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its effects upon her, but she controlled herself, and her tone grew
calmer as she resumed:
“Robert Audley is mad,” she said, decisively. “What is one of the
strangest diagnostics of madness—what is the first appalling sign of
mental aberration? The mind becomes stationary; the brain stagnates; the
even current of reflection is interrupted; the thinking power of the
brain resolves itself into a monotone. As the waters of a tideless pool
putrefy by reason of their stagnation, the mind becomes turbid and
corrupt through lack of action; and the perpetual reflection upon one
subject resolves itself into monomania. Robert Audley is a monomaniac.
The disappearance of his friend, George Talboys, grieved and bewildered
him. He dwelt upon this one idea until he lost the power of thinking of
anything else. The one idea looked at perpetually became distorted to
his mental vision. Repeat the commonest word in the English language
twenty times, and before the twentieth repetition you will have begun to
wonder whether the word which you repeat is really the word you mean to
utter. Robert Audley has thought of his friend’s disappearance until the
one idea has done its fatal and unhealthy work. He looks at a common
event with a vision that is diseased, and he distorts it into a gloomy
horror engendered of his own monomania. If you do not want to make me as
mad as he is, you must never let me see him again. He declared tonight
that George Talboys was murdered in this place, and that he will root up
every tree in the garden, and pull down every brick in the house in
search for—”
My lady paused. The words died away upon her lips. She had exhausted
herself by the strange energy with which she had spoken. She had been
transformed from a frivolous, childish beauty into a woman, strong to
argue her own cause and plead her own defense.
“Pull down this house?” cried the baronet. “George Talboys murdered at
Audley Court! Did Robert say this, Lucy?”
“He said something of that kind—something that frightened me very
much.”
“Then he must be mad,” said Sir Michael, gravely. “I’m bewildered by
what you tell me. Did he really say this, Lucy, or did you misunderstand
him?”
“I—I—don’t think I did,” faltered my lady. “You saw how frightened I
was when I first came in. I should not have been so much agitated if he
hadn’t said something horrible.”
Lady Audley had availed herself of the very strongest arguments by which
she could help her cause.
“To be sure, my darling, to be sure,” answered the baronet. “What could
have 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 tonight, and see Robert. I have known him
ever since he was a baby, and I cannot be deceived in him. If there is
really 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 stranger
who is the first to observe any psychological peculiarity.”
The big words sounded strange from my lady’s rosy lips; but her
newly-adopted wisdom had a certain quaint prettiness about it, which
charmed 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 doors
until the weather is milder, and the sun shines upon this cruel
ice-bound country.”
Sir Michael Audley sank back in his capacious chair with a sigh of
resignation.
“That’s true, Lucy,” he said; “we must obey Mr. Dawson. I suppose Robert
will come to see me tomorrow.”
“Yes, dear. I think he said he would.”
“Then we must wait till tomorrow, my darling. I can’t believe that
there 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 so
difficult to believe that any one of the calamities that continually
befall our fellow-men will ever happen to us. I can’t believe that my
nephew’s mind is impaired—I can’t believe it. I—I’ll get him to stop
here, Lucy, and I’ll watch him closely. I tell you, my love, if there is
anything wrong I am sure to find it out. I can’t be mistaken in a young
man 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 affect
you.”
My lady sighed piteously.
“You must think me very strong-minded, Sir Michael,” she said, with
rather an injured air, “if you imagine I can hear of these sort of
things indifferently. I know I shall never be able to see Mr. Audley
again.”
“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. Good
Heaven! Lucy, can you imagine for a moment that I have any higher wish
than to promote your happiness? I will consult some London physician
about Robert, and let him discover if there is really anything the
matter 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 to
have 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 cannot
quite 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 wait
till he goes back to town, and then send some one to his chambers to
talk 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; but
you 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 be
done.”
My lady rose from the low ottoman on which she had been seated. The fire
had burned down, and there was only a faint glow of red light in the
room. Lucy Audley bent over her husband’s chair, and put her lips to his
broad forehead.
“How good you have always been to me, dear,” she whispered softly. “You
would 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 as
well as mad people in the world, and there may be some persons to whose
interest it would be to injure me.”
“They had better not try it, then, my dear,” answered Sir Michael; “they
would find themselves in rather a dangerous position if they did.”
Lady Audley laughed aloud, with a gay, triumphant, silvery peal of
laughter that vibrated through the quiet room.
“My own dear darling,” she said, “I know you love me. And now I must run
away, 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 and
nurse you, dear. You’ll go to bed very early, won’t you, and take great
care of yourself?”
“Yes, dear.”
My lady tripped out of the room to give her orders about the message
that was to be carried to the house at which she was to have dined. She
paused for a moment as she closed the library door—she paused, and laid
her hand upon her breast to check the rapid throbbing of her heart.
“I have been afraid of you, Mr. Robert Audley,” she thought; “but
perhaps the time may come in which you will have cause to be afraid of
me.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
PHOEBE’S PETITION.
The division between Lady Audley and her step-daughter had not become
any narrower in the two months which had elapsed since the pleasant
Christmas holiday time had been kept at Audley Court. There was no open
warfare between the two women; there was only an armed neutrality,
broken every now and then by brief feminine skirmishes and transient
wordy tempests. I am sorry to say that Alicia would very much have
preferred a hearty pitched battle to this silent and undemonstrative
disunion; but it was not very easy to quarrel with my lady. She had soft
answers for the turning away of wrath. She could smile bewitchingly at
her step-daughter’s open petulance, and laugh merrily at the young
lady’s ill-temper. Perhaps had she been less amiable, had she been more
like Alicia in disposition, the two ladies might have expended their
enmity in one tremendous quarrel, and might ever afterward have been
affectionate and friendly. But Lucy Audley would not make war. She
carried forward the sum of her dislike, and put it out at a steady rate
of interest, until the breach between her step-daughter and herself,
widening a little every day, became a great gulf, utterly impassable by
olive-branch-bearing doves from either side of the abyss. There can be
no reconciliation where there is no open warfare. There must be a
battle, a brave, boisterous battle, with pennants waving and cannon
roaring, before there can be peaceful treaties and enthusiastic shaking
of hands. Perhaps the union between France and England owes its greatest
force to the recollection of Cressy and Waterloo, Navarino and
Trafalgar. We have hated each other and licked each other and _had it
out_, as the common phrase goes; and we can afford now to fall into each
others’ arms and vow eternal friendship and everlasting brotherhood. Let
us hope that when Northern Yankeedom has decimated and been decimated,
blustering Jonathan may fling himself upon his Southern brother’s
breast, forgiving and forgiven.
Alicia Audley and her father’s pretty wife had plenty of room for the
comfortable indulgence of their dislike in the spacious old mansion. My
lady had her own apartments, as we know—luxurious chambers, in which
all conceivable elegancies had been gathered for the comfort of their
occupant. Alicia had her own rooms in another part of the large house.
She had her favorite mare, her Newfoundland dog, and her drawing
materials, and she made herself tolerably happy. She was not very happy,
this frank, generous-hearted girl, for it was scarcely possible that she
could be altogether at ease in the constrained atmosphere of the Court.
Her father was changed; that dear father over whom she had once reigned
supreme with the boundless authority of a spoiled child, had accepted
another ruler and submitted to a new dynasty. Little by little my lady’s
petty power made itself felt in that narrow household; and Alicia saw
her father gradually lured across the gulf that divided Lady Audley from
her step-daughter, until he stood at last quite upon the other side of
the abyss, and looked coldly upon his only child across that widening
chasm.
Alicia felt that he was lost to her.
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