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

determination was so much the

exception rather than the rule, that when he did for once in his life

resolve upon any course of action, he had a certain dogged, iron-like

obstinacy that pushed him on to the fulfillment of his purpose.

 

The lazy bent of his mind, which prevented him from thinking of half a

dozen things at a time, and not thinking thoroughly of any one of them,

as is the manner of your more energetic people, made him remarkably

clear-sighted upon any point to which he ever gave his serious

attention.

 

Indeed, after all, though solemn benchers laughed at him, and rising

barristers shrugged their shoulders under rustling silk gowns, when

people spoke of Robert Audley, I doubt if, had he ever taken the trouble

to get a brief, he might not have rather surprised the magnates who

underrated his abilities.

 

CHAPTER XII.

 

STILL MISSING.

 

The September sunlight sparkled upon the fountain in the Temple Gardens

when Robert Audley returned to Figtree Court early the following

morning.

 

He found the canaries singing in the pretty little room in which George

had slept, but the apartment was in the same prim order in which the

laundress had arranged it after the departure of the two young men—not

a chair displaced, or so much as the lid of a cigar-box lifted, to

bespeak the presence of George Talboys. With a last, lingering hope, he

searched upon the mantelpieces and tables of his rooms, on the chance of

finding some letter left by George.

 

“He may have slept here last night, and started for Southampton early

this morning,” he thought. “Mrs. Maloney has been here, very likely, to

make everything tidy after him.”

 

But as he sat looking lazily around the room, now and then whistling to

his delighted canaries, a slipshod foot upon the staircase without

bespoke the advent of that very Mrs. Maloney who waited upon the two

young men.

 

No, Mr. Talboys had not come home; she had looked in as early as six

o’clock that morning, and found the chambers empty.

 

“Had anything happened to the poor, dear gentleman?” she asked, seeing

Robert Audley’s pale face.

 

He turned around upon her quite savagely at this question.

 

Happened to him! What should happen to him? They had only parted at two

o’clock the day before.

 

Mrs. Maloney would have related to him the history of a poor dear young

engine-driver, who had once lodged with her, and who went out, after

eating a hearty dinner, in the best of spirits, to meet with his death

from the concussion of an express and a luggage train; but Robert put on

his hat again, and walked straight out of the house before the honest

Irishwoman could begin her pitiful story.

 

It was growing dusk when he reached Southampton. He knew his way to the

poor little terrace of houses, in a full street leading down to the

water, where George’s father-in-law lived. Little Georgey was playing at

the open parlor window as the young man walked down the street.

 

Perhaps it was this fact, and the dull and silent aspect of the house,

which filled Robert Audley’s mind with a vague conviction that the man

he came to look for was not there. The old man himself opened the door,

and the child peeped out of the parlor to see the strange gentleman.

 

He was a handsome boy, with his father’s brown eyes and dark waving

hair, and with some latent expression which was not his father’s and

which pervaded his whole face, so that although each feature of the

child resembled the same feature in George Talboys, the boy was not

actually like him.

 

Mr. Maldon was delighted to see Robert Audley; he remembered having had

the pleasure of meeting him at Ventnor, on the melancholy occasion

of—He wiped his watery old eyes by way of conclusion to the sentence.

Would Mr. Audley walk in? Robert strode into the parlor. The furniture

was shabby and dingy, and the place reeked with the smell of stale

tobacco and brandy-and-water. The boy’s broken playthings, and the old

man’s broken clay pipes and torn, brandy-and-water-stained newspapers

were scattered upon the dirty carpet. Little Georgey crept toward the

visitor, watching him furtively out of his big, brown eyes. Robert took

the boy on his knee, and gave him his watch-chain to play with while he

talked to the old man.

 

“I need scarcely ask the question that I come to ask,” he said; “I was

in hopes I should have found your son-in-law here.”

 

“What! you knew that he was coming to Southampton?”

 

“Knew that he was coming?” cried Robert, brightening up. “He is here,

then?”

 

“No, he is not here now; but he has been here.”

 

“When?”

 

“Late last night; he came by the mail.”

 

“And left again immediately?”

 

“He stayed little better than an hour.”

