nigh forgotten dead, and listening tothe music. 

"If my poor friend, George Talboys, had died in my arms, and I hadburied him in this quiet church, in one corner of the vaults over whichI tread to-day, how much anguish of mind, vacillation and torment Imight have escaped, " thought Robert Audley, as he read the fadedinscriptions upon tablets of discolored marble; "I should have known hisfate--I should have known his fate! Ah, how much there would have beenin that. It is this miserable uncertainty, this horrible suspicion whichhas poisoned my very life. "

He looked at his watch. 

"Half-past one, " he muttered. "I shall have to wait four or five drearyhours before my lady comes home from her morning calls--her prettyvisits of ceremony or friendliness. Good Heaven! what an actress thiswoman is. What an arch trickster--what an all-accomplished deceiver. Butshe shall play her pretty comedy no longer under my uncle's roof. I havediplomatized long enough. She has refused to accept an indirect warning. To-night I will speak plainly. "

The music of the organ ceased, and Robert heard the closing of theinstrument. 

"I'll have a look at this new organist, " he thought, "who can afford tobury his talents at Audley, and play Mendelssohn's finest fugues for astipend of sixteen pounds a year. " He lingered in the porch, waiting forthe organist to descend the awkward little stair-case. In the wearytrouble of his mind, and with the prospect of getting through the fivehours in the best way he could, Mr. Audley was glad to cultivate anydiversion of thought, however idle. He therefore freely indulged hiscuriosity about the new organist. 

The first person who appeared upon the steep stone steps was a boy incorduroy trousers and a dark linen smock-frock, who shambled down thestairs with a good deal of unnecessary clatter of his hobnailed shoes, and who was red in the face from the exertion of blowing the bellows ofthe old organ. Close behind this boy came a young lady, very plainlydressed in a black silk gown and a large gray shawl, who started andturned pale at sight of Mr. Audley. 

This young lady was Clara Talboys. 

Of all people in the world she was the last whom Robert either expectedor wished to see. She had told him that she was going to pay a visit tosome friends who lived in Essex; but the county is a wide one, and thevillage of Audley one of the most obscure and least frequented spots inthe whole of its extent. That the sister of his lost friend should behere--here where she could watch his every action, and from thoseactions deduce the secret workings of his mind, tracing his doubts hometo their object, made a complication of his difficulties that he couldnever have anticipated. It brought him back to that consciousness of hisown helplessness, in which he had exclaimed:

"A hand that is stronger than my own is beckoning me onward on the darkroad that leads to my lost friend's unknown grave. "

Clara Talboys was the first to speak. 

"You are surprised to see me here, Mr. Audley, " she said. 

"Very much surprised. "

"I told you that I was coming to Essex. I left home day beforeyesterday. I was leaving home when I received your telegraphic message. The friend with whom I am staying is Mrs. Martyn, the wife of the newrector of Mount Stanning. I came down this morning to see the villageand church, and as Mrs. Martyn had to pay a visit to the school with thecurate and his wife, I stopped here and amused myself by trying the oldorgan. I was not aware till I came here that there was a village calledAudley. The place takes its name from your family, I suppose?"

"I believe so, " Robert answered, wondering at the lady's calmness, incontradistinction to his own embarrassment. "I have a vague recollectionof hearing the story of some ancestor who was called Audley of Audley inthe reign of Edward the Fourth. The tomb inside the rails near the altarbelongs to one of the knights of Audley, but I have never taken thetrouble to remember his achievements. Are you going to wait here foryour friends, Miss Talboys?"

"Yes; they are to return here for me after they have finished theirrounds. "

"And you go back to Mount Stanning with them this afternoon?"

"Yes. "

Robert stood with his hat in his hand, looking absently out at thetombstones and the low wall of the church yard. Clara Talboys watchedhis pale face, haggard under the deepening shadow that had rested uponit so long. 

"You have been ill since I saw you last, Mr. Audley, " she said, in a lowvoice, that had the same melodious sadness as the notes of the old organunder her touch. 

"No, I have not been ill; I have been only harassed, wearied by ahundred doubts and perplexities. "

He was thinking as he spoke to her:

"How much does she guess? How much does she suspect?"

He had told the story of George's disappearance and of his ownsuspicions, suppressing only the names of those concerned in themystery; but what if this girl should fathom this slender disguise, anddiscover for herself that which he had chosen to withhold. 

Her grave eyes were fixed upon his face, and he knew that she was tryingto read the innermost secrets of his mind. 

"What am I in her hands?" he thought. "What am I in the hands of thiswoman, who has my lost friend's face and the manner of Pallas Athene. She reads my pitiful, vacillating soul, and plucks the thoughts out ofmy heart with the magic of her solemn brown eyes. How unequal the fightmust be between us, and how can I ever hope to conquer against thestrength of her beauty and her wisdom?"

Mr. Audley was clearing his throat preparatory to bidding his beautifulcompanion good-morning, and making his escape from the thraldom of herpresence into the lonely meadow outside the churchyard, when ClareTalboys arrested him by speaking upon that very subject which he wasmost anxious to avoid. 

"You promised to write to me, Mr. Audley, " she said, "if you made anydiscovery which carried you nearer to the mystery of my brother'sdisappearance. You have not written to me, and I imagine, therefore, that you have discovered nothing. "

Robert Audley was silent for some moments. How could he answer thisdirect question?

"The chain of circumstantial evidence which unites the mystery of yourbrother's fate with the person whom I suspect, " he said, after a pause, "is formed of very slight links. I think that I have added another linkto that chain since I saw you in Dorsetshire. "

"And you refuse to tell me what it is that you have discovered?"

"Only until I have discovered more. "

"I thought from your message that you were going to Wildernsea. "

"I have been there. "

"Indeed! It was there that you made some discovery, then?"

"It was, " answered Robert. "You must remember, Miss Talboys that thesole ground upon which my suspicions rest is the identity of twoindividuals who have no apparent connection--the identity of a personwho is supposed to be dead with one who is living. The conspiracy ofwhich I believe your brother to have been the victim hinges upon this. If his wife, Helen Talboys, died when the papers recorded her death--ifthe woman who lies buried in Ventnor churchyard was indeed the womanwhose name is inscribed on the headstone of the grave--I have no case, Ihave no clew to the mystery of your brother's fate. I am about to putthis to the test. I believe that I am now in a position to play a boldgame, and I believe that I shall soon arrive at the truth. "

He spoke in a low voice, and with a solemn emphasis that betrayed theintensity of his feeling. Miss Talboys stretched out her ungloved hand, and laid it in his own. The cold touch of that slender hand sent ashivering thrill through his frame. 

"You will not suffer my brother's fate to remain a mystery, Mr. Audley, "she said, quietly. "I know that you will do your duty to your friend. "

The rector's wife and her two companions entered the churchyard as ClaraTalboys said this. Robert Audley pressed the hand that rested in hisown, and raised it to his lips. 

"I am a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow, Miss Talboys, " he said; "but if Icould restore your brother George to life and happiness, I should carevery little for any sacrifice of my own feeling, fear that the most Ican do is to fathom the secret of his fate and in doing that I mustsacrifice those who are dearer to me than myself. "

He put on his hat, and hurried through the gateway leading into thefield as Mrs. Martyn came up to the porch. 

"Who is that handsome young man I caught _tete-a-tete_ with you, Clara?"she asked, laughing. 

"He is a Mr. Audley, a friend of my poor brother's. "

"Indeed! He is some relation of Sir Michael Audley, I suppose?"

"Sir Michael Audley!"

"Yes, my dear; the most important personage in the parish of Audley. Butwe'll call at the Court in a day or two, and you shall see the baronetand his pretty young wife. "

"His young wife!" replied Clara Talboys, looking earnestly at herfriend. "Has Sir Michael Audley lately married, then?"

"Yes. He was a widower for sixteen years, and married a penniless younggoverness about a year and a half ago. The story is quite romantic, andLady Audley is considered the belle of the county. But come, my dearClara, the pony is tired of waiting for us, and we've a long drivebefore dinner. "

Clara Talboys took her seat in the little basket-carriage which waswaiting at the principal gate of the churchyard, in the care of the boywho had blown the organ-bellows. Mrs. Martyn shook the reins, and thesturdy chestnut cob trotted off in the direction of Mount Stanning. 

"Will you tell me more about this Lady Audley, Fanny?" Miss Talboyssaid, after a long pause. "I want to know all about her. Have you heardher maiden name?"

"Yes; she was a Miss Graham. "

"And she is very pretty?"

"Yes, very, very pretty. Rather a childish beauty though, with large, clear blue eyes, and pale golden ringlets, that fall in a featheryshower over her throat and shoulders. "

Clara Talboys was silent. She did not ask any further questions about mylady. 

She was thinking of a passage in that letter which George had written toher during his honeymoon--a passage in which he said: "My childishlittle wife is watching me as I write this--Ah! how I wish you couldsee her, Clara! Her eyes are as blue and as clear as the skies on abright summer's day, and her hair falls about her face like the palegolden halo you see round the head of a Madonna in an Italian picture. "

CHAPTER XXIX. 

IN THE LIME-WALK. 

Robert Audley was loitering upon the broad grass-plat in front of theCourt as the carriage containing my lady and Alicia drove under thearchway, and drew up at the low turret-door. Mr. Audley presentedhimself in time to hand the ladies out of the vehicle. 

My lady looked very pretty in a delicate blue bonnet and the sableswhich her nephew had bought for her at St. Petersburg. She seemed verywell pleased to see Robert, and smiled most bewitchingly as she gave himher exquisitely gloved little hand. 

"So you have come back to us, truant?" she said, laughing. "And now thatyou have returned, we shall keep you prisoner. We won't let him run awayagain, will we, Alicia?"

Miss Audley gave her head a scornful toss that shook the heavy curlsunder her cavalier hat. 

"I have nothing to do with the movements of so erratic an individual, "she said. "Since Robert Audley has taken it into his head to conducthimself like some ghost-haunted hero in a German story, I have given upattempting to understand him. "

Mr. Audley looked at his cousin with an expression of serio-comicperplexity. "She's a nice girl, " he thought, "but she's a nuisance. Idon't know how it is, but she seems more a nuisance than she used tobe. "

He pulled his mustaches reflectively as he considered this question. Hismind wandered away for a few moments from the great trouble of his lifeto dwell upon this minor perplexity. 

"She's a dear girl, " he thought; "a generous-hearted, bouncing, nobleEnglish lassie; and yet--" He lost himself in a quagmire of doubt anddifficulty. There was some hitch in his mind which he could notunderstand; some change in himself, beyond the change made in him by hisanxiety about George Talboys, which mystified and bewildered him. 

"And pray where have you been wandering during the last day or two, Mr. Audley?" asked my lady, as she lingered with her step-daughter upon thethreshold of the turret-door, waiting until Robert should be pleased tostand aside and allow them to pass. The young man started as she askedthis question and looked up at her suddenly. Something in the aspect ofher bright young beauty, something in the childish innocence of herexpression, seemed to smite him to the heart, and his face grew ghastlypale as he looked at her. 

"I have been--in Yorkshire, " he said; "at the little watering placewhere my poor friend George Talboys lived at the time of his marriage. "

The white change in my lady's face was the only sign of her having heardthese words. She smiled, a faint, sickly smile, and tried to pass herhusband's nephew. 

"I must dress for dinner, " she said. "I am going to a dinner-party, Mr. Audley; please let me go in. "

"I must ask you to spare me half an hour, Lady Audley, " Robert answered, in a low voice. "I came down to Essex on purpose to speak to you. "

"What about?" asked my lady. 

She had recovered herself from any shock which she might have sustaineda few moments before, and it was in her usual manner that she asked thisquestion. Her face expressed the mingled bewilderment and curiosity of apuzzled child, rather than the serious surprise of a woman. 

"What can you want to talk to me about, Mr. Audley?" she repeated. 

"I will tell you when we are alone, " Robert said, glancing at hiscousin, who stood a little way behind my lady, watching thisconfidential little dialogue. 

"He is in love with my step-mother's wax-doll beauty, " thought Alicia, "and it is for her sake he has become such a disconsolate object. He'sjust the sort of person to fall in love with his aunt. "

Miss Audley walked away to the grass-plat, turning her back upon Robertand my lady. 

"The absurd creature turned as white as a sheet when he saw her, " shethought. "So he can be in love, after all. That slow lump of torpidityhe calls his heart can beat, I suppose, once in a quarter of a century;but it seems that nothing but a blue-eyed wax-doll can set it going. Ishould have given him up long ago if I'd known that his idea of beautywas to be found in a toy-shop. "

Poor Alicia crossed the grass-plat and disappeared upon the oppositeside of the quadrangle, where there was a Gothic gate that communicatedwith the stables. I am sorry to say that Sir Michael Audley's daughterwent to seek consolation from her dog Caesar and her chestnut mareAtalanta, whose loose box the young lady was in the habit of visitingevery day. 

"Will you come into the lime-walk, Lady Audley?" said Robert, as hiscousin left the garden. "I wish to talk to you without fear ofinterruption or observation. I think we could choose no safer place thanthat. Will you come there with me?"

"If you please, " answered my lady. Mr. Audley could see that she wastrembling, and that she glanced from side to side as if looking for someoutlet by which she might escape him. 

"You are shivering, Lady Audley, " he said. 

"Yes, I am very cold. I would rather speak to you some other day, please. Let it be to-morrow, if you will. I have to dress for dinner, and I want to see Sir Michael; I have not seen him since ten o'clockthis morning. Please let it be to-morrow. "

There was a painful piteousness in her tone. Heaven knows how painful toRobert's heart. Heaven knows what horrible images arose in his mind ashe looked down at that fair young face and thought of the task that laybefore him. 

"I _must_ speak to you, Lady Audley, " he said. "If I am cruel, it is youwho have made me cruel. You might have escaped this ordeal. You mighthave avoided me. I gave you fair warning. But you have chosen to defyme, and it is your own folly which is to blame if I no longer spare you. Come with me. I tell you again I must speak to you. "

There was a cold determination in his tone which silenced my lady'sobjections. She followed him submissively to the little iron gate whichcommunicated with the long garden behind the house--the garden in whicha little rustic wooden bridge led across the quiet fish-pond into thelime-walk. 

The early winter twilight was closing in, and the intricate tracery ofthe leafless branches that overarched the lonely pathway looked blackagainst the cold gray of the evening sky. The lime-walk seemed like somecloister in this uncertain light. 

"Why do you bring me to this horrible place to frighten me out of mypoor wits?" cried my lady, peevishly. "You ought to know how nervous Iam. "

"You are nervous, my lady?"

"Yes, dreadfully nervous. I am worth a fortune to poor Mr. Dawson. He isalways sending me camphor, and sal volatile, and red lavender, and allkinds of abominable mixtures, but he can't cure me. "

"Do you remember what Macbeth tells his physician, my lady?" askedRobert, gravely. "Mr. Dawson may be very much more clever than theScottish leech, but I doubt if even _he_ can minister to the mind thatis diseased. "

"Who said that my mind was diseased?" exclaimed Lady Audley. 

"I say so, my lady, " answered Robert. "You tell me that you are nervous, and that all the medicines your doctor can prescribe are only so muchphysic that might as well be thrown to the dogs. Let me be the physicianto strike to the root of your malady, Lady Audley. Heaven knows that Iwish to be merciful--that I would spare you as far as it is in my powerto spare you in doing justice to others--but justice must be done. ShallI tell you why you are nervous in this house, my lady?"

"If you can, " she answered, with a little laugh. 

"Because for you this house is haunted. "

"Haunted?"

"Yes, haunted by the ghost of George Talboys. "

Robert Audley heard my lady's quickened breathing, he fancied he couldalmost hear the loud beating of her heart as she walked by his side, shivering now and then, and with her sable cloak wrapped tightly aroundher. 

"What do you mean?" she cried suddenly, after a pause of some moments. "Why do you torment me about this George Talboys, who happens to havetaken it into his head to keep out of your way for a few months? Are yougoing mad, Mr. Audley, and do you select me as the victim of yourmonomania? What is George Talboys to me that you should worry me abouthim?"

"He was a stranger to you, my lady, was he not?"

"Of course!" answered Lady Audley. "What should he be but a stranger?"

"Shall I tell you the story of my friend's disappearance as I read thatstory, my lady?" asked Robert. 

"No, " cried Lady Audley; "I wish to know nothing of your friend. If heis dead, I am sorry for him. If he lives, I have no wish either to seehim or to hear of him. Let me go in to see my husband, if you please, Mr. Audley, unless you wish to detain me in this gloomy place until Icatch my death of cold. "

"I wish to detain you until you have heard what I have to say, LadyAudley, " answered Robert, resolutely. "I will detain you no longer thanis necessary, and when you have heard me you shall take your own courseof action. "

"Very well, then; pray lose no time in saying what you have to say, "replied my lady, carelessly. "I promise you to attend very patiently. "

"When my friend, George Talboys, returned to England, " Robert began, gravely, "the thought which was uppermost in his mind was the thought ofhis wife. "

"Whom he had deserted, " said my lady, quickly. "At least, " she added, more deliberately, "I remember your telling us something to that effectwhen you first told us your friend's story. "

Robert Audley did not notice this observation. 

"The thought that was uppermost in his mind was the thought of his wife, "he repeated. "His fairest hope in the future was the hope of making herhappy, and lavishing upon her the pittance which he had won by the forceof his own strong arm in the gold-fields of Australia. I saw him withina few hours of his reaching England, and I was a witness to the joyfulpride with which he looked forward to his re-union with his wife. I wasalso a witness to the blow which struck him to the very heart--whichchanged him from the man he had been to a creature as unlike that formerself as one human being can be unlike another. The blow which made thatcruel change was the announcement of his wife's death in the _Times_newspaper. I now believe that that announcement was a black and bitterlie. "

"Indeed!" said my lady; "and what reason could any one have forannouncing the death of Mrs. Talboys, if Mrs. Talboys had been alive?"

"The lady herself might have had a reason, " Robert answered, quietly. 

"What reason?"

"How if she had taken advantage of George's absence to win a richerhusband? How if she had married again, and wished to throw my poorfriend off the scent by this false announcement?"

Lady Audley shrugged her shoulders. 

"Your suppositions are rather ridiculous, Mr. Audley, " she said; "it isto be hoped that you have some reasonable grounds for them. "

"I have examined a file of each of the newspapers published inChelmsford and Colchester, " continued Robert, without replying to mylady's last observation, "and I find in one of the Colchester papers, dated July the 2d, 1850, a brief paragraph among numerous miscellaneousscraps of information copied from other newspapers, to the effect that aMr. George Talboys, an English gentleman, had arrived at Sydney from thegold-fields, carrying with him nuggets and gold-dust to the amount oftwenty thousand pounds, and that he had realized his property and sailedfor Liverpool in the fast-sailing clipper _Argus_. This is a very smallfact, of course, Lady Audley, but it is enough to prove that any personresiding in Essex in the July of the year fifty-seven, was likely tobecome aware of George Talboys' return from Australia. Do you followme?"

"Not very clearly, " said my lady. "What have the Essex papers to do withthe death of Mrs. Talboys?"

"We will come to that by-and-by, Lady Audley. I say that I believe theannouncement in the _Times_ to have been a false announcement, and apart of the conspiracy which was carried out by Helen Talboys andLieutenant Maldon against my poor friend. "

"A conspiracy!"

"Yes, a conspiracy concocted by an artful woman, who had speculated uponthe chances of her husband's death, and had secured a splendid positionat the risk of committing a crime; a bold woman, my lady, who thought toplay her comedy out to the end without fear of detection; a wickedwoman, who did not care what misery she might inflict upon the honestheart of the man she betrayed; but a foolish woman, who looked at lifeas a game of chance, in which the best player was likely to hold thewinning cards, forgetting that there is a Providence above the pitifulspeculators, and that wicked secrets are never permitted to remain longhidden. If this woman of whom I speak had never been guilty of anyblacker sin than the publication of that lying announcement in the_Times_ newspaper, I should still hold her as the most detestable anddespicable of her sex--the most pitiless and calculating of humancreatures. That cruel lie was a base and cowardly blow in the dark; itwas the treacherous dagger-thrust of an infamous assassin. "

"But how do you know that the announcement was a false one?" asked mylady. "You told us that you had been to Ventnor with Mr. Talboys to seehis wife's grave. Who was it who died at Ventnor if it was not Mrs. Talboys?"

"Ah, Lady Audley, " said Robert, "that is a question which only two orthree people can answer, and one or other of those persons shall answerit to me before long. I tell you, my lady, that I am determined tounravel the mystery of George Talboy's death. Do you think I am to beput off by feminine prevarication--by womanly trickery? No! Link by linkI have put together the chain of evidence, which wants but a link hereand there to be complete in its terrible strength. Do you think I willsuffer myself to be baffled? Do you think I shall fail to discover thosemissing links? No, Lady Audley, I shall not fail, for _I know where tolook for them!_ There is a fair-haired woman at Southampton--a womancalled Plowson, who has some share in the secrets of the father of myfriend's wife. I have an idea that she can help me to discover thehistory of the woman who lies buried in Ventnor churchyard, and I willspare no trouble in making that discovery, unless--"

"Unless what?" asked my lady, eagerly. 

"Unless the woman I wish to save from degradation and punishment acceptsthe mercy I offer her, and takes warning while there is still time. "

My lady shrugged her graceful shoulders, and flashed bright defiance outof her blue eyes. 

"She would be a very foolish woman if she suffered herself to beinfluenced by any such absurdity, " she said. "You are hypochondriacal, Mr. Audley, and you must take camphor, or red lavender, or sal volatile. What can be more ridiculous than this idea which you have taken intoyour head? You lose your friend George Talboys in rather a mysteriousmanner--that is to say, that gentleman chooses to leave England withoutgiving you due notice. What of that? You confess that he became analtered man after his wife's death. He grew eccentric andmisanthropical; he affected an utter indifference as to what became ofhim. What more likely, then, than that he grew tired of the monotony ofcivilized life, and ran away to those savage gold-fields to find adistraction for his grief? It is rather a romantic story, but by nomeans an uncommon one. But you are not satisfied with this simpleinterpretation of your friend's disappearance, and you build up someabsurd theory of a conspiracy which has no existence except in your ownoverheated brain. Helen Talboys is dead. The _Times_ newspaper declaresshe is dead. Her own father tells you that she is dead. The headstone ofthe grave in Ventnor churchyard bears record of her death. By whatright, " cried my lady, her voice rising to that shrill and piercing tonepeculiar to her when affected by any intense agitation--"by what right, Mr. Audley, do you come to me, and torment me about George Talboys--bywhat right do you dare to say that his wife is still alive?"

"By the right of circumstantial evidence, Lady Audley, " answeredRobert--"by the right of that circumstantial evidence which willsometimes fix the guilt of a man's murder upon that person who, on thefirst hearing of the case, seems of all other men the most unlikely tobe guilty. "

"What circumstantial evidence?"

"The evidence of time and place. The evidence of handwriting. When HelenTalboys left her father's at Wildernsea, she left a letter behind her--aletter in which she declared that she was weary of her old life, andthat she wished to seek a new home and a new fortune. That letter is inmy possession. "

"Indeed. "

"Shall I tell you whose handwriting resembles that of Helen Talboys soclosely, that the most dexterous expert could perceive no distinctionbetween the two?"

"A resemblance between the handwriting of two women is no very uncommoncircumstance now-a-days, " replied my lady carelessly. "I could show youthe caligraphies of half-a-dozen female correspondents, and defy you todiscover any great difference in them. "

"But what if the handwriting is a very uncommon one, presenting markedpeculiarities by which it may be recognized among a hundred?"

"Why, in that case the coincidence is rather curious, " answered my lady;"but it is nothing more than a coincidence. You cannot deny the fact ofHelen Talboys death on the ground that her handwriting resembles that ofsome surviving person. "

"But if a series of such coincidences lead up to the same point, " saidRobert. "Helen Talboys left her father's house, according to thedeclaration in her own handwriting, because she was weary of her oldlife, and wished to begin a new one. Do you know what I infer fromthis?"

My lady shrugged her shoulders. 

"I have not the least idea, " she said; "and as you have detained me inthis gloomy place nearly half-an-hour, I must beg that you will releaseme, and let me go and dress for dinner. "

"No, Lady Audley, " answered Robert, with a cold sternness that was sostrange to him as to transform him into another creature--a pitilessembodiment of justice, a cruel instrument of retribution--"no, LadyAudley, " he repeated, "I have told you that womanly prevarication willnot help you; I tell you now that defiance will not serve you. I havedealt fairly with you, and have given you fair warning. I gave youindirect notice of your danger two months ago. "

"What do you mean?" asked my lady, suddenly. 

"You did not choose to take that warning, Lady Audley, " pursued Robert, "and the time has come in which I must speak very plainly to you. Do youthink the gifts which you have played against fortune are to hold youexempt from retribution? No, my lady, your youth and beauty, your graceand refinement, only make the horrible secret of your life morehorrible. I tell you that the evidence against you wants only one linkto be strong enough for your condemnation, and that link shall be added. Helen Talboys never returned to her father's house. When she desertedthat poor old father, she went away from his humble shelter with thedeclared intention of washing her hands of that old life. What do peoplegenerally do when they wish to begin a new existence--to start for asecond time in the race of life, free from the incumbrances that hadfettered their first journey. _They change their names_, Lady Audley. Helen Talboys deserted her infant son--she went away from Wildernseawith the predetermination of sinking her identity. She disappeared asHelen Talboys upon the 16th of August, 1854, and upon the 17th of thatmonth she reappeared as Lucy Graham, the friendless girl who undertook aprofitless duty in consideration of a home in which she was asked noquestions. "

"You are mad, Mr. Audley!" cried my lady. "You are mad, and my husbandshall protect me from your insolence. What if this Helen Talboys ranaway from her home upon one day, and I entered my employer's house uponthe next, what does that prove?"

"By itself, very little, " replied Robert Audley; "but with the help ofother evidence--"

"What evidence?"

"The evidence of two labels, pasted one over the other, upon a box leftby you in possession of Mrs. Vincent, the upper label bearing the nameof Miss Graham, the lower that of Mrs. George Talboys. "

My lady was silent. Robert Audley could not see her face in the dusk, but he could see that her two small hands were clasped convulsively overher heart, and he knew that the shot had gone home to its mark. 

"God help her, poor, wretched creature, " he thought. "She knows now thatshe is lost. I wonder if the judges of the land feel as I do now whenthey put on the black cap and pass sentence of death upon some poor, shivering wretch, who has never done them any wrong. Do they feel aheroic fervor of virtuous indignation, or do they suffer this dullanguish which gnaws my vitals as I talk to this helpless woman?"

He walked by my lady's side, silently, for some minutes. They had beenpacing up and down the dim avenue, and they were now drawing near theleafless shrubbery at one end of the lime-walk--the shrubbery in whichthe ruined well sheltered its unheeded decay among the tangled masses ofbriery underwood. 

A winding pathway, neglected and half-choked with weeds, led toward thiswell. Robert left the lime-walk, and struck into this pathway. There wasmore light in the shrubbery than in the avenue, and Mr. Audley wished tosee my lady's face. 

He did not speak until they reached the patch of rank grass beside thewell. The massive brickwork had fallen away here and there, and loosefragments of masonry lay buried amidst weeds and briars. The heavy postswhich had supported the wooden roller still remained, but the ironspindle had been dragged from its socket and lay a few paces from thewell, rusty, discolored, and forgotten. 

Robert Audley leaned against one of the moss-grown posts and looked downat my lady's face, very pale in the chill winter twilight. The moon hadnewly risen, a feebly luminous crescent in the gray heavens, and afaint, ghostly light mingled with the misty shadows of the decliningday. My lady's face seemed like that face which Robert Audley had seenin his dreams looking out of the white foam-flakes on the green seawaves and luring his uncle to destruction. 

"Those two labels are in my possession, Lady Audley, " he resumed. "Itook them from the box left by you at Crescent Villas. I took them inthe presence of Mrs. Vincent and Miss Tonks. Have you any proofs tooffer against this evidence? You say to me, 'I am Lucy Graham and I havenothing whatever to do with Helen Talboys. ' In that case you willproduce witnesses who will declare your antecedents. Where had you beenliving prior to your appearance at Crescent Villas? You must havefriends, relations, connections, who can come forward to prove as muchas this for you? If you were the most desolate creature upon this earth, you would be able to point to someone who could identify you with thepast. "

"Yes, " cried my lady, "if I were placed in a criminal dock I could, nodoubt, bring forward witnesses to refute your absurd accusation. But Iam not in a criminal dock, Mr. Audley, and I do not choose to doanything but laugh at your ridiculous folly. I tell you that you aremad! If you please to say that Helen Talboys is not dead, and that I amHelen Talboys, you may do so. If you choose to go wandering about in theplaces in which I have lived, and to the places in which this Mrs. Talboys has lived, you must follow the bent of your own inclination, butI would warn you that such fancies have sometimes conducted people, asapparently sane as yourself, to the life-long imprisonment of a privatelunatic-asylum. "

Robert Audley started and recoiled a few paces among the weeds andbrushwood as my lady said this. 

"She would be capable of any new crime to shield her from theconsequences of the old one, " he thought. "She would be capable of usingher influence with my uncle to place me in a mad-house. "

I do not say that Robert Audley was a coward, but I will admit that ashiver of horror, something akin to fear, chilled him to the heart as heremembered the horrible things that have been done by women since thatday upon which Eve was created to be Adam's companion and help-meet inthe garden of Eden. "What if this woman's hellish power of dissimulationshould be stronger than the truth, and crush him? She had not sparedGeorge Talboys when he stood in her way and menaced her with a certainperil; would she spare him who threatened her with a far greater danger?Are women merciful, or loving, or kind in proportion to their beauty andgrace? Was there not a certain Monsieur Mazers de Latude, who had thebad fortune to offend the all-accomplished Madam de Pompadour, whoexpiated his youthful indiscretion by a life-long imprisonment; whotwice escaped from prison, to be twice cast back into captivity; who, trusting in the tardy generosity of his beautiful foe, betrayed himselfto an implacable fiend? Robert Audley looked at the pale face of thewoman standing by his side; that fair and beautiful face, illumined bystarry-blue eyes, that had a strange and surely a dangerous light inthem; and remembering a hundred stories of womanly perfidy, shuddered ashe thought how unequal the struggle might be between himself and hisuncle's wife. 

"I have shown her my cards, " he thought, "but she has kept hers hiddenfrom me. The mask that she wears is not to be plucked away. My unclewould rather think me mad than believe her guilty. "

The pale face of Clara Talboys--that grave and earnest face, sodifferent in its character to my lady's fragile beauty--arose beforehim. 

"What a coward I am to think of myself or my own danger, " he thought. "The more I see of this woman the more reason I have to dread herinfluence upon others; the more reason to wish her far away from thishouse. "

He looked about him in the dusky obscurity. The lonely garden was asquiet as some solitary grave-yard, walled in and hidden away from theworld of the living. 

"It was somewhere in this garden that she met George Talboys upon theday of his disappearance, " he thought. "I wonder where it was they met;I wonder where it was that he looked into her cruel face and taxed herwith her falsehood?"

My lady, with her little hand resting lightly upon the opposite post tothat against which Robert leaned, toyed with her pretty foot among thelong weeds, but kept a furtive watch upon her enemy's face. 

"It is to be a duel to the death, then, my lady, " said Robert Audley, solemnly. "You refuse to accept my warning. You refuse to run away andrepent of your wickedness in some foreign place, far from the generousgentleman you have deceived and fooled by your false witcheries. Youchoose to remain here and defy me. "

"I do, " answered Lady Audley, lifting her head and looking full at theyoung barrister. "It is no fault of mine if my husband's nephew goesmad, and chooses me for the victim of his monomania. "

"So be it, then, my lady, " answered Robert. "My friend George Talboyswas last seen entering these gardens by the little iron gate by which wecame in to-night. He was last heard inquiring for you. He was seen toenter these gardens, but he was never seen to leave them. I believe thathe met his death within the boundary of these grounds; and that his bodylies hidden below some quiet water, or in some forgotten corner of thisplace. I will have such a search made as shall level that house to theearth and root up every tree in these gardens, rather than I will failin finding the grave of my murdered friend. "

Lucy Audley uttered a long, low, wailing cry, and threw up her armsabove her head with a wild gesture of despair, but she made no answer tothe ghastly charge of her accuser. Her arms slowly dropped, and shestood staring at Robert Audley, her white face gleaming through thedusk, her blue eyes glittering and dilated. 

"You shall never live to do this, " she said. "_I will kill you first_. Why have you tormented me so? Why could you not let me alone? What harmhad I ever done you that you should make yourself my persecutor, and dogmy steps, and watch my looks, and play the spy upon me? Do you want todrive me mad? Do you know what it is to wrestle with a mad-woman? No, "cried my lady, with a laugh, "you do not, or you would never--"

She stopped abruptly and drew herself suddenly to her fullest hight. Itwas the same action which Robert had seen in the old half-drunkenlieutenant; and it had that same dignity--the sublimity of extrememisery. 

"Go away, Mr. Audley, " she said. "You are mad, I tell you, you are mad. "

"I am going, my lady, " answered Robert, quietly. "I would have condonedyour crimes out of pity to your wretcheness. You have refused to acceptmy mercy. I wished to have pity upon the living. I shall henceforth onlyremember my duty to the dead. "

He walked away from the lonely well under the shadow of the limes. Mylady followed him slowly down that long, gloomy avenue, and across therustic bridge to the iron gate. As he passed through the gate, Aliciacame out of a little half-glass door that opened from an oak-paneledbreakfast-room at one angle of the house, and met her cousin upon thethreshold of the gateway. 

"I have been looking for you everywhere, Robert, " she said. "Papa hascome down to the library, and will be glad to see you. "

The young man started at the sound of his cousin's fresh young voice. "Good Heaven!" he thought, "can these two women be of the same clay? Canthis frank, generous-hearted girl, who cannot conceal any impulse of herinnocent nature, be of the same flesh and blood as that wretchedcreature whose shadow falls upon the path beside me!"

He looked from his cousin to Lady Audley, who stood near the gateway, waiting for him to stand aside and let her pass him. 

"I don't know what has come to your cousin, my dear Alicia, " said mylady. "He is so absent-minded and eccentric as to be quite beyond mycomprehension. "

"Indeed, " exclaimed Miss Audley; "and yet I should imagine, from thelength of your _tete-a-tete_, that you had made some effort tounderstand him. "

"Oh, yes, " said Robert, quietly, "my lady and I understand each othervery well; but as it is growing late I will wish you good-evening, ladies. I shall sleep to-night at Mount Stanning, as I have somebusiness to attend to up there, and I will come down and see my uncleto-morrow. "

"What, Robert, " cried Alicia, "you surely won't go away without seeingpapa?"

"Yes, my dear, " answered the young man. "I am a little disturbed by somedisagreeable business in which I am very much concerned, and I wouldrather not see my uncle. Good-night, Alicia. I will come or writeto-morrow. "

He pressed his cousin's hand, bowed to Lady Audley, and walked awayunder the black shadows of the archway, and out into the quiet avenuebeyond the Court. 

My lady and Alicia stood watching him until he was out of sight. 

"What in goodness' name is the matter with my Cousin Robert?" exclaimedMiss Audley, impatiently, as the barrister disappeared. "What does hemean by these absurd goings-on? Some disagreeable business that disturbshim, indeed! I suppose the unhappy creature has had a brief forced uponhim by some evil-starred attorney, and is sinking into a state ofimbecility from a dim consciousness of his own incompetence. "

"Have you ever studied your cousin's character, Alicia?" asked my lady, very seriously, after a pause. 

"Studied his character! No, Lady Audley. Why should I study hischaracter?" said Alicia. "There is very little study required toconvince anybody that he is a lazy, selfish Sybarite, who cares fornothing in the world except his own ease and comfort. "

"But have you never thought him eccentric?"

"Eccentric!" repeated Alicia, pursing up her red lips and shrugging upher shoulders. "Well, yes--I believe that is the excuse generally madefor such people. I suppose Bob is eccentric. "

"I have never heard you speak of his father and mother, " said my lady, thoughtfully. "Do you remember them?"

"I never saw his mother. She was a Miss Dalrymple, a very dashing girl, who ran away with my uncle, and lost a very handsome fortune inconsequence. She died at Nice when poor Bob was five years old. "

"Did you ever hear anything particular about her?"

"How do you mean 'particular?'" asked Alicia. 

