Lady Audley's Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (popular books of all time .TXT) 📖
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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moment considered seriously by a sensible man.
His pretty, gipsy-faced cousin might have been over head and ears in
love with him; and she might have told him so, in some charming,
roundabout, womanly fashion, a hundred times a day for all the three
hundred and sixty-five days in the year; but unless she had waited for
some privileged 29th of February, and walked straight up to him, saying,
“Robert, please will you marry me?” I very much doubt if he would ever
have discovered the state of her feelings.
Again, had he been in love with her himself, I fancy that the tender
passion would, with him, have been so vague and feeble a sentiment that
he might have gone down to his grave with a dim sense of some uneasy
sensation which might be love or indigestion, and with, beyond this, no
knowledge whatever of his state.
So it was not the least use, my poor Alicia, to ride about the lanes
around Audley during those three days which the two young men spent in
Essex; it was wasted trouble to wear that pretty cavalier hat and plume,
and to be always, by the most singular of chances, meeting Robert and
his friend. The black curls (nothing like Lady Audley’s feathery
ringlets, but heavy clustering locks, that clung about your slender
brown throat), the red and pouting lips, the nose inclined to be
retrousse, the dark complexion, with its bright crimson flush, always
ready to glance up like a signal light in a dusky sky, when you came
suddenly upon your apathetic cousin—all this coquettish espiegle,
brunette beauty was thrown away upon the dull eyes of Robert Audley, and
you might as well have taken your rest in the cool drawing-room at the
Court, instead of working your pretty mare to death under the hot
September sun.
Now fishing, except to the devoted disciple of Izaak Walton, is not the
most lively of occupations; therefore, it is scarcely, perhaps, to be
wondered that on the day after Lady Audley’s departure, the two young
men (one of whom was disabled by that heart wound which he bore so
quietly, from really taking pleasure in anything, and the other of whom
looked upon almost all pleasure as a negative kind of trouble) began to
grow weary of the shade of the willows overhanging the winding streams
about Audley.
“Figtree Court is not gay in the long vacation,” said Robert,
reflectively: “but I think, upon the whole, it’s better than this; at
any rate, it’s near a tobacconist’s,” he added, puffing resignedly at an
execrable cigar procured from the landlord of the Sun Inn.
George Talboys, who had only consented to the Essex expedition in
passive submission to his friend, was by no means inclined to object to
their immediate return to London. “I shall be glad to get back, Bob,” he
said, “for I want to take a run down to Southampton; I haven’t seen the
little one for upward of a month.”
He always spoke of his son as “the little one;” always spoke of him
mournfully rather than hopefully. He accounted for this by saying that
he had a fancy that the child would never learn to love him; and worse
even than this fancy, a dim presentiment that he would not live to see
his little Georgey reach manhood.
“I’m not a romantic man, Bob,” he would say sometimes, “and I never read
a line of poetry in my life that was any more to me than so many words
and so much jingle; but a feeling has come over me, since my wife’s
death, that I am like a man standing upon a long, low shore, with
hideous cliffs frowning down upon him from behind, and the rising tide
crawling slowly but surely about his feet. It seems to grow nearer and
nearer every day, that black, pitiless tide; not rushing upon me with a
great noise and a mighty impetus, but crawling, creeping, stealing,
gliding toward me, ready to close in above my head when I am least
prepared for the end.”
Robert Audley stared at his friend in silent amazement; and, after a
pause of profound deliberation, said solemnly, “George Talboys, I could
understand this if you had been eating heavy suppers. Cold pork, now,
especially if underdone, might produce this sort of thing. You want
change of air, my dear boy; you want the refreshing breezes of Figtree
Court, and the soothing air of Fleet street. Or, stay,” he added,
suddenly, “I have it! You’ve been smoking our friend the landlord’s
cigars; that accounts for everything.”
They met Alicia Audley on her mare about half an hour after they had
come to the determination of leaving Essex early the next morning. The
young lady was very much surprised and disappointed at hearing her
cousin’s determination, and for that very reason pretended to take the
matter with supreme indifference.
