Lady Audley's Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (popular books of all time .TXT) đź“–
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
- Performer: -
Book online «Lady Audley's Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (popular books of all time .TXT) 📖». Author Mary Elizabeth Braddon
than anything else could have told how complete an actress my lady had
been 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 a
well-bred servant, and a young woman, plainly dressed, and carrying some
of the cold March winds in the folds of her garments, crossed the
threshold of the apartment and lingered near the door, waiting
permission to approach the inner regions of my lady’s retreat.
It was Phoebe Marks, the pale-faced wife of the Mount Stanning
innkeeper.
“I beg pardon, my lady, for intruding without leave,” she said; “but I
thought I might venture to come straight up without waiting for
permission.”
“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 been
seated a few minutes before. The lady’s maid had often sat upon it
listening to her mistress’ prattle in the old days, when she had been my
lady’s chief companion and confidante,
“Sit down here, Phoebe,” Lady Audley repeated; “sit down here and talk
to me; I’m very glad you came here tonight. I was horribly lonely in
this 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, had
been the moldering adornments of some ruined castle. The dreary
wretchedness of her thoughts had communicated itself to every object
about her, and all outer things took their color from that weary inner
life which held its slow course of secret anguish in her breast. She had
spoken the entire truth in saying that she was glad of her lady’s maid’s
visit. Her frivolous nature clung to this weak shelter in the hour of
her 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 greedy
of opulence and elegance; angry with the lot that had been cast her, and
weary of dull dependence. My lady hated Alicia for her frank,
passionate, generous, daring nature; she hated her step-daughter, and
clung to this pale-faced, pale-haired girl, whom she thought neither
better nor worse than herself.
Phoebe Marks obeyed her late mistress’ commands, and took off her bonnet
before seating herself on the ottoman at Lady Audley’s feet. Her smooth
bands of light hair were unruffled by the March winds; her trimly-made
drab dress and linen collar were as neatly arranged as they could have
been 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,” added
Lady Audley, with a motion of her head toward the door of communication
between 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; “wretchedly
miserable.”
“About the—secret?” asked Mrs. Marks, in a half whisper.
My lady did not notice that question. She resumed in the same
complaining tone. She was glad to be able to complain even to this
lady’s maid. She had brooded over her fears, and had suffered in secret
so long, that it was an inexpressible relief to her to bemoan her fate
aloud.
“I am cruelly persecuted and harassed, Phoebe Marks,” she said. “I am
pursued and tormented by a man whom I never injured, whom I have never
wished to injure. I am never suffered to rest by this relentless
tormentor, and—”
She paused, staring at the fire again, as she had done in her
loneliness. Lost again in the dark intricacies of thoughts which
wandered hither and thither in a dreadful chaos of terrified
bewilderments, she could not come to any fixed conclusion.
Phoebe Marks watched my lady’s face, looking upward at her late mistress
with pale, anxious eyes, that only relaxed their watchfulness when Lady
Audley’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’s
secrets. 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 warned
you—”
“Yes, yes,” answered my lady, impatiently.
“I thought so. The same gentleman is at our place tonight, my lady.”
Lady Audley started up from her chair—started up as if she would have
done something desperate in her despairing fury; but she sank back again
with a weary, querulous sigh. What warfare could such a feeble creature
wage against her fate? What could she do but wind like a hunted hare
till she found her way back to the starting-point of the cruel chase, to
be there trampled down by her pursuers?
“At the Castle Inn?” she cried. “I might have known as much. He has gone
there to wring my secrets from your husband. Fool!” she exclaimed,
suddenly turning upon Phoebe Marks in a transport of anger, “do you want
to 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 one
could 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 go
against him.”
“Why did he send you?”
The innkeeper’s wife dropped her eyelids under Lady Audley’s angry
glances, and hesitated confusedly before she answered this question.
“Indeed, my lady,” she stammered, “I didn’t want to come. I told Luke
that it was too bad for us to worry you, first asking this favor, and
then 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 me
come.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Lady Audley, impatiently. “I know that. I want to know
why you have come.”
“Why, you know, my lady,” answered Phoebe, half reluctantly, “Luke is
very extravagant; and all I can say to him, I can’t get him to be
careful or steady. He’s not sober; and when he’s drinking with a lot of
rough countrymen, and drinking, perhaps even more than they do, it isn’t
likely that his head can be very clear for accounts. If it hadn’t been
for me we should have been ruined before this; and hard as I’ve tried, I
haven’t been able to keep the ruin off. You remember giving me the money
for 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 to
come 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 favor
of 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 in
the house tonight, and we’re to be sold up tomorrow unless—”
“Unless I pay your rent, I suppose,” cried Lucy Audley. “I might have
guessed what was coming.”
“Indeed, indeed, my lady, I wouldn’t have asked it,” sobbed Phoebe
Marks, “but he made me come.”
“Yes,” answered my lady, bitterly, “he made you come; and he will make
you come whenever he pleases, and whenever he wants money for the
gratification of his low vices; and you and he are my pensioners as long
as I live, or as long as I have any money to give; for I suppose when my
purse is empty and my credit ruined, you and your husband will turn upon
me and sell me to the highest bidder. Do you know, Phoebe Marks, that my
jewel-case has been half emptied to meet your claims? Do you know that
my pin-money, which I thought such a princely allowance when my marriage
settlement 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 satisfy
your demands? What can I do to appease you? Shall I sell my Marie
Antoinette cabinet, or my pompadour china, Leroy’s and Benson’s ormolu
clocks, or my Gobelin tapestried chairs and ottomans? How shall I
satisfy you next?”
“Oh, my lady, my lady,” cried Phoebe, piteously, “don’t be so cruel to
me; 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 most
miserable of women. Let me think,” she cried, silencing Phoebe’s
consolatory 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 across
her brow, as if she would have controlled the action of her brain by
their convulsive pressure.
“Robert Audley is with your husband,” she said, slowly, speaking to
herself rather than to her companion. “These two men are together, and
there are bailiffs in the house, and your brutal husband is no doubt
brutally drunk by this time, and brutally obstinate and ferocious in his
drunkenness. If I refuse to pay this money his ferocity will be
multiplied by a hundredfold. There’s little use in discussing that
matter. The money must be paid.”
“But if you do pay it,” said Phoebe, earnestly, “I hope you will impress
upon Luke that it is the last money you will ever give him while he
stops in that house.”
“Why?” asked Lady Audley, letting her hands fall on her lap, and looking
inquiringly 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 fit
to be the landlord of a public-house. I didn’t know that when I married
him, or I would have gone against the business, and tried to persuade
him to take to the farming line. Not that I suppose he’d have given up
his 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 after
dark; and when he’s drunk he gets almost wild, and doesn’t seem to know
what 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 his
carelessness.”
“Burnt in your beds through his carelessness! Why, how was that?” asked
my lady, rather listlessly. She was too selfish, and too deeply absorbed
in her own troubles to take much interest in any danger which had
befallen her sometime lady’s-maid.
“You know what a queer old place the Castle is, my lady; all tumbledown
woodwork, and rotten rafters, and such like. The Chelmsford Insurance
Company won’t insure it; for they say if the place did happen to catch
fire
Comments (0)