"Did you ever hear that she was eccentric--what people call 'odd?'"

"Oh, no, " said Alicia, laughing. "My aunt was a very reasonable woman, Ibelieve, though she did marry for love. But you must remember that shedied before I was born, and I have not, therefore, felt very muchcuriosity about her. "

"But you recollect your uncle, I suppose. "

"My Uncle Robert?" said Alicia. "Oh, yes, I remember him very well, indeed. "

"Was _he_ eccentric--I mean to say, peculiar in his habits, like yourcousin?"

"Yes, I believe Robert inherits all his absurdities from his father. Myuncle expressed the same indifference for his fellow-creatures as mycousin, but as he was a good husband, an affectionate father, and a kindmaster, nobody ever challenged his opinions. "

"But he _was_ eccentric?"

"Yes; I suppose he was generally thought a little eccentric. "

"Ah, " said my lady, gravely, "I thought as much. Do you know, Alicia, that madness is more often transmitted from father to daughter, and frommother to daughter than from mother to son? Your cousin, Robert Audley, is a very handsome young man, and I believe, a very good-hearted youngman, but he must be watched, Alicia, for he is _mad_!"

"Mad!" cried Miss Audley, indignantly; "you are dreaming, my lady, or--or--you are trying to frighten me, " added the young lady, withconsiderable alarm. 

"I only wish to put you on your guard, Alicia, " answered my lady. "Mr. Audley may be as you say, merely eccentric; but he has talked to me thisevening in a manner that has filled me with absolute terror, and Ibelieve that he is going mad? I shall speak very seriously to SirMichael this very night. "

"Speak to papa, " exclaimed Alicia; "you surely won't distress papa bysuggesting such a possibility!"

"I shall only put him on his guard, my dear Alicia. "

"But he'll never believe you, " said Miss Audley; "he will laugh at suchan idea. "

"No, Alicia; he will believe anything that I tell him, " answered mylady, with a quiet smile. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

PREPARING THE GROUND. 

Lady Audley went from the garden to the library, a pleasant, oak-paneled, homely apartment in which Sir Michael liked to sit readingor writing, or arranging the business of his estate with his steward, astalwart countryman, half agriculturalist, half lawyer, who rented asmall farm a few miles from the Court. 

The baronet was seated in a capacious easy-chair near the hearth. Thebright blaze of the fire rose and fell, flashing now upon the polishedcarvings of the black-oak bookcase, now upon the gold and scarletbindings of the books; sometimes glimmering upon the Athenian helmet ofa marble Pallas, sometimes lighting up the forehead of Sir Robert Peel. 

The lamp upon the reading-table had not yet been lighted, and SirMichael sat in the firelight waiting for the coming of his young wife. 

It is impossible for me ever to tell the purity of his generous love--itis impossible to describe that affection which was as tender as the loveof a young mother for her first born, as brave and chivalrous as theheroic passion of a Bayard for his liege mistress. 

The door opened while he was thinking of this fondly-loved wife, andlooking up, the baronet saw the slender form standing in the doorway. 

"Why, my darling!" he exclaimed, as my lady closed the door behind her, and came toward his chair, "I have been thinking of you and waiting foryou for an hour. Where have you been, and what have you been doing?"

My lady, standing in the shadow rather than the light, paused a fewmoments before replying to this question. 

"I have been to Chelmsford, " she said, "shopping; and--"

She hesitated--twisting her bonnet strings in her thin white fingerswith an air of pretty embarrassment. 

"And what, my dear?" asked the baronet--"what have you been doing sinceyou came from Chelmsford? I heard a carriage stop at the door an hourago. It was yours, was it not?"

"Yes, I came home an hour ago, " answered my lady, with the same air ofembarrassment. 

"And what have you been doing since you came home?"

Sir Michael Audley asked this question with a slightly reproachfulaccent. His young wife's presence made the sunshine of his life; andthough he could not bear to chain her to his side, it grieved him tothink that she could willingly remain unnecessarily absent from him, frittering away her time in some childish talk or frivolous occupation. 

"What have you been doing since you came home, my dear?" he repeated. "What has kept you so long away from me?"

"I have been--talking--to--Mr. Robert Audley. "

She still twisted her bonnet-string round and round her fingers. 

She still spoke with the same air of embarrassment. 

"Robert!" exclaimed the baronet; "is Robert here?"

"He was here a little while ago. "

"And is here still, I suppose?"

"No, he has gone away. "

"Gone away!" cried Sir Michael. "What do you mean, my darling?"

"I mean that your nephew came to the Court this afternoon. Alicia and Ifound him idling about the gardens. He stayed here till about a quarterof an hour ago talking to me, and then he hurried off without a word ofexplanation; except, indeed, some ridiculous excuse about business atMount Stanning. "

"Business at Mount Stanning! Why, what business can he possibly have inthat out-of-the-way place? He has gone to sleep at Mount Stanning, then, I suppose?

"Yes; I think he said something to that effect. "

"Upon my word, " exclaimed the baronet, "I think that boy is half mad. "

My lady's face was so much in shadow, that Sir Michael Audley wasunaware of the bright change that came over its sickly pallor as he madethis very commonplace observation. A triumphant smile illuminated LucyAudley's countenance, a smile that plainly said, "It is coming--it iscoming; I can twist him which way I like. I can put black before him, and if I say it is white, he will believe me. "

But Sir Michael Audley in declaring that his nephew's wits weredisordered, merely uttered that commonplace ejaculation which iswell-known to have very little meaning. The baronet had, it is true, novery great estimate of Robert's faculty for the business of thiseveryday life. He was in the habit of looking upon his nephew as agood-natured nonentity--a man whose heart had been amply stocked byliberal Nature with all the best things the generous goddess had tobestow, but whose brain had been somewhat overlooked in the distributionof intellectual gifts. Sir Michael Audley made that mistake which isvery commonly made by easy-going, well-to-do-observers, who have nooccasion to look below the surface. He mistook laziness for incapacity. He thought because his nephew was idle, he must necessarily be stupid. He concluded that if Robert did not distinguish himself, it was becausehe could not. 

He forgot the mute inglorious Miltons, who die voiceless andinarticulate for want of that dogged perseverance, that blind courage, which the poet must possess before he can find a publisher; he forgotthe Cromwells, who see the noble vessels of the state floundering upon asea of confusion, and going down in a tempest of noisy bewilderment, andwho yet are powerless to get at the helm; forbidden even to send out alife-boat to the sinking ship. Surely it is a mistake to judge of what aman can do by that which he has done. 

The world's Valhalla is a close borough, and perhaps the greatest menmay be those who perish silently far away from the sacred portal. Perhaps the purest and brightest spirits are those who shrink from theturmoil of the race-course--the tumult and confusion of the struggle. The game of life is something like the game of _ecarte_, and it may bethat the very best cards are sometimes left in the pack. 

My lady threw off her bonnet, and seated herself upon a velvet-coveredfootstool at Sir Michael's feet. There was nothing studied or affectedin this girlish action. It was so natural to Lucy Audley to be childish, that no one would have wished to see her otherwise. It would have seemedas foolish to expect dignified reserve or womanly gravity from thisamber-haired siren, as to wish for rich basses amid the clear treble ofa sky-lark's song. 

She sat with her pale face turned away from the firelight, and with herhands locked together upon the arm of her husband's easy-chair. Theywere very restless, these slender white hands. My lady twisted thejeweled fingers in and out of each other as she talked to her husband. 

"I wanted to come to you, you know, dear, " said she--"I wanted to cometo you directly I got home, but Mr. Audley insisted upon my stopping totalk to him. "

"But what about, my love?" asked the baronet. "What could Robert have tosay to you?"

My lady did not answer this question. Her fair head dropped upon herhusband's knee, her rippling, yellow curls fell over her face. 

Sir Michael lifted that beautiful head with his strong hands, and raisedmy lady's face. The firelight shining on that pale face lit up thelarge, soft blue eyes and showed them drowned in tears. 

"Lucy, Lucy!" cried the baronet, "what is the meaning of this? My love, my love! what has happened to distress you in this manner?"

Lady Audley tried to speak, but the words died inarticulately upon hertrembling lips. A choking sensation in her throat seemed to stranglethose false and plausible words, her only armor against her enemies. Shecould not speak. The agony she had endured silently in the dismallime-walk had grown too strong for her, and she broke into a tempest ofhysterical sobbing. It was no simulated grief that shook her slenderframe and tore at her like some ravenous beast that would have rent herpiecemeal with its horrible strength. It was a storm of real anguish andterror, of remorse and misery. It was the one wild outcry, in which thewoman's feebler nature got the better of the siren's art. 

It was not thus that she had meant to fight her terrible duel withRobert Audley. Those were not the weapons which she had intended to use;but perhaps no artifice which she could have devised would have servedher so well as this one outburst of natural grief. It shook her husbandto the very soul. It bewildered and terrified him. It reduced the strongintellect of the man to helpless confusion and perplexity. It struck atthe one weak point in a good man's nature. It appealed straight to SirMichael Audley's affection for his wife. 

Ah, Heaven help a strong man's tender weakness for the woman he loves!Heaven pity him when the guilty creature has deceived him and comes withher tears and lamentations to throw herself at his feet inself-abandonment and remorse; torturing him with the sight of her agony;rending _his_ heart with her sobs, lacerating _his_ breast with hergroans--multiplying her sufferings into a great anguish for him to bear!multiplying them by twenty-fold; multiplying them in a ratio of a braveman's capacity for endurance. Heaven forgive him, if maddened by thatcruel agony, the balance wavers for a moment, and he is ready to forgive_anything_; ready to take this wretched one to the shelter of hisbreast, and to pardon that which the stern voice of manly honor urgesmust not be pardoned. Pity him, pity him! The wife's worst remorse whenshe stands without the threshold of the home she may never enter more isnot equal to the agony of the husband who closes the portal on thatfamiliar and entreating face. The anguish of the mother who may neverlook again upon her children is less than the torment of the father whohas to say to those little ones, "My darlings, you are henceforthmotherless. "

Sir Michael Audley rose from his chair, trembling with indignation, andready to do immediate battle with the person who had caused his wife'sgrief. 

"Lucy, " he said, "Lucy, I insist upon your telling me what and who hasdistressed you. I insist upon it. Whoever has annoyed you shall answerto me for your grief. Come, my love, tell me directly what it is. "

He seated himself and bent over the drooping figure at his feet, calminghis own agitation in his desire to soothe his wife's distress. 

"Tell me what it is, my dear, " he whispered, tenderly. 

The sharp paroxysm had passed away, and my lady looked up. A glitteringlight shone through the tears in her eyes, and the lines about herpretty rosy mouth, those hard and cruel lines which Robert Audley hadobserved in the pre-Raphaelite portrait, were plainly visible in thefirelight. 

"I am very silly, " she said; "but really he has made me quitehysterical. "

"Who--who has made you hysterical?"

"Your nephew--Mr. Robert Audley. "

"Robert, " cried the baronet. "Lucy, what do you mean?"

"I told you that Mr. Audley insisted upon my going into the lime-walk, dear, " said my lady. "He wanted to talk to me, he said, and I went, andhe said such horrible things that--"

"What horrible things, Lucy?"

Lady Audley shuddered, and clung with convulsive fingers to the stronghand that had rested caressingly upon her shoulder. 

"What did he say, Lucy?"

"Oh, my dear love, how can I tell you?" cried my lady. "I know that Ishall distress you--or you will laugh at me, and then--"

"Laugh at you? no, Lucy. "

Lady Audley was silent for a moment. She sat looking straight before herinto the fire, with her fingers still locked about her husband's hand. 

"My dear, " she said, slowly, hesitating now and then between her words, as if she almost shrunk from uttering them, "have you ever--I am soafraid of vexing you--have you ever thought Mr. Audley a little--alittle--"

"A little what, my darling?"

"A little out of his mind?" faltered Lady Audley. 

"Out of his mind!" cried Sir Michael. "My dear girl, what are youthinking of?"

"You said just now, dear, that you thought he was half mad. "

"Did I, my love?" said the baronet, laughing. "I don't remember sayingit, and it was a mere _fa�on de parler_, that meant nothing whatever. Robert may be a little eccentric--a little stupid, perhaps--he mayn't beoverburdened with wits, but I don't think he has brains enough formadness. I believe it's generally your great intellects that get out oforder. "

"But madness is sometimes hereditary, " said my lady. "Mr. Audley mayhave inherited--"

"He has inherited no madness from his father's family, " interrupted SirMichael. "The Audleys have never peopled private lunatic asylums or feedmad doctors. "

"Nor from his mother's family?"

"Not to my knowledge. "

"People generally keep these things a secret, " said my lady, gravely. "There may have been madness in your sister-in-law's family. "

"I don't think so, my dear, " replied Sir Michael. "But, Lucy, tell mewhat, in Heaven's name, has put this idea into your head. "

"I have been trying to account for your nephew's conduct. I can accountfor it in no other manner. If you had heard the things he said to meto-night, Sir Michael, you too might have thought him mad. "

"But what did he say, Lucy?"

"I can scarcely tell you. You can see how much he has stupefied andbewildered me. I believe he has lived too long alone in those solitaryTemple chambers. Perhaps he reads too much, or smokes too much. You knowthat some physicians declare madness to be a mere illness of thebrain--an illness to which any one is subject, and which may be producedby given causes, and cured by given means. "

Lady Audley's eyes were still fixed upon the burning coals in the widegrate. She spoke as if she had been discussing a subject that she hadoften heard discussed before. She spoke as if her mind had almostwandered away from the thought of her husband's nephew to the widerquestion of madness in the abstract. 

"Why should he not be mad?" resumed my lady. "People are insane foryears and years before their insanity is found out. _They_ know thatthey are mad, but they know how to keep their secret; and, perhaps, theymay sometimes keep it till they die. Sometimes a paroxysm seizes them, and in an evil hour they betray themselves. They commit a crime, perhaps. The horrible temptation of opportunity assails them; the knifeis in their hand, and the unconscious victim by their side. They mayconquer the restless demon and go away and die innocent of any violentdeed; but they _may_ yield to the horrible temptation--the frightful, passionate, hungry craving for violence and horror. They sometimes yieldand are lost. "

Lady Audley's voice rose as she argued this dreadful question, Thehysterical excitement from which she had only just recovered had leftits effects upon her, but she controlled herself, and her tone grewcalmer as she resumed:

"Robert Audley is mad, " she said, decisively. "What is one of thestrangest diagnostics of madness--what is the first appalling sign ofmental aberration? The mind becomes stationary; the brain stagnates; theeven current of reflection is interrupted; the thinking power of thebrain resolves itself into a monotone. As the waters of a tideless poolputrefy by reason of their stagnation, the mind becomes turbid andcorrupt through lack of action; and the perpetual reflection upon onesubject resolves itself into monomania. Robert Audley is a monomaniac. The disappearance of his friend, George Talboys, grieved and bewilderedhim. He dwelt upon this one idea until he lost the power of thinking ofanything else. The one idea looked at perpetually became distorted tohis mental vision. Repeat the commonest word in the English languagetwenty times, and before the twentieth repetition you will have begun towonder whether the word which you repeat is really the word you mean toutter. Robert Audley has thought of his friend's disappearance until theone idea has done its fatal and unhealthy work. He looks at a commonevent with a vision that is diseased, and he distorts it into a gloomyhorror engendered of his own monomania. If you do not want to make me asmad as he is, you must never let me see him again. He declared to-nightthat George Talboys was murdered in this place, and that he will root upevery tree in the garden, and pull down every brick in the house insearch for--"

My lady paused. The words died away upon her lips. She had exhaustedherself by the strange energy with which she had spoken. She had beentransformed from a frivolous, childish beauty into a woman, strong toargue her own cause and plead her own defense. 

"Pull down this house?" cried the baronet. "George Talboys murdered atAudley Court! Did Robert say this, Lucy?"

"He said something of that kind--something that frightened me verymuch. "

"Then he must be mad, " said Sir Michael, gravely. "I'm bewildered bywhat you tell me. Did he really say this, Lucy, or did you misunderstandhim?"

"I--I--don't think I did, " faltered my lady. "You saw how frightened Iwas when I first came in. I should not have been so much agitated if hehadn't said something horrible. "

Lady Audley had availed herself of the very strongest arguments by whichshe could help her cause. 

"To be sure, my darling, to be sure, " answered the baronet. "What couldhave put such a horrible fancy into the unhappy boy's head. This Mr. Talboys--a perfect stranger to all of us--murdered at Audley Court!I'll go to Mount Stanning to-night, and see Robert. I have known himever since he was a baby, and I cannot be deceived in him. If there isreally anything wrong, he will not be able to conceal it from me. "

My lady shrugged her shoulders. 

"That is rather an open question, " she said. "It is generally a strangerwho is the first to observe any psychological peculiarity. "

The big words sounded strange from my lady's rosy lips; but hernewly-adopted wisdom had a certain quaint prettiness about it, whichcharmed and bewildered her husband. 

"But you must not go to Mount Stanning, my dear darling, " she said, tenderly. "Remember that you are under strict orders to stay in doorsuntil the weather is milder, and the sun shines upon this cruelice-bound country. "

Sir Michael Audley sank back in his capacious chair with a sigh ofresignation. 

"That's true, Lucy, " he said; "we must obey Mr. Dawson. I suppose Robertwill come to see me to-morrow. "

"Yes, dear. I think he said he would. "

"Then we must wait till to-morrow, my darling. I can't believe thatthere really is anything wrong with the poor boy--I can't believe it, Lucy. "

"Then how do you account for this extraordinary delusion about this Mr. Talboys?" asked my lady. 

Sir Michael shook his head. 

"I don't know, Lucy--I don't know, " he answered. "It is always sodifficult to believe that any one of the calamities that continuallybefall our fellow-men will ever happen to us. I can't believe that mynephew's mind is impaired--I can't believe it. I--I'll get him to stophere, Lucy, and I'll watch him closely. I tell you, my love, if there isanything wrong I am sure to find it out. I can't be mistaken in a youngman who has always been the same to me as my own son. But, my darling, why were you so frightened by Robert's wild talk? It could not affectyou. "

My lady sighed piteously. 

"You must think me very strong-minded, Sir Michael, " she said, withrather an injured air, "if you imagine I can hear of these sort ofthings indifferently. I know I shall never be able to see Mr. Audleyagain. "

"And you shall not, my dear--you shall not. "

"You said just now you would have him here, " murmured Lady Audley. 

"But I will not, my darling girl, if his presence annoys you. GoodHeaven! Lucy, can you imagine for a moment that I have any higher wishthan to promote your happiness? I will consult some London physicianabout Robert, and let him discover if there is really anything thematter with my poor brother's only son. _You_ shall not be annoyed, Lucy. "

"You must think me very unkind, dear, " said my lady, "and I know I_ought_ not to be annoyed by the poor fellow; but he really seems tohave taken some absurd notion into his head about me. "

"About _you_, Lucy!" cried Sir Michael. 

"Yes, dear. He seems to connect me in some vague manner--which I cannotquite understand--with the disappearance of this Mr. Talboys. "

"Impossible, Lucy! You must have misunderstood him. "

"I don't think so. "

"Then he must be mad, " said the baronet--"he must be mad. I will waittill he goes back to town, and then send some one to his chambers totalk to him. Good Heaven! what a mysterious business this is. "

"I fear I have distressed you, darling, " murmured Lady Audley. 

"Yes, my dear, I am very much distressed by what you have told me; butyou were quite right to talk to me frankly about this dreadful business. I must think it over, dearest, and try and decide what is best to bedone. "

My lady rose from the low ottoman on which she had been seated. The firehad burned down, and there was only a faint glow of red light in theroom. Lucy Audley bent over her husband's chair, and put her lips to hisbroad forehead. 

"How good you have always been to me, dear, " she whispered softly. "Youwould never let any one influence you against me, would you, dear?"

"Influence me against you?" repeated the baronet. "No, my love. "

"Because you know, dear, " pursued my lady, "there are wicked people aswell as mad people in the world, and there may be some persons to whoseinterest it would be to injure me. "

"They had better not try it, then, my dear, " answered Sir Michael; "theywould find themselves in rather a dangerous position if they did. "

Lady Audley laughed aloud, with a gay, triumphant, silvery peal oflaughter that vibrated through the quiet room. 

"My own dear darling, " she said, "I know you love me. And now I must runaway, dear, for it's past seven o'clock. I was engaged to dine at Mrs. Montford's, but I must send a groom with a message of apology, for Mr. Audley has made me quite unfit for company. I shall stay at home andnurse you, dear. You'll go to bed very early, won't you, and take greatcare of yourself?"

"Yes, dear. "

My lady tripped out of the room to give her orders about the messagethat was to be carried to the house at which she was to have dined. Shepaused for a moment as she closed the library door--she paused, and laidher hand upon her breast to check the rapid throbbing of her heart. 

"I have been afraid of you, Mr. Robert Audley, " she thought; "butperhaps the time may come in which you will have cause to be afraid ofme. "

CHAPTER XXXI. 

PHOEBE'S PETITION. 

The division between Lady Audley and her step-daughter had not becomeany narrower in the two months which had elapsed since the pleasantChristmas holiday time had been kept at Audley Court. There was no openwarfare between the two women; there was only an armed neutrality, broken every now and then by brief feminine skirmishes and transientwordy tempests. I am sorry to say that Alicia would very much havepreferred a hearty pitched battle to this silent and undemonstrativedisunion; but it was not very easy to quarrel with my lady. She had softanswers for the turning away of wrath. She could smile bewitchingly ather step-daughter's open petulance, and laugh merrily at the younglady's ill-temper. Perhaps had she been less amiable, had she been morelike Alicia in disposition, the two ladies might have expended theirenmity in one tremendous quarrel, and might ever afterward have beenaffectionate and friendly. But Lucy Audley would not make war. Shecarried forward the sum of her dislike, and put it out at a steady rateof interest, until the breach between her step-daughter and herself, widening a little every day, became a great gulf, utterly impassable byolive-branch-bearing doves from either side of the abyss. There can beno reconciliation where there is no open warfare. There must be abattle, a brave, boisterous battle, with pennants waving and cannonroaring, before there can be peaceful treaties and enthusiastic shakingof hands. Perhaps the union between France and England owes its greatestforce to the recollection of Cressy and Waterloo, Navarino andTrafalgar. We have hated each other and licked each other and _had itout_, as the common phrase goes; and we can afford now to fall into eachothers' arms and vow eternal friendship and everlasting brotherhood. Letus hope that when Northern Yankeedom has decimated and been decimated, blustering Jonathan may fling himself upon his Southern brother'sbreast, forgiving and forgiven. 

Alicia Audley and her father's pretty wife had plenty of room for thecomfortable indulgence of their dislike in the spacious old mansion. Mylady had her own apartments, as we know--luxurious chambers, in whichall conceivable elegancies had been gathered for the comfort of theiroccupant. Alicia had her own rooms in another part of the large house. She had her favorite mare, her Newfoundland dog, and her drawingmaterials, and she made herself tolerably happy. She was not very happy, this frank, generous-hearted girl, for it was scarcely possible that shecould be altogether at ease in the constrained atmosphere of the Court. Her father was changed; that dear father over whom she had once reignedsupreme with the boundless authority of a spoiled child, had acceptedanother ruler and submitted to a new dynasty. Little by little my lady'spetty power made itself felt in that narrow household; and Alicia sawher father gradually lured across the gulf that divided Lady Audley fromher step-daughter, until he stood at last quite upon the other side ofthe abyss, and looked coldly upon his only child across that wideningchasm. 

Alicia felt that he was lost to her. My lady's beaming smiles, my lady'swinning words, my lady's radiant glances and bewitching graces had donetheir work of enchantment, and Sir Michael had grown to look upon hisdaughter as a somewhat wilful and capricious young person who hadbehaved with determined unkindness to the wife he loved. 

Poor Alicia saw all this, and bore her burden as well as she could. Itseemed very hard to be a handsome, gray-eyed heiress, with dogs andhorses and servants at her command, and yet to be so much alone in theworld as to know of not one friendly ear into which she might pour hersorrows. 

"If Bob was good for anything I could have told him how unhappy I am, "thought Miss Audley; "but I may just as well tell Caesar my troubles forany consolation I should get from Cousin Robert. "

Sir Michael Audley obeyed his pretty nurse, and went to bed a littleafter nine o'clock upon this bleak March evening. Perhaps the baronet'sbedroom was about the pleasantest retreat that an invalid could havechosen in such cold and cheerless weather. The dark-green velvetcurtains were drawn before the windows and about the ponderous bed. Thewood fire burned redly upon the broad hearth. The reading lamp waslighted upon a delicious little table close to Sir Michael's pillow, anda heap of magazines and newspapers had been arranged by my lady's ownfair hands for the pleasure of the invalid. 

Lady Audley sat by the bedside for about ten minutes, talking to herhusband, talking very seriously, about this strange and awfulquestion--Robert Audley's lunacy; but at the end of that time she roseand bade her husband good-night. 

She lowered the green silk shade before the reading lamp, adjusting itcarefully for the repose of the baronet's eyes. 

"I shall leave you, dear, " she said. "If you can sleep, so much thebetter. If you wish to read, the books and papers are close to you. Iwill leave the doors between the rooms open, and I shall hear your voiceif you call me. "

Lady Audley went through her dressing-room into the boudoir, where shehad sat with her husband since dinner. 

Every evidence of womanly refinement was visible in the elegant chamber. My lady's piano was open, covered with scattered sheets of music andexquisitely-bound collections of scenas and fantasias which no masterneed have disdained to study. My lady's easel stood near the window, bearing witness to my lady's artistic talent, in the shape of awater-colored sketch of the Court and gardens. My lady's fairy-likeembroideries of lace and muslin, rainbow-hued silks, anddelicately-tinted wools littered the luxurious apartment; while thelooking-glasses, cunningly placed at angles and opposite corners by anartistic upholsterer, multiplied my lady's image, and in that imagereflected the most beautiful object in the enchanted chamber. 

Amid all this lamplight, gilding, color, wealth, and beauty, Lucy Audleysat down on a low seat by the fire to think. 

If Mr. Holman Hunt could have peeped into the pretty boudoir, I thinkthe picture would have been photographed upon his brain to be reproducedby-and-by upon a bishop's half-length for the glorification of thepre-Raphaelite brotherhood. My lady in that half-recumbent attitude, with her elbow resting on one knee, and her perfect chin supported byher hand, the rich folds of drapery falling away in long undulatinglines from the exquisite outline of her figure, and the luminous, rose-colored firelight enveloping her in a soft haze, only broken by thegolden glitter of her yellow hair--beautiful in herself, but madebewilderingly beautiful by the gorgeous surroundings which adorn theshrine of her loveliness. Drinking-cups of gold and ivory, chiseled byBenvenuto Cellini; cabinets of buhl and porcelain, bearing the cipher ofAustrain Marie-Antoinette, amid devices of rosebuds and true-lovers'knots, birds and butterflies, cupidons and shepherdesses, goddesses, courtiers, cottagers, and milkmaids; statuettes of Parian marble andbiscuit china; gilded baskets of hothouse flowers; fantastical casketsof Indian filigree-work; fragile tea-cups of turquoise china, adorned bymedallion miniatures of Louis the Great and Louis the Well-beloved, Louise de la Valliere, Athenais de Montespan, and Marie Jeanne Gomard deVaubernier: cabinet pictures and gilded mirrors, shimmering satin anddiaphanous lace; all that gold can buy or art devise had been gatheredtogether for the beautification of this quiet chamber in which my ladysat listening to the mourning of the shrill March wind, and the flappingof the ivy leaves against the casements, and looking into the red chasmsin the burning coals. 

I should be preaching a very stale sermon, and harping upon a veryfamiliar moral, if I were to seize this opportunity of declaimingagainst art and beauty, because my lady was more wretched in thiselegant apartment than many a half-starved seamstress in her drearygarret. She was wretched by reason of a wound which lay too deep for thepossibility of any solace from such plasters as wealth and luxury; buther wretchedness was of an abnormal nature, and I can see no occasionfor seizing upon the fact of her misery as an argument in favor ofpoverty and discomfort as opposed to opulence. The Benvenuto Cellinicarvings and the Sevres porcelain could not give her happiness, becauseshe had passed out of their region. She was no longer innocent; and thepleasure we take in art and loveliness being an innocent pleasure, hadpassed beyond her reach. Six or seven years before, she would have beenhappy in the possession of this little Aladdin's palace; but she hadwandered out of the circle of careless, pleasure seeking creatures, shehad strayed far away into a desolate labyrinth of guilt and treachery, terror and crime, and all the treasures that had been collected for hercould have given her no pleasure but one, the pleasure of flinging theminto a heap beneath her feet and trampling upon them and destroying themin her cruel despair. 

There were some things that would have inspired her with an awful joy, ahorrible rejoicing. If Robert Audley, her pitiless enemy, herunrelenting pursuer, had lain dead in the adjoining chamber, she wouldhave exulted over his bier. 

What pleasures could have remained for Lucretia Borgia and Catharine deMedici, when the dreadful boundary line between innocence and guilt waspassed, and the lost creatures stood upon the lonely outer side? Onlyhorrible, vengeful joys, and treacherous delights were left for thesemiserable women. With what disdainful bitterness they must have watchedthe frivolous vanities, the petty deceptions, the paltry sins ofordinary offenders. Perhaps they took a horrible pride in the enormityof their wickedness; in this "Divinity of Hell, " which made themgreatest among sinful creatures. 

My lady, brooding by the fire in her lonely chamber, with her large, clear blue eyes fixed upon the yawning gulfs of lurid crimson in theburning coals, may have thought of many things very far away from theterribly silent struggle in which she was engaged. She may have thoughtof long-ago years of childish innocence, childish follies andselfishness, of frivolous, feminine sins that had weighed very lightlyupon her conscience. Perhaps in that retrospective revery she recalledthat early time in which she had first looked in the glass anddiscovered that she was beautiful; that fatal early time in which shehad first begun to look upon her loveliness as a right divine, aboundless possession which was to be a set-off against all girlishshortcomings, a counterbalance of every youthful sin. Did she rememberthe day in which that fairy dower of beauty had first taught her to beselfish and cruel, indifferent to the joys and sorrows of others, cold-hearted and capricious, greedy of admiration, exacting andtyrannical with that petty woman's tyranny which is the worst ofdespotism? Did she trace every sin of her life back to its true source?and did she discover that poisoned fountain in her own exaggeratedestimate of the value of a pretty face? Surely, if her thoughts wanderedso far along the backward current of her life, she must have repented inbitterness and despair of that first day in which the master-passions ofher life had become her rulers, and the three demons of Vanity, Selfishness, and Ambition, had joined hands and said, "This woman is ourslave, let us see what she will become under our guidance. "

How small those first youthful errors seemed as my lady looked back uponthem in that long revery by the lonely hearth! What small vanities, whatpetty cruelties! A triumph over a schoolfellow; a flirtation with thelover of a friend; an assertion of the right divine invested in blueeyes and shimmering golden-tinted hair. But how terribly that narrowpathway had widened out into the broad highroad of sin, and how swiftthe footsteps had become upon the now familiar way!

My lady twisted her fingers in her loose amber curls, and made as if shewould have torn them from her head. But even in that moment of mutedespair the unyielding dominion of beauty asserted itself, and shereleased the poor tangled glitter of ringlets, leaving them to make ahalo round her head in the dim firelight. 

"I was not wicked when I was young, " she thought, as she staredgloomingly at the fire, "I was only thoughtless. I never did anyharm--at least, wilfully. Have I ever been really _wicked_, I wonder?"she mused. "My worst wickednesses have bean the result of wild impulses, and not of deeply-laid plots. I am not like the women I have read of, who have lain night after night in the horrible darkness and stillness, planning out treacherous deeds, and arranging every circumstance of anappointed crime. I wonder whether they suffered--those women--whetherthey ever suffered as--"

Her thoughts wandered away into a weary maze of confusion. Suddenly shedrew herself up with a proud, defiant gesture, and her eyes glitteredwith a light that was not entirely reflected from the fire. 

"You are mad, Mr. Robert Audley, " she said, "you are mad, and yourfancies are a madman's fancies. I know what madness is. I know its signsand tokens, and I say that you are mad. "

She put her hand to her head, as if thinking of something which confusedand bewildered her, and which she found it difficult to contemplate withcalmness. 

"Dare I defy him?" she muttered. "Dare I? dare I? Will he stop, now thathe has once gone so far? Will he stop for fear of me? Will he stop forfear of me, when the thought of what his uncle must suffer has notstopped him? Will anything stop him--but death?"

She pronounced the last words in an awful whisper; and with her headbent forward, her eyes dilated, and her lips still parted as they hadbeen parted in her utterance of that final word "death, " she sat blanklystaring at the fire. 

"I can't plot horrible things, " she muttered, presently; "my brain isn'tstrong enough, or I'm not wicked enough, or brave enough. If I metRobert Audley in those lonely gardens, as I--"

The current of her thoughts was interrupted by a cautious knocking ather door. She rose suddenly, startled by any sound in the stillness ofher room. She rose, and threw herself into a low chair near the fire. She flung her beautiful head back upon the soft cushions, and took abook from the table near her. Insignificant as this action was, it spokevery plainly. It spoke very plainly of ever-recurring fears--of fatalnecessities for concealment--of a mind that in its silent agonies wasever alive to the importance of outward effect. It told more plainlythan anything else could have told how complete an actress my lady hadbeen made by the awful necessity of her life. 

The modest rap at the door was repeated. 

"Come in, " cried Lady Audley, in her liveliest tone. 

The door was opened with that respectful noiselessness peculiar to awell-bred servant, and a young woman, plainly dressed, and carrying someof the cold March winds in the folds of her garments, crossed thethreshold of the apartment and lingered near the door, waitingpermission to approach the inner regions of my lady's retreat. 

It was Phoebe Marks, the pale-faced wife of the Mount Stanninginnkeeper. 

"I beg pardon, my lady, for intruding without leave, " she said; "but Ithought I might venture to come straight up without waiting forpermission. "

"Yes, yes, Phoebe, to be sure. Take off your bonnet, you wretched, cold-looking creature, and come sit down here. "

Lady Audley pointed to the low ottoman upon which she had herself beenseated a few minutes before. The lady's maid had often sat upon itlistening to her mistress' prattle in the old days, when she had been mylady's chief companion and _confidante_, "Sit down here, Phoebe, " Lady Audley repeated; "sit down here and talkto me; I'm very glad you came here to-night. I was horribly lonely inthis dreary place. "

My lady shivered and looked round at the bright collection of_bric-a-brac_, as if the Sevres and bronze, the buhl and ormolu, hadbeen the moldering adornments of some ruined castle. The drearywretchedness of her thoughts had communicated itself to every objectabout her, and all outer things took their color from that weary innerlife which held its slow course of secret anguish in her breast. She hadspoken the entire truth in saying that she was glad of her lady's maid'svisit. Her frivolous nature clung to this weak shelter in the hour ofher fear and suffering. There were sympathies between her and this girl, who was like herself, inwardly as well as outwardly--like herself, selfish, and cold, and cruel, eager for her own advancement, and greedyof opulence and elegance; angry with the lot that had been cast her, andweary of dull dependence. My lady hated Alicia for her frank, passionate, generous, daring nature; she hated her step-daughter, andclung to this pale-faced, pale-haired girl, whom she thought neitherbetter nor worse than herself. 

Phoebe Marks obeyed her late mistress' commands, and took off her bonnetbefore seating herself on the ottoman at Lady Audley's feet. Her smoothbands of light hair were unruffled by the March winds; her trimly-madedrab dress and linen collar were as neatly arranged as they could havebeen had she only that moment completed her toilet. 

"Sir Michael is better, I hope, my lady, " she said. 

"Yes, Phoebe, much better. He is asleep. You may close that door, " addedLady Audley, with a motion of her head toward the door of communicationbetween the rooms, which had been left open. 

Mrs. Marks obeyed submissively, and then returned to her seat. 

"I am very, very unhappy, Phoebe, " my lady said, fretfully; "wretchedlymiserable. "

"About the--secret?" asked Mrs. Marks, in a half whisper. 

My lady did not notice that question. She resumed in the samecomplaining tone. She was glad to be able to complain even to thislady's maid. She had brooded over her fears, and had suffered in secretso long, that it was an inexpressible relief to her to bemoan her fatealoud. 

