Lady Audley's Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (popular books of all time .TXT) đ
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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told me her missus was selfish and extravagant, and we might wait a long
time before we could get what we wanted from her.
âSo I says to her, âWhy, this is rather sudden like, Phoebe;â and she
says, âYes, it is sudden;â and she smiles again, just the same sort of
smile as before. Upon that I turns round upon her sharp, and says:
âIâll tell you what it is, my gal, youâre a-keepinâ somethink from me;
somethink youâve been told, or somethink youâve found out; and if you
think youâre a-goinâ to try that game on with me, youâll find youâre
very much mistaken; and so I give you warninâ.â
âBut she laughed it off like, and says, âLorâ Luke, what could have put
such fancies into your head?â
ââPerhaps other people can keep secrets as well as you,â I said, âand
perhaps other people can make friends as well as you. There was a
gentleman came here to see your missus yesterday, warnât thereâa tall
young gentleman with a brown beard?â
âInstead of answering of me like a Christian, my Cousin Phoebe bursts
out a-cryinâ, and wrings her hands, and goes on awful, until Iâm dashed
if I can make out what sheâs up to.
âBut little by little I got it out of her, for I wouldnât stand no
nonsense; find she told me how sheâd been sittinâ at work at the window
of her little room, which was at the top of the house, right up in one
of the gables, and overlooked the lime-walk, and the shrubbery and the
well, when she see my lady walking with a strange gentleman, and they
walked together for a long time, until by-and-by theyââ
âStop!â cried Robert, âI know the rest.â
âWell, Phoebe told me all about what she see, and she told me sheâd met
her lady almost directly afterward, and somethinâ had passed between
âem, not much, but enough to let her missus know that the servant what
she looked down upon had found out that as would put her in that
servantâs power to the last day of her life.
ââAnd she is in my power, Luke,â says Phoebe; âand sheâll do anythinâ in
the world for us if we keep her secret.â
âSo you see both my Lady Audley and her maid thought as the gentleman as
Iâd seen safe off by the London train was lying dead at the bottom of
the well. If I was to give the letter theyâd find out the contrary of
this; and if I was to give the letter, Phoebe and me would lose the
chance of gettinâ started in life by her missus.
âSo I kepâ the letter and kepâ my secret, and my lady kepâ hern. But I
thought if she acted liberal by me, and gave me the money I wanted, free
like, Iâd tell her everythink, and make her mind easy.
âBut she didnât. Whatever she give me she throwed me as if Iâd been a
dog. Whenever she spoke to me, she spoke as she might have spoken to a
dog; and a dog she couldnât abide the sight of. There was no word in her
mouth that was too bad for me; there was no toss as she could give her
head that was too proud and scornful for me; and my blood bâiled agen
her, and I kepâ my secret, and let her keep hern. I opened the two
letters, and I read âem, but I couldnât make much sense out of âem, and
I hid âem away; and not a creature but me has seen âem until this
night.â
Luke Marks had finished his story, and lay quietly enough, exhausted by
having talked so long. He watched Robert Audleyâs face, fully expecting
some reproof, some grave lecture; for he had a vague consciousness that
he had done wrong.
But Robert did not lecture him; he had no fancy for an office which he
did not think himself fitted to perform.
Robert Audley sat until long after daybreak with the sick man, who fell
into a heavy slumber a short time after he had finished his story. The
old woman had dozed comfortably throughout her sonâs confession. Phoebe
was asleep upon the press bedstead in the room below; so the young
barrister was the only watcher.
He could not sleep; he could only think of the story he had heard. He
could only thank God for his friendâs preservation, and pray that he
might be able to go to Clara Talboys, and say, âYour brother still
lives, and has been found.â
Phoebe came up-stairs at eight oâclock, ready to take her place at the
sick-bed, and Robert Audley went away, to get a bed at the Sun Inn. It
was nearly dusk when he awoke out of a long dreamless slumber, and
dressed himself before dining in the little sitting-room, in which he
and George had sat together a few months before.
The landlord waited upon him at dinner, and told him that Luke Marks had
died at five oâclock that afternoon. âHe went off rather sudden like,â
the man said, âbut very quiet.â
Robert Audley wrote a long letter that evening, addressed to Madame
Taylor, care of Monsieur Val, Villebrumeuse; a long letter in which he
told the wretched woman who had borne so many names, and was to bear a
false one for the rest of her life, the story that the dying man had
told him.
âIt may be some comfort to her to hear that her husband did not perish
in his youth by her wicked hand,â he thought, âif her selfish soul can
hold any sentiment of pity or sorrow for others.â
CHAPTER XL.