“You are very soon tired of Audley, Robert,” she said, carelessly; “but
of 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. “Audley
is the dearest old place, but when a man has to smoke dried cabbage
leaves, you know, Alicia—”
“Then you are really going tomorrow 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 much
admiration out of my friend, George Talboys,” said Robert. “His heart is
at Southampton, where he has a curly-headed little urchin, about as high
as his knee, who calls him ‘the big gentleman,’ and asks him for
sugar-plums.”
“I am going to write to my stepmother by tonight’s post,” said Alicia.
“She asked me particularly in her letter how long you were going to
stop, and whether there was any chance of her being back in time to
receive you.”
Miss Audley took a letter from the pocket of her riding-jacket as she
spoke—a pretty, fairy-like note, written on shining paper of a peculiar
creamy 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 the
note.
“Yes, it is pretty, is it not? Look at it, Robert.”
She put the letter into his hand, and he contemplated it lazily for a
few 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 you
know, Alicia, I have no great belief in those fellows who ask you for
thirteen postage stamps, and offer to tell you what you have never been
able to find out yourself; but upon my word I think that if I had never
seen 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 penciled
eyebrows, the tiny, straight nose, the winning, childish smile; all to
be guessed in these few graceful up-strokes and down-strokes. George,
look here!”
But absent-minded and gloomy George Talboys had strolled away along the
margin 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 means
relished this long disquisition upon my lady’s note. “Give me the
letter, and let me go; it’s past eight, and I must answer it by
tonight’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 was
out of sight before those two big, bright tears that stood in her eyes
for one moment, before her pride sent them, back again, rose from her
angry heart.
“To have only one cousin in the world,” she cried, passionately, “my
nearest relation after papa, and for him to care about as much for me as
he would for a dog!”
By the merest of accidents, however, Robert and his friend did not go by
the 10.50 express on the following morning, for the young barrister
awoke with such a splitting headache, that he asked George to send him a
cup of the strongest green tea that had ever been made at the Sun, and
to be furthermore so good as to defer their journey until the next day.
Of course George assented, and Robert Audley spent the forenoon in a
darkened room with a five-days’-old Chelmsford paper to entertain
himself withal.
“It’s nothing but the cigars, George,” he said, repeatedly. “Get me out
of the place without my seeing the landlord; for if that man and I meet
there will be bloodshed.”
Fortunately for the peace of Audley, it happened to be market-day at
Chelmsford; and the worthy landlord had ridden off in his chaise-cart to
purchase supplies for his house—among other things, perhaps, a fresh
stock of those very cigars which had been so fatal in their effect upon
Robert.
The young men spent a dull, dawdling, stupid, unprofitable day; and
toward dusk Mr. Audley proposed that they should stroll down to the
Court, and ask Alicia to take them over the house.
“It will kill a couple of hours, you know, George: and it seems a great
pity to drag you away from Audley without having shown you the old
place, 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 the
meadows, and crossed a stile into the avenue leading to the archway—a
lurid, heavy-looking, ominous sunset, and a deathly stillness in the
air, which frightened the birds that had a mind to sing, and left the
field open to a few captious frogs croaking in the ditches. Still as the
atmosphere was, the leaves rustled with that sinister, shivering motion
which proceeds from no outer cause, but is rather an instinctive shudder
of the frail branches, prescient of a coming storm. That stupid clock,
which knew no middle course, and always skipped from one hour to the
other, 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 down
under the black shadow of the trees, from which every now and then a
withered leaf flapped slowly to the ground.
Strange to say, George Talboys, who very seldom observed anything, took
particular notice of this place.
“It ought to be an avenue in a churchyard,” he said. “How peacefully the
dead might sleep under this somber shade! I wish the churchyard at
Ventnor was like this.”
They walked on to the ruined well; and Alicia told them some old legend
connected with the spot—some gloomy story, such as those always
attached to an old house, as if the past were one dark page of sorrow
and 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 years
before, into the library, and thence to the hall.
In the hall they passed my lady’s pale-faced maid, who looked furtively
under her white
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