"I am cruelly persecuted and harassed, Phoebe Marks, " she said. "I ampursued and tormented by a man whom I never injured, whom I have neverwished to injure. I am never suffered to rest by this relentlesstormentor, and--"

She paused, staring at the fire again, as she had done in herloneliness. Lost again in the dark intricacies of thoughts whichwandered hither and thither in a dreadful chaos of terrifiedbewilderments, she could not come to any fixed conclusion. 

Phoebe Marks watched my lady's face, looking upward at her late mistresswith pale, anxious eyes, that only relaxed their watchfulness when LadyAudley's glance met that of her companion. 

"I think I know whom you mean, my lady, " said the innkeeper's wife, after a pause; "I think I know who it is who is so cruel to you. "

"Oh, of course, " answered my lady, bitterly; "my secrets are everybody'ssecrets. You know all about it, no doubt. "

"The person is a gentleman--is he not, my lady?"

"Yes. "

"A gentleman who came to the Castle Inn two months ago, when I warnedyou--"

"Yes, yes, " answered my lady, impatiently. 

"I thought so. The same gentleman is at our place to-night, my lady. "

Lady Audley started up from her chair--started up as if she would havedone something desperate in her despairing fury; but she sank back againwith a weary, querulous sigh. What warfare could such a feeble creaturewage against her fate? What could she do but wind like a hunted haretill she found her way back to the starting-point of the cruel chase, tobe there trampled down by her pursuers?

"At the Castle Inn?" she cried. "I might have known as much. He has gonethere to wring my secrets from your husband. Fool!" she exclaimed, suddenly turning upon Phoebe Marks in a transport of anger, "do you wantto destroy me that you have left those two men together?"

Mrs. Marks clasped her hands piteously. 

"I didn't come away of my own free will, my lady, " she said; "no onecould have been more unwilling to leave the house than I was this night. I was sent here. "

"Who sent you here?"

"Luke, my lady. You can't tell how hard he can be upon me if I goagainst him. "

"Why did he send you?"

The innkeeper's wife dropped her eyelids under Lady Audley's angryglances, and hesitated confusedly before she answered this question. 

"Indeed, my lady, " she stammered, "I didn't want to come. I told Lukethat it was too bad for us to worry you, first asking this favor, andthen asking that, and never leaving you alone for a month together;but--but--he bore me down with his loud, blustering talk, and he made mecome. "

"Yes, yes, " cried Lady Audley, impatiently. "I know that. I want to knowwhy you have come. "

"Why, you know, my lady, " answered Phoebe, half reluctantly, "Luke isvery extravagant; and all I can say to him, I can't get him to becareful or steady. He's not sober; and when he's drinking with a lot ofrough countrymen, and drinking, perhaps even more than they do, it isn'tlikely that his head can be very clear for accounts. If it hadn't beenfor me we should have been ruined before this; and hard as I've tried, Ihaven't been able to keep the ruin off. You remember giving me the moneyfor the brewer's bill, my lady?"

"Yes, I remember very well, " answered Lady Audley, with a bitter laugh, "for I wanted that money to pay my own bills. "

"I know you did, my lady, and it was very, very hard for me to have tocome and ask you for it, after all that we'd received from you before. But that isn't the worst: when Luke sent me down here to beg the favorof that help he never told me that the Christmas rent was still owing;but it was, my lady, and it's owing now, and--and there's a bailiff inthe house to-night, and we're to be sold up to-morrow unless--"

"Unless I pay your rent, I suppose, " cried Lucy Audley. "I might haveguessed what was coming. "

"Indeed, indeed, my lady, I wouldn't have asked it, " sobbed PhoebeMarks, "but he made me come. "

"Yes, " answered my lady, bitterly, "he made you come; and he will makeyou come whenever he pleases, and whenever he wants money for thegratification of his low vices; and you and he are my pensioners as longas I live, or as long as I have any money to give; for I suppose when mypurse is empty and my credit ruined, you and your husband will turn uponme and sell me to the highest bidder. Do you know, Phoebe Marks, that myjewel-case has been half emptied to meet your claims? Do you know thatmy pin-money, which I thought such a princely allowance when my marriagesettlement was made, and when I was a poor governess at Mr. Dawson's, Heaven help me! my pin-money has been overdrawn half a year to satisfyyour demands? What can I do to appease you? Shall I sell my MarieAntoinette cabinet, or my pompadour china, Leroy's and Benson's ormoluclocks, or my Gobelin tapestried chairs and ottomans? How shall Isatisfy you next?"

"Oh, my lady, my lady, " cried Phoebe, piteously, "don't be so cruel tome; you know, you know that it isn't I who want to impose upon you. "

"I know nothing, " exclaimed Lady Audley, "except that I am the mostmiserable of women. Let me think, " she cried, silencing Phoebe'sconsolatory murmurs with an imperious gesture. "Hold your tongue, girl, and let me think of this business, if I can. "

She put her hands to her forehead, clasping her slender fingers acrossher brow, as if she would have controlled the action of her brain bytheir convulsive pressure. 

"Robert Audley is with your husband, " she said, slowly, speaking toherself rather than to her companion. "These two men are together, andthere are bailiffs in the house, and your brutal husband is no doubtbrutally drunk by this time, and brutally obstinate and ferocious in hisdrunkenness. If I refuse to pay this money his ferocity will bemultiplied by a hundredfold. There's little use in discussing thatmatter. The money must be paid. "

"But if you do pay it, " said Phoebe, earnestly, "I hope you will impressupon Luke that it is the last money you will ever give him while hestops in that house. "

"Why?" asked Lady Audley, letting her hands fall on her lap, and lookinginquiringly at Mrs. Marks. 

"Because I want Luke to leave the Castle. "

"But why do you want him to leave?"

"Oh, for ever so many reasons, my lady, " answered Phoebe. "He's not fitto be the landlord of a public-house. I didn't know that when I marriedhim, or I would have gone against the business, and tried to persuadehim to take to the farming line. Not that I suppose he'd have given uphis own fancy, either; for he's obstinate enough, as you know, my lady. He's not fit for his present business. He's scarcely ever sober afterdark; and when he's drunk he gets almost wild, and doesn't seem to knowwhat he does. We've had two or three narrow escapes with him already. "

"Narrow escapes!" repeated Lady Audley. "What do you mean?"

"Why, we've run the risk of being burnt in our beds through hiscarelessness. "

"Burnt in your beds through his carelessness! Why, how was that?" askedmy lady, rather listlessly. She was too selfish, and too deeply absorbedin her own troubles to take much interest in any danger which hadbefallen her some-time lady's-maid. 

"You know what a queer old place the Castle is, my lady; all tumble-downwood-work, and rotten rafters, and such like. The Chelmsford InsuranceCompany won't insure it; for they say if the place did happen to catchfire of a windy night it would blaze away like so much tinder, andnothing in the world could save it. Well, Luke knows this; and thelandlord has warned him of it times and often, for he lives closeagainst us, and he keeps a pretty sharp eye upon all my husband's goingson; but when Luke's tipsy he doesn't know what he's about, and only aweek ago he left a candle burning in one of the out-houses, and theflame caught one of the rafters of the sloping roof, and if it hadn'tbeen for me finding it out when I went round the house the last thing, we should have all been burnt to death, perhaps. And that's the thirdtime the same kind of thing has happened in the six months we've had theplace, and you can't wonder that I'm frightened, can you, my lady?"

My lady had not wondered, she had not thought about the business at all. She had scarcely listened to these commonplace details; why should shecare for this low-born waiting-woman's perils and troubles? Had she nother own terrors, her own soul-absorbing perplexities to usurp everythought of which her brain was capable?

She did not make any remark upon that which poor Phoebe just told her;she scarcely comprehended what had been said, until some moments afterthe girl had finished speaking, when the words assumed their fullmeaning, as some words do after they have been heard without beingheeded. 

"Burnt in your beds, " said the young lady, at last. "It would have beena good thing for me if that precious creature, your husband, had beenburnt in his bed before to-night. "

A vivid picture had flashed upon her as she spoke. The picture of thatfrail wooden tenement, the Castle Inn, reduced to a roofless chaos oflath and plaster, vomiting flames from its black mouth, and spittingblazing sparks upward toward the cold night sky. 

She gave a weary sigh as she dismissed this image from her restlessbrain. She would be no better off even if this enemy should be for eversilenced. She had another and far more dangerous foe--a foe who was notto be bribed or bought off, though she had been as rich as an empress. 

"I'll give you the money to send this bailiff away, " my lady said, aftera pause. "I must give you the last sovereign in my purse, but what ofthat? you know as well as I do that I dare not refuse you. "

Lady Audley rose and took the lighted lamp from her writing-table. "Themoney is in my dressing-room, " she said; "I will go and fetch it. "

"Oh, my lady, " exclaimed Phoebe, suddenly, "I forgot something; I was insuch a way about this business that I quite forgot it. "

"Quite forgot what?"

"A letter that was given me to bring to you, my lady, just before I lefthome. "

"What letter?"

"A letter from Mr. Audley. He heard my husband mention that I was comingdown here, and he asked me to carry this letter. "

Lady Audley set the lamp down upon the table nearest to her, and heldout her hand to receive the letter. Phoebe Marks could scarcely fail toobserve that the little jeweled hand shook like a leaf. 

"Give it me--give it me, " she cried; "let me see what more he has tosay. "

Lady Audley almost snatched the letter from Phoebe's hand in her wildimpatience. She tore open the envelope and flung it from her; she couldscarcely unfold the sheet of note-paper in her eager excitement. 

The letter was very brief. It contained only these words:

"Should Mrs. George Talboys really have survived the date of hersupposed death, as recorded in the public prints, and upon the tombstonein Ventnor churchyard, and should she exist in the person of the ladysuspected and accused by the writer of this, there can be no greatdifficulty in finding some one able and willing to identify her. Mrs. Barkamb, the owner of North Cottages, Wildernsea, would no doubt consentto throw some light upon this matter; either to dispel a delusion or toconfirm a suspicion. 

"ROBERT AUDLEY. 

"March 3, 1859. 

"The Castle Inn, Mount Stanning. "

CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE RED LIGHT IN THE SKY. 

My lady crushed the letter fiercely in her hand, and flung it from herinto the flames. 

"If he stood before me now, and I could kill him, " she muttered in astrange, inward whisper, "I would do it--I would do it!" She snatched upthe lamp and rushed into the adjoining room. She shut the door behindher. She could not endure any witness of her horrible despair--she couldendure nothing, neither herself nor her surroundings. 

The door between my lady's dressing-room and the bed-chamber in whichSir Michael lay, had been left open. The baronet slept peacefully, hisnoble face plainly visible in the subdued lamplight. His breathing waslow and regular, his lips curved into a half smile--a smile of tenderhappiness which he often wore when he looked at his beautiful wife, thesmile of an all-indulgent father, who looks admiringly at his favoritechild. 

Some touch of womanly feeling, some sentiment of compassion softenedLady Audley's glance as it fell upon that noble, reposing figure. For amoment the horrible egotism of her own misery yielded to her pityingtenderness for another. It was perhaps only a semi-selfish tendernessafter all, in which pity for herself was as powerful as pity for herhusband; but for once in a way, her thoughts ran out of the narrowgroove of her own terrors and her own troubles to dwell with propheticgrief upon the coming sorrows of another. 

"If they make him believe, how wretched he will be, " she thought. Butintermingled with that thought there was another--there was the thoughtof her lovely face, her bewitching manner, her arch smile, her low, musical laugh, which was like a peal of silvery bells ringing across abroad expanse of flat meadow-land and a rippling river in the mistysummer evening. She thought of all these things with a transient thrillof triumph, which was stronger even than her terror. 

If Sir Michael Audley lived to be a hundred years old, whatever he mightlearn to believe of her, however he might grow to despise her, would heever be able to disassociate her from these attributes? No; a thousandtimes no. To the last hour of his life his memory would present her tohim invested with the loveliness that had first won his enthusiasticadmiration, his devoted affection. Her worst enemies could not rob herof that fairy dower which had been so fatal in its influence upon herfrivolous mind. 

She paced up and down the dressing-room in the silvery lamplight, pondering upon the strange letter which she had received from RobertAudley. She walked backward and forward in that monotonous wandering forsome time before she was able to steady her thoughts--before she wasable to bring the scattered forces of her narrow intellect to bear uponthe one all-important subject of the threat contained in the barrister'sletter. 

"He will do it, " she said, between her set teeth--"he will do it, unlessI get him into a lunatic-asylum first; or unless--"

She did not finish the thought in words. She did not even think out thesentence; but some new and unnatural impulse in her heart seemed to beateach syllable against her breast. 

The thought was this: "He will do it, unless some strange calamitybefalls him, and silences him for ever. " The red blood flashed up intomy lady's face with as sudden and transient a blaze as the flickeringflame of a fire, and died as suddenly away, leaving her more pale thanwinter snow. Her hands, which had before been locked convulsivelytogether, fell apart and dropped heavily at her sides. She stopped inher rapid pacing to and fro--stopped as Lot's wife may have stopped, after that fatal backward glance at the perishing city--with every pulseslackening, with every drop of blood congealing in her veins, in theterrible process that was to transform her from a woman into a statue. 

Lady Audley stood still for about five minutes in that strangelystatuesque attitude, her head erect, her eyes staring straight beforeher--staring far beyond the narrow boundary of her chamber wall, intodark distances of peril and horror. 

But by-and-by she started from that rigid attitude almost as abruptly asshe had fallen into it. She roused herself from that semi-lethargy. Shewalked rapidly to her dressing-table, and, seating herself before it, pushed away the litter of golden-stoppered bottles and delicate chinaessence-boxes, and looked at her reflection in the large, oval glass. She was very pale; but there was no other trace of agitation visible inher girlish face. The lines of her exquisitely molded lips were sobeautiful, that it was only a very close observer who could haveperceived a certain rigidity that was unusual to them. She saw thisherself, and tried to smile away that statue-like immobility: butto-night the rosy lips refused to obey her; they were firmly locked, andwere no longer the slaves of her will and pleasure. All the latentforces of her character concentrated themselves in this one feature. Shemight command her eyes, but she could not control the muscles of hermouth. She rose from before her dressing-table, and took a dark velvetcloak and bonnet from the recesses of her wardrobe, and dressed herselffor walking. The little ormolu clock on the chimney-piece struck thequarter after eleven while Lady Audley was employed in this manner; fiveminutes afterward she re-entered the room in which she had left PhoebeMarks. 

The innkeeper's wife was sitting before the low fender very much in thesame attitude as that in which her late mistress had brooded over thatlonely hearth earlier in the evening. Phoebe had replenished the fire, and had reassumed her bonnet and shawl. She was anxious to get home tothat brutal husband, who was only too apt to fall into some mischief inher absence. She looked up as Lady Audley entered the room, and utteredan exclamation of surprise at seeing her late mistress in awalking-costume. 

"My lady, " she cried, "you are not going out to-night?"

"Yes, I am, Phoebe, " Lady Audley answered, very quietly. "I am going toMount Stanning with you to see this bailiff, and to pay and dismiss himmyself. "

"But, my lady, you forget what the time is; you can't go out at such anhour. "

Lady Audley did not answer. She stood with her finger resting lightlyupon the handle of the bell, meditating quietly. 

"The stables are always locked, and the men in bed by ten o'clock, " shemurmured, "when we are at home. It will make a terrible hubbub to get acarriage ready; but yet I dare say one of the servants could manage thematter quietly for me. "

"But why should you go to-night, my lady?" cried Phoebe Marks. "To-morrow will do quite as well. A week hence will do as well. Ourlandlord would take the man away if he had your promise to settle thedebt. "

Lady Audley took no notice of this interruption. She went hastily intothe dressing-room, and flung off her bonnet and cloak, and then returnedto the boudoir, in her simple dinner-costume, with her curls brushedcarelessly away from her face. 

"Now, Phoebe Marks, listen to me, " she said, grasping her confidante'swrist, and speaking in a low, earnest voice, but with a certainimperious air that challenged contradiction and commanded obedience. "Listen to me, Phoebe, " she repeated. "I am going to the Castle Innto-night; whether it is early or late is of very little consequence tome; I have set my mind upon going, and I shall go. You have asked mewhy, and I have told you. I am going in order that I may pay this debtmyself; and that I may see for myself that the money I give is appliedto the purpose for which I give it. There is nothing out of the commoncourse of life in my doing this. I am going to do what other women in myposition very often do. I am going to assist a favorite servant. "

"But it's getting on for twelve o'clock, my lady, " pleaded Phoebe. 

Lady Audley frowned impatiently at this interruption. 

"If my going to your house to pay this man should be known, " shecontinued, still retaining her hold of Phoebe's wrist, "I am ready toanswer for my conduct; but I would rather that the business should bekept quiet. I think that I can leave this house without being seen byany living creature, if you will do as I tell you. "

"I will do anything you wish, my lady, " answered Phoebe, submissively. 

"Then you will wish me good-night presently, when my maid comes into theroom, and you will suffer her to show you out of the house. You willcross the courtyard and wait for me in the avenue upon the other side ofthe archway. It may be half an hour before I am able to join you, for Imust not leave my room till the servants have all gone to bed, but youmay wait for me patiently, for come what may I will join you. "

Lady Audley's face was no longer pale. An unnatural luster gleamed inher great blue eyes. She spoke with an unnatural rapidity. She hadaltogether the appearance and manner of a person who has yielded to thedominant influence of some overpowering excitement. Phoebe Marks staredat her late mistress in mute bewilderment. She began to fear that mylady was going mad. 

The bell which Lady Audley rang was answered by the smart lady's-maidwho wore rose-colored ribbons, and black silk gowns, and otheradornments which were unknown to the humble people who sat below thesalt in the good old days when servants wore linsey-woolsey. 

"I did not know that it was so late, Martin, " said my lady, in thatgentle tone which always won for her the willing service of herinferiors. "I have been talking with Mrs. Marks and have let the timeslip by me. I sha'n't want anything to-night, so you may go to bed whenyou please. "

"Thank you, my lady, " answered the girl, who looked very sleepy, and hadsome difficulty in repressing a yawn even in her mistress' presence, forthe Audley household usually kept very early hours. "I'd better showMrs. Marks out, my lady, hadn't I?" asked the maid, "before I go tobed?"

"Oh, yes, to be sure; you can let Phoebe out. All the other servantshave gone to bed, then, I suppose?"

"Yes, my lady. "

Lady Audley laughed as she glanced at the timepiece. 

"We have been terrible dissipated up here, Phoebe, " she said. "Good-night. You may tell your husband that his rent shall be paid. "

"Thank you very much, my lady, and good-night, " murmured Phoebe as shebacked out of the room, followed by the lady's maid. 

Lady Audley listened at the door, waiting till the muffled sounds oftheir footsteps died away in the octagon chamber and on the carpetedstaircase. 

"Martin sleeps at the top of the house, " she said, "half a mile awayfrom this room. In ten minutes I may safely make my escape. "

She went back into her dressing-room, and put on her cloak and bonnetfor the second time. The unnatural color still burnt like a flame in hercheeks; the unnatural light still glittered in her eyes. The excitementwhich she was under held her in so strong a spell that neither her mindnor her body seemed to have any consciousness of fatigue. Howeververbose I may be in my description of her feelings, I can never describea tithe of her thoughts or her sufferings. She suffered agonies thatwould fill closely printed volumes, bulky with a thousand pages, in thatone horrible night. She underwent volumes of anguish, and doubt, andperplexity; sometimes repeating the same chapters of her torments overand over again; sometimes hurrying through a thousand pages of hermisery without one pause, without one moment of breathing time. Shestood by the low fender in her boudoir, watching the minute-hand of theclock, and waiting till it should be time for her to leave the house insafety. 

"I will wait ten minutes, " she said, "not a moment beyond, before Ienter on my new peril. "

She listened to the wild roaring of the March wind, which seemed to haverisen with the stillness and darkness of the night. 

The hand slowly made its inevitable way to the figures which told thatthe ten minutes were past. It was exactly a quarter to twelve when mylady took her lamp in her hand, and stole softly from the room. Herfootfall was as light as that of some graceful wild animal, and therewas no fear of that airy step awakening any echo upon the carpeted stonecorridors and staircase. She did not pause until she reached thevestibule upon the ground floor. Several doors opened out of thevestibule, which was octagon, like my lady's ante-chamber. One of thesedoors led into the library, and it was this door which Lady Audleyopened softly and cautiously. 

To have attempted to leave the house secretly by any of the principaloutlets would have been simple madness, for the housekeeper herselfsuperintended the barricading of the great doors, back and front. Thesecrets of the bolts, and bars, and chains, and bells which securedthese doors, and provided for the safety of Sir Michael Audley'splate-room, the door of which was lined with sheet-iron, were known onlyto the servants who had to deal with them. But although all theseprecautions were taken with the principal entrances to the citadel, awooden shutter and a slender iron bar, light enough to be lifted by achild, were considered sufficient safeguard for the half-glass doorwhich opened out of the breakfast-room into the graveled pathway andsmooth turf in the courtyard. 

It was by this outlet that Lady Audley meant to make her escape. Shecould easily remove the bar and unfasten the shutter, and she mightsafely venture to leave the window ajar while she was absent. There waslittle fear of Sir Michael's awaking for some time, as he was a heavysleeper in the early part of the night, and had slept more heavily thanusual since his illness. 

Lady Audley crossed the library, and opened the door of thebreakfast-room, which communicated with it. This latter apartment wasone of the later additions to the Court. It was a simple, cheerfulchamber, with brightly papered walls and pretty maple furniture, and wasmore occupied by Alicia than any one else. The paraphernalia of thatyoung lady's favorite pursuits were scattered about theroom--drawing-materials, unfinished scraps of work, tangled skeins ofsilk, and all the other tokens of a careless damsel's presence; whileMiss Audley's picture--a pretty crayon sketch of a rosy-faced hoyden ina riding-habit and hat--hung over the quaint Wedgewood ornaments on thechimneypiece. My lady looked upon these familiar objects with scornfulhatred flaming in her blue eyes. 

"How glad she will be if any disgrace befalls me, " she thought; "how shewill rejoice if I am driven out of this house!"

Lady Audley set the lamp upon a table near the fireplace, and went tothe window. She removed the iron-bar and the light wooden shutter, andthen opened the glass-door. The March night was black and moonless, anda gust of wind blew in upon her as she opened this door, and filled theroom with its chilly breath, extinguishing the lamp upon the table. 

"No matter, " my lady muttered, "I could not have left it burning. Ishall know how to find my way through the house when I come back. I haveleft all the doors ajar. "

She stepped quickly out upon the smooth gravel, and closed theglass-door behind her. She was afraid lest that treacherous wind shouldblow-to the door opening into the library, and thus betray her. 

She was in the quadrangle now, with that chill wind sweeping againsther, and swirling her silken garments round her with a shrill, rustlingnoise, like the whistling of a sharp breeze against the sails of ayacht. She crossed the quadrangle and looked back--looked back for amoment at the firelight gleaming between the rosy-tinted curtains in herboudoir, and the dim gleam of the lamp through the mullioned windows inthe room where Sir Michael Audley lay asleep. 

"I feel as if I were running away, " she thought; "I feel as if I wererunning away secretly in the dead of the night, to lose myself and beforgotten. Perhaps it would be wiser in me to run away, to take thisman's warning, and escape out of his power forever. If I were to runaway and disappear as--as George Talboys disappeared. But where could Igo? what would become of me? I have no money; my jewels are not worth acouple of hundred pounds, now that I have got rid of the best part ofthem. What could I do? I must go back to the old life, the old, hard, cruel, wretched life--the life of poverty, and humiliation, andvexation, and discontent. I should have to go back and wear myself outin that long struggle, and die--as my mother died, perhaps!"

My lady stood still for a moment on the smooth lawn between thequadrangle and the archway, with her head drooping upon her breast andher hands locked together, debating this question in the unnaturalactivity of her mind. Her attitude reflected the state of that mind--itexpressed irresolution and perplexity. But presently a sudden changecame over her; she lifted her head--lifted it with an action of defianceand determination. 

"No! Mr. Robert Audley, " she said, aloud, in a low, clear voice; "I willnot go back--I will not go back. If the struggle between us is to be aduel to the death, you shall not find me drop my weapon. "

She walked with a firm and rapid step under the archway. As she passedunder that massive arch, it seemed as if she disappeared into some blackgulf that had waited open to receive her. The stupid clock strucktwelve, and the whole archway seemed to vibrate under its heavy strokes, as Lady Audley emerged upon the other side and joined Phoebe Marks, whohad waited for her late mistress very near the gateway of the Court. 

"Now, Phoebe, " she said, "it is three miles from here to Mount Stanning, isn't it?"

"Yes, my lady. "

"Then we can walk the distance in an hour and a half. "

Lady Audley had not stopped to say this; she was walking quickly alongthe avenue with her humble companion by her side. Fragile and delicateas she was in appearance, she was a very good walker. She had been inthe habit of taking long country rambles with Mr. Dawson's children inher old days of dependence, and she thought very little of a distance ofthree miles. 

"Your beautiful husband will sit up for you, I suppose, Phoebe?" shesaid, as they struck across an open field that was used as a short cutfrom Audley Court to the high-road. 

"Oh, yes, my lady; he's sure to sit up. He'll be drinking with the man, I dare say. "

"The man! What man?"

"The man that's in possession, my lady. "

"Ah, to be sure, " said Lady Audley, indifferently. 

It was strange that Phoebe's domestic troubles should seem so very faraway from her thoughts at the time she was taking such an extraordinarystep toward setting things right at the Castle Inn. 

The two women crossed the field and turned into the high road. The wayto Mount Stanning was all up hill, and the long road looked black anddreary in the dark night; but my lady walked on with a desperatecourage, which was no common constituent in her selfish sensuous nature, but a strange faculty born out of her great despair. She did not speakagain to her companion until they were close upon the glimmering lightsat the top of the hill. One of these village lights, glaring redlythrough a crimson curtain, marked out the particular window behind whichit was likely that Luke Marks sat nodding drowsily over his liquor, andwaiting for the coming of his wife. 

"He has not gone to bed, Phoebe, " said my lady, eagerly. "But there isno other light burning at the inn. I suppose Mr. Audley is in bed andasleep. "

"Yes, my lady, I suppose so. "

"You are sure he was going to stay at the Castle to night?"

"Oh, yes, my lady. I helped the girl to get his room ready before I cameaway. "

The wind, boisterous everywhere, was even shriller and more pitiless inthe neighborhood of that bleak hill-top upon which the Castle Inn rearedits rickety walls. The cruel blasts raved wildly round that frailerection. They disported themselves with the shattered pigeon-house, thebroken weathercock, the loose tiles, and unshapely chimneys; theyrattled at the window-panes, and whistled in the crevices; they mockedthe feeble building from foundation to roof, and battered, and banged, and tormented it in their fierce gambols, until it trembled and rockedwith the force of their rough play. 

Mr. Luke Marks had not troubled himself to secure the door of hisdwelling-house before sitting down to booze with the man who heldprovisional possession of his goods and chattels. The landlord of theCastle Inn was a lazy, sensual brute, who had no thought higher than aselfish concern for his own enjoyments, and a virulent hatred foranybody who stood in the way of his gratification. 

Phoebe pushed open the door with her hand, and went into the house, followed by my lady. The gas was flaring in the bar, and smoking the lowplastered ceiling. The door of the bar-parlor was half open, and LadyAudley heard the brutal laughter of Mr. Marks as she crossed thethreshold of the inn. 

"I'll tell him you're here, my lady, " whispered Phoebe to her latemistress. "I know he'll be tipsy. You--you won't be offended, my lady, if he should say anything rude? You know it wasn't my wish that youshould come. "

"Yes, yes, " answered Lady Audley, impatiently, "I know that. What shouldI care for his rudeness! Let him say what he likes. "

Phoebe Marks pushed open the parlor door, leaving my lady in the barclose behind her. 

Luke sat with his clumsy legs stretched out upon the hearth. He held aglass of gin-and-water in one hand and the poker in the other. He hadjust thrust the poker into a heap of black coals, and was scatteringthem to make a blaze, when his wife appeared upon the threshold of theroom. 

He snatched the poker from between the bars, and made a half drunken, half threatening motion with it as he saw her. 

"So you've condescended to come home at last, ma'am, " he said; "Ithought you was never coming no more. "

He spoke in a thick and drunken voice, and was by no means toointelligible. He was steeped to the very lips in alcohol. His eyes weredim and watery; his hands were unsteady; his voice was choked andmuffled with drink. A brute, even when most sober; a brute, even on hisbest behavior, he was ten times more brutal in his drunkenness, when thefew restraints which held his ignorant, every day brutality in checkwere flung aside in the indolent recklessness of intoxication. 

"I--I've been longer than I intended to be, Luke, " Phoebe answered, inher most conciliatory manner; "but I've seen my lady, and she's beenvery kind, and--and she'll settle this business for us. "

"She's been very kind, has she?" muttered Mr. Marks, with a drunkenlaugh; "thank her for nothing. I know the vally of her kindness. She'dbe oncommon kind, I dessay, if she warn't obligated to be it. "

The man in possession, who had fallen into a maudlin andsemi-unconscious state of intoxication upon about a third of the liquorthat Mr. Marks had consumed, only stared in feeble wonderment at hishost and hostess. He sat near the table. Indeed, he had hooked himselfon to it with his elbows, as a safeguard against sliding under it, andhe was making imbecile attempts to light his pipe at the flame of aguttering tallow candle near him. 

"My lady has promised to settle the business for us, Luke, " Phoeberepeated, without noticing Luke's remarks. She knew her husband's doggednature well enough by this time to know that it was worse than uselessto try to stop him from doing or saying anything which his own stubbornwill led him to do or say. "My lady will settle it, " she said, "andshe's come down here to see about it to-night, " she added. 

The poker dropped from the landlord's hand, and fell clattering amongthe cinders on the hearth. 

"My Lady Audley come here to-night!" he said. 

"Yes, Luke. "

My lady appeared upon the threshold of the door as Phoebe spoke. 

"Yes, Luke Marks, " she said, "I have come to pay this man, and to sendhim about his business. "

Lady Audley said these words in a strange, semi-mechanical manner; verymuch as if she had learned the sentence by rote, and were repeating itwithout knowing what she said. 

Mr. Marks gave a discontented growl, and set his empty glass down uponthe table with an impatient gesture. 

"You might have given the money to Phoebe, " he said, "as well as havebrought it yourself. We don't want no fine ladies up here, pryin' andpokin' their precious noses into everythink. "

"Luke, Luke!" remonstrated Phoebe, "when my lady has been so kind!"

"Oh, damn her kindness!" cried Mr. Marks; "it ain't her kindness as wewant, gal, it's her money. She won't get no snivelin' gratitood from me. Whatever she does for us she does because she is obliged; and if shewasn't obliged she wouldn't do it--"

Heaven knows how much more Luke Marks might have said, had not my ladyturned upon him suddenly and awed him into silence by the unearthlyglitter of her beauty. Her hair had been blown away from her face, andbeing of a light, feathery quality, had spread itself into a tangledmass that surrounded her forehead like a yellow flame. There was anotherflame in her eyes--a greenish light, such as might flash from thechanging-hued orbs of an angry mermaid. 

"Stop, " she cried. "I didn't come up here in the dead of night to listento your insolence. How much is this debt?"

"Nine pound. "

Lady Audley produced her purse--a toy of ivory, silver, andturquoise--she took from it a note and four sovereigns. She laid theseupon the table. 

"Let that man give me a receipt for the money, " she said, "before I go. "

It was some time before the man could be roused into sufficientconsciousness for the performance of this simple duty, and it was onlyby dipping a pen into the ink and pushing it between his clumsy fingers, that he was at last made to comprehend that his autograph was wanted atthe bottom of the receipt which had been made out by Phoebe Marks. LadyAudley took the document as soon as the ink was dry, and turned to leavethe parlor. Phoebe followed her. 

"You mustn't go home alone, my lady, " she said. "You'll let me go withyou?"

"Yes, yes; you shall go home with me. "

The two women were standing near the door of the inn as my lady saidthis. Phoebe stared wonderingly at her patroness. She had expected thatLady Audley would be in a hurry to return home after settling thisbusiness which she had capriciously taken upon herself; but it was notso; my lady stood leaning against the inn door and staring into vacancy, and again Mrs. Marks began to fear that trouble had driven her latemistress mad. 

A little Dutch clock in the bar struck two while Lady Audley lingered inthis irresolute, absent manner. She started at the sound and began totremble violently. 

"I think I am going to faint, Phoebe, " she said; "where can I get somecold water?"

"The pump is in the wash-house, my lady; I'll run and get you a glass ofcold water. "

"No, no, no, " cried my lady, clutching Phoebe's arm as she was about torun away upon this errand; "I'll get it myself. I must dip my head in abasin of water if I want to save myself from fainting. In which roomdoes Mr. Audley sleep?"

There was something so irrelevant in this question that Phoebe Marksstared aghast at her mistress before she answered it. 

"It was number three that I got ready, my lady--the front room--the roomnext to ours, " she replied, after that pause of astonishment. 

"Give me a candle, " said my lady. "I'll go into your room, and get somewater for my head; stay where you are, and see that that brute of ahusband of yours does not follow me!"

She snatched the candle which Phoebe had lighted from the girl's handand ran up the rickety, winding staircase which led to the narrowcorridor upon the upper floor. Five bed-rooms opened out of thislow-ceilinged, close-smelling corridor; the numbers of these rooms wereindicated by squat black figures painted upon the panels of the doors. Lady Audley had driven up to Mount Stanning to inspect the house whenshe bought the business for her servant's bridegroom, and she knew herway about the dilapidated old place; she knew where to find Phoebe'sbedroom, but she stopped before the door of that other chamber which hadbeen prepared for Mr. Robert Audley. 

She stopped and looked at the number on the door. The key was in thelock, and her hand dropped upon it as if unconsciously. But presentlyshe suddenly began to tremble again, as she had trembled a few minutesbefore at the striking of the clock. She stood for a few momentstrembling thus, with her hand still upon the key; then a horribleexpression came over her face, and she turned the key in the lock. Sheturned it twice, double locking the door. 

There was no sound from within; the occupant of the chamber made no signof having heard that ominous creaking of the rusty key in the rustylock. 

Lady Audley hurried into the next room. She set the candle on thedressing-table, flung off her bonnet and slung it loosely across herarm; then she went to the wash-stand and filled the basin with water. She plunged her golden hair into this water, and then stood for a fewmoments in the center of the room looking about her, with a white, earnest face, and an eager gaze that seemed to take in every object inthe poorly furnished chamber. Phoebe's bedroom was certainly veryshabbily furnished; she had been compelled to select all the most decentthings for those best bedrooms which were set apart for any chancetraveler who might stop for a night's lodging at the Castle Inn; butPhoebe Marks had done her best to atone for the lack of substantialfurniture in her apartment by a superabundance of drapery. Crispcurtains of cheap chintz hung from the tent-bedstead; festooned draperyof the same material shrouded the narrow window shutting out the lightof day, and affording a pleasant harbor for tribes of flies andpredatory bands of spiders. Even the looking-glass, a miserably cheapconstruction which distorted every face whose owner had the hardihood tolook into it, stood upon a draperied altar of starched muslin and pinkglazed calico, and was adorned with frills of lace and knitted work. 

My lady smiled as she looked at the festoons and furbelows which met hereyes upon every side. She had reason, perhaps, to smile, remembering thecostly elegance of her own apartments; but there was something in thatsardonic smile that seemed to have a deeper meaning than any naturalcontempt for Phoebe's attempts at decoration. She went to thedressing-table and, smoothed her wet hair before the looking-glass, andthen put on her bonnet. She was obliged to place the flaming tallowcandle very close to the lace furbelows about the glass; so close thatthe starched muslin seemed to draw the flame toward it by some power ofattraction in its fragile tissue. 

Phoebe waited anxiously by the inn door for my lady's coming She watchedthe minute hand of the little Dutch clock, wondering at the slowness ofits progress. It was only ten minutes past two when Lady Audley camedown-stairs, with her bonnet on and her hair still wet, but without thecandle. 

Phoebe was immediately anxious about this missing candle. 

"The light, my lady, " she said, "you have left it up-stairs!"

"The wind blew it out as I was leaving your room, " Lady Audley answered, quietly. "I left it there. "

"In my room, my lady?"

"Yes. "

"And it was quite out?"

"Yes, I tell you; why do you worry me about your candle? It is past twoo'clock. Come. "

She took the girl's arm, and half led, half dragged her from the house. The convulsive pressure of her slight hand held her firmly as an ironvise could have held her. The fierce March wind banged to the door ofthe house, and left the two women standing outside it. The long, blackroad lay bleak and desolate before them, dimly visible between straightlines of leafless hedges. 

