Lady Audley's Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (e book reader for pc .TXT) 📕

be for a

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