RESTORED.
Clara Talboys returned to Dorsetshire, to tell her father that his only
son had sailed for Australia upon the 9th of September, and that it was
most probable he yet lived, and would return to claim the forgiveness of
the father he had never very particularly injured; except in the matter
of having made that terrible matrimonial mistake which had exercised so
fatal an influence upon his youth.
Mr. Harcourt-Talboys was fairly nonplused. Junius Brutus had never been
placed in such a position as this, and seeing no way of getting out of
this dilemma by acting after his favorite model, Mr. Talboys was fain to
be natural for once in his life, and to confess that he had suffered
much uneasiness and pain of mind about his only son since his
conversation with Robert Audley, and that he would be heartily glad to
take his poor boy to his arms, whenever he should return to England. But
when was he likely to return? and how was he to be communicated with?
That was the question. Robert Audley remembered the advertisements which
he had caused to be inserted in the Melbourne and Sydney papers. If
George had re-entered either city alive, how was it that no notice had
ever been taken of that advertisement? Was it likely that his friend
would be indifferent to his uneasiness? But then, again, it was just
possible that George Talboys had not happened to see this advertisement;
and, as he had traveled under a feigned name, neither his fellow
passengers nor the captain of the vessel would have been able to
identify him with the person advertised for. What was to be done? Must
they wait patiently till George grew weary of his exile, and returned to
his friends who loved him? or were there any means to be taken by which
his return might be hastened? Robert Audley was at fault! Perhaps, in
the unspeakable relief of mind which he had experienced upon the
discovery of his friendâs escape, he was unable to look beyond the one
fact 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 sonâs friend to share the prim
hospitality of the square, red brick mansion.
Mr. Talboys had only two sentiments upon the subject of Georgeâs story;
one was a natural relief and happiness in the thought that his son had
been saved, the other was an earnest wish that my lady had been his
wife, and that he might thus have had the pleasure of making a signal
example of her.
âIt is not for me to blame you, Mr. Audley,â he said, âfor having
smuggled this guilty woman out of the reach of justice, and thus, as I
may 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 differently
treated.â
It was in the middle of April when Robert Audley found himself once more
under those black fir-trees beneath which his wandering thoughts had so
often stayed since his first meeting with Clara Talboys. There were
primroses and early violets in the hedges now, and the streams, which,
upon his first visit, had been hard and frost-bound as the heart of
Harcourt Talboys, had thawed, like that gentleman, and ran merrily under
the blackthorn bushes in the capricious April sunshine.
Robert had a prim bedroom, and an uncompromising dressing-room allotted
him in the square house, and he woke every morning upon a metallic
spring mattress, which always gave him the idea of sleeping upon some
musical instrument, to see the sun glaring in upon him through the
square, white blinds and lighting up the two lackered urns which adorned
the foot of the blue iron bedstead, until they blazed like two tiny
brazen lamps of the Roman period. He emulated Mr. Harcourt Talboys in
the matter of shower-baths and cold water, and emerged prim and blue as
that gentleman himself, as the clock in the hall struck seven, to join
the master of the house in his ante-breakfast constitutional under the
fir-trees in the stiff plantation.
But there was generally a third person who assisted in the
constitutional promenades, and that third person was Clara Talboys, who
used to walk by her fatherâs side, more beautiful than the morningâfor
that was sometimes dull and cloudy, while she was always fresh and
brightâin a broad-leaved straw-hat and flapping blue ribbons, one
quarter of an inch of which Mr. Audley would have esteemed a prouder
decoration than ever adorned a favored creatureâs button-hole.
At first they were very ceremonious toward each other, and were only
familiar and friendly upon the one subject of Georgeâs adventures; but
little by little a pleasant intimacy arose between them, and before the
first three weeks of Robertâs visit had elapsed, Miss Talboys made him
happy, by taking him seriously in hand and lecturing him on the
purposeless life he had led so long, and the little use he had made of
the talents and opportunities that had been given to him.
How pleasant it was to be lectured by the woman he loved! How pleasant
it was to humiliate himself and depreciate himself before her! How
delightful it was to get such splendid opportunities of hinting that if
his life had been sanctified by an object he might indeed have striven
to be something better than an idle flaneur upon the smooth pathways
that have no particular goal; that, blessed by the ties which would have
given a solemn purpose to every hour of his existence, he might indeed
have fought the battle earnestly and unflinchingly. He generally wound
up with a gloomy insinuation to the effect that it was only likely he
would drop quietly over the edge of the Temple Gardens some afternoon
when the
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