A walk of three miles' length upon a lonely country road, between thehours of two and four on a cold winter's morning, is scarcely a pleasanttask for a delicate woman--a woman whose inclinations lean toward easeand luxury. But my lady hurried along the hard, dry highway, draggingher companion with her as if she had been impelled by some horribledemoniac force which knew no abatement. With the black night abovethem--with the fierce wind howling around them, sweeping across a broadexpanse of hidden country, blowing as if it had arisen simultaneouslyfrom every point of the compass, and making those wanderers the focus ofits ferocity--the two women walked through the darkness down the hillupon which Mount Stanning stood, along a mile and a half of flat road, and then up another hill, on the western side of which Audley Court layin that sheltered valley, which seemed to shut in the old house from allthe clamor and hubbub of the everyday world. 

My lady stopped upon the summit of this hill to draw breath and to claspher hands upon her heart, in the vain hope that she might still itscruel beating. They were now within three-quarters of a mile of theCourt, and they had been walking for nearly an hour since they had leftthe Castle Inn. 

Lady Audley stopped to rest, with her face still turned toward the placeof her destination. Phoebe Marks, stopping also, and very glad of amoment's pause in that hurried journey, looked back into the fardarkness beneath which lay that dreary shelter that had given her somuch uneasiness. And she did so, she uttered a shrill cry of horror, andclutched wildly at her companion's cloak. 

The night sky was no longer all dark. The thick blackness was broken byone patch of lurid light. 

"My lady, my lady!" cried Phoebe, pointing to this lurid patch; "do yousee?"

"Yes, child, I see, " answered Lady Audley, trying to shake the clinginghands from her garments. "What's the matter?"

"It's a fire--a fire, my lady!"

"Yes, I am afraid it is a fire. At Brentwood, most likely. Let me go, Phoebe; it's nothing to us. "

"Yes, yes, my lady; it's nearer than Brentwood--much nearer; it's atMount Stanning. "

Lady Audley did not answer. She was trembling again, with the coldperhaps, for the wind had torn her heavy cloak from her shoulders, andhad left her slender figure exposed to the blast. 

"It's at Mount Stanning, my lady!" cried Phoebe Marks. "It's the Castlethat's on fire--I know it is, I know it is! I thought of fire to-night, and I was fidgety and uneasy, for I knew this would happen some day. Iwouldn't mind if it was only the wretched place, but there'll be lifelost, there'll be life lost!" sobbed the girl, distractedly. "There'sLuke, too tipsy to help himself, unless others help him; there's Mr. Audley asleep--"

Phoebe Marks stopped suddenly at the mention of Robert's name, and fellupon her knees, clasping her uplifted hands, and appealing wildly toLady Audley. 

"Oh, my God!" she cried. "Say it's not true, my lady, say it's not true!It's too horrible, it's too horrible, it's too horrible!"

"What's too horrible?"

"The thought that's in my mind; the terrible thought that's in my mind. "

"What do you mean, girl?" cried my lady, fiercely. 

"Oh, God forgive me if I'm wrong!" the kneeling woman gasped in detachedsentences, "and God grant I may be. Why did you go up to the Castle, mylady? Why were you so set on going against all I could say--you who areso bitter against Mr. Audley and against Luke, and who knew they wereboth under that roof? Oh, tell me that I do you a cruel wrong, my lady;tell me so--tell me! for as there is a Heaven above me I think that youwent to that place to-night on purpose to set fire to it. Tell me thatI'm wrong, my lady; tell me that I'm doing you a wicked wrong. "

"I will tell you nothing, except that you are a mad woman, " answeredLady Audley; in a cold, hard voice. "Get up; fool, idiot, coward! Isyour husband such a precious bargain that you should be groveling there, lamenting and groaning for him? What is Robert Audley to you, that youbehave like a maniac, because you think he is in danger? How do you knowthe fire is at Mount Stanning? You see a red patch in the sky, and youcry out directly that your own paltry hovel is in flames, as if therewere no place in the world that could burn except that. The fire may beat Brentwood, or further away--at Romford, or still further away, on theeastern side of London, perhaps. Get up, mad woman, and go back and lookafter your goods and chattels, and your husband and your lodger. Get upand go: I don't want you. "

"Oh! my lady, my lady, forgive me, " sobbed Phoebe; "there's nothing youcan say to me that's hard enough for having done you such a wrong, evenin my thoughts. I don't mind your cruel words--I don't mind anything ifI'm wrong. "

"Go back and see for yourself, " answered Lady Audley, sternly. "I tellyou again, I don't want you. "

She walked away in the darkness, leaving Phoebe Marks still kneelingupon the hard road, where she had cast herself in that agony ofsupplication. Sir Michael's wife walked toward the house in which herhusband slept with the red blaze lighting up the skies behind her, andwith nothing but the blackness of the night before. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE BEARER OF THE TIDINGS. 

It was very late the next morning when Lady Audley emerged from herdressing-room, exquisitely dressed in a morning costume of delicatemuslin, delicate laces, and embroideries; but with a very pale face, andwith half-circles of purple shadow under her eyes. She accounted forthis pale face and these hollow eyes by declaring that she had sat upreading until a very late hour on the previous night. 

Sir Michael and his young wife breakfasted in the library at acomfortable round table, wheeled close to the blazing fire; and Aliciawas compelled to share this meal with her step-mother, however she mightavoid that lady in the long interval between breakfast and dinner. 

The March morning was bleak and dull, and a drizzling rain fellincessantly, obscuring the landscape and blotting out the distance. There were very few letters by the morning post; the daily newspapersdid not arrive until noon; and such aids to conversation being missing, there was very little talk at the breakfast table. 

Alicia looked out at the drizzling rain drifting against the broadwindow-panes. 

"No riding to-day, " she said; "and no chance of any callers to enlivenus, unless that ridiculous Bob comes crawling through the wet from MountStanning. "

Have you ever heard anybody, whom you knew to be dead, alluded to in alight, easy going manner by another person who did not know of hisdeath--alluded to as doing that or this, as performing some trivialeveryday operation--when _you_ know that he has vanished away from theface of this earth, and separated himself forever from all livingcreatures and their commonplace pursuits in the awful solemnity ofdeath? Such a chance allusion, insignificant though it may be, is apt tosend a strange thrill of pain through the mind. The ignorant remark jarsdiscordantly upon the hyper-sensitive brain; the King of Terrors isdesecrated by that unwitting disrespect. Heaven knows what hidden reasonmy lady may have had for experiencing some such revulsion of feeling onthe sudden mention of Mr. Audley's name, but her pale face blanched to asickly white as Alicia Audley spoke of her cousin. 

"Yes, he will come down here in the wet, perhaps, " the young ladycontinued, "with his hat sleek and shining as if it had been brushedwith a pat of fresh butter, and with white vapors steaming out of hisclothes, and making him look like an awkward genie just let out of hisbottle. He will come down here and print impressions of his muddy bootsall over the carpet, and he'll sit on your Gobelin tapestry, my lady, inhis wet overcoat; and he'll abuse you if you remonstrate, and will askwhy people have chairs that are not to be sat upon, and why you don'tlive in Figtree Court, and--"

Sir Michael Audley watched his daughter with a thoughtful countenance asshe talked of her cousin. She very often talked of him, ridiculing himand inveighing against him in no very measured terms. But perhaps thebaronet thought of a certain Signora Beatrice who very cruelly entreateda gentleman called Benedick, but who was, it may be, heartily in lovewith him at the same time. 

"What do you think Major Melville told me when he called here yesterday, Alicia?" Sir Michael asked, presently. 

"I haven't the remotest idea, " replied Alicia, rather disdainfully. "Perhaps he told you that we should have another war before long, byGed, sir; or perhaps he told you that we should have a new ministry, byGed, sir, for that those fellows are getting themselves into a mess, sir; or that those other fellows were reforming this, and cutting downthat, and altering the other in the army, until, by Ged, sir, we shallhave no army at all, by-and-by--nothing but a pack of boys, sir, crammedup to the eyes with a lot of senseless schoolmasters' rubbish, anddressed in shell-jackets and calico helmets. Yes, sir, they're fightingin Oudh in calico helmets at this very day, sir. "

"You're an impertinent minx, miss, " answered the baronet. "MajorMelville told me nothing of the kind; but he told me that a very devotedadmirer of you, a certain Sir Harry Towers, has forsaken his place inHertfordshire, and his hunting stable, and has gone on the continent fora twelvemonths' tour. "

Miss Audley flushed up suddenly at the mention of her old adorer, butrecovered herself very quickly. 

"He has gone on the continent, has he?" she said indifferently. "He toldme that he meant to do so--if--if he didn't have everything his own way. Poor fellow! he's a, dear, good-hearted, stupid creature, and twentytimes better than that peripatetic, patent refrigerator, Mr. RobertAudley. "

"I wish, Alicia, you were not so fond of ridiculing Bob, " Sir Michaelsaid, gravely. "Bob is a good fellow, and I'm as fond of him as if he'dbeen my own son; and--and--I've been very uncomfortable about himlately. He has changed very much within the last few days, and he hastaken all sorts of absurd ideas into his head, and my lady has alarmedme about him. She thinks--"

Lady Audley interrupted her husband with a grave shake of her head. 

"It is better not to say too much about it as yet awhile, " she said;"Alicia knows what I think. "

"Yes, " replied Miss Audley, "my lady thinks that Bob is going mad, but Iknow better than that. He's not at all the sort of person to go mad. Howshould such a sluggish ditch-pond of an intellect as his ever workitself into a tempest? He may move about for the rest of his life, perhaps, in a tranquil state of semi-idiotcy, imperfectly comprehendingwho he is, and where he's going, and what he's doing--but he'll never gomad. "

Sir Michael did not reply to this. He had been very much disturbed byhis conversation with my lady on the previous evening, and had silentlydebated the painful question, in his mind ever since. 

His wife--the woman he best loved and most believed in--had told him, with all appearance of regret and agitation, her conviction of hisnephew's insanity. He tried in vain to arrive at the conclusion hewished most ardently to attain; he tried in vain to think that my ladywas misled by her own fancies, and had no foundation for what she said. But then, again, it suddenly flashed upon him, that to think this was toarrive at a worse conclusion; it was to transfer the horrible suspicionfrom his nephew to his wife. She appeared to be possessed with an actualconviction of Robert's insanity. To imagine her wrong was to imaginesome weakness in her own mind. The longer he thought of the subject themore it harassed and perplexed him. It was most certain that the youngman had always been eccentric. He was sensible, he was tolerably clever, he was honorable and gentlemanlike in feeling, though perhaps a littlecareless in the performance of certain minor social duties; but therewere some slight differences, not easily to be defined, that separatedhim from other men of his age and position. Then, again, it was equallytrue that he had very much changed within the period that had succeededthe disappearance of George Talboys. He had grown moody and thoughtful, melancholy and absent-minded. He had held himself aloof from society, had sat for hours without speaking; had talked at other points by fitsand starts; and had excited himself unusually in the discussion ofsubjects which apparently lay far out of the region of his own life andinterests. Then there was even another region which seemed to strengthenmy lady's case against this unhappy young man. He had been brought up inthe frequent society of his cousin, Alicia--his pretty, genialcousin--to whom interest, and one would have thought affection, naturally pointed as his most fitting bride. More than this, the girlhad shown him, in the innocent guilelessness of a transparent nature, that on her side at least, affection was not wanting; and yet, in spiteof all this, he had held himself aloof, and had allowed others topropose for her hand, and to be rejected by her, and had still made nosign. 

Now love is so very subtle an essence, such an indefinable metaphysicalmarvel, that its due force, though very cruelly felt by the suffererhimself, is never clearly understood by those who look on at itstorments and wonder why he takes the common fever so badly. Sir Michaelargued that because Alicia was a pretty girl and an amiable girl it wastherefore extraordinary and unnatural in Robert Audley not to have dulyfallen in love with her. This baronet, who close upon his sixtiethbirthday, had for the first time encountered that one woman who out ofall the women in the world had power to quicken the pulses of his heart, wondered why Robert failed to take the fever from the first breath ofcontagion that blew toward him. He forgot that there are men who gotheir ways unscathed amidst legions of lovely and generous women, tosuccumb at last before some harsh-featured virago, who knows the secretof that only philter which can intoxicate and bewitch him. He had forgotthat there are certain Jacks who go through life without meeting theJill appointed for them by Nemesis, and die old bachelors, perhaps, withpoor Jill pining an old maid upon the other side of the party-wall. Heforgot that love, which is a madness, and a scourge, and a fever, and adelusion, and a snare, is also a mystery, and very imperfectlyunderstood by everyone except the individual sufferer who writhes underits tortures. Jones, who is wildly enamored of Miss Brown, and who liesawake at night until he loathes his comfortable pillow and tumbles hissheets into two twisted rags of linen in his agonies, as if he were aprisoner and wanted to wind them into impromptu ropes; this same Joneswho thinks Russell Square a magic place because his divinity inhabitsit, who thinks the trees in that inclosure and the sky above it greenerand bluer than other trees or sky, and who feels a pang, yes, an actualpang, of mingled hope, and joy, and expectation, and terror, when heemerges from Guilford street, descending from the hights of Islington, into those sacred precincts; this very Jones is hard and callous towardthe torments of Smith, who adores Miss Robinson, and cannot imagine whatthe infatuated fellow can see in the girl. So it was with Sir MichaelAudley. He looked at his nephew as a sample of a very large class ofyoung men, and his daughter as a sample of an equally extensive class offeminine goods, and could not see why the two samples should not make avery respectable match. He ignored all those infinitesimal differencesin nature which make the wholesome food of one man the deadly poison ofanother. How difficult it is to believe sometimes that a man doesn'tlike such and such a favorite dish. If at a dinner-party, a meek lookingguest refuses early salmon and cucumbers, or green peas in February, weset him down as a poor relation whose instincts warn him off thoseexpensive plates. If an alderman were to declare that he didn't likegreen fat, he would be looked upon as a social martyr, a Marcus Curtiusof the dinner-table, who immolated himself for the benefit of his kind. His fellow-aldermen would believe in anything rather than an hereticaldistaste for the city ambrosia of the soup tureen. But there are peoplewho dislike salmon, and white-bait, and spring ducklings, and all mannerof old-established delicacies, and there are other people who affecteccentric and despicable dishes, generally stigmatized as nasty. 

Alas, my pretty Alicia, your cousin did not love you! He admired yourrosy English face, and had a tender affection for you which mightperhaps have expanded by-and-by into something warm enough formatrimony, that every-day jog-trot species of union which demands novery passionate devotion, but for a sudden check which it had receivedin Dorsetshire. Yes, Robert Audley's growing affection for his cousin, aplant of very slow growth, I am fain to confess, had been suddenlydwarfed and stunted upon that bitter February day on which he had stoodbeneath the pine-trees talking to Clara Talboys. Since that day theyoung man had experienced an unpleasant sensation in thinking of poorAlicia. He looked at her as being in some vague manner an incumbranceupon the freedom of his thoughts; he had a haunting fear that he was insome tacit way pledged to her; that she had a species of claim upon him, which forbade to him the right of thinking of another woman. I believeit was the image of Miss Audley presented to him in this light thatgoaded the young barrister into those outbursts of splenetic rageagainst the female sex which he was liable to at certain times. He wasstrictly honorable, so honorable that he would rather have immolatedhimself upon the altar of truth and Alicia than have done her theremotest wrong, though by so doing he might have secured his own comfortand happiness. 

"If the poor little girl loves me, " he thought, "and if she thinks thatI love her, and has been led to think so by any word or act of mine, I'min duty bound to let her think so to the end of time, and to fulfill anytacit promise which I may have unconsciously made. I thought once--Imeant once to--to make her an offer by-and-by when this horrible mysteryabout George Talboys should have been cleared up and everythingpeacefully settled--but now--"

His thoughts would ordinarily wander away at this point of hisreflections, carrying him where he never had intended to go; carryinghim back under the pine-trees in Dorsetshire, and setting him once moreface to face with the sister of his missing friend, and it was generallya very laborious journey by which he traveled back to the point fromwhich he strayed. It was so difficult for him to tear himself away fromthe stunted turf and the pine-trees. 

"Poor little girl!" he would think on coming back to Alicia. "How goodit is of her to love me, and how grateful ought I to be for hertenderness. How many fellows would think such a generous, loving heartthe highest boon that earth could give them. There's Sir Harry Towersstricken with despair at his rejection. He would give me half hisestate, all his estate, twice his estate, if he had it, to be in theshoes which I am anxious to shake off my ungrateful feet. Why don't Ilove her? Why is it that although I know her to be pretty, and pure, andgood, and truthful, I don't love her? Her image never haunts me, exceptreproachfully. I never see her in my dreams. I never wake up suddenly inthe dead of the night with her eyes shining upon me and her warm breathupon my cheek, or with the fingers of her soft hand clinging to mine. No, I'm not in love with her, I can't fall in love with her. "

He raged and rebelled against his ingratitude. He tried to argue himselfinto a passionate attachment for his cousin, but he failedignominiously, and the more he tried to think of Alicia the more hethought of Clara Talboys. I am speaking now of his feelings in theperiod that elapsed between his return from Dorsetshire and his visit toGrange Heath. 

Sir Michael sat by the library fire after breakfast upon this wretchedrainy morning, writing letters and reading the newspapers. Alicia shutherself in her own apartment to read the third volume of a novel. LadyAudley locked the door of the octagon ante-chamber, and roamed up anddown the suit of rooms from the bedroom to the boudoir all through thatweary morning. 

She had locked the door to guard against the chance of any one coming insuddenly and observing her before she was aware--before she had hadsufficient warning to enable her to face their scrutiny. Her pale faceseemed to grow paler as the morning advanced. A tiny medicine-chest wasopen upon the dressing-table, and little stoppered bottles of redlavender, sal-volatile, chloroform, chlorodyne, and ether were scatteredabout. Once my lady paused before this medicine-chest, and took out theremaining bottles, half-absently, perhaps, until she came to one whichwas filled with a thick, dark liquid, and labeled "opium--poison. "

She trifled a long time with this last bottle; holding it up to thelight, and even removing the stopper and smelling the sickly liquid. Butshe put it from her suddenly with a shudder. "If I could!" she muttered, "if I could only do it! And yet why should I _now_?"

She clinched her small hands as she uttered the last words, and walkedto the window of the dressing-room, which looked straight toward thativied archway under which any one must come who came from Mount Stanningto the Court. 

There were smaller gates in the gardens which led into the meadowsbehind the Court, but there was no other way of coming from MountStanning or Brentwood than by the principal entrance. 

The solitary hand of the clock over the archway was midway between oneand two when my lady looked at it. 

"How slow the time is, " she said, wearily; "how slow, how slow! Shall Igrow old like this, I wonder, with every minute of my life seeming likean hour?"

She stood for a few minutes watching the archway, but no one passedunder it while she looked, and she turned impatiently away from thewindow to resume her weary wandering about the rooms. 

Whatever fire that had been which had reflected itself vividly in theblack sky, no tidings of it had as yet come to Audley Court. The day wasmiserably wet and windy, altogether the very last day upon which eventhe most confirmed idler and gossip would care to venture out. It wasnot a market-day, and there were therefore very few passengers upon theroad between Brentwood and Chelmsford, so that as yet no news of thefire, which had occurred in the dead of the wintry night, had reachedthe village of Audley, or traveled from the village to the Court. 

The girl with the rose-colored ribbons came to the door of the anteroomto summon her mistress to luncheon, but Lady Audley only opened the doora little way, and intimated her intention of taking no luncheon. 

"My head aches terribly, Martin, " she said; "I shall go and lie downtill dinner-time. You may come at five to dress me. "

Lady Audley said this with the predetermination of dressing at four, andthus dispensing with the services of her attendant. Among all privilegedspies, a lady's-maid has the highest privileges; it is she who bathesLady Theresa's eyes with eau-de-cologne after her ladyship's quarrelwith the colonel; it is she who administers sal-volatile to Miss Fannywhen Count Beaudesert, of the Blues, has jilted her. She has a hundredmethods for the finding out of her mistress' secrets. She knows by themanner in which her victim jerks her head from under the hair-brush, orchafes at the gentlest administration of the comb, what hidden torturesare racking her breast--what secret perplexities are bewildering herbrain. That well-bred attendant knows how to interpret the most obscurediagnosis of all mental diseases that can afflict her mistress; sheknows when the ivory complexion is bought and paid for--when the pearlyteeth are foreign substances fashioned by the dentist--when the glossyplaits are the relics of the dead, rather than the property of theliving; and she knows other and more sacred secrets than these; sheknows when the sweet smile is more false than Madame Levison's enamel, and far less enduring--when the words that issue from between gates ofborrowed pearl are more disguised and painted than the lips which helpto shape them--when the lovely fairy of the ball-room re-enters thedressing-room after the night's long revelry, and throws aside hervoluminous burnous and her faded bouquet, and drops her mask, and likeanother Cinderella loses the glass-slipper, by whose glitter she hasbeen distinguished, and falls back into her rags and dirt, the lady'smaid is by to see the transformation. The valet who took wages from theprophet of Korazin must have seen his master sometimes unveiled, andmust have laughed in his sleeve at the folly of the monster'sworshipers. 

Lady Audley had made no _confidante_ of her new maid, and on this day ofall others she wished to be alone. 

She did lie down; she cast herself wearily upon the luxurious sofa inthe dressing-room, and buried her face in the down pillows and tried tosleep. Sleep!--she had almost forgotten what it was, that tenderrestorer of tired nature, it seemed so long now since she had slept. Itwas only about eight-and-forty hours perhaps, but it appeared anintolerable time. Her fatigue of the night before, and her unnaturalexcitement, had worn her out at last. She did fall asleep; she fell intoa heavy slumber that was almost like stupor. She had taken a few dropsout of the opium bottle in a glass of water before lying down. 

The clock over the mantelpiece chimed the quarter before four as shewoke suddenly and started up, with the cold perspiration breaking out inicy drops upon her forehead. She had dreamt that every member of thehousehold was clamoring at the door, eager to tell her of a dreadfulfire that had happened in the night. 

There was no sound but the flapping of the ivy-leaves against the glass, the occasional falling of a cinder, and the steady ticking of the clock. 

"Perhaps I shall be always dreaming these sort of dreams, " my ladythought, "until the terror of them kills me!"

The rain had ceased, and the cold spring sunshine was glittering uponthe windows. Lady Audley dressed herself rapidly but carefully. I do notsay that even in her supremest hour of misery she still retained herpride in her beauty. It was not so; she looked upon that beauty as aweapon, and she felt that she had now double need to be well armed. Shedressed herself in her most gorgeous silk, a voluminous robe of silvery, shimmering blue, that made her look as if she had been arrayed inmoonbeams. She shook out her hair into feathery showers of glitteringgold, and, with a cloak of white cashmere about her shoulders, wentdown-stairs into the vestibule. 

She opened the door of the library and looked in. Sir Michael Audley wasasleep in his easy-chair. As my lady softly closed this door Aliciadescended the stairs from her own room. The turret door was open, andthe sun was shining upon the wet grass-plat in the quadrangle. The firmgravel-walks were already very nearly dry, for the rain had ceased forupward of two hours. 

"Will you take a walk with me in the quadrangle?" Lady Audley asked asher step-daughter approached. The armed neutrality between the two womenadmitted of any chance civility such as this. 

"Yes, if you please, my lady, " Alicia answered, rather listlessly. "Ihave been yawning over a stupid novel all the morning, and shall be veryglad of a little fresh air. "

Heaven help the novelist whose fiction Miss Audley had been perusing, ifhe had no better critics than that young lady. She had read page afterpage without knowing what she had been reading, and had flung aside thevolume half a dozen times to go to the window and watch for that visitorwhom she had so confidently expected. 

Lady Audley led the way through the low doorway and on to the smoothgravel drive, by which carriages approached the house. She was stillvery pale, but the brightness of her dress and of her feathery goldenringlets, distracted an observer's eyes from her pallid face. All mentaldistress is, with some show of reason, associated in our minds withloose, disordered garments and dishabilled hair, and an appearance inevery way the reverse of my lady's. Why had she come out into the chillsunshine of that March afternoon to wander up and down that monotonouspathway with the step-daughter she hated? She came because she was underthe dominion of a horrible restlessness, which, would not suffer her toremain within the house waiting for certain tidings which she knew musttoo surely come. At first she had wished to ward them off--at first shehad wished that strange convulsions of nature might arise to hindertheir coming--that abnormal winter lightnings might wither and destroythe messenger who carried them--that the ground might tremble and yawnbeneath his hastening feet, and that impassable gulfs might separate thespot from which the tidings were to come and the place to which theywere to be carried. She wished that the earth might stand still, and theparalyzed elements cease from their natural functions, that the progressof time might stop, that the Day of Judgment might come, and that shemight thus be brought before an unearthly tribunal, and so escape theintervening shame and misery of any earthly judgment. In the wild chaosof her brain, every one of these thoughts had held its place, and in hershort slumber on the sofa in her dressing-room she had dreamed all thesethings and a hundred other things, all bearing upon the same subject. She had dreamed that a brook, a tiny streamlet when she first saw it, flowed across the road between Mount Stanning and Audley, and graduallyswelled into a river, and from a river became an ocean, till the villageon the hill receded far away out of sight and only a great waste ofwaters rolled where it once had been. She dreamt that she saw themessenger, now one person, now another, but never any probable person, hindered by a hundred hinderances, now startling and terrible, nowridiculous and trivial, but never either natural or probable; and goingdown into the quiet house with the memory of these dreams strong uponher, she had been bewildered by the stillness which had betokened thatthe tidings had not yet come. 

And now her mind underwent a complete change. She no longer wished todelay the dreaded intelligence. She wished the agony, whatever it was tobe, over and done with, the pain suffered, and the release attained. Itseemed to her as if the intolerable day would never come to an end, asif her mad wishes had been granted, and the progress of time hadactually stopped. 

"What a long day it has been!" exclaimed Alicia, as if taking up theburden of my lady's thoughts; "nothing but drizzle and mist and wind!And now that it's too late for anybody to go out, it must needs befine, " the young lady added, with an evident sense of injury. 

Lady Audley did not answer. She was looking at the stupid one-handedclock, and waiting for the news which must come sooner or later, whichcould not surely fail to come very speedily. 

"They have been afraid to come and tell him, " she thought; "they havebeen afraid to break the news to Sir Michael. Who will come to tell it, at last, I wonder? The rector of Mount Stanning, perhaps, or the doctor;some important person at least. "

If she could have gone out into the leafless avenues, or onto the highroad beyond them; if she could have gone so far as that hill upon whichshe had so lately parted with Phoebe, she would have gladly done so. Shewould rather have suffered anything than that slow suspense, thatcorroding anxiety, that metaphysical dryrot in which heart and mindseemed to decay under an insufferable torture. She tried to talk, and bya painful effort contrived now and then to utter some commonplaceremark. Under any ordinary circumstances her companion would havenoticed her embarrassment, but Miss Audley, happening to be very muchabsorbed by her own vexations, was quite as well inclined to be silentas my lady herself. The monotonous walk up and down the graveled pathwaysuited Alicia's humor. I think that she even took a malicious pleasurein the idea that she was very likely catching cold, and that her CousinRobert was answerable for her danger. If she could have brought uponherself inflammation of the lungs, or ruptured blood-vessels, by thatexposure to the chill March atmosphere, I think she would have felt agloomy satisfaction in her sufferings. 

"Perhaps Robert might care for me, if I had inflammation of the lungs, "she thought. "He couldn't insult me by calling me a bouncer then. Bouncers don't have inflammation of the lungs. "

I believe she drew a picture of herself in the last stage ofconsumption, propped up by pillows in a great easy-chair, looking out ofa window in the afternoon sunshine, with medicine bottles, a bunch ofgrapes and a Bible upon a table by her side, and with Robert, allcontrition and tenderness, summoned to receive her farewell blessing. She preached a whole chapter to him in that parting benediction, talkinga great deal longer than was in keeping with her prostrate state, andvery much enjoying her dismal castle in the air. Employed in thissentimental manner, Miss Audley took very little notice of herstep-mother, and the one hand of the blundering clock had slipped to sixby the time Robert had been blessed and dismissed. 

"Good gracious me!" she cried, suddenly--"six o'clock, and I'm notdressed. "

The half-hour bell rung in a cupola upon the roof while Alicia wasspeaking. 

"I must go in, my lady, " she said. "Won't you come?"

"Presently, " answered Lady Audley. "I'm dressed, you see. "

Alicia ran off, but Sir Michael's wife still lingered in the quadrangle, still waited for those tidings which were so long coming. 

It was nearly dark. The blue mists of evening had slowly risen from theground. The flat meadows were filled with a gray vapor, and a strangermight have fancied Audley Court a castle on the margin of a sea. Underthe archway the shadows of fastcoming night lurked darkly, like traitorswaiting for an opportunity to glide stealthily into the quadrangle. Through the archway a patch of cold blue sky glimmered faintly, streakedby one line of lurid crimson, and lighted by the dim glitter of onewintry-looking star. Not a creature was stirring in the quadrangle butthe restless woman who paced up and down the straight pathways, listening for a footstep whose coming was to strike terror to her soul. She heard it at last!--a footstep in the avenue upon the other side ofthe archway. But was it the footstep? Her sense of hearing, madeunnaturally acute by excitement, told her that it was a man'sfootstep--told even more, that it was the tread of a gentleman, noslouching, lumbering pedestrian in hobnailed boots, but a gentleman whowalked firmly and well. 

Every sound fell like a lump of ice upon my lady's heart. She could notwait, she could not contain herself, she lost all self-control, allpower of endurance, all capability of self-restraint, and she rushedtoward the archway. 

She paused beneath its shadow, for the stranger was close upon her. Shesaw him, oh, God! she saw him in that dim evening light. Her brainreeled, her heart stopped beating. She uttered no cry of surprise, noexclamation of terror, but staggered backward and clung for support tothe ivied buttress of the archway. With her slender figure crouched intothe angle formed by the buttress and the wall which it supported, shestood staring at the new-comer. 

As he approached her more closely her knees sunk under her, and shedropped to the ground, not fainting, or in any manner unconscious, butsinking into a crouching attitude, and still crushed into the angle ofthe wall, as if she would have made a tomb for herself in the shadow ofthat sheltering brickwork. 

"My lady!"

The speaker was Robert Audley. He whose bedroom door she haddouble-locked seventeen hours before at the Castle Inn. 

"What is the matter with you?" he said, in a strange, constrainedmanner. "Get up, and let me take you indoors. "

He assisted her to rise, and she obeyed him very submissively. He tookher arm in his strong hand and led her across the quadrangle and intothe lamp-lit hall. She shivered more violently than he had ever seen anywoman shiver before, but she made no attempt at resistance to his will. 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

MY LADY TELLS THE TRUTH. 

"Is there any room in which I can talk to you alone?" Robert Audleyasked, as he looked dubiously round the hall. 

My lady only bowed her head in answer. She pushed open the door of thelibrary, which had been left ajar. Sir Michael had gone to hisdressing-room to prepare for dinner after a day of lazy enjoyment, perfectly legitimate for an invalid. The apartment was quite empty, onlylighted by the blaze of the fire, as it had been upon the previousevening. 

Lady Audley entered the room, followed by Robert, who closed the doorbehind him. The wretched, shivering woman went to the fireplace andknelt down before the blaze, as if any natural warmth, could have powerto check that unnatural chill. The young man followed her, and stoodbeside her upon the hearth, with his arm resting upon the chimney-piece. 

"Lady Audley, " he said, in a voice whose icy sternness held out no hopeof any tenderness or compassion, "I spoke to you last-night veryplainly, but you refused to listen to me. To-night I must speak to youstill more plainly, and you must no longer refuse to listen to me. "

My lady, crouching before the fire with her face hidden in her hands, uttered a low, sobbing sound which was almost a moan, but made no otheranswer. 

"There was a fire last night at Mount Stanning, Lady Audley, " thepitiless voice proceeded; "the Castle Inn, the house in which I slept, was burned to the ground. Do you know how I escaped perishing in thatdestruction?"

"No. "

"I escaped by a most providential circumstance which seems a very simpleone. I did not sleep in the room which had been prepared for me. Theplace seemed wretchedly damp and chilly, the chimney smoked abominablywhen an attempt was made at lighting a fire, and I persuaded the servantto make me up a bed on the sofa in the small ground-floor sitting-roomwhich I had occupied during the evening. "

He paused for a moment, watching the crouching figure. The only changein my lady's attitude was that her head had fallen a little lower. 

"Shall I tell you by whose agency the destruction of the Castle Inn wasbrought about, my lady?"

There was no answer. 

"Shall I tell you?"

Still the same obstinate silence. 

"My Lady Audley, " cried Robert, suddenly, "_you_ are the incendiary. Itwas you whose murderous hand kindled those flames. It was you whothought by that thrice-horrible deed to rid yourself of me, your enemyand denouncer. What was it to you that other lives might be sacrificed?If by a second massacre of Saint Bartholomew you could have riddedyourself of _me_ you would have sacrificed an army of victims. The dayis past for tenderness and mercy. For you I can no longer know pity orcompunction. So far as by sparing your shame I can spare others who mustsuffer by your shame, I will be merciful, but no further. If there wereany secret tribunal before which you might be made to answer for yourcrimes, I would have little scruple in being your accuser, but I wouldspare that generous and high-born gentleman upon whose noble name yourinfamy would be reflected. "

His voice softened as he made this allusion, and for a moment he brokedown, but he recovered himself by an effort and continued:

"No life was lost in the fire of last night. I slept lightly, my lady, for my mind was troubled, as it has been for a long time, by the miserywhich I knew was lowering upon this house. It was I who discovered thebreaking out of the fire in time to give the alarm and to save theservant girl and the poor drunken wretch, who was very much burnt inspite of efforts, and who now lies in a precarious state at his mother'scottage. It was from him and from his wife that I learned who hadvisited the Castle Inn in the dead of the night. The woman was almostdistracted when she saw me, and from her I discovered the particulars oflast night. Heaven knows what other secrets of yours she may hold, mylady, or how easily they might be extorted from her if I wanted her aid, which I do not. My path lies very straight before me. I have sworn tobring the murderer of George Talboys to justice, and I will keep myoath. I say that it was by your agency my friend met with his death. IfI have wondered sometimes, as it was only natural I should, whether Iwas not the victim of some horrible hallucination, whether such analternative was not more probable than that a young and lovely womanshould be capable of so foul and treacherous a murder, all wonder ispast. After last night's deed of horror, there is no crime you couldcommit, however vast and unnatural, which could make me wonder. Henceforth you must seem to me no longer a woman, a guilty woman with aheart which in its worst wickedness has yet some latent power to sufferand feel; I look upon you henceforth as the demoniac incarnation of someevil principle. But you shall no longer pollute this place by yourpresence. Unless you will confess what you are and who you are in thepresence of the man you have deceived so long, and accept from him andfrom me such mercy as we may be inclined to extend to you, I will gathertogether the witnesses who shall swear to your identity, and at peril ofany shame to myself and those I love, I will bring upon you the just andawful punishment of your crime. "

The woman rose suddenly and stood before him erect and resolute, withher hair dashed away from her face and her eyes glittering. 

"Bring Sir Michael!" she cried; "bring him here, and I will confessanything--everything. What do I care? God knows I have struggled hardenough against you, and fought the battle patiently enough; but you haveconquered, Mr. Robert Audley. It is a great triumph, is it not--awonderful victory? You have used your cool, calculating, frigid, luminous intellect to a noble purpose. You have conquered--a MAD WOMAN!"

"A mad woman!" cried Mr. Audley. 

"Yes, a mad woman. When you say that I killed George Talboys, you saythe truth. When you say that I murdered him treacherously and foully, you lie. I killed him because I AM MAD! because my intellect is a littleway upon the wrong side of that narrow boundary-line between sanity andinsanity; because, when George Talboys goaded me, as you have goaded me, and reproached me, and threatened me, my mind, never properly balanced, utterly lost its balance, and _I was mad_! Bring Sir Michael; and bringhim quickly. If he is to be told one thing let him be told everything;let him hear the secret of my life!"

