Lady Audley’s Secret M. E. Braddon (best historical fiction books of all time TXT) 📖

Lady Audley’s Secret

By M. E. Braddon.

Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint I: Lucy II: On Board the Argus III: Hidden Relics IV: In the First Page of the Times V: The Headstone at Ventnor VI: Anywhere, Anywhere Out of the World VII: After a Year VIII: Before the Storm IX: After the Storm X: Missing XI: The Mark Upon My Lady’s Wrist XII: Still Missing XIII: Troubled Dreams XIV: Phoebe’s Suitor XV: On the Watch XVI: Robert Audley Gets His Conge XVII: At the Castle Inn XVIII: Robert Receives a Visitor Whom He Had Scarcely Expected XIX: The Writing in the Book XX: Mrs. Plowson XXI: Little Georgey Leaves His Old Home XXII: Coming to a Standstill XXIII: Clara XXIV: George’s Letters XXV: Retrograde Investigation XXVI: So Far and No Farther XXVII: Beginning at the Other End XXVIII: Hidden in the Grave XXIX: In the Lime-Walk XXX: Preparing the Ground XXXI: Phoebe’s Petition XXXII: The Red Light in the Sky XXXIII: The Bearer of the Tidings XXXIV: My Lady Tells the Truth XXXV: The Hush That Succeeds the Tempest XXXVI: Dr. Mosgrave’s Advice XXXVII: Buried Alive XXXVIII: Ghost-Haunted XXXIX: That Which the Dying Man Had to Tell XL: Restored XLI: At Peace Colophon Uncopyright Imprint

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I Lucy

It lay down in a hollow, rich with fine old timber and luxuriant pastures; and you came upon it through an avenue of limes, bordered on either side by meadows, over the high hedges of which the cattle looked inquisitively at you as you passed, wondering, perhaps, what you wanted; for there was no thoroughfare, and unless you were going to the Court you had no business there at all.

At the end of this avenue there was an old arch and a clock tower, with a stupid, bewildering clock, which had only one hand⁠—and which jumped straight from one hour to the next⁠—and was therefore always in extremes. Through this arch you walked straight into the gardens of Audley Court.

A smooth lawn lay before you, dotted with groups of rhododendrons, which grew in more perfection here than anywhere else in the county. To the right there were the kitchen gardens, the fishpond, and an orchard bordered by a dry moat, and a broken ruin of a wall, in some places thicker than it was high, and everywhere overgrown with trailing ivy, yellow stonecrop, and dark moss. To the left there was a broad graveled walk, down which, years ago, when the place had been a convent, the quiet nuns had walked hand in hand; a wall bordered with espaliers, and shadowed 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. It was very old, and very irregular and rambling. The windows were uneven; some small, some large, some with heavy stone mullions and rich stained glass; others with frail lattices that rattled in every breeze; others so modern that they might have been added only yesterday. Great piles of chimneys rose up here and there behind the pointed gables, and seemed as if they were so broken down by age and long service that they must have fallen but for the straggling ivy which, crawling up the walls and trailing even over the roof, wound itself about them and supported them. The principal door was squeezed into a corner of a turret at one angle of the building, as if it were in hiding from dangerous visitors, and wished to keep itself a secret⁠—a noble door for all that⁠—old oak, and studded with great square-headed iron nails, and so thick that the sharp iron knocker struck upon it with a muffled sound, and the visitor rung a clanging bell that dangled in a corner among the ivy, lest the noise of the 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 there forever, staring into the cool fishponds and counting the bubbles as the roach and carp rose to the surface of the water. A spot in which peace seemed to have taken up her abode, setting her soothing hand on every tree and flower, on the still ponds and quiet alleys, the shady corners of the old-fashioned rooms, the deep window-seats behind the painted glass, the low meadows and the stately avenues⁠—ay, even upon the stagnant well, which, cool and sheltered as all else in the old place, hid itself away in a shrubbery behind the gardens, with an idle handle that was never turned and a lazy rope so rotten that the pail had broken away