Robert Audley left the room to look for his uncle. He went in search ofthat honored kinsman with God knows how heavy a weight of anguish at hisheart, for he knew he was about to shatter the day-dream of his uncle'slife; and he knew that our dreams are none the less terrible to lose, because they have never been the realities for which we have mistakenthem. But even in the midst of his sorrow for Sir Michael, he could nothelp wondering at my lady's last words--"the secret of my life. " Heremembered those lines in the letter written by Helen Talboys upon theeve of her flight from Wildernsea, which had so puzzled him. Heremembered those appealing sentences--"You should forgive me, for youknow _why_ I have been so. You know the _secret_ of my life. "

He met Sir Michael in the hall. He made no attempt to prepare the wayfor the terrible revelation which the baronet was to hear. He only drewhim into the fire-lit library, and there for the first time addressedhim quietly thus: "Lady Audley has a confession to make to you, sir--aconfession which I know will be a most cruel surprise, a most bittergrief. But it is necessary for your present honor, and for your futurepeace, that you should hear it. She has deceived you, I regret to say, most basely; but it is only right that you should hear from her own lipsany excuses which she may have to offer for her wickedness. May Godsoften this blow for you!" sobbed the young man, suddenly breaking down;"I cannot!"

Sir Michael lifted his hand as if he would command his nephew to besilent, but that imperious hand dropped feeble and impotent at his side. He stood in the center of the fire-lit room rigid and immovable. 

"Lucy!" he cried, in a voice whose anguish struck like a blow upon thejarred nerves of those who heard it, as the cry of a wounded animalpains the listener--"Lucy, tell me that this man is a madman! tell meso, my love, or I shall kill him!"

There was a sudden fury in his voice as he turned upon Robert, as if hecould indeed have felled his wife's accuser to the earth with thestrength of his uplifted arm. 

But my lady fell upon her knees at his feet, interposing herself betweenthe baronet and his nephew, who stood leaning on the back of aneasy-chair, with his face hidden by his hand. 

"He has told you the truth, " said my lady, "and he is not mad! I havesent him for you that I may confess everything to you. I should be sorryfor you if I could, for you have been very, very good to me, much betterto me than I ever deserved; but I can't, I can't--I can feel nothing butmy own misery. I told you long ago that I was selfish; I am selfishstill--more selfish than ever in my misery. Happy, prosperous people mayfeel for others. I laugh at other people's sufferings; they seem sosmall compared to my own. "

When first my lady had fallen on her knees, Sir Michael had attempted toraise her, and had remonstrated with her; but as she spoke he droppedinto a chair close to the spot upon which she knelt, and with his handsclasped together, and with his head bent to catch every syllable ofthose horrible words, he listened as if his whole being had beenresolved into that one sense of hearing. 

"I must tell you the story of my life, in order to tell you why I havebecome the miserable wretch who has no better hope than to be allowed torun away and hide in some desolate corner of the earth. I must tell youthe story of my life, " repeated my lady, "but you need not fear that Ishall dwell long upon it. It has not been so pleasant to me that Ishould wish to remember it. When I was a very little child I rememberasking a question which it was natural enough that I should ask, Godhelp me! I asked where my mother was. I had a faint remembrance of aface, like what my own is now, looking at me when I was very littlebetter than a baby; but I had missed the face suddenly, and had neverseen it since. They told me that mother was away. I was not happy, forthe woman who had charge of me was a disagreeable woman and the place inwhich we lived was a lonely place, a village upon the Hampshire coast, about seven miles from Portsmouth. My father, who was in the navy, onlycame now and then to see me; and I was left almost entirely to thecharge of this woman, who was irregularly paid, and who vented her rageupon me when my father was behindhand in remitting her money. So you seethat at a very early age I found out what it was to be poor. 

"Perhaps it was more from being discontented with my dreary life thanfrom any wonderful impulse of affection, that I asked very often thesame question about my mother. I always received the same answer--shewas away. When I asked where, I was told that that was a secret. When Igrew old enough to understand the meaning of the word death, I asked ifmy mother was dead, and I was told--'No, she was not dead; she was ill, and she was away. ' I asked how long she had been ill, and I was toldthat she had been so some years, ever since I was a baby. 

"At last the secret came out. I worried my foster-mother with the oldquestion one day when the remittances had fallen very much in arrear, and her temper had been unusually tried. She flew into a passion, andtold me that my mother was a mad woman, and that she was in a madhouseforty miles away. She had scarcely said this when she repented, and toldme that it was not the truth, and that I was not to believe it, or tosay that she had told me such a thing. I discovered afterward that myfather had made her promise most solemnly never to tell me the secret ofmy mother's fate. 

"I brooded horribly upon the thought of my mother's madness. It hauntedme by day and night. I was always picturing to myself this mad womanpacing up and down some prison cell, in a hideous garment that bound hertortured limbs. I had exaggerated ideas of the horror of her situation. I had no knowledge of the different degrees of madness, and the imagethat haunted me was that of a distraught and violent creature, who wouldfall upon me and kill me if I came within her reach. This idea grew uponme until I used to awake in the dead of night, screaming aloud in anagony of terror, from a dream in which I had felt my mother's icy graspupon my throat, and heard her ravings in my ear. 

"When I was ten years old my father came to pay up the arrears due to myprotectress, and to take me to school. He had left me in Hampshirelonger than he had intended, from his inability to pay this money; sothere again I felt the bitterness of poverty, and ran the risk ofgrowing up an ignorant creature among coarse rustic children, because myfather was poor. "

My lady paused for a moment, but only to take breath, for she had spokenrapidly, as if eager to tell this hated story, and to have done with it. She was still on her knees, but Sir Michael made no effort to raise her. 

He sat silent and immovable. What was this story that he was listeningto? Whose was it, and to what was it to lead? It could not be hiswife's; he had heard her simple account of her youth, and had believedit as he had believed in the Gospel. She had told him a very brief storyof an early orphanage, and a long, quiet, colorless youth spent in theconventional seclusion of an English boarding-school. 

"My father came at last, and I told him what I had discovered. He wasvery much affected when I spoke of my mother. He was not what the worldgenerally calls a good man, but I learned afterward that he had lovedhis wife very dearly, and that he would have willingly sacrificed hislife to her, and constituted himself her guardian, had he not beencompelled to earn the daily bread of the mad woman and her child by theexercise of his profession. So here again I beheld what a bitter thingit is to be poor. My mother, who might have been tended by a devotedhusband, was given over to the care of hired nurses. 

"Before my father sent me to school at Torquay, he took me to see mymother. This visit served at least to dispel the idea which had so oftenterrified me. I saw no raving, straight-waist-coated maniac, guarded byzealous jailers, but a golden-haired, blue-eyed, girlish creature, whoseemed as frivolous as a butterfly, and who skipped toward us with heryellow curls decorated with natural flowers, and saluted us with radiantsmiles, and gay, ceaseless chatter. 

"But she didn't know us. She would have spoken in the same manner to anystranger who had entered the gates of the garden about her prison-house. Her madness was an hereditary disease transmitted to her from hermother, who had died mad. She, my mother, had been, or had appeared saneup to the hour of my birth, but from that hour her intellect haddecayed, and she had become what I saw her. 

"I went away with the knowledge of this, and with the knowledge that theonly inheritance I had to expect from my mother was--insanity!

"I went away with this knowledge in my mind, and with something more--asecret to keep. I was a child of ten years only, but I felt all theweight of that burden. I was to keep the secret of my mother's madness;for it was a secret that might affect me injuriously in after-life. Iwas to remember this. 

"I did remember this; and it was, perhaps, this that made me selfish andheartless, for I suppose I am heartless. As I grew older I was told thatI was pretty--beautiful--lovely--bewitching. I heard all these things atfirst indifferently, but by-and-by I listened to them greedily, andbegan to think that in spite of the secret of my life I might be moresuccessful in the world's great lottery than my companions. I had learntthat which in some indefinite manner or other every school-girl learnssooner or later--I learned that my ultimate fate in life depended uponmy marriage, and I concluded that if I was indeed prettier than myschoolfellows, I ought to marry better than any one of them. 

"I left school before I was seventeen years of age, with this thought inmy mind, and I went to live at the other extremity of England with myfather, who had retired upon his half-pay, and had established himselfat Wildernsea, with the idea that the place was cheap and select. 

"The place was indeed select. I had not been there a month before Idiscovered that even the prettiest girl might wait a long time for arich husband. I wish to hurry over this part of my life. I dare say Iwas very despicable. You and your nephew, Sir Michael, have been richall your lives, and can very well afford to despise me; but I knew howfar poverty can affect a life, and I looked forward with a sickeningdread to a life so affected. At last the rich suitor, the wanderingprince came. "

She paused for a moment, and shuddered convulsively. It was impossibleto see any of the changes in her countenance, for her face wasobstinately bent toward the floor. Throughout her long confession shenever lifted it; throughout her long confession her voice was neverbroken by a tear. What she had to tell she told in a cold, hard tone, very much the tone in which some criminal, dogged and sullen to thelast, might have confessed to a jail chaplain. 

"The wandering prince came, " she repeated; "he was called GeorgeTalboys. "

For the first time since his wife's confession had begun, Sir MichaelAudley started. He began to understand it all now. A crowd of unheededwords and forgotten circumstances that had seemed too insignificant forremark or recollection, flashed back upon him as vividly as if they hadbeen the leading incidents of his past life. 

"Mr. George Talboys was a cornet in a dragoon regiment. He was the onlyson of a rich country gentleman. He fell in love with me, and married methree months after my seventeenth birthday. I think I loved him as muchas it was in my power to love anybody; not more than I have loved you, Sir Michael--not so much, for when you married me you elevated me to aposition that he could never have given me. "

The dream was broken. Sir Michael Audley remembered that summer'sevening, nearly two years ago, when he had first declared his love forMr. Dawson's governess; he remembered the sick, half-shudderingsensation of regret and disappointment that had come over him then, andhe felt as if it had in some manner dimly foreshadowed the agony ofto-night. 

But I do not believe that even in his misery he felt that entire andunmitigated surprise, that utter revulsion of feeling that is felt whena good woman wanders away from herself and becomes the lost creaturewhom her husband is bound in honor to abjure. I do not believe that SirMichael Audley had ever _really_ believed in his wife. He had loved herand admired her; he had been bewitched by her beauty and bewildered byher charms; but that sense of something wanting, that vague feeling ofloss and disappointment which had come upon him on the summer's night ofhis betrothal had been with him more or less distinctly ever since. Icannot believe that an honest man, however pure and single may be hismind, however simply trustful his nature, is ever really deceived byfalsehood. There is beneath the voluntary confidence an involuntarydistrust, not to be conquered by any effort of the will. 

"We were married, " my lady continued, "and I loved him very well, quitewell enough to be happy with him as long as his money lasted, and whilewe were on the Continent, traveling in the best style and always stayingat the best hotels. But when we came back to Wildernsea and lived withpapa, and all the money was gone, and George grew gloomy and wretched, and was always thinking of his troubles, and appeared to neglect me, Iwas very unhappy, and it seemed as if this fine marriage had only givenme a twelvemonth's gayety and extravagance after all. I begged George toappeal to his father, but he refused. I persuaded him to try and getemployment, and he failed. My baby was born, and the crisis which hadbeen fatal to my mother arose for me. I escaped, but I was moreirritable perhaps after my recovery, less inclined to fight the hardbattle of the world, more disposed to complain of poverty and neglect. Idid complain one day, loudly and bitterly; I upbraided George Talboysfor his cruelty in having allied a helpless girl to poverty and misery, and he flew into a passion with me and ran out of the house. When Iawoke the next morning, I found a letter lying on the table by my bed, telling me that he was going to the antipodes to seek his fortune, andthat he would never see me again until he was a rich man. 

"I looked upon this as a desertion, and I resented it bitterly--resentedit by hating the man who had left me with no protector but a weak, tipsyfather, and with a child to support. I had to work hard for my living, and in every hour of labor--and what labor is more wearisome than thedull slavery of a governess?--I recognized a separate wrong done me byGeorge Talboys. His father was rich, his sister was living in luxury andrespectability, and I, his wife, and the mother of his son, was a slaveallied to beggary and obscurity. People pitied me, and I hated them fortheir pity. I did not love the child, for he had been left a burden uponmy hands. The hereditary taint that was in my blood had never until thistime showed itself by any one sign or token; but at this time I becamesubject to fits of violence and despair. At this time I think my mindfirst lost its balance, and for the first time I crossed that invisibleline which separates reason from madness. I have seen my father's eyesfixed upon me in horror and alarm. I have known him soothe me as onlymad people and children are soothed, and I have chafed against his pettydevices, I have resented even his indulgence. 

"At last these fits of desperation resolved themselves into a desperatepurpose. I determined to run away from this wretched home which myslavery supported. I determined to desert this father who had more fearof me than love for me. I determined to go to London and lose myself inthat great chaos of humanity. 

"I had seen an advertisement in the _Times_ while I was at Wildernsea, and I presented myself to Mrs. Vincent, the advertiser, under a feignedname. She accepted me, waiving all questions as to my antecedents. Youknow the rest. I came here, and you made me an offer, the acceptance ofwhich would lift me at once into the sphere to which my ambition hadpointed ever since I was a school-girl, and heard for the first timethat I was pretty. 

"Three years had passed, and I had received no token of my husband'sexistence; for, I argued, that if he had returned to England, he wouldhave succeeded in finding me under any name and in any place. I knew theenergy of his character well enough to know this. 

"I said 'I have a right to think that he is dead, or that he wishes meto believe him dead, and his shadow shall not stand between me andprosperity. ' I said this, and I became your wife, Sir Michael, withevery resolution to be as good a wife as it was in my nature to be. Thecommon temptations that assail and shipwreck some women had no terrorfor me. I would have been your true and pure wife to the end of time, though I had been surrounded by a legion of tempters. The mad folly thatthe world calls love had never had any part in my madness, and here atleast extremes met, and the vice of heartlessness became the virtue ofconstancy. 

"I was very happy in the first triumph and grandeur of my new position, very grateful to the hand that had lifted me to it. In the sunshine ofmy own happiness I felt, for the first time in my life, for the miseriesof others. I had been poor myself, and I was now rich, and could affordto pity and relieve the poverty of my neighbors. I took pleasure in actsof kindness and benevolence. I found out my father's address and senthim large sums of money, anonymously, for I did not wish him to discoverwhat had become of me. I availed myself to the full of the privilegeyour generosity afforded me. I dispensed happiness on every side. I sawmyself loved as well as admired, and I think I might have been a goodwoman for the rest of my life, if fate would have allowed me to be so. 

"I believe that at this time my mind regained its just balance. I hadwatched myself very closely since leaving Wildernsea; I had held a checkupon myself. I had often wondered while sitting in the surgeon's quietfamily circle whether any suspicion of that invisible, hereditary tainthad ever occurred to Mr. Dawson. 

"Fate would not suffer me to be good. My destiny compelled me to be awretch. Within a month of my marriage, I read in one of the Essex papersof the return of a certain Mr. Talboys, a fortunate gold-seeker, fromAustralia. The ship had sailed at the time I read the paragraph. Whatwas to be done?

"I said just now that I knew the energy of George's character. I knewthat the man who had gone to the antipodes and won a fortune for hiswife would leave no stone unturned in his efforts to find her. It washopeless to think of hiding myself from him. 

"Unless he could be induced to believe that I was dead, he would nevercease in his search for me. 

"My brain was dazed as I thought of my peril. Again the balancetrembled, again the invisible boundary was passed, again I was mad. 

"I went down to Southampton and found my father, who was living therewith my child. You remember how Mrs. Vincent's name was used as anexcuse for this hurried journey, and how it was contrived I should gowith no other escort than Phoebe Marks, whom I left at the hotel while Iwent to my father's house. 

"I confided to my father the whole secret of my peril. He was not verymuch shocked at what I had done, for poverty had perhaps blunted hissense of honor and principle. He was not very much shocked, but he wasfrightened, and he promised to do all in his power to assist me in myhorrible emergency. 

"He had received a letter addressed to me at Wildernsea, by George, andforwarded from there to my father. This letter had been written within afew days of the sailing of the _Argus_, and it announced the probabledate of the ship's arrival at Liverpool. This letter gave us, therefore, data upon which to act. 

"We decided at once upon the first step. This was that on the date ofthe probable arrival of the _Argus_, or a few days later, anadvertisement of my death should be inserted in the _Times_. 

"But almost immediately after deciding upon this, we saw that there werefearful difficulties in the carrying out of such a simple plan. The dateof the death, and the place in which I died, must be announced, as wellas the death itself. George would immediately hurry to that place, however distant it might be, however comparatively inaccessible, and theshallow falsehood would be discovered. 

"I knew enough of his sanguine temperament, his courage anddetermination, his readiness to hope against hope, to know that unlesshe saw the grave in which I was buried, and the register of my death, hewould never believe that I was lost to him. 

"My father was utterly dumfounded and helpless. He could only shedchildish tears of despair and terror. He was of no use to me in thiscrisis. 

"I was hopeless of any issue out of my difficulties. I began to thinkthat I must trust to the chapter of accidents, and hope that among otherobscure corners of the earth, Audley Court might be undreamt of by myhusband. 

"I sat with my father, drinking tea with him in his miserable hovel, andplaying with the child, who was pleased with my dress and jewels, butquite unconscious that I was anything but a stranger to him. I had theboy in my arms, when a woman who attended him came to fetch him that shemight make him more fit to be seen by the lady, as she said. 

"I was anxious to know how the boy was treated, and I detained thiswoman in conversation with me while my father dozed over the tea-table. 

"She was a pale-faced, sandy-haired woman of about five-and-forty andshe seemed very glad to get the chance of talking to me as long as Ipleased to allow her. She soon left off talking of the boy, however, totell me of her own troubles. She was in very great trouble, she told me. Her eldest daughter had been obliged to leave her situation fromill-health; in fact, the doctor said the girl was in a decline; and itwas a hard thing for a poor widow who had seen better days to have asick daughter to support, as well as a family of young children. 

"I let the woman run on for a long time in this manner, telling me thegirl's ailments, and the girl's age, and the girl's doctor's stuff, andpiety, and sufferings, and a great deal more. But I neither listened toher nor heeded her. I heard her, but only in a far-away manner, as Iheard the traffic in the street, or the ripple of the stream at thebottom of it. What were this woman's troubles to me? I had miseries ofmy own, and worse miseries than her coarse nature could ever have toendure. These sort of people always had sick husbands or sick children, and expected to be helped in their illness by the rich. It was nothingout of the common. I was thinking this, and I was just going to dismissthe woman with a sovereign for her sick daughter, when an idea flashedupon me with such painful suddenness that it sent the blood surging upto my brain, and set my heart beating, as it only beats when I am mad. 

"I asked the woman her name. She was a Mrs. Plowson, and she kept asmall general shop, she said, and only ran in now and then to look afterGeorgey, and to see that the little maid-of-all-work took care of him. Her daughter's name was Matilda. I asked her several questions aboutthis girl Matilda, and I ascertained that she was four-and-twenty, thatshe had always been consumptive, and that she was now, as the doctorsaid, going off in a rapid decline. He had declared that she could notlast much more than a fortnight. 

"It was in three weeks that the ship that carried George Talboys wasexpected to anchor in the Mersey. 

"I need not dwell upon this business. I visited the sick girl. She wasfair and slender. Her description, carelessly given, might tally nearlyenough with my own, though she bore no shadow of resemblance to me, except in these two particulars. I was received by the girl as a richlady who wished to do her a service. I bought the mother, who was poorand greedy, and who for a gift of money, more money than she had everbefore received, consented to submit to anything I wished. Upon thesecond day after my introduction to this Mrs. Plowson, my father wentover to Ventnor, and hired lodgings for his invalid daughter and herlittle boy. Early the next morning he carried over the dying girl andGeorgey, who had been bribed to call her 'mamma. ' She entered the houseas Mrs. Talboys; she was attended by a Ventnor medical man as Mrs. Talboys; she died, and her death and burial were registered in thatname. 

"The advertisement was inserted in the _Times_, and upon the second dayafter its insertion George Talboys visited Ventnor, and ordered thetombstone which at this hour records the death of his wife, HelenTalboys. "

Sir Michael Audley rose slowly, and with a stiff, constrained action, asif every physical sense had been benumbed by that one sense of misery. 

"I cannot hear any more, " he said, in a hoarse whisper; "if there isanything more to be told I cannot hear it. Robert, it is you who havebrought about this discovery, as I understand. I want to know nothingmore. Will you take upon yourself the duty of providing for the safetyand comfort of this lady whom I have thought my wife? I need not ask youto remember in all you do, that I have loved her very dearly and truly. I cannot say farewell to her. I will not say it until I can think of herwithout bitterness--until I can pity her, as I now pray that God maypity her this night. "

Sir Michael walked slowly from the room. He did not trust himself tolook at that crouching figure. He did not wish to see the creature whomhe had cherished. He went straight to his dressing-room, rung for hisvalet, and ordered him to pack a portmanteau, and make all necessaryarrangements for accompanying his master by the last up-train. 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE HUSH THAT SUCCEEDS THE TEMPEST. 

Robert Audley followed his uncle into the vestibule after Sir Michaelhad spoken those few quiet words which sounded the death-knell of hishope and love. Heaven knows how much the young man had feared the comingof this day. It had come; and though there had been no great outburst ofdespair, no whirlwind of stormy grief, no loud tempest of anguish andtears, Robert took no comforting thought from the unnatural stillness. He knew enough to know that Sir Michael Audley went away with the barbedarrow, which his nephew's hand had sent home to its aim, rankling in histortured heart; he knew that this strange and icy calm was the firstnumbness of a heart stricken by grief so unexpected as for a time to berendered almost incomprehensible by a blank stupor of astonishment; heknew that when this dull quiet had passed away, when little by little, and one by one, each horrible feature of the sufferer's sorrow becamefirst dimly apparent and then terribly familiar to him, the storm wouldburst in fatal fury, and tempests of tears and cruel thunder-claps ofagony would rend that generous heart. 

Robert had heard of cases in which men of his uncle's age had borne somegreat grief, as Sir Michael had borne this, with a strange quiet; andhad gone away from those who would have comforted them, and whoseanxieties have been relieved by this patient stillness, to fall downupon the ground and die under the blow which at first had only stunnedhim. He remembered cases in which paralysis and apoplexy had strickenmen as strong as his uncle in the first hour of the horrible affliction;and he lingered in the lamp-lit vestibule, wondering whether it was nothis duty to be with Sir Michael--to be near him, in case of anyemergency, and to accompany him wherever he went. 

Yet would it be wise to force himself upon that gray-headed sufferer inthis cruel hour, in which he had been awakened from the one delusion ofa blameless life to discover that he had been the dupe of a false face, and the fool of a nature which was too coldly mercenary, too cruellyheartless, to be sensible of its own infamy?

"No, " thought Robert Audley, "I will not intrude upon the anguish ofthis wounded heart. There is humiliation mingled with this bitter grief. It is better he should fight the battle alone. I have done what Ibelieve to have been my solemn duty, yet I should scarcely wonder if Ihad rendered myself forever hateful to him. It is better he should fightthe battle alone. _I_ can do nothing to make the strife less terrible. Better that it should be fought alone. "

While the young man stood with his hand upon the library door, stillhalf-doubtful whether he should follow his uncle or re-enter the room inwhich he had left that more wretched creature whom it had been hisbusiness to unmask, Alicia Audley opened the dining-room door, andrevealed to him the old-fashioned oak-paneled apartment, the long tablecovered with showy damask, and bright with a cheerful glitter of glassand silver. 

"Is papa coming to dinner?" asked Miss Audley. "I'm so hungry; and poorTomlins has sent up three times to say the fish will be spoiled. It mustbe reduced to a species of isinglass soup, by this time, I shouldthink, " added the young lady, as she came out into the vestibule withthe _Times_ newspaper in her hand. 

She had been sitting by the fire reading the paper, and waiting for herseniors to join her at the dinner table. 

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Robert Audley. " she remarked, indifferently. "Youdine with us of course. Pray go and find papa. It must be nearly eighto'clock, and we are supposed to dine at six. "

Mr. Audley answered his cousin rather sternly. Her frivolous mannerjarred upon him, and he forgot in his irrational displeasure that MissAudley had known nothing of the terrible drama which had been so longenacting under her very nose. 

"Your papa has just endured a very great grief, Alicia, " the young mansaid, gravely. 

The girl's arch, laughing face changed in a moment to a tenderly earnestlook of sorrow and anxiety. Alicia Audley loved her father very dearly. 

"A grief?" she exclaimed; "papa grieved! Oh! Robert, what has happened?"

"I can tell you nothing yet, Alicia, " Robert answered in a low voice. 

He took his cousin by the wrist, and drew her into the dining-room as hespoke. He closed the door carefully behind him before he continued:

"Alicia, can I trust you?" he asked, earnestly. 

"Trust me to do what?"

"To be a comfort and a friend to your poor father under a very heavyaffliction. "

"_Yes_!" cried Alicia, passionately. "How can you ask me such aquestion? Do you think there is anything I would not do to lighten anysorrow of my father's? Do you think there is anything I would not sufferif my suffering could lighten his?"

The rushing tears rose to Miss Audley's bright gray eyes as she spoke. 

"Oh, Robert! Robert! could you think so badly of me as to think I wouldnot try to be a comfort to my father in his grief?" she said, reproachfully. 

"No, no, my dear, " answered the young man, quietly; "I never doubtedyour affection, I only doubted your discretion. May I rely upon that?"

"You may, Robert, " said Alicia, resolutely. 

"Very well, then, my dear girl, I will trust you. Your father is goingto leave the Court, for a time at least. The grief which he has justendured--a sudden and unlooked-for sorrow, remember--has no doubt madethis place hateful to him. He is going away; but he must not go alone, must he, Alicia?"

"Alone? no! no! But I suppose my lady--"

"Lady Audley will not go with him, " said Robert, gravely; "he is aboutto separate himself from her. "

"For a time?"

"No, forever. "

"Separate himself from her forever!" exclaimed Alicia. "Then thisgrief--"

"Is connected with Lady Audley. Lady Audley is the cause of yourfather's sorrow. "

Alicia's face, which had been pale before, flushed crimson. Sorrow, ofwhich my lady was the cause--a sorrow which was to separate Sir Michaelforever from his wife! There had been no quarrel between them--there hadnever been anything but harmony and sunshine between Lady Audley and hergenerous husband. This sorrow must surely then have arisen from somesudden discovery; it was, no doubt, a sorrow associated with disgrace. Robert Audley understood the meaning of that vivid blush. 

"You will offer to accompany your father wherever he may choose to go, Alicia, " he said. "You are his natural comforter at such a time as this, but you will best befriend him in this hour of trial by avoiding allintrusion upon his grief. Your very ignorance of the particulars of thatgrief will be a security for your discretion. Say nothing to your fatherthat you might not have said to him two years ago, before he married asecond wife. Try and be to him what you were before the woman in yonderroom came between you and your father's love. "

"I will, " murmured Alicia, "I will. "

"You will naturally avoid all mention of Lady Audley's name. If yourfather is often silent, be patient; if it sometimes seems to you thatthe shadow of this great sorrow will never pass away from his life, bepatient still; and remember that there can be no better hope of a cureof his grief than the hope that his daughter's devotion may lead him toremember there is one woman upon this earth who will love him truly andpurely until the last. "

"Yes--yes, Robert, dear cousin, I will remember. "

Mr. Audley, for the first time since he had been a schoolboy, took hiscousin in his arms and kissed her broad forehead. 

"My dear Alicia, " he said, "do this and you will make me happy. I havebeen in some measure the means of bringing this sorrow upon your father. Let me hope that it is not an enduring one. Try and restore my uncle tohappiness, Alicia, and I will love you more dearly than brother everloved a noble-hearted sister; and a brotherly affection may be worthhaving, perhaps, after all, my dear, though it is very different to poorSir Harry's enthusiastic worship. "

Alicia's head was bent and her face hidden from her cousin while hespoke, but she lifted her head when he had finished, and looked him fullin the face with a smile that was only the brighter for her eyes beingfilled with tears. 

"You are a good fellow, Bob, " she said; "and I've been very foolish andwicked to feel angry with you because--"

The young lady stopped suddenly. 

"Because what, my dear?" asked Mr. Audley. 

"Because I'm silly, Cousin Robert, " Alicia said, quickly; "never mindthat, Bob, I'll do all you wish, and it shall not be my fault if mydearest father doesn't forget his troubles before long. I'd go to theend of the world with him, poor darling, if I thought there was anycomfort to be found for him in the journey. I'll go and get readydirectly. Do you think papa will go to-night?"

"Yes, my dear; I don't think Sir Michael will rest another night underthis roof yet awhile. "

"The mail goes at twenty minutes past nine, " said Alicia; "we must leavethe house in an hour if we are to travel by it. I shall see you againbefore we go, Robert?"

"Yes, dear. "

Miss Audley ran off to her room to summon her maid, and make allnecessary preparations for the sudden journey, of whose ultimatedestination she was as yet quite ignorant. 

She went heart and soul into the carrying out of the duty which Roberthad dictated to her. She assisted in the packing of her portmanteaus, and hopelessly bewildered her maid by stuffing silk dresses into herbonnet-boxes and satin shoes into her dressing-case. She roamed abouther rooms, gathering together drawing-materials, music-books, needle-work, hair-brushes, jewelry, and perfume-bottles, very much asshe might have done had she been about to sail for some savage country, devoid of all civilized resources. She was thinking all the time of herfather's unknown grief, and perhaps a little of the serious face andearnest voice which had that night revealed her Cousin Robert to her ina new character. 

Mr. Audley went up-stairs after his cousin, and found his way to SirMichael's dressing-room. He knocked at the door and listened, Heavenknows how anxiously, for the expected answer. There was a moment'spause, during which the young man's heart beat loud and fast, and thenthe door was opened by the baronet himself. Robert saw that his uncle'svalet was already hard at work preparing for his master's hurriedjourney. 

Sir Michael came out into the corridor. 

"Have you anything more to say to me, Robert?" he asked, quietly. 

"I only came to ascertain if I could assist in any of your arrangements. You go to London by the mail?"

"Yes. "

"Have you any idea of where you will stay. "

"Yes, I shall stop at the Clarendon; I am known there. Is that all youhave to say?"

"Yes; except that Alicia will accompany you?"

"Alicia!"

"She could not very well stay here, you know, just now. It would be bestfor her to leave the Court until--"

"Yes, yes, I understand, " interrupted the baronet; "but is there nowhereelse that she could go--must she be with me?"

"She could go nowhere else so immediately, and she would not be happyanywhere else. "

"Let her come, then, " said Sir Michael, "let her come. "

He spoke in a strange, subdued voice, and with an apparent effort, as ifit were painful to him to have to speak at all; as if all this ordinarybusiness of life were a cruel torture to him, and jarred so much uponhis grief as to be almost worse to bear than that grief itself. 

"Very well, my dear uncle, then all is arranged; Alicia will be ready tostart at nine o'clock. "

"Very good, very good, " muttered the baronet; "let her come if shepleases, poor child, let her come. "

He sighed heavily as he spoke in that half pitying tone of his daughter. He was thinking how comparatively indifferent he had been toward thatonly child for the sake of the woman now shut in the fire-lit roombelow. 

"I shall see you again before you go, sir, " said Robert; "I will leaveyou till then. "

"Stay!" said Sir Michael, suddenly; "have you told Alicia?"

"I have told her nothing, except that you are about to leave the Courtfor some time. "

"You are very good, my boy, you are very good, " the baronet murmured ina broken voice. 

He stretched out his hand. His nephew took it in both his own, andpressed it to his lips. 

"Oh, sir! how can I ever forgive myself?" he said; "how can I ever ceaseto hate myself for having brought this grief upon you?"

"No, no, Robert, you did right; I wish that God had been so merciful tome as to take my miserable life before this night; but you did right. "

Sir Michael re-entered his dressing-room, and Robert slowly returned tothe vestibule. He paused upon the threshold of that chamber in which hehad left Lucy--Lady Audley, otherwise Helen Talboys, the wife of hislost friend. 

She was lying upon the floor, upon the very spot in which she hadcrouched at her husband's feet telling her guilty story. Whether she wasin a swoon, or whether she lay there in the utter helplessness of hermisery, Robert scarcely cared to know. He went out into the vestibule, and sent one of the servants to look for her maid, the smart, be-ribboned damsel who was loud in wonder and consternation at the sightof her mistress. 

"Lady Audley is very ill, " he said; "take her to her room and see thatshe does not leave it to-night. You will be good enough to remain nearher, but do not either talk to her or suffer her to excite herself bytalking. "

My lady had not fainted; she allowed the girl to assist her, and rosefrom the ground upon which she had groveled. Her golden hair fell inloose, disheveled masses about her ivory throat and shoulders, her faceand lips were colorless, her eyes terrible in their unnatural light. 

"Take me away, " she said, "and let me sleep! Let me sleep, for my brainis on fire!"

As she was leaving the room with her maid, she turned and looked atRobert. "Is Sir Michael gone?" she asked. 

"He will leave in half an hour. "

"There were no lives lost in the fire at Mount Stanning?"

"None. "

"I am glad of that. "

"The landlord of the house, Marks, was very terribly burned, and lies ina precarious state at his mother's cottage; but he may recover. "

"I am glad of that--I am glad no life was lost. Good-night, Mr. Audley. "

"I shall ask to see you for half an hour's conversation in the course ofto-morrow, my lady. "

"Whenever you please. Good night. "

"Good night. "

She went away quietly leaning upon her maid's shoulder, and leavingRobert with a sense of strange bewilderment that was very painful tohim. 

He sat down by the broad hearth upon which the red embers were fading, and wondered at the change in that old house which, until the day of hisfriend's disappearance, had been so pleasant a home for all whosheltered beneath its hospitable roof. He sat brooding over the desolatehearth, and trying to decide upon what must be done in this suddencrisis. He sat helpless and powerless to determine upon any course ofaction, lost in a dull revery, from which he was aroused by the sound ofcarriage-wheels driving up to the little turret entrance. 

The clock in the vestibule struck nine as Robert opened the librarydoor. Alicia had just descended the stairs with her maid; a rosy-facedcountry girl. 

"Good-by, Robert, " said Miss Audley, holding out her hand to her cousin;"good-by, and God bless you! You may trust me to take care of papa. "

"I am sure I may. God bless you, my dear. "

For the second time that night Robert Audley pressed his lips to hiscousin's candid forehead, and for the second time the embrace was of abrotherly or paternal character, rather than the rapturous proceedingwhich it would have been had Sir Harry Towers been the privilegedperformer. 

It was five minutes past nine when Sir Michael came down-stairs, followed by his valet, grave and gray-haired like himself. The baronetwas pale, but calm and self-possessed. The hand which he gave to hisnephew was as cold as ice, but it was with a steady voice that he badethe young man good-by. 

"I leave all in your hands, Robert, " he said, as he turned to leave thehouse in which he had lived so long. "I may not have heard the end, butI have heard enough. Heaven knows I have no need to hear more. I leaveall to you, but you will not be cruel--you will remember how much Iloved--"

His voice broke huskily before he could finish the sentence. 

"I will remember you in everything, sir, " the young man answered. "Iwill do everything for the best. "

A treacherous mist of tears blinded him and shut out his uncle's face, and in another minute the carriage had driven away, and Robert Audleysat alone in the dark library, where only one red spark glowed among thepale gray ashes. He sat alone, trying to think what he ought to do, andwith the awful responsibility of a wicked woman's fate upon hisshoulders. 

"Good Heaven!" he thought; "surely this must be God's judgment upon thepurposeless, vacillating life I led up to the seventh day of lastSeptember. Surely this awful responsibility has been forced upon me inorder that I may humble myself to an offended Providence, and confessthat a man cannot choose his own life. He cannot say, 'I will takeexistence lightly, and keep out of the way of the wretched, mistaken, energetic creatures, who fight so heartily in the great battle. ' Hecannot say, 'I will stop in the tents while the strife is fought, andlaugh at the fools who are trampled down in the useless struggle. ' Hecannot do this. He can only do, humbly and fearfully, that which theMaker who created him has appointed for him to do. If he has a battle tofight, let him fight it faithfully; but woe betide him if he skulks whenhis name is called in the mighty muster-roll, woe betide him if he hidesin the tents when the tocsin summons him to the scene of war!"

One of the servants brought candles into the library and relighted thefire, but Robert Audley did not stir from his seat by the hearth. He satas he had often sat in his chambers in Figtree Court, with his elbowsresting upon the arms of his chair, and his chin upon his hand. 

But he lifted his head as the servant was about to leave the room. 

"Can I send a message from here to London?" he asked. 

"It can be sent from Brentwood, sir--not from here. "

Mr. Audley looked at his watch thoughtfully. 

"One of the men can ride over to Brentwood, sir, if you wish any messageto be sent. "

"I do wish to send a message; will you manage it for me, Richards?"

"Certainly, sir. "

"You can wait, then, while I write the message. "

"Yes, sir. "

The man brought writing materials from one of the side-tables, andplaced them before Mr. Audley. 

Robert dipped a pen in the ink, and stared thoughtfully at one of thecandles for a few moments before he began to write. 

The message ran thus:

"From Robert Audley, of Audley Court, Essex, to Francis Wilmington, ofPaper-buildings, Temple. 

"DEAR WILMINGTON--If you know any physician experienced in cases ofmania, and to be trusted with a secret, be so good as to send me hisaddress by telegraph. "

Mr. Audley sealed this document in a stout envelope, and handed it tothe man, with a sovereign. 

"You will see that this is given to a trustworthy person, Richards, " hesaid, "and let the man wait at the station for the return message. Heought to get it in an hour and a half. "

Mr. Richards, who had known Robert Audley in jackets and turn-downcollars, departed to execute his commission. Heaven forbid that weshould follow him into the comfortable servants' hall at the Court, where the household sat round the blazing fire, discussing in utterbewilderment the events of the day. 

Nothing could be wider from the truth than the speculations of theseworthy people. What clew had they to the mystery of that firelit room inwhich a guilty woman had knelt at their master's feet to tell the storyof her sinful life? They only knew that which Sir Michael's valet hadtold them of this sudden journey. How his master was as pale as a sheet, and spoke in a strange voice that didn't sound like his own, somehow, and how you might have knocked him--Mr. Parsons, the valet--down with afeather, if you had been minded to prostrate him by the aid of so feeblea weapon. 

The wiseheads of the servants' hall decided that Sir Michael hadreceived sudden intelligence through Mr. Robert--they were wise enoughto connect the young man with the catastrophe--either of the death ofsome near and dear relation--the elder servants decimated the Audleyfamily in their endeavors to find a likely relation--or of some alarmingfall in the funds, or of the failure of some speculation or bank inwhich the greater part of the baronet's money was invested. The generalleaning was toward the failure of a bank, and every member of theassembly seemed to take a dismal and raven-like delight in the fancy, though such a supposition involved their own ruin in the generaldestruction of that liberal household. 

Robert sat by the dreary hearth, which seemed dreary even now when theblaze of a great wood-fire roared in the wide chimney, and listened tothe low wail of the March wind moaning round the house and lifting theshivering ivy from the walls it sheltered. He was tired and worn out, for remember that he had been awakened from his sleep at two o'clockthat morning by the hot breath of blazing timber and the sharp cracklingof burning woodwork. But for his presence of mind and cool decision, Mr. Luke Marks would have died a dreadful death. He still bore the traces ofthe night's peril, for the dark hair had been singed upon one side ofhis forehead, and his left hand was red and inflamed, from the effect ofthe scorching atmosphere out of which he had dragged the landlord of theCastle Inn. He was thoroughly exhausted with fatigue and excitement, andhe fell into a heavy sleep in his easy-chair before the bright fire, from which he was only awakened by the entrance of Mr. Richards with thereturn message. 

This return message was very brief. 

"DEAR AUDLEY--Always glad to oblige. Alwyn Mosgrave, M. D. , 12 SavilleRow. Safe. "

This with names and addresses, was all that it contained. 

"I shall want another message taken to Brentwood to-morrow morning, Richards, " said Mr. Audley, as he folded the telegram. "I should be gladif the man would ride over with it before breakfast. He shall have halfa sovereign for his trouble. "

Mr. Richards bowed. 

"Thank you, sir--not necessary, sir; but as you please, of course, sir, "he murmured. "At what hour might you wish the man to go?"

Mr. Audley might wish the man to go as early as he could, so it wasdecided that he should go at six. 

"My room is ready, I suppose, Richards?" said Robert. 

"Yes, sir--your old room. "

"Very good. I shall go to bed at once. Bring me a glass of brandy andwater as hot as you can make it, and wait for the telegram. "

This second message was only a very earnest request to Doctor Mosgraveto pay an immediate visit to Audley Court on a matter of serious moment. 

Having written this message, Mr. Audley felt that he had done all thathe could do. He drank his brandy and water. He had actual need of thediluted alcohol, for he had been chilled to the bone by his adventuresduring the fire. He slowly sipped the pale golden liquid and thought ofClara Talboys, of that earnest girl whose brother's memory was nowavenged, whose brother's destroyer was humiliated in the dust. Had sheheard of the fire at the Castle Inn? How could she have done otherwisethan hear of it in such a place as Mount Stanning? But had she heardthat _he_ had been in danger, and that he had distinguished himself bythe rescue of a drunken boor? I fear that, even sitting by that desolatehearth, and beneath the roof whose noble was an exile from his ownhouse, Robert Audley was weak enough to think of these things--weakenough to let his fancy wander away to the dismal fir-trees under thecold March sky, and the dark-brown eyes that were so like the eyes ofhis lost friend. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

DR. MOSGRAVE'S ADVICE. 

My lady slept. Through that long winter night she slept soundly. Criminals have often so slept their last sleep upon earth; and have beenfound in the gray morning slumbering peacefully, by the jailer who cameto wake them. 

The game had been played and lost. I do not think that my lady hadthrown away a card, or missed the making of a trick which she might byany possibility have made; but her opponent's hand had been too powerfulfor her, and he had won. 

She looked upon herself as a species of state prisoner, who would haveto be taken good care of. A second Iron Mask, who must be provided forin some comfortable place of confinement. She abandoned herself to adull indifference. She had lived a hundred lives within the space of thelast few days of her existence, and she had worn out her capacity forsuffering--for a time at least. 

She ate her breakfast, and took her morning bath, and emerged, withperfumed hair and in the most exquisitely careless of morning toilets, from her luxurious dressing-room. She looked at herself in thecheval-glass before she left the room. A long night's rest had broughtback the delicate rose-tints of her complexion, and the natural lusterof her blue eyes. That unnatural light which had burned so fearfully theday before had gone, and my lady smiled triumphantly as she contemplatedthe reflection of her beauty. The days were gone in which her enemiescould have branded her with white-hot irons, and burned away theloveliness which had done such mischief. Whatever they did to her theymust leave her her beauty, she thought. At the worst, they werepowerless to rob her of that. 

The March day was bright and sunny, with a cheerless sunshine certainly. My lady wrapped herself in an Indian shawl; a shawl that had cost SirMichael a hundred guineas. I think she had an idea that it would be wellto wear this costly garment; so that if hustled suddenly away, she mightcarry at least one of her possessions with her. Remember how much shehad periled for a fine house and gorgeous furniture, for carriages andhorses, jewels and laces; and do not wonder if she clings with adesperate tenacity to gauds and gew-gaws, in the hour of her despair. Ifshe had been Judas, she would have held to her thirty pieces of silverto the last moment of her shameful life. 

Mr. Robert Audley breakfasted in the library. He sat long over hissolitary cup of tea, smoking his meerschaum pipe, and meditating darklyupon the task that lay before him. 

"I will appeal to the experience of this Dr. Mosgrave, " he though;"physicians and lawyers are the confessors of this prosaic nineteenthcentury. Surely, he will be able to help me. "

The first fast train from London arrived at Audley at half-past teno'clock, and at five minutes before eleven, Richards, the grave servant, announced Dr. Alwyn Mosgrave. 

The physician from Saville Row was a tall man of about fifty years ofage. He was thin and sallow, with lantern jaws, and eyes of a pale, feeble gray, that seemed as if they had once been blue, and had faded bythe progress of time to their present neutral shade. However powerfulthe science of medicine as wielded by Dr. Alwyn Mosgrave, it had notbeen strong enough to put flesh upon his bones, or brightness into hisface. He had a strangely expressionless, and yet strangely attentivecountenance. He had the face of a man who had spent the greater part ofhis life in listening to other people, and who had parted with his ownindividuality and his own passions at the very outset of his career. 

He bowed to Robert Audley, took the opposite seat indicated by him, andaddressed his attentive face to the young barrister. Robert saw that thephysician's glance for a moment lost its quiet look of attention, andbecame earnest and searching. 

"He is wondering whether I am the patient, " thought Mr. Audley, "and islooking for the diagnoses of madness in my face. "

Dr. Mosgrave spoke as if in answer to this thought. 

"Is it not about your own--health--that you wish to consult me?" hesaid, interrogatively. 

"Oh, no!"

Dr. Mosgrave looked at his watch, a fifty-guinea Benson-madechronometer, which he carried loose in his waistcoat pocket ascarelessly as if it had been a potato. 

"I need not remind you that my time is precious, " he said; "yourtelegram informed me that my services were required in a caseof--danger--as I apprehend, or I should not be here this morning. "

Robert Audley had sat looking gloomily at the fire, wondering how heshould begin the conversation, and had needed this reminder of thephysician's presence. 

"You are very good, Dr. Mosgrave, " he said, rousing himself by aneffort, "and I thank you very much for having responded to my summons. Iam about to appeal to you upon a subject which is more painful to methan words can describe. I am about to implore your advice in a mostdifficult case, and I trust almost blindly to your experience to rescueme, and others who are very dear to me, from a cruel and complicatedposition. "

The business-like attention in Dr. Mosgrave's face grew into a look ofinterest as he listened to Robert Audley. 

"The revelation made by the patient to the physician is, I believe, assacred as the confession of a penitent to his priest?" Robert asked, gravely. 

"Quite as sacred. "

"A solemn confidence, to be violated under no circumstances?"

"Most certainly. "

Robert Audley looked at the fire again. How much should he tell, or howlittle, of the dark history of his uncle's second wife?

"I have been given to understand, Dr. Mosgrave, that you have devotedmuch of your attention to the treatment of insanity. "

"Yes, my practice is almost confined to the treatment of mentaldiseases. "

"Such being the case, I think I may venture to conclude that yousometimes receive strange, and even terrible, revelations. "

Dr. Mosgrave bowed. 

He looked like a man who could have carried, safely locked in hispassionless breast, the secrets of a nation, and who would have sufferedno inconvenience from the weight of such a burden. 

"The story which I am about to tell you is not my own story, " saidRobert, after a pause; "you will forgive me, therefore, if I once moreremind you that I can only reveal it upon the understanding that underno circumstances, or upon no apparent justification, is that confidenceto be betrayed. "

Dr. Mosgrave bowed again. A little sternly, perhaps, this time. 

"I am all attention, Mr. Audley, " he said coldly. 

Robert Audley drew his chair nearer to that of the physician, and in alow voice began the story which my lady had told upon her knees in thatsame chamber upon the previous night. Dr. Mosgrave's listening face, turned always toward the speaker, betrayed no surprise at that strangerevelation. He smiled once, a grave, quiet smile, when Mr. Audley cameto that part of the story which told of the conspiracy at Ventnor; buthe was not surprised. Robert Audley ended his story at the point atwhich Sir Michael Audley had interrupted my lady's confession. He toldnothing of the disappearance of George Talboys, nor of the horriblesuspicions that had grown out of that disappearance. He told nothing ofthe fire at the Castle Inn. 

Dr. Mosgrave shook his head, gravely, when Mr. Audley came to the end ofhis story. 

"You have nothing further to tell me?" he said. 

"No. I do not think there is anything more that need be told, " Robertanswered, rather evasively. 

"You would wish to prove that this lady is mad, and thereforeirresponsible for her actions, Mr. Audley?" said the physician. 

Robert Audley stared, wondering at the mad doctor. By what process hadhe so rapidly arrived at the young man's secret desire?

"Yes, I would rather, if possible, think her mad; I should be glad tofind that excuse for her. "

"And to save the _esclandre_ of a Chancery suit, I suppose, Mr, Audley, "said Dr. Mosgrave. 

Robert shuddered as he bowed an assent to this remark. It was somethingworse than a Chancery suit that he dreaded with a horrible fear. It wasa trial for murder that had so long haunted his dreams. How often he hadawoke, in an agony of shame, from a vision of a crowded court-house, andhis uncle's wife in a criminal dock, hemmed in on every side by a sea ofeager faces. 

"I fear that I shall not be of any use to you, " the physician said, quietly; "I will see the lady, if you please, but I do not believe thatshe is mad. "

"Why not?"

"Because there is no evidence of madness in anything she has done. Sheran away from her home, because her home was not a pleasant one, and sheleft in the hope of finding a better. There is no madness in that. Shecommitted the crime of bigamy, because by that crime she obtainedfortune and position. There is no madness there. When she found herselfin a desperate position, she did not grow desperate. She employedintelligent means, and she carried out a conspiracy which requiredcoolness and deliberation in its execution. There is no madness inthat. "

"But the traits of hereditary insanity--"

"May descend to the third generation, and appear in the lady's children, if she have any. Madness is not necessarily transmitted from mother todaughter. I should be glad to help you, if I could, Mr. Audley, but I donot think there is any proof of insanity in the story you have told me. I do not think any jury in England would accept the plea of insanity insuch a case as this. The best thing you can do with this lady is to sendher back to her first husband; if he will have her. "

Robert started at this sudden mention of his friend. 

"Her first husband is dead, " he answered, "at least, he has been missingfor some time--and I have reason to believe that he is dead. "

Dr. Mosgrave saw the startled movement, and heard the embarrassment inRobert Audley's voice as he spoke of George Talboys. 

"The lady's first husband is missing, " he said, with a strange emphasison the word--"you think that he is dead?"

He paused for a few moments and looked at the fire, as Robert had lookedbefore. 

"Mr. Audley, " he said, presently, "there must be no half-confidencesbetween us. You have not told me all. "

Robert, looking up suddenly, plainly expressed in his face the surprisehe felt at these words. 

"I should be very poorly able to meet the contingencies of myprofessional experience, " said Dr. Mosgrave, "if I could not perceivewhere confidence ends and reservation begins. You have only told me halfthis lady's story, Mr. Audley. You must tell me more before I can offeryou any advice. What has become of the first husband?"

He asked this question in a decisive tone, as if he knew it to be thekey-stone of an arch. 

"I have already told you, Dr. Mosgrave, that I do not know. "

"Yes, " answered the physician, "but your face has told me what you havewithheld from me; it has told me that you _suspect_. "

Robert Audley was silent. 

"If I am to be of use to you, you must trust me, Mr. Audley, " said thephysician. "The first husband disappeared--how and when? I want to knowthe history of his disappearance. "

Robert paused for some time before he replied to this speech; but, byand by, he lifted his head, which had been bent in an attitude ofearnest thought, and addressed the physician. 

"I will trust you, Dr. Mosgrave, " he said. "I will confide entirely inyour honor and goodness. I do not ask you to do any wrong to society;but I ask you to save our stainless name from degradation and shame, ifyou can do so conscientiously. "

He told the story of George's disappearance, and of his own doubts andfears, Heaven knows how reluctantly. 

Dr. Mosgrave listened as quietly as he had listened before. Robertconcluded with an earnest appeal to the physician's best feelings. Heimplored him to spare the generous old man whose fatal confidence in awicked woman had brought much misery upon his declining years. 

It was impossible to draw any conclusion, either favorable or otherwise, from Dr. Mosgrave's attentive face. He rose, when Robert had finishedspeaking, and looked at his watch once more. 

"I can only spare you twenty minutes, " he said. "I will see the lady, ifyou please. You say her mother died in a madhouse?"

"She did. Will you see Lady Audley alone?"

"Yes, alone, if you please. "

Robert rung for my lady's maid, and under convoy of that smart youngdamsel the physician found his way to the octagon antechamber, and thefairy boudoir with which it communicated. 

Ten minutes afterward, he returned to the library, in which Robert satwaiting for him. 

"I have talked to the lady, " he said, quietly, "and we understand eachother very well. There is latent insanity! Insanity which might neverappear; or which might appear only once or twice in a lifetime. It wouldbe a _dementia_ in its worst phase, perhaps; acute mania; but itsduration would be very brief, and it would only arise under extrememental pressure. The lady is not mad; but she has the hereditary taintin her blood. She has the cunning of madness, with the prudence ofintelligence. I will tell you what she is, Mr. Audley. She isdangerous!"

Dr. Mosgrave walked up and down the room once or twice before he spokeagain. 

"I will not discuss the probabilities of the suspicion which distressesyou, Mr. Audley, " he said, presently, "but I will tell you this much, Ido not advise any _esclandre_. This Mr. George Talboys has disappeared, but you have no evidence of his death. If you could produce evidence ofhis death, you could produce no evidence against this lady, beyond theone fact that she had a powerful motive for getting rid of him. No juryin the United Kingdom would condemn her upon such evidence as that. "

Robert Audley interrupted Dr. Mosgrave, hastily. 

"I assure you, my dear sir, " he said, "that my greatest fear is thenecessity of any exposure--any disgrace. "

"Certainly, Mr. Audley, " answered the physician, coolly, "but you cannotexpect me to assist you to condone one of the worst offenses againstsociety. If I saw adequate reason for believing that a murder had beencommitted by this woman, I should refuse to assist you in smuggling heraway out of the reach of justice, although the honor of a hundred noblefamilies might be saved by my doing so. But I do not see adequate reasonfor your suspicions; and I will do my best to help you. "

Robert Audley grasped the physician's hands in both his own. 

"I will thank you when I am better able to do so, " he said, withemotion; "I will thank you in my uncle's name as well as in my own. "

"I have only five minutes more, and I have a letter to write, " said Dr. Mosgrave, smiling at the young man's energy. 

He seated himself at a writing-table in the window, dipped his pen inthe ink, and wrote rapidly for about seven minutes. He had filled threesides of a sheet of note-paper, when he threw down his pen and foldedhis letter. 

He put this letter into an envelope, and delivered it, unsealed, toRobert Audley. 

The address which it bore was:

"Monsieur Val, "Villebrumeuse, "Belgium. "

Mr. Audley looked rather doubtfully from this address to the doctor, whowas putting on his gloves as deliberately as if his life had never knowna more solemn purpose than the proper adjustment of them. 

"That letter, " he said, in answer to Robert Audley's inquiring look, "iswritten to my friend Monsieur Val, the proprietor and medicalsuperintendent of a very excellent _maison de sante_ in the town ofVillebrumeuse. We have known each other for many years, and he will nodoubt willingly receive Lady Audley into his establishment, and chargehimself with the full responsibility of her future life; it will not bea very eventful one!"

Robert Audley would have spoken, he would have once more expressed hisgratitude for the help which had been given to him, but Dr. Mosgravechecked him with an authoritative gesture. 

"From the moment in which Lady Audley enters that house, " he said, "herlife, so far as life is made up of action and variety, will be finished. Whatever secrets she may have will be secrets forever! Whatever crimesshe may have committed she will be able to commit no more. If you wereto dig a grave for her in the nearest churchyard and bury her alive init, you could not more safely shut her from the world and all worldlyassociations. But as a physiologist and as an honest man, I believe youcould do no better service to society than by doing this; for physiologyis a lie if the woman I saw ten minutes ago is a woman to be trusted atlarge. If she could have sprung at my throat and strangled me with herlittle hands, as I sat talking to her just now, she would have done it. "

"She suspected your purpose, then!"

"She knew it. 'You think I am mad like my mother, and you have come toquestion me, ' she said. 'You are watching for some sign of the dreadfultaint in my blood. ' Good-day to you, Mr. Audley, " the physician addedhurriedly, "my time was up ten minutes ago; it is as much as I shall doto catch the train. "

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

BURIED ALIVE. 

Robert Audley sat alone in the library with the physician's letter uponthe table before him, thinking of the work which was still to be done. 

The young barrister had constituted himself the denouncer of thiswretched woman. He had been her judge; and he was now her jailer. Notuntil he had delivered the letter which lay before him to its properaddress, not until he had given up his charge into the safe-keeping ofthe foreign mad-house doctor, not until then would the dreadful burdenbe removed from him and his duty done. 

He wrote a few lines to my lady, telling her that he was going to carryher away from Audley Court to a place from which she was not likely toreturn, and requesting her to lose no time in preparing for the journey. He wished to start that evening, if possible, he told her. 

Miss Susan Martin, the lady's maid, thought it a very hard thing to haveto pack her mistress' trunks in such a hurry, but my lady assisted inthe task. She toiled resolutely in directing and assisting her servant, who scented bankruptcy and ruin in all this packing up and hurryingaway, and was therefore rather languid and indifferent in the dischargeof her duties; and at six o'clock in the evening she sent her attendantto tell Mr. Audley that she was ready to depart as soon as he pleased. 

Robert had consulted a volume of Bradshaw, and had discovered thatVillebrumeuse lay out of the track of all railway traffic, and was onlyapproachable by diligence from Brussels. The mail for Dover left LondonBridge at nine o'clock, and could be easily caught by Robert and hischarge, as the seven o'clock up-train from Audley reached Shoreditch ata quarter past eight. Traveling by the Dover and Calais route, theywould reach Villebrumeuse by the following afternoon or evening. 

It was late in the afternoon of the next day when the diligence bumpedand rattled over the uneven paving of the principal street inVillebrumeuse. 

Robert Audley and my lady had had the _coupe_ of the diligence tothemselves for the whole of the journey, for there were not manytravelers between Brussels and Villebrumeuse, and the public conveyancewas supported by the force of tradition rather than any great profitattaching to it as a speculation. 

My lady had not spoken during the journey, except to decline somerefreshments which Robert had offered her at a halting place upon theroad. Her heart sunk when they left Brussels behind, for she had hopedthat city might have been the end of her journey, and she had turnedwith a feeling of sickness and despair from the dull Belgian landscape. 

She looked up at last as the vehicle jolted into a great stonyquadrangle, which had been the approach to a monastery once, but whichwas now the court yard of a dismal hotel, in whose cellars legions ofrats skirmished and squeaked even while the broad sunshine was bright inthe chambers above. 

Lady Audley shuddered as she alighted from the diligence, and foundherself in that dreary court yard. Robert was surrounded by chatteringporters, who clamored for his "baggages, " and disputed among themselvesas to the hotel at which he was to rest. One of these men ran away tofetch a hackney-coach at Mr. Audley's behest, and reappeared presently, urging on a pair of horses--which were so small as to suggest the ideathat they had been made out of one ordinary-sized animal--with wildshrieks and whoops that had a demoniac sound in the darkness. 

Mr. Audley left my lady in a dreary coffee-room in the care of a drowsyattendant while he drove away to some distant part of the quiet city. There was official business to be gone through before Sir Michael's wifecould be quietly put away in the place suggested by Dr. Mosgrave. Roberthad to see all manner of important personages; and to take numerousoaths; and to exhibit the English physician's letter; and to go throughmuch ceremony of signing and countersigning before he could take hislost friend's cruel wife to the home which was to be her last uponearth. Upward of two hours elapsed before all this was arranged, and theyoung man was free to return to the hotel, where he found his chargestaring absently at a pair of wax-candles, with a cup of untasted coffeestanding cold and stagnant before her. 

Robert handed my lady into the hired vehicle, and took his seat oppositeto her once more. 

"Where are you going to take me?" she asked, at last. "I am tired ofbeing treated like some naughty child, who is put into a dark cellar asa punishment for its offenses. Where are you taking me?"

"To a place in which you will have ample leisure to repent the past, Mrs. Talboys, " Robert answered, gravely. 

They had left the paved streets behind them, and had emerged out of agreat gaunt square, in which there appeared to be about half a dozencathedrals, into a small boulevard, a broad lamp-lit road, on which theshadows of the leafless branches went and came tremblingly, like theshadows of a paralytic skeleton. There were houses here and there uponthis boulevard; stately houses, _entre cour et jardin_, and with plastervases of geraniums on the stone pillars of the ponderous gateways. Therumbling hackney-carriage drove upward of three-quarters of a mile alongthis smooth roadway before it drew up against a gateway, older and moreponderous than any of those they had passed. 

My lady gave a little scream as she looked out of the coach-window. Thegaunt gateway was lighted by an enormous lamp; a great structure of ironand glass, in which one poor little shivering flame struggled with theMarch wind. 

The coachman rang the bell, and a little wooden door at the side of thegate was opened by a gray-haired man, who looked out at the carriage, and then retired. He reappeared three minutes afterward behind thefolding iron gates, which he unlocked and threw back to their fullextent, revealing a dreary desert of stone-paved courtyard. 

The coachman led his wretched horses into the courtyard, and piloted thevehicle to the principal doorway of the house, a great mansion of graystone, with several long ranges of windows, many of which were dimlylighted, and looked out like the pale eyes of weary watchers upon thedarkness of the night. 

My lady, watchful and quiet as the cold stars in the wintry sky, lookedup at these casements with an earnest and scrutinizing gaze. One of thewindows was shrouded by a scanty curtain of faded red; and upon thiscurtain there went and came a dark shadow, the shadow of a woman with afantastic head dress, the shadow of a restless creature, who pacedperpetually backward and forward before the window. 

Sir Michael Audley's wicked wife laid her hand suddenly upon Robert'sarm, and pointed with the other hand to this curtained window. 

"I know where you have brought me, " she said. "This is a MAD-HOUSE. "

Mr. Audley did not answer her. He had been standing at the door of thecoach when she addressed him, and he quietly assisted her to alight, andled her up a couple of shallow stone steps, and into the entrance-hallof the mansion. He handed Dr. Mosgrave's letter to a neatly-dressed, cheerful-looking, middle-aged woman, who came tripping out of a littlechamber which opened out of the hall, and was very much like the bureauof an hotel. This person smilingly welcome Robert and his charge: andafter dispatching a servant with the letter, invited them into herpleasant little apartment, which was gayly furnished with bright ambercurtains and heated by a tiny stove. 

"Madam finds herself very much fatigued?" the Frenchwoman said, interrogatively, with a look of intense sympathy, as she placed anarm-chair for my lady. 

"Madam" shrugged her shoulders wearily, and looked round the littlechamber with a sharp glance of scrutiny that betokened no very greatfavor. 

"WHAT is this place, Robert Audley?" she cried fiercely. "Do you think Iam a baby, that you may juggle with and deceive me--what is it? It iswhat I said just now, is it not?"

"It is a _maison de sante_, my lady, " the young man answered, gravely. "I have no wish to juggle with or to deceive you. "

My lady paused for a few moments, looking reflectively at Robert. 

"A _maison de sante_, " she repeated. "Yes, they manage these thingsbetter in France. In England we should call it a madhouse. This a housefor mad people, this, is it not, madam?" she said in French, turningupon the woman, and tapping the polished floor with her foot. 

"Ah, but no, madam, " the woman answered with a shrill scream of protest. "It is an establishment of the most agreeable, where one amuses one'sself--"

She was interrupted by the entrance of the principal of this agreeableestablishment, who came beaming into the room with a radiant smileilluminating his countenance, and with Dr. Mosgrave's letter open in hishand. 

It was impossible to say _how_ enchanted he was to make the acquaintanceof M'sieu. There was nothing upon earth which he was not ready to do forM'sieu in his own person, and nothing under heaven which he would notstrive to accomplish for him, as the friend of his acquaintance, so verymuch distinguished, the English doctor. Dr. Mosgrave's letter had givenhim a brief synopsis of the case, he informed Robert, in an undertone, and he was quite prepared to undertake the care of the charming and veryinteresting "Madam--Madam--"

He rubbed his hands politely, and looked at Robert. Mr. Audleyremembered, for the first time, that he had been recommended tointroduce his wretched charge under a feigned name. 

He affected not to hear the proprietor's question. It might seem a veryeasy matter to have hit upon a heap of names, any one of which wouldhave answered his purpose; but Mr. Audley appeared suddenly to haveforgotten that he had ever heard any mortal appellation except that ofhimself and of his lost friend. 

Perhaps the proprietor perceived and understood his embarrassment. He atany rate relieved it by turning to the woman who had received them, andmuttering something about No. 14, Bis. The woman took a key from a longrange of others, that hung over the mantel-piece, and a wax candle froma bracket in a corner of the room, and having lighted the candle, ledthe way across the stone-paved hall, and up a broad, slippery staircaseof polished wood. 

The English physician had informed his Belgian colleague that moneywould be of minor consequence in any arrangements made for the comfortof the English lady who was to be committed to his care. Acting uponthis hint, Monsieur Val opened the outer doer of a stately suite ofapartments, which included a lobby, paved with alternate diamonds ofblack and white marble, but of a dismal and cellar-like darkness; asaloon furnished with gloomy velvet draperies, and with a certainfunereal splendor which is not peculiarly conducive to the elevation ofthe spirits; and a bed-chamber, containing a bed so wondrously made, asto appear to have no opening whatever in its coverings, unless thecounterpane had been split asunder with a pen-knife. 

My lady stared dismally round at the range of rooms, which looked drearyenough in the wan light of a single wax-candle. This solitary flame, pale and ghost-like in itself, was multiplied by paler phantoms of itsghostliness, which glimmered everywhere about the rooms; in the shadowydepths of the polished floors and wainscot, or the window-panes, in thelooking-glasses, or in those great expanses of glimmering somethingwhich adorned the rooms, and which my lady mistook for costly mirrors, but which were in reality wretched mockeries of burnished tin. 

Amid all the faded splendor of shabby velvet, and tarnished gilding, andpolished wood, the woman dropped into an arm-chair, and covered her facewith her hands. The whiteness of them, and the starry light of diamondstrembling about them, glittered in the dimly-lighted chamber. She satsilent, motionless, despairing, sullen, and angry, while Robert and theFrench doctor retired to an outer chamber, and talked together inundertones. Mr. Audley had very little to say that had not been alreadysaid for him, with a far better grace than he himself could haveexpressed it, by the English physician. He had, after great trouble ofmind, hit upon the name of Taylor, as a safe and simple substitute forthat other name, to which alone my lady had a right. He told theFrenchman that this Mrs. Taylor was distantly related to him--that shehad inherited the seeds of madness from her mother, as indeed Dr. Mosgrave had informed Monsieur Val; and that she had shown some fearfultokens of the lurking taint that was latent in her mind; but that shewas not to be called "mad. " He begged that she might be treated with alltenderness and compassion; that she might receive all reasonableindulgences; but he impressed upon Monsieur Val, that under nocircumstances was she to be permitted to leave the house and groundswithout the protection of some reliable person, who should be answerablefor her safe-keeping. He had only one other point to urge, and that was, that Monsieur Val, who, as he had understood, was himself aProtestant--the doctor bowed--would make arrangements with some kind andbenevolent Protestant clergyman, through whom spiritual advice andconsolation might be secured for the invalid lady; who had especialneed, Robert added, gravely, of such advantages. 

This--with all necessary arrangements as to pecuniary matters, whichwere to be settled from time to time between Mr. Audley and the doctor, unassisted by any agents whatever--was the extent of the conversationbetween the two men, and occupied about a quarter of an hour. 

My lady sat in the same attitude when they re-entered the bedchamber inwhich they had left her, with her ringed hands still clasped over herface. 

Robert bent over to whisper in her ear. 

"Your name is Madam Taylor here, " he said. "I do not think you wouldwish to be known by your real name. "

She only shook her head in answer to him, and did not even remove herhands from over her face. 

"Madam will have an attendant entirely devoted to her service. " saidMonsieur Val. "Madam will have all her wishes obeyed; her _reasonable_wishes, but that goes without saying, " monsieur adds, with a quaintshrug. "Every effort will be made to render madam's sojourn atVillebrumeuse agreeable. The inmates dine together when it is wished. Idine with the inmates sometimes; my subordinate, a clever and a worthyman always. I reside with my wife and children in a little pavilion inthe grounds; my subordinate resides in the establishment. Madam may relyupon our utmost efforts being exerted to insure her comfort. "

Monsieur is saying a great deal more to the same effect, rubbing hishands and beaming radiantly upon Robert and his charge, when madam risessuddenly, erect and furious, and dropping her jeweled fingers frombefore her face, tells him to hold his tongue. 

"Leave me alone with the man who has brought me here. " she cried, between her set teeth. "Leave me!"

She points to the door with a sharp, imperious gesture; so rapid thatthe silken drapery about her arm makes a swooping sound as she lifts herhand. The sibilant French syllables hiss through her teeth as she uttersthem, and seem better fitted to her mood and to herself than thefamiliar English she has spoken hitherto. 

The French doctor shrugs his shoulders as he goes out into the lobby, and mutters something about a "beautiful devil, " and a gesture worthy of"the Mars. " My lady walked with a rapid footstep to the door between thebed-chamber and the saloon; closed it, and with the handle of the doorstill in her hand, turned and looked at Robert Audley. 

"You have brought me to my grave, Mr. Audley, " she cried; "you have usedyour power basely and cruelly, and have brought me to a living grave. "

"I have done that which I thought just to others and merciful to you, "Robert answered, quietly. "I should have been a traitor to society had Isuffered you to remain at liberty after--the disappearance of GeorgeTalboys and the fire at Castle Inn. I have brought you to a place inwhich you will be kindly treated by people who have no knowledge of yourstory--no power to taunt or to reproach you. You will lead a quiet andpeaceful life, my lady; such a life as many a good and holy woman inthis Catholic country freely takes upon herself, and happily enduresuntil the end. The solitude of your existence in this place will be nogreater than that of a king's daughter, who, flying from the evil of thetime, was glad to take shelter in a house as tranquil as this. Surely, it is a small atonement which I ask you to render for your sins, a lightpenance which I call upon you to perform. Live here and repent; nobodywill assail you, nobody will torment you. I only say to you, repent!"

"I _cannot!_" cried my lady, pushing her hair fiercely from her whiteforehead, and fixing her dilated eyes upon Robert Audley, "I _cannot!_Has my beauty brought me to _this_? Have I plotted and schemed to shieldmyself and laid awake in the long deadly nights, trembling to think ofmy dangers, for _this_? I had better have given up at once, since _this_was to be the end. I had better have yielded to the curse that was uponme, and given up when George Talboys first came back to England. "

She plucked at the feathery golden curls as if she would have torn themfrom her head. It had served her so little after all, that gloriouslyglittering hair, that beautiful nimbus of yellow light that hadcontrasted so exquisitely with the melting azure of her eyes. She hatedherself and her beauty. 

"I would laugh at you and defy you, if I dared, " she cried; "I wouldkill myself and defy you, if I dared. But I am a poor, pitiful coward, and have been so from the first. Afraid of my mother's horribleinheritance; afraid of poverty; afraid of George Talboys; afraid of_you_. "

She was silent for a little while, but she held her place by the door, as if determined to detain Robert as long as it was her pleasure to doso. 

"Do you know what I am thinking of?" she said, presently. "Do you knowwhat I am thinking of, as I look at you in the dim light of this room? Iam thinking of the day upon which George Talboys disappeared. "

Robert started as she mentioned the name of his lost friend; his faceturned pale in the dusky light, and his breathing grew quicker andlouder. 

"He was standing opposite me, as you are standing now, " continued mylady. "You said that you would raze the old house to the ground; thatyou would root up every tree in the gardens to find your dead friend. You would have had no need to do so much: the body of George Talboyslies at the bottom of the old well, in the shrubbery beyond thelime-walk. "

Robert Audley flung his hands and clasped them above his head, with oneloud cry of horror. 

"Oh, my God!" he said, after a dreadful pause; "have all the ghastlythings that I have thought prepared me so little for the ghastly truth, that it should come upon me like this at last?"

"He came to me in the lime-walk, " resumed my lady, in the same hard, dogged tone as that in which she had confessed the wicked story of herlife. "I knew that he would come, and I had prepared myself, as well asI could, to meet him. I was determined to bribe him, to cajole him, todefy him; to do anything sooner than abandon the wealth and the positionI had won, and go back to my old life. He came, and he reproached me forthe conspiracy at Ventnor. He declared that so long as he lived he wouldnever forgive me for the lie that had broken his heart. He told me thatI had plucked his heart out of his breast and trampled upon it; and thathe had now no heart in which to feel one sentiment of mercy for me. Thathe would have forgiven me any wrong upon earth, but that one deliberateand passionless wrong that I had done him. He said this and a great dealmore, and he told me that no power on earth should turn him from hispurpose, which was to take me to the man I had deceived, and make metell my wicked story. He did not know the hidden taint that I had suckedin with my mother's milk. He did not know that it was possible to driveme mad. He goaded me as you have goaded me; he was as merciless as youhave been merciless. We were in the shrubbery at the end of thelime-walk. I was seated upon the broken masonry at the mouth of thewell. George Talboys was leaning upon the disused windlass, in which therusty iron spindle rattled loosely whenever he shifted his position. Irose at last, and turned upon him to defy him, as I had determined todefy him at the worst. I told him that if he denounced me to SirMichael, I would declare him to be a madman or a liar, and I defied himto convince the man who loved me--blindly, as I told him--that he hadany claim to me. I was going to leave him after having told him this, when he caught me by the wrist and detained me by force. You saw thebruises that his fingers made upon my wrist, and noticed them, and didnot believe the account I gave of them. I could see that, Mr. RobertAudley, and I saw that you were a person I should have to fear. "

She paused, as if she had expected Robert to speak; but he stood silentand motionless, waiting for the end. 

"George Talboys treated me as you treated me, " she said, petulantly. "Heswore that if there was but one witness of my identity, and that witnesswas removed from Audley Court by the width of the whole earth, he wouldbring him there to swear to my identity, and to denounce me. It was thenthat I was mad, it was then that I drew the loose iron spindle from theshrunken wood, and saw my first husband sink with one horrible cry intothe black mouth of the well. There is a legend of its enormous depth. Ido not know how deep it is. It is dry, I suppose, for I heard no splash, only a dull thud. I looked down and I saw nothing but black emptiness. Iknelt down and listened, but the cry was not repeated, though I waitedfor nearly a quarter of an hour--God knows how long it seemed to me!--bythe mouth of the well. "

Robert Audley uttered a word of horror when the story was finished. Hemoved a little nearer toward the door against which Helen Talboys stood. Had there been any other means of exit from the room, he would gladlyhave availed himself of it. He shrank from even a momentary contact withthis creature. 

"Let me pass you, if you please, " he said, in an icy voice. 

"You see I do not fear to make my confession to you, " said HelenTalboys; "for two reasons. The first is, that you dare not use itagainst me, because you know it would kill your uncle to see me in acriminal dock; the second is, that the law could pronounce no worsesentence than this--a life-long imprisonment in a mad-house. You see Ido not thank you for your mercy, Mr. Robert Audley, for I know exactlywhat it is worth. "

She moved away from the door, and Robert passed her without a word, without a look. 

Half an hour afterward he was in one of the principal hotels atVillebrumeuse, sitting at a neatly-ordered supper-table, with no powerto eat; with no power to distract his mind, even for a moment, from theimage of that lost friend who had been treacherously murdered in thethicket at Audley Court. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

GHOST-HAUNTED. 

No feverish sleeper traveling in a strange dream ever looked out morewonderingly upon a world that seemed unreal than Robert Audley, as hestared absently at the flat swamps and dismal poplars betweenVillebrumeuse and Brussels. Could it be that he was returning to hisuncle's house without the woman who had reigned in it for nearly twoyears as queen and mistress? He felt as if he had carried off my lady, and had made away with her secretly and darkly, and must now render upan account to Sir Michael of the fate of that woman, whom the baronethad so dearly loved. 

"What shall I tell him?" he thought. "Shall I tell the truth--thehorrible, ghastly truth? No; that would be too cruel. His generousspirit would sink under the hideous revelation. Yet, in his ignorance ofthe extent of this wretched woman's wickedness, he may think, perhaps, that I have been hard with her. "

Brooding thus, Mr. Robert Audley absently watched the cheerlesslandscape from the seat in the shabby _coupe_ of the diligence, andthought how great a leaf had been torn out of his life, now that thedark story of George Talboys was finished. 

What had he to do next? A crowd of horrible thoughts rushed into hismind as he remembered the story that he had heard from the white lips ofHelen Talboys. His friend--his murdered friend--lay hidden among themoldering ruins of the old well at Audley Court. He had lain there forsix long months, unburied, unknown; hidden in the darkness of the oldconvent well. What was to be done?

To institute a search for the remains of the murdered man was toinevitably bring about a coroner's inquest. Should such an inquest beheld, it was next to impossible that the history of my lady's crimecould fail to be brought to light. To prove that George Talboys met withhis death at Audley Court, was to prove almost as surely that my ladyhad been the instrument of that mysterious death; for the young man hadbeen known to follow her into the lime-walk upon the day of hisdisappearance. 

"My God!" Robert exclaimed, as the full horror of his position becameevident to him; "is my friend to rest in this unhallowed burial-placebecause I have condoned the offenses of the woman who murdered him?"

He felt that there was no way out of this difficulty. Sometimes hethought that it little mattered to his dead friend whether he layentombed beneath a marble monument, whose workmanship should be thewonder of the universe, or in that obscure hiding-place in the thicketat Audley Court. At another time he would be seized with a sudden horrorat the wrong that had been done to the murdered man, and would fain havetraveled even more rapidly than the express between Brussels and Pariscould carry him in his eagerness to reach the end of his journey, thathe might set right this cruel wrong. 

He was in London at dusk on the second day after that on which he hadleft Audley Court, and he drove straight to the Clarendon, to inquireafter his uncle. He had no intention of seeing Sir Michael, as he hadnot yet determined how much or how little he should tell him, but he wasvery anxious to ascertain how the old man had sustained the cruel shockhe had so lately endured. 

"I will see Alicia, " he thought, "she will tell me all about her father. It is only two days since he left Audley. I can scarcely expect to hearof any favorable change. "

But Mr. Audley was not destined to see his cousin that evening, for theservants at the Clarendon told him that Sir Michael and his daughter hadleft by the morning mail for Paris, on their way to Vienna. 

Robert was very well pleased to receive this intelligence; it affordedhim a welcome respite, for it would be decidedly better to tell thebaronet nothing of his guilty wife until he returned to England, withhealth unimpaired and spirits re-established, it was to be hoped. 

Mr. Audley drove to the Temple. The chambers which had seemed dreary tohim ever since the disappearance of George Talboys, were doubly soto-night. For that which had been only a dark suspicion had now become ahorrible certainty. There was no longer room for the palest ray, themost transitory glimmer of hope. His worst terrors had been too wellfounded. 

George Talboys had been cruelly and treacherously murdered by the wifehe had loved and mourned. 

There were three letters waiting for Mr. Audley at his chambers. One wasfrom Sir Michael, and another from Alicia. The third was addressed in ahand the young barrister knew only too well, though he had seen it butonce before. His face flushed redly at the sight of the superscription, and he took the letter in his hand, carefully and tenderly, as if it hadbeen a living thing, and sentient to his touch. He turned it over andover in his hands, looking at the crest upon the envelope, at thepost-mark, at the color of the paper, and then put it into the bosom ofhis waistcoat with a strange smile upon his face. 

"What a wretched and unconscionable fool I am!" he thought. "Have Ilaughed at the follies of weak men all my life, and am I to be morefoolish than the weakest of them at last? The beautiful brown-eyedcreature! Why did I ever see her? Why did my relentless Nemesis everpoint the way to that dreary house in Dorsetshire?"

He opened the first two letters. He was foolish enough to keep the lastfor a delicious morsel--a fairy-like dessert after the commonplacesubstantialities of a dinner. 

Alicia's letter told him that Sir Michael had borne his agony with sucha persevering tranquility that she had become at last far more alarmedby his patient calmness than by any stormy manifestation of despair. Inthis difficulty she had secretly called upon the physician who attendedthe Audley household in any cases of serious illness, and had requestedthis gentleman to pay Sir Michael an apparently accidental visit. He haddone so, and after stopping half an hour with the baronet, had toldAlicia that there was no present danger of any serious consequence fromthis great grief, but that it was necessary that every effort should bemade to arouse Sir Michael, and to force him, however unwillingly, intoaction. 

Alicia had immediately acted upon this advice, had resumed her oldempire as a spoiled child, and reminded her father of a promise he hadmade of taking her through Germany. With considerable difficulty she hadinduced him to consent to fulfilling this old promise, and having oncegained her point, she had contrived that they should leave England assoon as it was possible to do so, and she told Robert, in conclusion, that she would not bring her father back to his old house until she hadtaught him to forget the sorrows associated with it. 

The baronet's letter was very brief. It contained half a dozen blankchecks on Sir Michael Audley's London bankers. 

"You will require money, my dear Robert, " he wrote, "for sucharrangements as you may think fit to make for the future comfort of theperson I committed to your care. I need scarcely tell you that thosearrangements cannot be too liberal. But perhaps it is as well that Ishould tell you now, for the first and only time, that it is my earnestwish never again to hear that person's name. I have no wish to be toldthe nature of the arrangements you may make for her. I am sure that youwill act conscientiously and mercifully. I seek to know no more. Whenever you want money, you will draw upon me for any sums that you mayrequire; but you will have no occasion to tell me for whose use you wantthat money. "

Robert Audley breathed a long sigh of relief as he folded this letter. It released him from a duty which it would have been most painful forhim to perform, and it forever decided his course of action with regardto the murdered man. 

George Talboys must lie at peace in his unknown grave, and Sir MichaelAudley must never learn that the woman he had loved bore the red brandof murder on her soul. 

Robert had only the third letter to open--the letter which he had placedin his bosom while he read the others; he tore open the envelope, handling it carefully and tenderly as he had done before. 

The letter was as brief as Sir Michael's. It contained only these fewlines:

"DEAR MR. AUDLEY--The rector of this place has been twice to see Marks, the man you saved in the fire at the Castle Inn. He lies in a veryprecarious state at his mother's cottage, near Audley Court, and is notexpected to live many days. His wife is attending him, and both he andshe have expressed a most earnest desire that you should see him beforehe dies. Pray come without delay. 

"Yours very sincerely, "CLARA TALBOYS. 

"Mount Stanning Rectory, March 6. "

Robert Audley folded this letter very reverently, and placed itunderneath that part of his waistcoat which might be supposed to coverthe region of his heart. Having done this, he seated himself in hisfavorite arm-chair, filled and lighted a pipe and smoked it out, staringreflectingly at the fire as long as his tobacco lasted. "What can thatman Marks want with me, " thought the barrister. "He is afraid to dieuntil he has made confession, perhaps. He wishes to tell me that which Iknow already--the story of my lady's crime. I knew that he was in thesecret. I was sure of it even upon the night on which I first saw him. He knew the secret, and he traded on it. "

Robert Audley shrank strangely from returning to Essex. How should hemeet Clara Talboys now that he knew the secret of her brother's fate?How many lies he should have to tell, or how much equivocation he mustuse in order to keep the truth from her? Yet would there be any mercy intelling that horrible story, the knowledge of which must cast a blightupon her youth, and blot out every hope she had even secretly cherished?He knew by his own experience how possible it was to hope against hope, and to hope unconsciously; and he could not bear that her heart shouldbe crushed as his had been by the knowledge of the truth. "Better thatshe should hope vainly to the last, " he thought; "better that she shouldgo through life seeking the clew to her lost brother's fate, than that Ishould give that clew into her hands, and say, 'Our worst fears arerealized. The brother you loved has been foully murdered in the earlypromise of his youth. '"

But Clara Talboys had written to him, imploring him to return to Essexwithout delay. Could he refuse to do her bidding, however painful itsaccomplishment might be? And again, the man was dying, perhaps, and hadimplored to see him. Would it not be cruel to refuse to go--to delay anhour unnecessarily? He looked at his watch. It wanted only five minutesto nine. There was no train to Audley after the Ipswich mail, which leftLondon at half-past eight; but there was a train that left Shoreditch ateleven, and stopped at Brentwood between twelve and one. Robert decidedupon going by this train, and walking the distance between Brentwood andAudley, which was upwards of six miles. 

He had a long time to wait before it would be necessary to leave theTemple on his way to Shoreditch, and he sat brooding darkly over thefire and wondering at the strange events which had filled his lifewithin the last year and a half, coming like angry shadows between hislazy inclinations and himself, and investing him with purposes that werenot his own. 

"Good Heaven!" he thought, as he smoked his second pipe; "how can Ibelieve that it was I who used to lounge all day in this easy-chairreading Paul de Kock, and smoking mild Turkish; who used to drop in athalf price to stand among the pressmen at the back of the boxes and seea new burlesque and finish the evening with the 'Chough and Crow, ' andchops and pale ale at 'Evans'. Was it I to whom life was such an easymerry-go-round? Was it I who was one of the boys who sit at ease uponthe wooden horses, while other boys run barefoot in the mud and worktheir hardest in the hope of a ride when their work is done? Heavenknows I have learned the business of life since then: and now I mustneeds fall in love and swell the tragic chorus which is always beingsung by the poor addition of my pitiful sighs and, groans. ClaraTalboys! Clara Talboys! Is there any merciful smile latent beneath theearnest light of your brown eyes? What would you say to me if I told youthat I love you as earnestly and truly as I have mourned for yourbrother's fate--that the new strength and purpose of my life, which hasgrown out of my friendship for the murdered man, grows even stronger asit turns to you, and changes me until I wonder at myself? What would shesay to me? Ah! Heaven knows. If she happened to like the color of myhair or the tone of my voice, she might listen to me, perhaps. But wouldshe hear me any more because I love her truly, and purely; because Iwould be constant and honest and faithful to her? Not she! These thingsmight move her, perhaps to be a little pitiful to me; but they wouldmove her no more! If a girl with freckles and white eylashes adored me, I should only think her a nuisance; but if Clara Talboys had a fancy totrample upon my uncouth person, I should think she did me a favor. Ihope poor little Alicia may pick up with some fair-haired Saxon in thecourse of her travels. I hope--" His thoughts wandered away wearily andlost themselves. How could he hope for anything or think of anything, while the memory of his dead friend's unburied body haunted him like ahorrible specter? He remembered a story--a morbid, hideous, yetdelicious story, which had once pleasantly congealed his blood on asocial winter's evening--the story of a man, monomaniac, perhaps, whohad been haunted at every turn by the image of an unburied kinsman whocould not rest in his unhallowed hiding-place. What if that dreadfulstory had its double in reality? What if he were henceforth to behaunted by the phantom of murdered George Talboys?

He pushed his hair away from his face with both hands, and looked rathernervously around the snug little apartment. There were lurking shadowsin the corners of the room that he scarcely liked. The door opening intohis little dressing-room was ajar; he got up to shut it, and turned thekey in the lock with a sharp click. 

"I haven't read Alexander Dumas and Wilkie Collins for nothing, " hemuttered. "I'm up to their tricks, sneaking in at doors behind afellow's back, and flattening their white faces against window panes, and making themselves all eyes in the twilight. It's a strange thingthat your generous hearted fellow, who never did a shabby thing in hislife, is capable of any meanness the moment he becomes a ghost. I'llhave the gas laid on to-morrow and I'll engage Mrs. Maloney's eldest sonto sleep under the letter-box in the lobby. The youth plays popularmelodies upon a piece of tissue paper and a small-tooth comb, and itwill be quite pleasant company. "

Mr. Audley walked wearily up and down the room, trying to get rid of thetime. It was no use leaving the Temple until ten o'clock, and even thenhe would be sure to reach the station half an hour too early. He wastired of smoking. The soothing narcotic influence might be pleasantenough in itself, but the man must be of a singularly unsocialdisposition who does not, after a half dozen lonely pipes, feel the needof some friendly companion, at whom he can stare dreamily athwart thepale gray mists, and who will stare kindly back at him in return. Do notthink that Robert Audley was without friends, because he so often foundhimself alone in his chambers. The solemn purpose which had taken sopowerful a hold upon his careless life had separated him from oldassociations, and it was for this reason that he was alone. 

He had dropped away from his old friends. How could he sit among them, at social wine parties, perhaps, or at social little dinners, that werewashed down with nonpareil and chambertin, pomard and champagne? Howcould he sit among them, listening to their careless talk of politicsand opera, literature and racing, theaters and science, scandal andtheology, and yet carry in his mind the horrible burden of those darkterrors and suspicions that were with him by day and by night? He couldnot do it! He had shrunk from those men as if he had, indeed, been adetective police officer, stained with vile associations and unfitcompany for honest gentlemen. He had drawn himself away from allfamiliar haunts, and shut himself in his lonely rooms with the perpetualtrouble of his mind for his sole companion, until he had grown asnervous as habitual solitude will eventually make the strongest and thewisest man, however he may vaunt himself of his strength and wisdom. 

The clock of the Temple Church, and the clocks of St. Dunstan's, St. Clement's Danes, and a crowd of other churches, whose steeples uprearthemselves above the house tops by the river, struck ten at last, andMr. Audley, who had put on his hat and overcoat nearly half an hourbefore, let himself out of the little lobby, and locked his door behindhim. He mentally reiterated his determination to engage "Parthrick, " asMrs. Maloney's eldest son was called by his devoted mother. The youthshould enter upon his functions the very night after, and if the ghostof the hapless George Talboys should invade these gloomy apartments, thephantom must make its way across Patrick's body before it could reachthe inner chamber in which the proprietor of the premises slept. 

Do not laugh at poor George because he grew hypochondriacal afterhearing the horrible story of his friend's death. There is nothing sodelicate, so fragile, as that invisible balance upon which the mind isalways trembling. "Mad to-day and sane to-morrow. "

Who can forget that almost terrible picture of Dr. Samuel Johnson? Theawful disputant of the club-room, solemn, ponderous, severe andmerciless, the admiration and the terror of humble Bozzy, the sternmonitor of gentle Oliver, the friend of Garrick and Reynolds to-night;and before to-morrow sunset a weak, miserable old man, discovered bygood Mr. And Mrs. Thrale, kneeling upon the floor of his lonely chamber, in an agony of childish terror and confusion, and praying to a mercifulGod for the preservation of his wits. I think the memory of thatdreadful afternoon, and of the tender care he then received, should havetaught the doctor to keep his hand steady at Streatham, when he took hisbedroom candlestick, from which it was his habit to shower rivulets ofmolten wax upon the costly carpet of his beautiful protectress; andmight have even had a more enduring effect, and taught him to bemerciful, when the brewer's widow went mad in her turn, and married thatdreadful creature, the Italian singer. Who has not been, or in not to bemad in some lonely hour of life? Who is quite safe from the trembling ofthe balance?

Fleet street was quiet and lonely at this late hour, and Robert Audleybeing in a ghost-seeing mood, would have been scarcely astonished had heseen Johnson's set come roystering westward in the lamp-light, or blindJohn Milton groping his way down the steps before Saint Bride's Church. 

Mr. Audley hailed a hansom at the corner of Farrington street, and wasrattled rapidly away across tenantless Smithfield market, and into alabyrinth of dingy streets that brought him out upon the broad grandeurof Finsbury Pavement. 

The hansom rattled up the steep and stony approach to ShoreditchStation, and deposited Robert at the doors of that unlovely temple. There were very few people going to travel by this midnight train, andRobert walked up and down the long wooden platform, reading the hugeadvertisements whose gaunt lettering looked wan and ghastly in the dimlamplight. 

He had the carriage in which he sat all to himself. All to himself did Isay? Had he not lately summoned to his side that ghostly company whichof all companionship is the most tenacious? The shadow of George Talboyspursued him, even in the comfortable first-class carriage, and wasbehind him when he looked out of the window, and was yet far ahead ofhim and the rushing engine, in that thicket toward which the train wasspeeding, by the side of the unhallowed hiding-place in which the mortalremains of the dead man lay, neglected and uncared for. 

"I must give my lost friend decent burial, " Robert thought, as the chillwind swept across the flat landscape, and struck him with such frozenbreath as might have emanated from the lips of the dead. "I must do it;or I shall die of some panic like this which has seized upon meto-night. I must do it; at any peril; at any cost. Even at the price ofthat revelation which will bring the mad woman back from her safehiding-place, and place her in a criminal dock. " He was glad when thetrain stopped at Brentwood at a few minutes after twelve. 

It was half-past one o'clock when the night wanderer entered the villageof Audley, and it was only there that he remembered that Clara Talboyshad omitted to give him any direction by which he might find the cottagein which Luke Marks lay. 

"It was Dawson who recommended that the poor creature should be taken tohis mother's cottage, " Robert thought, by-and-by, "and, I dare say. Dawson has attended him ever since the fire. He'll be able to tell methe way to the cottage. "

Acting upon this idea, Mr. Audley stopped at the house in which HelenTalboys had lived before her second marriage. The door of the littlesurgery was ajar, and there was a light burning within. Robert pushedthe door open and peeped in. The surgeon was standing at the mahoganycounter, mixing a draught in a glass measure, with his hat close besidehim. Late as it was, he had evidently only just come in. The harmonioussnoring of his assistant sounded from a little room within the surgery. 

"I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Dawson, " Robert said, apologetically, asthe surgeon looked up and recognized him, "but I have come down to seeMarks, who, I hear, is in a very bad way, and I want you to tell me theway to his mother's cottage. "

"I'll show you the way, Mr. Audley, " answered the surgeon, "I am goingthere this minute. "

"The man is very bad, then?"

"So bad that he can be no worse. The change that can happen is thatchange which will take him beyond the reach of any earthly suffering. "

"Strange!" exclaimed Robert. "He did not appear to be much burned. "

"He was not much burnt. Had he been, I should never have recommended hisbeing removed from Mount Stanning. It is the shock that has done thebusiness. He has been in a raging fever for the last two days; butto-night he is much calmer, and I'm afraid, before to-morrow night, weshall have seen the last of him. "

"He has asked to see me, I am told, " said Mr. Audley. 

"Yes, " answered the surgeon, carelessly. "A sick man's fancy, no doubt. You dragged him out of the house, and did your best to save his life. Idare say, rough and boorish as the poor fellow is, he thinks a good dealof that. "

They had left the surgery, the door of which Mr. Dawson had lockedbehind him. There was money in the till, perhaps, for surely the villageapothecary could not have feared that the most daring housebreaker wouldimperil his liberty in the pursuit of blue pill and colocynth, of saltsand senna. 

The surgeon led the way along the silent street, and presently turnedinto a lane at the end of which Robert Audley saw the wan glimmer of alight; a light which told of the watch that is kept by the sick anddying; a pale, melancholy light, which always has a dismal aspect whenlooked upon in this silent hour betwixt night and morning. It shone fromthe window of the cottage in which Luke Marks lay, watched by his wifeand mother. 

Mr. Dawson lifted the latch, and walked into the common room of thelittle tenement, followed by Robert Audley. It was empty, but a feebletallow candle, with a broken back, and a long, cauliflower-headed wick, sputtered upon the table. The sick man lay in the room above. 

"Shall I tell him you are here?" asked Mr. Dawson. 

"Yes, yes, if you please. But be cautious how you tell him, if you thinkthe news likely to agitate him. I am in no hurry. I can wait. You cancall me when you think I can safely come up-stairs. "

The surgeon nodded, and softly ascended the narrow wooden stairs leadingto the upper chamber. 

Robert Audley seated himself in a Windsor chair by the coldhearth-stone, and stared disconsolately about him. But he was relievedat last by the low voice of the surgeon, who looked down from the top ofthe little staircase to tell him that Luke Marks was awake, and would beglad to see him. 

Robert immediately obeyed this summons. He crept softly up the stairs, and took off his hat before he bent his head to enter at the low doorwayof the humble rustic chamber. He took off his hat in the presence ofthis common peasant man, because he knew that there was another and amore awful presence hovering about the room, and eager to be admitted. 

Phoebe Marks was sitting at the foot of the bed, with her eyes fixedupon her husband's face--not with any very tender expression in the palelight, but with a sharp, terrified anxiety, which showed that it was thecoming of death itself that she dreaded, rather than the loss of herhusband. The old woman was busy at the fire-place, airing linen, andpreparing some mess of broth which it was not likely the patient wouldever eat. The sick man lay with his head propped up by pillows, hiscoarse face deadly pale, and his great hands wandering uneasily aboutthe coverlet. Phoebe had been reading to him, for an open Testament layamong the medicine and lotion bottles upon the table near the bed. Everyobject in the room was neat and orderly, and bore witness of thatdelicate precision which had always been a distinguishing characteristicof Phoebe. 

The young woman rose as Robert Audley crossed the threshold, and hurriedtoward him. 

"Let me speak to you for a moment, sir, before you talk to Luke, " shesaid, in an eager whisper. "Pray let me speak to you first. "

"What's the gal a-sayin', there?" asked the invalid in a subdued roar, which died away hoarsely on his lips. He was feebly savage, even in hisweakness. The dull glaze of death was gathering over his eyes, but theystill watched Phoebe with a sharp glance of dissatisfaction. "What's sheup to there?" he said. "I won't have no plottin' and no hatchin' agenme. I want to speak to Mr. Audley my own self; and whatever I done I'mgoin' to answer for. If I done any mischief, I'm a-goin' to try and undoit. What's she a-sayin'?"

"She ain't a-sayin' nothin', lovey, " answered the old woman, going tothe bedside of her son, who even when made more interesting than usualby illness, did not seem a very fit subject for this tender appellation. 

"She's only a-tellin' the gentleman how bad you've been, my pretty. "

"What I'm a-goin' to tell I'm only a-goin' to tell to him, remember, "growled Mr. Mark; "and ketch me a-tellin' of it to him if it warn't forwhat he done for me the other night. "

"To be sure not, lovey, " answered the old woman soothingly. 

Phoebe Marks had drawn Mr. Audley out of the room and onto the narrowlanding at the top of the little staircase. This landing was a platformof about three feet square, and it was as much as the two could manageto stand upon it without pushing each other against the whitewashedwall, or backward down the stairs. 

"Oh, sir, I wanted to speak to you so badly, " Phoebe answered, eagerly;"you know what I told you when I found you safe and well upon the nightof the fire?"

"Yes, yes. "

"I told you what I suspected; what I think still. "

"Yes, I remember. "

"But I never breathed a word of it to anybody but you, sir, and I thinkthat Luke has forgotten all about that night; I think that what wentbefore the fire has gone clean out of his head altogether. He was tipsy, you know, when my la--when she came to the Castle; and I think he was sodazed and scared like by the fire that it all went out of his memory. Hedoesn't suspect what I suspect, at any rate, or he'd have spoken of itto anybody or everybody; but he's dreadful spiteful against my lady, forhe says if she'd have let him have a place at Brentwood or Chelmsford, this wouldn't have happened. So what I wanted to beg of you, sir, is notto let a word drop before Luke. "

"Yes, yes, I understand; I will be careful. "

"My lady has left the Court, I hear, sir?"

"Yes. "

"Never to come back, sir?"

"Never to come back. "

"But she has not gone where she'll be cruelly treated; where she'll beill-used?"

"No: she will be very kindly treated. "

"I'm glad of that, sir; I beg your pardon for troubling you with thequestion, sir, but my lady was a kind mistress to me. "

Luke's voice, husky and feeble, was heard within the little chamber atthis period of the conversation, demanding angrily when "that gal wouldhave done jawing;" upon which Phoebe put her finger to her lips, and ledMr. Audley back into the sick-room. 

"I don't want _you_" said Mr. Marks, decisively, as his wife re-enteredthe chamber--"I don't want _you_; you've no call to hear what I've gotto say--I only want Mr. Audley, and I wants to speak to him all alone, with none o' your sneakin' listenin' at doors, d'ye hear? so you may godown-stairs and keep there till you're wanted; and you may takemother--no, mother may stay, I shall want her presently. "

The sick man's feeble hand pointed to the door, through which his wifedeparted very submissively. 

"I've no wish to hear anything, Luke, " she said, "but I hope you won'tsay anything against those that have been good and generous to you. "

"I shall say what I like, " answered Mr. Marks, fiercely, "and I'm nota-goin' to be ordered by you. You ain't the parson, as I've ever heerdof; nor the lawyer neither. "

The landlord of the Castle Inn had undergone no moral transformation byhis death-bed sufferings, fierce and rapid as they had been. Perhapssome faint glimmer of a light that had been far off from his life nowstruggled feebly through the black obscurities of ignorance thatdarkened his soul. Perhaps a half angry, half sullen penitence urged himto make some rugged effort to atone for a life that had been selfish anddrunken and wicked. Be it how it might he wiped his white lips, andturning his haggard eyes earnestly upon Robert Audley, pointed to achair by the bedside. 

"You made game of me in a general way, Mr. Audley, " he said, presently, "and you've drawed me out, and you've tumbled and tossed me about likein a gentlemanly way, till I was nothink or anythink in your hands; andyou've looked me through and through, and turned me inside out till youthought you knowed as much as I knowed. I'd no particular call to begrateful to you, not before the fire at the Castle t'other night. But Iam grateful to you for that. I'm not grateful to folks in a general way, p'r'aps, because the things as gentlefolks have give have a'most allusbeen the very things I didn't want. They've give me soup, and tracks, and flannel, and coals; but, Lord, they've made such a precious noiseabout it that I'd have been to send 'em all back to 'em. But when agentleman goes and puts his own life in danger to save a drunken brutelike me, the drunkenest brute as ever was feels grateful like to thatgentleman, and wishes to say before he dies--which he sees in thedoctor's face as he ain't got long to live--'Thank ye, sir, I'm obligedto you. "

Luke Marks stretched out his left hand--the right hand had been injuredby the fire, and was wrapped in linen--and groped feebly for that of Mr. Robert Audley. 

The young man took the coarse but shrunken hand in both his own, andpressed it cordially. 

"I need no thanks, Luke Marks, " he said; "I was very glad to be ofservice to you. "

Mr. Marks did not speak immediately. He was lying quietly upon his side, staring reflectingly at Robert Audley. 

"You was oncommon fond of that gent as disappeared at the Court, warn'tyou, sir?" he said at last. 

Robert started at the mention of his dead friend. 

"You was oncommon fond of that Mr. Talboys, I've heard say, sir, "repeated Luke. 

"Yes, yes, " answered Robert, rather impatiently, "he was my very dearfriend. "

"I've heard the servants at the Court say how you took on when youcouldn't find him. I've heered the landlord of the Sun Inn say how cutup you was when you first missed him. 'If the two gents had beenbrothers, ' the landlord said, 'our gent, ' meanin' you, sir, 'couldn'thave been more cut up when he missed the other. '"

"Yes, yes, I know, I know, " said Robert; "pray do not speak any more ofthis subject. I cannot tell you now much it distresses me. "

Was he to be haunted forever by the ghost of his unburied friend? Hecame here to comfort the sick man, and even here he was pursued by thisrelentless shadow; even here he was reminded of the secret crime whichhad darkened his life. 

"Listen to me, Marks, " he said, earnestly; "believe me that I appreciateyour grateful words, and that I am very glad to have been of service toyou. But before you say anything more, let me make one most solemnrequest. If you have sent for me that you may tell me anything of thefate of my lost friend, I entreat you to spare yourself and to spare methat horrible story. You can tell me nothing which I do not alreadyknow. The worst you can tell me of the woman who was once in your power, has already been revealed to me by her own lips. Pray, then, be silentupon this subject; I say again, you can tell me nothing which I do notknow. "

Luke Marks looked musingly at the earnest face of his visitor, and someshadowy expression, which was almost like a smile, flitted feebly acrossthe sick man's haggard features. 

"I can't tell you nothin' you don't know?" he asked. 

"Nothing. "

"Then it ain't no good for me to try, " said the invalid, thoughtfully. "Did _she_ tell you?" he asked, after a pause. 

"I must beg, Marks, that you will drop the subject, " Robert answered, almost sternly. "I have already told you that I do not wish to hear itspoken of. Whatever discoveries you made, you made your market out ofthem. Whatever guilty secrets you got possession of, you were paid forkeeping silence. You had better keep silence to the end. "

"Had I?" cried Luke Marks, in an eager whisper. "Had I really now betterhold my tongue to the last?"

"I think so, most decidedly. You traded on your secret, and you werepaid to keep it. It would be more honest to hold to your bargain, andkeep it still. "

"But, suppose I want to tell something, " cried Luke, with feverishenergy, "suppose I feel I can't die with a secret on my mind, and haveasked to see you on purpose that I might tell you; suppose that, andyou'll suppose nothing but the truth. I'd have been burnt alive beforeI'd have told _her_. " He spoke these words between his set teeth, andscowled savagely as he uttered them. "I'd have been burnt alive first. Imade her pay for her pretty insolent ways; I made her pay for her airsand graces; I'd never have told her--never, never! I had my power overher, and I kept it; I had my secret and was paid for it; and therewasn't a petty slight as she ever put upon me or mine that I didn't payher out for twenty times over!"

"Marks, Marks, for Heaven's sake be calm" said Robert, earnestly. "Whatare you talking of? What is it that you could have told?"

"I'm a-goin to tell you, " answered Luke, wiping his lips. "Give us adrink, mother. "

The old woman poured out some cooling drink into a mug, and carried itto her son. 

He drank it in an eager hurry, as if he felt that the brief remainder ofhis life must be a race with the pitiless pedestrian, Time. 

"Stop where you are, " he said to his mother, pointing to a chair at thefoot of the bed. 

The old woman obeyed, and seated herself meekly opposite to Mr. Audley. 

"I'll ask you another question, mother, " said Luke, "and I think it'llbe strange if you can't answer it. Do you remember when I was at workupon Atkinson's farm; before I was married you know, and when I waslivin' down here along of you?"

"Yes, yes, " Mrs. Marks answered, nodding triumphantly, "I remember that, my dear. It were last fall, just about as the apples was bein' gatheredin the orchard across our lane, and about the time as you had your newsprigged wesket. I remember, Luke, I remember. "

Mr. Audley wondered where all this was to lead to, and how long he wouldhave to sit by the sick man's bed, hearing a conversation that had nomeaning to him. 

"If you remember that much, maybe you'll remember more, mother, " saidLuke. "Can you call to mind my bringing some one home here one night, while Atkinsons was stackin' the last o' their corn?"

Once more Mr. Audley started violently, and this time he looked upearnestly at the face of the speaker, and listened, with a strange, breathless interest, that he scarcely understood himself, to what LukeMarks was saying. 

"I rek'lect your bringing home Phoebe, " the old woman answered, withgreat animation. "I rek'lect your bringin' Phoebe home to take a cup o'tea, or a little snack o' supper, a mort o' times. "

"Bother Phoebe, " cried Mr. Marks, "who's a talkin' of Phoebe? What'sPhoebe, that anybody should go to put theirselves out about her? Do youremember my bringin' home a gentleman after ten o'clock, one Septembernight; a gentleman as was wet through to the skin, and was covered withmud and slush, and green slime and black muck, from the crown of hishead to the sole of his foot, and had his arm broke, and his shoulderswelled up awful; and was such a objeck that nobody would ha' knowedhim; a gentleman as had to have his clothes cut off him in some places, and as sat by the kitchen fire, starin' at the coals as if he had gonemad or stupid-like, and didn't know where he was, or who he was; and ashad to be cared for like a baby, and dressed, and dried, and washed, andfed with spoonfuls of brandy, that had to be forced between his lockedteeth, before any life could be got into him? Do you remember that, mother?"

The old woman nodded, and muttered something to the effect that sheremembered all these circumstances most vividly, now that Luke happenedto mention them. 

Robert Audley uttered a wild cry, and fell down upon his knees by theside of the sick man's bed. 

"My God!" he ejaculated, "I think Thee for Thy wondrous mercies. GeorgeTalboys is alive!"

"Wait a bit, " said Mr. Marks, "don't you be too fast. Mother, give usdown that tin box on the shelf over against the chest of drawers, willyou?"

The old woman obeyed, and after fumbling among broken teacups andmilk-jugs, lidless wooden cotton-boxes, and a miscellaneous litter ofrags and crockery, produced a tin snuff-box with a sliding lid; ashabby, dirty-looking box enough. 

Robert Audley still knelt by the bedside with his face hidden by hisclasped hands. Luke Marks opened the tin box. 

"There ain't no money in it, more's the pity, " he said, "or if there hadbeen it wouldn't have been let stop very long. But there's summat in itthat perhaps you'll think quite as valliable as money, and that's whatI'm goin' to give you as a proof that a drunken brute can feel thankfulto them as is kind to him. "

He took out two folded papers, which he gave into Robert Audley's hands. 

They were two leaves torn out of a pocket-book, and they were writtenupon in pencil, and in a handwriting that was quite strange to Mr. Audley--a cramped, stiff, and yet scrawling hand, such as some plowmanmight have written. 

"I don't know this writing, " Robert said, as he eagerly unfolded thefirst of the two papers. "What has this to do with my friend? Why do youshow me these?"

"Suppose you read 'em first, " said Mr. Marks, "and ask me questionsabout them afterwards. "

The first paper which Robert Audley had unfolded contained the followinglines, written in that cramped, yet scrawling hand which was so strangeto him:

"MY DEAR FRIEND--I write to you in such utter confusion of mind asperhaps no man ever before suffered. I cannot tell you what has happenedto me, I can only tell you that something has happened which will driveme from England a broken-hearted man, to seek some corner of the earthin which I may live and die unknown and forgotten. I can only ask you toforget me. If your friendship could have done me any good, I would haveappealed to it. If your counsel could have been any help to me, I wouldhave confided in you. But neither friendship nor counsel can help me;and all I can say to you is this, God bless you for the past, and teachyou to forget me in the future. G. T. "

The second paper was addressed to another person, and its contents werebriefer than those of the first. 

"HELEN--May God pity and forgive you for that which you have doneto-day, as truly as I do. Rest in peace. You shall never hear of meagain; to you and to the world I shall henceforth be that which youwished me to be to-day. You need fear no molestation from me. I leaveEngland never to return. 

"G. T. "

Robert Audley sat staring at these lines in hopeless bewilderment. Theywere not in his friend's familiar hand, and yet they purported to bewritten by him and were signed with his initials. 

He looked scrutinizingly at the face of Luke Marks, thinking thatperhaps some trick was being played upon him. 

"This was not written by George Talboys, " he said. 

"It was, " answered Luke Marks, "it was written by Mr. Talboys, everyline of it. He wrote it with his own hand; but it was his left hand, forhe couldn't use his right because of his broken arm. "

Robert Audley looked up suddenly, and the shadow of suspicion passedaway from his face. 

"I understand, " he said, "I understand. Tell me all; tell me how it wasthat my poor friend was saved. "

"I was at work up at Atkinson's farm, last September, " said Luke Marks, "helping to stack the last of the corn, and as the nighest way from thefarm to mother's cottage was through the meadows at the back of theCourt, I used to come that way, and Phoebe used to stand in the gardenwall beyond the lime-walk sometimes, to have a chat with me, knowin' mytime o' comin' home. 

"I don't know what Phoebe was a-doin' upon the evenin' of the seventh o'September--I rek'lect the date because Farmer Atkinson paid me my wagesall of a lump on that day, and I'd had to sign a bit of a receipt forthe money he give me--I don't know what she was a-doin', but she warn'tat the gate agen the lime-walk, so I went round to the other side o' thegardens and jumped across the dry ditch, for I wanted partic'ler to seeher that night, as I was goin' away to work upon a farm beyondChelmsford the next day. Audley church clock struck nine as I wascrossin' the meadows between Atkinson's and the Court, and it must havebeen about a quarter past nine when I got into the kitchen garden. 

"I crossed the garden, and went into the lime-walk; the nighest way tothe servants' hall took me through the shrubbery and past the dry well. It was a dark night, but I knew my way well enough about the old place, and the light in the window of the servants' hall looked red andcomfortable through the darkness. I was close against the mouth of thedry well when I heard a sound that made my blood creep. It was agroan--a groan of a man in pain, as was lyin' somewhere hid among thebushes. I warn't afraid of ghosts and I warn't afraid of anythink in ageneral way, but there was somethin in hearin' this groan as chilled meto the very heart, and for a minute I was struck all of a heap, anddidn't know what to do. But I heard the groan again, and then I began tosearch among the bushes. I found a man lyin' hidden under a lot o'laurels, and I thought at first he was up to no good, and I was a-goin'to collar him to take him to the house, when he caught me by the wristwithout gettin' up from the ground, but lookin' at me very earnest, as Icould see by the way his face was turned toward me in the darkness, andasked me who I was, and what I was, and what I had to do with the folksat the Court. 

"There was somethin' in the way he spoke that told me he was agentleman, though I didn't know him from Adam, and couldn't see hisface; and I answered his questions civil. 

"'I want to get away from this place, ' he said, 'without bein' seen byany livin' creetur, remember that. I've been lyin' here ever since fouro'clock to-day, and I'm half dead, but I want to get away without bein'seen, mind that. '

"I told him that was easy enough, but I began to think my first thoughtsof him might have been right enough, after all, and that he couldn'thave been up to no good to want to sneak away so precious quiet. 

"'Can you take me to any place where I can get a change of dry clothes, 'he says, 'without half a dozen people knowin' it?'

"He'd got up into a sittin' attitude by this time, and I could see thathis right arm hung close by his side, and that he was in pain. 

"I pointed to his arm, and asked him what was the matter with it; but heonly answered, very quiet like: 'Broken, my lad, broken. Not that that'smuch, ' he says in another tone, speaking to himself like, more than tome. 'There's broken hearts as well as broken limbs, and they're not soeasy mended. '

"I told him I could take him to mother's cottage, and that he could dryhis clothes there and welcome. 

"'Can your mother keep a secret?' he asked. 

"'Well, she could keep one well enough if she could remember it, ' I toldhim; 'but you might tell her all the secrets of the Freemasons, andForesters, and Buffalers and Oddfellers as ever was, to-night: and she'dhave forgotten all about 'em to-morrow mornin'. '

"He seemed satisfied with this, and he got himself up by holdin' on tome, for it seemed as if his limbs was cramped, the use of 'em was almostgone. I felt as he came agen me, that his clothes was wet and mucky. 

"'You haven't been and fell into the fish-pond, have you, sir?' I asked. 

"He made no answer to my question; he didn't seem even to have heard it. I could see now he was standin' upon his feet that he was a tall, fine-made man, a head and shoulders higher than me. 

"'Take me to your mother's cottage, ' he said, 'and get me some dryclothes if you can; I'll pay you well for your trouble. '

"I knew that the key was mostly left in the wooden gate in the gardenwall, so I led him that way. He could scarcely walk at first, and it wasonly by leanin' heavily upon my shoulder that he managed to get along. Igot him through the gate, leavin' it unlocked behind me, and trustin' tothe chance of that not bein' noticed by the under-gardener, who had thecare of the key, and was a careless chap enough. I took him across themeadows, and brought him up here, still keepin' away from the village, and in the fields, where there wasn't a creature to see us at that timeo' night; and so I got him into the room down-stairs, where mother wasa-sittin' over the fire gettin' my bit o' supper ready for me. 

"I put the strange chap in a chair agen the fire, and then for the firsttime I had a good look at him. I never see anybody in such a statebefore. He was all over green damp and muck, and his hands was scratchedand cut to pieces. I got his clothes off him how I could, for he waslike a child in my hands, and sat starin' at the fire as helpless as anybaby; only givin' a long heavy sigh now and then, as if his heart wasa-goin' to bust. At last he dropped into a kind of a doze, a stupid sortof sleep, and began to nod over the fire, so I ran and got a blanket andwrapped him in it, and got him to lie down on the press bedstead in theroom under this. I sent mother to bed, and I sat by the fire and watchedhim, and kep' the fire up till it was just upon daybreak, when he 'wokeup all of a sudden with a start, and said he must go, directly thisminute. 

"I begged him not to think of such a thing and told him he warn't fit tomove for ever so long; but he said he must go, and he got up, and thoughhe staggered like, and at first could hardly stand steady two minutestogether, he wouldn't be beat, and he got me to dress him in his clothesas I'd dried and cleaned as well as I could while he laid asleep. I didmanage it at last, but the clothes was awful spoiled, and he looked adreadful objeck, with his pale face and a great cut on his forehead thatI'd washed and tied up with a handkercher. He could only get his coat onby buttoning it on round his neck, for he couldn't put a sleeve upon hisbroken arm. But he held out agen everything, though he groaned every nowand then; and what with the scratches and bruises on his hands, and thecut upon his forehead, and his stiff limbs and broken arm, he'd plentyof call to groan; and by the time it was broad daylight he was dressedand ready to go. 

"'What's the nearest town to this upon the London road?' he asked me. 

"I told him as the nighest town was Brentwood. 

"'Very well, then, ' he says, 'if you'll go with me to Brentwood, andtake me to some surgeon as'll set my arm, I'll give you a five poundnote for that and all your other trouble. '

"I told him that I was ready and willin' to do anything as he wanteddone; and asked him if I shouldn't go and see if I could borrow a cartfrom some of the neighbors to drive him over in, for I told him it was agood six miles' walk. 

"He shook his head. No, no, no, he said, he didn't want anybody to knowanything about him; he'd rather walk it. 

"He did walk it; and he walked like a good 'un, too; though I know asevery step he took o' them six miles he took in pain; but he held out ashe'd held out before; I never see such a chap to hold out in all myblessed life. He had to stop sometimes and lean agen a gateway to gethis breath; but he held out still, till at last we got into Brentwood, and then he says, 'Take me to the nighest surgeon's, ' and I waited whilehe had his arm set in splints, which took a precious long time. Thesurgeon wanted him to stay in Brentwood till he was better, but he saidit warn't to be heard on, he must get up to London without a minute'sloss of time; so the surgeon made him as comfortable as he could, considering and tied up his arm in a sling. "

Robert Audley started. A circumstance connected with his visit toLiverpool dashed suddenly back upon his memory. He remembered the clerkwho had called him back to say there was a passenger who took his berthon board the _Victoria Regia_ within an hour or so of the vessel'ssailing; a young man with his arm in a sling, who had called himself bysome common name, which Robert had forgotten. 

"When his arm was dressed, " continued Luke, "he says to the surgeon, 'Can you give me a pencil to write something before I go away?' Thesurgeon smiles and shakes his head: 'You'll never be able to write withthat there hand to-day, ' he says, pointin' to the arm as had just beendressed. 'P'raps not, ' the young chap answers, quiet enough, 'but I canwrite with the other, ' 'Can't I write it for you?' says the surgeon. 'No, thank you, ' answers the other; 'what I've got to write is private. If you can give me a couple of envelopes, I'll be obliged to you. '

"With that the surgeon goes to fetch the envelopes, and the young chaptakes a pocket-book out of his coat pocket with his left hand; the coverwas wet and dirty, but the inside was clean enough, and he tears out acouple of leaves and begins to write upon 'em as you see; and he writesdreadful awk'ard with his left hand, and he writes slow, but hecontrives to finish what you see, and then he puts the two bits o'writin' into the envelopes as the surgeon brings him, and he seals 'emup, and he puts a pencil cross upon one of 'em, and nothing on theother: and then he pays the surgeon for his trouble, and the surgeonsays, ain't there nothin' more he can do for him, and can't he persuadehim to stay in Brentwood till his arm's better; but he says no, no, itain't possible; and then he says to me, 'Come along o' me to the railwaystation, and I'll give you what I've promised. '

"So I went to the station with him. We was in time to catch the train asstops at Brentwood at half after eight, and we had five minutes tospare. So he takes me into a corner of the platform, and he says, 'Iwants you to deliver these here letters for me, ' which I told him I waswillin'. 'Very well, then, ' he says; 'look here; you know Audley Court?''Yes, ' I says, 'I ought to, for my sweetheart lives lady's maid there. ''Whose lady's maid?' he says. So I tells him, 'My lady's, the new ladywhat was governess at Mr. Dawson's. ' 'Very well, then, ' he says; 'thishere letter with the cross upon the envelope is for Lady Audley, butyou're to be sure to give it into her own hands; and remember to takecare as nobody sees you give it. ' I promises to do this, and he hands methe first letter. And then he says, 'Do you know Mr. Audley, as is nevyto Sir Michael?' and I said, 'Yes, I've heerd tell on him, and I'veheerd as he was a reg'lar swell, but affable and free-spoken' (for Iheerd 'em tell on you, you know), " Luke added, parenthetically. "'Nowlook here, ' the young chap says, 'you're to give this other letter toMr. Robert Audley, whose a-stayin' at the Sun Inn, in the village;' andI tells him it's all right, as I've know'd the Sun ever since I was ababy. So then he gives me the second letter, what's got nothing wroteupon the envelope, and he gives me a five-pound note, accordin' topromise; and then he says, 'Good-day, and thank you for all yourtrouble, 'and he gets into a second-class carriage; and the last I seesof him is a face as white as a sheet of writin' paper, and a great patchof stickin'-plaster criss-crossed upon his forehead. "

"Poor George! poor George!"

"I went back to Audley, and I went straight to the Sun Inn, and askedfor you, meanin' to deliver both letters faithful, so help me God! then;but the landlord told me as you'd started off that mornin' for London, and he didn't know when you'd come back, and he didn't know the name o'the place where you lived in London, though he said he thought it was inone o' them law courts, such as Westminster Hall or Doctors' Commons, orsomethin' like that. So what was I to do? I couldn't send a letter bypost, not knowin' where to direct to, and I couldn't give it into yourown hands, and I'd been told partickler not to let anybody else know ofit; so I'd nothing to do but to wait and see if you come back, and bidemy time for givin' of it to you. 

"I thought I'd go over to the Court in the evenin'and see Phoebe, andfind out from her when there'd be a chance of seein' her lady, for Iknow'd she could manage it if she liked. So I didn't go to work thatday, though I ought to ha' done, and I lounged and idled about until itwas nigh upon dusk, and then I goes down to the meadows behind theCourt, and there I finds Phoebe sure enough, waitin' agen the woodendoor in the wall, on the lookout for me. 

"I hadn't been talkin' to her long before I see there was somethinkwrong with her and I told her as much. 

"Well, ' she says, 'I ain't quite myself this evenin', for I had a upsetyesterday, and I ain't got over it yet. '

"'A upset, ' I says. 'You had a quarrel with your missus, I suppose. '

"She didn't answer me directly, but she smiled the queerest smile asever I see, and presently she says:

"No, Luke, it weren't nothin' o' that kind; and what's more, nobodycould be friendlier toward me than my lady. I think she'd do any thinkfor me a'most; and I think, whether it was a bit o' farming stock andfurniture or such like, or whether it was the good-will of apublic-house, she wouldn't refuse me anythink as I asked her. '

"I couldn't make out this, for it was only a few days before as she'dtold me her missus was selfish and extravagant, and we might wait a longtime before we could get what we wanted from her. 

"So I says to her, 'Why, this is rather sudden like, Phoebe;' and shesays, 'Yes, it is sudden;' and she smiles again, just the same sort ofsmile as before. Upon that I turns round upon her sharp, and says:

"I'll tell you what it is, my gal, you're a-keepin' somethink from me;somethink you've been told, or somethink you've found out; and if youthink you're a-goin' to try that game on with me, you'll find you'revery much mistaken; and so I give you warnin'. "

"But she laughed it off like, and says, 'Lor' Luke, what could have putsuch fancies into your head?'

"'Perhaps other people can keep secrets as well as you, ' I said, 'andperhaps other people can make friends as well as you. There was agentleman came here to see your missus yesterday, warn't there--a tallyoung gentleman with a brown beard?'

"Instead of answering of me like a Christian, my Cousin Phoebe burstsout a-cryin', and wrings her hands, and goes on awful, until I'm dashedif I can make out what she's up to. 

"But little by little I got it out of her, for I wouldn't stand nononsense; find she told me how she'd been sittin' at work at the windowof her little room, which was at the top of the house, right up in oneof the gables, and overlooked the lime-walk, and the shrubbery and thewell, when she see my lady walking with a strange gentleman, and theywalked together for a long time, until by-and-by they--"

"Stop!" cried Robert, "I know the rest. "

"Well, Phoebe told me all about what she see, and she told me she'd mether lady almost directly afterward, and somethin' had passed between'em, not much, but enough to let her missus know that the servant whatshe looked down upon had found out that as would put her in thatservant's power to the last day of her life. 

"'And she is in my power, Luke, ' says Phoebe; 'and she'll do anythin' inthe world for us if we keep her secret. '

"So you see both my Lady Audley and her maid thought as the gentleman asI'd seen safe off by the London train was lying dead at the bottom ofthe well. If I was to give the letter they'd find out the contrary ofthis; and if I was to give the letter, Phoebe and me would lose thechance of gettin' started in life by her missus. 

"So I kep' the letter and kep' my secret, and my lady kep' hern. But Ithought if she acted liberal by me, and gave me the money I wanted, freelike, I'd tell her everythink, and make her mind easy. 

"But she didn't. Whatever she give me she throwed me as if I'd been adog. Whenever she spoke to me, she spoke as she might have spoken to adog; and a dog she couldn't abide the sight of. There was no word in hermouth that was too bad for me; there was no toss as she could give herhead that was too proud and scornful for me; and my blood b'iled agenher, and I kep' my secret, and let her keep hern. I opened the twoletters, and I read 'em, but I couldn't make much sense out of 'em, andI hid 'em away; and not a creature but me has seen 'em until thisnight. "

Luke Marks had finished his story, and lay quietly enough, exhausted byhaving talked so long. He watched Robert Audley's face, fully expectingsome reproof, some grave lecture; for he had a vague consciousness thathe had done wrong. 

But Robert did not lecture him; he had no fancy for an office which hedid not think himself fitted to perform. 

Robert Audley sat until long after daybreak with the sick man, who fellinto a heavy slumber a short time after he had finished his story. Theold woman had dozed comfortably throughout her son's confession. Phoebewas asleep upon the press bedstead in the room below; so the youngbarrister was the only watcher. 

He could not sleep; he could only think of the story he had heard. Hecould only thank God for his friend's preservation, and pray that hemight be able to go to Clara Talboys, and say, "Your brother stilllives, and has been found. "

Phoebe came up-stairs at eight o'clock, ready to take her place at thesick-bed, and Robert Audley went away, to get a bed at the Sun Inn. Itwas nearly dusk when he awoke out of a long dreamless slumber, anddressed himself before dining in the little sitting-room, in which heand George had sat together a few months before. 

The landlord waited upon him at dinner, and told him that Luke Marks haddied at five o'clock that afternoon. "He went off rather sudden like, "the man said, "but very quiet. "

Robert Audley wrote a long letter that evening, addressed to MadameTaylor, care of Monsieur Val, Villebrumeuse; a long letter in which hetold the wretched woman who had borne so many names, and was to bear afalse one for the rest of her life, the story that the dying man hadtold him. 

"It may be some comfort to her to hear that her husband did not perishin his youth by her wicked hand, " he thought, "if her selfish soul canhold any sentiment of pity or sorrow for others. "

CHAPTER XL. 

RESTORED. 

Clara Talboys returned to Dorsetshire, to tell her father that his onlyson had sailed for Australia upon the 9th of September, and that it wasmost probable he yet lived, and would return to claim the forgiveness ofthe father he had never very particularly injured; except in the matterof having made that terrible matrimonial mistake which had exercised sofatal an influence upon his youth. 

Mr. Harcourt-Talboys was fairly nonplused. Junius Brutus had never beenplaced in such a position as this, and seeing no way of getting out ofthis dilemma by acting after his favorite model, Mr. Talboys was fain tobe natural for once in his life, and to confess that he had sufferedmuch uneasiness and pain of mind about his only son since hisconversation with Robert Audley, and that he would be heartily glad totake his poor boy to his arms, whenever he should return to England. Butwhen was he likely to return? and how was he to be communicated with?That was the question. Robert Audley remembered the advertisements whichhe had caused to be inserted in the Melbourne and Sydney papers. IfGeorge had re-entered either city alive, how was it that no notice hadever been taken of that advertisement? Was it likely that his friendwould be indifferent to his uneasiness? But then, again, it was justpossible that George Talboys had not happened to see this advertisement;and, as he had traveled under a feigned name, neither his fellowpassengers nor the captain of the vessel would have been able toidentify him with the person advertised for. What was to be done? Mustthey wait patiently till George grew weary of his exile, and returned tohis friends who loved him? or were there any means to be taken by whichhis return might be hastened? Robert Audley was at fault! Perhaps, inthe unspeakable relief of mind which he had experienced upon thediscovery of his friend's escape, he was unable to look beyond the onefact of that providential preservation. 

In this state of mind he went down to Dorsetshire to pay a visit to Mr. Talboys, who had given way to a perfect torrent of generous impulses, and had gone so far as to invite his son's friend to share the primhospitality of the square, red brick mansion. 

Mr. Talboys had only two sentiments upon the subject of George's story;one was a natural relief and happiness in the thought that his son hadbeen saved, the other was an earnest wish that my lady had been hiswife, and that he might thus have had the pleasure of making a signalexample of her. 

"It is not for me to blame you, Mr. Audley, " he said, "for havingsmuggled this guilty woman out of the reach of justice, and thus, as Imay say, paltered with the laws of your country. I can only remark that, had the lady fallen into my hands, she would have been very differentlytreated. "

It was in the middle of April when Robert Audley found himself once moreunder those black fir-trees beneath which his wandering thoughts had sooften stayed since his first meeting with Clara Talboys. There wereprimroses and early violets in the hedges now, and the streams, which, upon his first visit, had been hard and frost-bound as the heart ofHarcourt Talboys, had thawed, like that gentleman, and ran merrily underthe blackthorn bushes in the capricious April sunshine. 

Robert had a prim bedroom, and an uncompromising dressing-room allottedhim in the square house, and he woke every morning upon a metallicspring mattress, which always gave him the idea of sleeping upon somemusical instrument, to see the sun glaring in upon him through thesquare, white blinds and lighting up the two lackered urns which adornedthe foot of the blue iron bedstead, until they blazed like two tinybrazen lamps of the Roman period. He emulated Mr. Harcourt Talboys inthe matter of shower-baths and cold water, and emerged prim and blue asthat gentleman himself, as the clock in the hall struck seven, to jointhe master of the house in his ante-breakfast constitutional under thefir-trees in the stiff plantation. 

But there was generally a third person who assisted in theconstitutional promenades, and that third person was Clara Talboys, whoused to walk by her father's side, more beautiful than the morning--forthat was sometimes dull and cloudy, while she was always fresh andbright--in a broad-leaved straw-hat and flapping blue ribbons, onequarter of an inch of which Mr. Audley would have esteemed a prouderdecoration than ever adorned a favored creature's button-hole. 

At first they were very ceremonious toward each other, and were onlyfamiliar and friendly upon the one subject of George's adventures; butlittle by little a pleasant intimacy arose between them, and before thefirst three weeks of Robert's visit had elapsed, Miss Talboys made himhappy, by taking him seriously in hand and lecturing him on thepurposeless life he had led so long, and the little use he had made ofthe talents and opportunities that had been given to him. 

How pleasant it was to be lectured by the woman he loved! How pleasantit was to humiliate himself and depreciate himself before her! Howdelightful it was to get such splendid opportunities of hinting that ifhis life had been sanctified by an object he might indeed have strivento be something better than an idle _flaneur_ upon the smooth pathwaysthat have no particular goal; that, blessed by the ties which would havegiven a solemn purpose to every hour of his existence, he might indeedhave fought the battle earnestly and unflinchingly. He generally woundup with a gloomy insinuation to the effect that it was only likely hewould drop quietly over the edge of the Temple Gardens some afternoonwhen the river was bright and placid in the low sunlight, and the littlechildren had gone home to their tea. 

"Do you think I can read French novels and smoke mild Turkish until I amthree-score-and-ten, Miss Talboys?" he asked. "Do you think there willnot come a day in which my meerschaums will be foul, and the Frenchnovels more than usually stupid, and life altogether such a dismalmonotony that I shall want to get rid of it somehow or other?"

I am sorry to say that while this hypocritical young barrister washolding forth in this despondent way, he had mentally sold up hisbachelor possessions, including all Michel Levy's publications, and halfa dozen solid silver-mounted meerschaums; pensioned off Mrs. Maloney, and laid out two or three thousand pounds in the purchase of a few acresof verdant shrubbery and sloping lawn, embosomed amid which there shouldbe a fairy cottage _ornee_, whose rustic casements should glimmer out ofbowers of myrtle and clematis to see themselves reflected in the purplebosom of the lake. 

Of course, Clara Talboys was far from discovering the drift of thesemelancholy lamentations. She recommended Mr. Audley to read hard andthink seriously of his profession, and begin life in real earnest. Itwas a hard, dry sort of existence, perhaps, which she recommended; alife of serious work and application, in which he should strive to beuseful to his fellow-creatures, and win a reputation for himself. 

"I'd do all that, " he thought, "and do it earnestly, if I could be sureof a reward for my labor. If she would accept my reputation when it waswon, and support me in the struggle by her beloved companionship. Butwhat if she sends me away to fight the battle, and marries some hulkingcountry squire while my back is turned?"

Being naturally of a vacillating and dilatory disposition, there is nosaying how long Mr. Audley might have kept his secret, fearful to speakand break the charm of that uncertainty which, though not alwayshopeful, was very seldom quite despairing, had not he been hurried bythe impulse of an unguarded moment into a full confession of the truth. 

He had stayed five weeks at Grange Heath, and felt that he could not, incommon decency, stay any longer; so he had packed his portmanteau onepleasant May morning, and had announced his departure. 

Mr. Talboys was not the sort of man to utter any passionate lamentationsat the prospect of losing his guest, but he expressed himself with acool cordiality which served with him as the strongest demonstration offriendship. 

"We have got on very well together, Mr. Audley, " he said, "and you havebeen pleased to appear sufficiently happy in the quiet routine of ourorderly household; nay, more, you have conformed to our little domesticregulations in a manner which I cannot refrain from saying I take as anespecial compliment to myself. "

Robert bowed. How thankful he was to the good fortune which had neversuffered him to oversleep the signal of the clanging bell, or led himaway beyond the ken of clocks at Mr. Talboys' luncheon hour. 

"I trust as we have got on so remarkably well together, " Mr. Talboysresumed, "you will do me the honor of repeating your visit toDorsetshire whenever you feel inclined. You will find plenty of sportamong my farms, and you will meet with every politeness and attentionfrom my tenants, if you like to bring your gun with you. "

Robert responded most heartily to these friendly overtures. He declaredthat there was no earthly occupation that was more agreeable to him thanpartridge-shooting, and that he should be only too delighted to availhimself of the privilege so kindly offered to him. He could not helpglancing toward Clara as he said this. The perfect lids drooped a littleover the brown eyes, and the faintest shadow of a blush illuminated thebeautiful face. 

But this was the young barrister's last day in Elysium, and there mustbe a dreary interval of days and nights and weeks and months before thefirst of September would give him an excuse for returning toDorsetshire; a dreary interval which fresh colored young squires or fatwidowers of eight-and-forty, might use to his disadvantage. It was nowonder, therefore, that he contemplated this dismal prospect with moodydespair, and was bad company for Miss Talboys that morning. 

But in the evening after dinner, when the sun was low in the west, andHarcourt Talboys closeted in his library upon some judicial businesswith his lawyer and a tenant farmer, Mr. Audley grew a little moreagreeable. He stood by Clara's side in one of the long windows of thedrawing-room, watching the shadows deepening in the sky and the rosylight growing every moment rosier as the sun died out. He could not helpenjoying that quiet _tete-a-tete_, though the shadow of the nextmorning's express which was to carry him away to London loomed darklyacross the pathway of his joy. He could not help being happy in herpresence; forgetful of the past, reckless of the future. 

They talked of the one subject which was always a bond of union betweenthem. They talked of her lost brother George. She spoke of him in a verymelancholy tone this evening. How could she be otherwise than sad, remembering that if he lived--and she was not even sure of that--he wasa lonely wanderer far away from all who loved him, and carrying thememory of a blighted life wherever he went. 

"I cannot think how papa can be so resigned to my poor brother'sabsence, " she said, "for he does love him, Mr. Audley; even you musthave seen lately that he does love him. But I cannot think how he can soquietly submit to his absence. If I were a man, I would go to Australia, and find him, and bring him back; if he was still to be found among theliving, " she added, in a lower voice. 

She turned her face away from Robert, and looked out at the darkeningsky. He laid his hand upon her arm. It trembled in spite of him, and hisvoice trembled, too, as he spoke to her. 

"Shall _I_ go to look for your brother?" he said. 

"_You!_" She turned her head, and looked at him earnestly through hertears. "You, Mr. Audley! Do you think that I could ask you to make sucha sacrifice for me, or for those I love?"

"And do you think, Clara, that I should think any sacrifice too great aone if it were made for you? Do you think there is any voyage I wouldrefuse to take, if I knew that you would welcome me when I came home, and thank me for having served you faithfully? I will go from one end ofthe continent of Australia to the other to look for your brother, if youplease, Clara; and will never return alive unless I bring him with me, and will take my chance of what reward you shall give me for my labor. "

Her head was bent, and it was some moments before she answered him. 

"You are very good and generous, Mr. Audley, " she said, at last, "and Ifeel this offer too much to be able to thank you for it. But what youspeak of could never be. By what right could I accept such a sacrifice?"

"By the right which makes me your bounden slave forever and ever, whether you will or no. By right of the love I bear you, Clara, " criedMr. Audley, dropping on his knees--rather awkwardly, it must beconfessed--and covering a soft little hand, that he had found halfhidden among the folds of a silken dress, with passionate kisses. 

"I love you, Clara, " he said, "I love you. You may call for your father, and have me turned out of the house this moment, if you like; but Ishall go on loving you all the same; and I shall love you forever andever, whether you will or no. "

The little hand was drawn away from his, but not with a sudden or angrygesture, and it rested for one moment lightly and tremulously upon hisdark hair. 

"Clara, Clara!" he murmured, in a low, pleading voice, "shall I go toAustralia to look for your brother?"

There was no answer. I don't know how it is, but there is scarcelyanything more delicious than silence in such cases. Every moment ofhesitation is a tacit avowal; every pause is a tender confession. 

"Shall we both go, dearest? Shall we go as man and wife? Shall we gotogether, my dear love, and bring our brother back between us?"

Mr. Harcourt Talboys, coming into the lamplit room a quarter of an hourafterward, found Robert Audley alone, and had to listen to a revelationwhich very much surprised him. Like all self-sufficient people, he wastolerably blind to everything that happened under his nose, and he hadfully believed that his own society, and the Spartan regularity of hishousehold, had been the attractions which had made Dorsetshiredelightful to his guest. 

He was rather disappointed, therefore; but he bore his disappointmentpretty well, and expressed a placid and rather stoical satisfaction atthe turn which affairs had taken. 

So Robert Audley went back to London, to surrender his chambers inFigtree Court, and to make all due inquiries about such ships as sailedfrom Liverpool for Sydney in the month of June. 

He had lingered until after luncheon at Grange Heath, and it was in thedusky twilight that he entered the shady Temple courts and found his wayto his chambers. He found Mrs. Maloney scrubbing the stairs, as was herwont upon a Saturday evening, and he had to make his way upward amidstan atmosphere of soapy steam, that made the balusters greasy under histouch. 

"There's lots of letters, yer honor, " the laundress said, as she rosefrom her knees and flattened herself against the wall to enable Robertto pass her, "and there's some parcels, and there's a gentleman whichhas called ever so many times, and is waitin' to-night, for I towld himyou'd written to me to say your rooms were to be aired. "

He opened the door of his sitting-room, and walked in. The canaries weresinging their farewell to the setting sun, and the faint, yellow lightwas flickering upon the geranium leaves. The visitor, whoever he was, sat with his back to the window and his head bent upon his breast. Buthe started up as Robert Audley entered the room, and the young manuttered a great cry of delight and surprise, and opened his arms to hislost friend, George Talboys. 

We know how much Robert had to tell. He touched lightly and tenderlyupon that subject which he knew was cruelly painful to his friends; hesaid very little of the wretched woman who was wearing out the remnantof her wicked life in the quiet suburb of the forgotten Belgian city. 

George Talboys spoke very briefly of that sunny seventh of September, upon which he had left his friend sleeping by the trout stream while hewent to accuse his false wife of that conspiracy which had well nighbroken his heart. 

"God knows that from the moment in which I sunk into the black pit, knowing the treacherous hand that had sent me to what might have been mydeath, my chief thought was of the safety of the woman who had betrayedme. I fell upon my feet upon a mass of slush and mire, but my shoulderwas bruised, and my arm broken against the side of the well. I wasstunned and dazed for a few minutes, but I roused myself by an effort, for I felt that the atmosphere I breathed was deadly. I had myAustralian experiences to help me in my peril; I could climb like a cat. The stones of which the well was built were rugged and irregular, and Iwas able to work my way upward by planting my feet in the interstices ofthe stones, and resting my back at times against the opposite side ofthe well, helping myself as well as I could with my hands, though onearm was crippled. It was hard work, Bob, and it seems strange that a manwho had long professed himself weary of his life, should take so muchtrouble to preserve it. I think I must have been working upward of halfan hour before I got to the top; I know the time seemed an eternity ofpain and peril. It was impossible for me to leave the place until afterdark without being observed, so I hid myself behind a clump oflaurel-bushes, and lay down on the grass faint and exhausted to wait fornightfall. The man who found me there told you the rest. Robert. "

"Yes, my poor old friend. --yes, he told me all. "

George had never returned to Australia after all. He had gone on boardthe _Victoria Regia_, but had afterward changed his berth for one inanother vessel belonging to the same owners, and had gone to New York, where he had stayed as long as he could endure the loneliness of anexistence which separated him from every friend he had ever known. 

"Jonathan was very kind to me, Bob, " he said; "I had enough money toenable me to get on pretty well in my own quiet way and I meant to havestarted for the California gold fields to get more when that was gone. Imight have made plenty of friends had I pleased, but I carried the oldbullet in my breast; and what sympathy could I have with men who knewnothing of my grief? I yearned for the strong grasp of your hand, Bob;the friendly touch of the hand which had guided me through the darkestpassage of my life. "

CHAPTER XLI. 

AT PEACE. 

Two years have passed since the May twilight in which Robert found hisold friend; and Mr. Audley's dream of a fairy cottage has been realizedbetween Teddington Locks and Hampton Bridge, where, amid a little forestof foliage, there is a fantastical dwelling place of rustic woodwork, whose latticed windows look out upon the river. Here, among the liliesand the rushes on the sloping bank, a brave boy of eight years old playswith a toddling baby, who peers wonderingly from his nurse's arms atthat other baby in the purple depth of the quiet water. 

Mr. Audley is a rising man upon the home circuit by this time, and hasdistinguished himself in the great breach of promise case of Hobbs _v. _Nobbs, and has convulsed the court by his deliciously comic rendering ofthe faithless Nobb's amatory correspondence. The handsome dark-eyed boyis Master George Talboys, who declines _musa_ at Eton, and fishes fortadpoles in the clear water under the spreading umbrage beyond the iviedwalls of the academy. But he comes very often to the fairy cottage tosee his father, who lives there with his sister and his sister'shusband; and he is very happy with his Uncle Robert, his Aunt Clara, andthe pretty baby who has just begun to toddle on the smooth lawn thatslopes down to the water's brink, upon which there is a little Swissboat-house and landing-stage where Robert and George moor their slenderwherries. 

Other people come to the cottage near Teddington. A bright, merry-hearted girl, and a gray-bearded gentleman, who has survived hetrouble of his life, and battled with it as a Christian should. 

It is more than a year since a black-edged letter, written upon foreignpaper, came to Robert Audley, to announce the death of a certain MadameTaylor, who had expired peacefully at Villebrumeuse, dying after a longillness, which Monsieur Val describes as a _maladie de langueur_. 

Another visitor comes to the cottage in this bright summer of 1861--afrank, generous hearted young man, who tosses the baby and plays withGeorgey, and is especially great in the management of the boats, whichare never idle when Sir Harry Towers is at Teddington. 

There is a pretty rustic smoking-room over the Swiss boat-house, inwhich the gentlemen sit and smoke in the summer evenings, and whencethey are summoned by Clara and Alicia to drink tea, and eat strawberriesand cream upon the lawn. 

Audley Court is shut up, and a grim old housekeeper reigns paramount inthe mansion which my lady's ringing laughter once made musical. Acurtain hangs before the pre-Raphaelite portrait; and the blue moldwhich artists dread gathers upon the Wouvermans and Poussins, the Cuypsand Tintorettis. The house is often shown to inquisitive visitors, though the baronet is not informed of that fact, and people admire mylady's rooms, and ask many questions about the pretty, fair-haired womanwho died abroad. 

Sir Michael has no fancy to return to the familiar dwelling-place inwhich he once dreamed a brief dream of impossible happiness. He remainsin London until Alicia shall be Lady Towers, when he is to remove to ahouse he has lately bought in Hertfordshire, on the borders of hisson-in-law's estate. George Talboys is very happy with his sister andhis old friend. He is a young man yet, remember, and it is not quiteimpossible that he may, by-and-by, find some one who will console himfor the past. That dark story of the past fades little by little everyday, and there may come a time in which the shadow my lady's wickednesshas cast upon the young man's life will utterly vanish away. 

The meerschaum and the French novels have been presented to a youngTemplar with whom Robert Audley had been friendly in his bachelor days;and Mrs. Maloney has a little pension, paid her quarterly, for her careof the canaries and geraniums. 

I hope no one will take objection to my story because the end of itleaves the good people all happy and at peace. If my experience of lifehas not been very long, it has at least been manifold; and I can safelysubscribe to that which a mighty king and a great philosopher declared, when he said, that neither the experience of his youth nor of his agehad ever shown him "the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging theirbread. "

THE END.