 

“Good Heaven!” said Robert, “what useless anxiety that man has given me!

What can be the meaning of all this?”

 

“You knew nothing of his intention, then?”

 

“Of what intention?”

 

“I mean of his determination to go to Australia.”

 

“I know that it was always in his mind more or less, but not more just

now than usual.”

 

“He sails tonight from Liverpool. He came here at one o’clock this

morning to have a look at the boy, he said, before he left England,

perhaps never to return. He told me he was sick of the world, and that

the rough life out there was the only thing to suit him. He stayed an

hour, kissed the boy without awaking him, and left Southampton by the

mail that starts at a quarter-past two.”

 

“What can be the meaning of all this?” said Robert. “What could be his

motive for leaving England in this manner, without a word to me, his

most intimate friend—without even a change of clothes; for he has left

everything at my chambers? It is the most extraordinary proceeding!”

 

The old man looked very grave. “Do you know, Mr. Audley,” he said,

tapping his forehead significantly, “I sometimes fancy that Helen’s

death had a strange effect upon poor George.”

 

“Pshaw!” cried Robert, contemptuously; “he felt the blow most cruelly,

but his brain was as sound as yours or mine.”

 

“Perhaps he will write to you from Liverpool,” said George’s

father-in-law. He seemed anxious to smooth over any indignation that

Robert might feel at his friend’s conduct.

 

“He ought,” said Robert, gravely, “for we’ve been good friends from the

days when we were together at Eton. It isn’t kind of George Talboys to

treat me like this.”

 

But even at the moment that be uttered the reproach a strange thrill of

remorse shot through his heart.

 

“It isn’t like him,” he said, “it isn’t like George Talboys.”

 

Little Georgey caught at the sound. “That’s my name,” he said, “and my

papa’s name—the big gentleman’s name.”

 

“Yes, little Georgey, and your papa came last night and kissed you in

your sleep. Do you remember?”

 

“No,” said the boy, shaking his curly little head.

 

“You must have been very fast asleep, little Georgey, not to see poor

papa.”

 

The child did not answer, but presently, fixing his eyes upon Robert’s

face, he said abruptly:

 

“Where’s the pretty lady?”

 

“What pretty lady?”

 

“The pretty lady that used to come a long while ago.”

 

“He means his poor mamma,” said the old man.

 

“No,” cried the boy resolutely, “not mamma. Mamma was always crying. I

didn’t like mamma—”

 

“Hush, little Georgey!”

 

“But I didn’t, and she didn’t like me. She was always crying. I mean the

pretty lady; the lady that was dressed so fine, and that gave me my gold

watch.”

 

“He means the wife of my old captain—an excellent creature, who took a

great fancy to Georgey, and gave him some handsome presents.”

 

“Where’s my gold watch? Let me show the gentleman my gold watch,” cried

Georgey.

 

“It’s gone to be cleaned, Georgey,” answered his grandfather.

 

“It’s always going to be cleaned,” said the boy.

 

“The watch is perfectly safe, I assure you, Mr. Audley,” murmured the

old man, apologetically; and taking out a pawnbroker’s duplicate, he

handed it to Robert.

 

It was made out in the name of Captain Mortimer: “Watch, set with

diamonds, �11.”

 

“I’m often hard pressed for a few shillings, Mr. Audley,” said the old

man. “My son-in-law has been very liberal to me; but there are others,

there are others, Mr. Audley—and—and—I’ve not been treated well.” He

wiped away some genuine tears as he said this in a pitiful, crying

voice. “Come, Georgey, it’s time the brave little man was in bed. Come

along with grandpa. Excuse me for a quarter of an hour, Mr. Audley.”

 

The boy went very willingly. At the door of the room the old man looked

back at his visitor, and said in the same peevish voice, “This is a poor

place for me to pass my declining years in, Mr. Audley. I’ve made many

sacrifices, and I make them still, but I’ve not been treated well.”

 

Left alone in the dusky little sitting-room, Robert Audley folded his

arms, and sat absently staring at the floor.

 

George was gone, then; he might receive some letter of explanation

perhaps, when he returned to London; but the chances were that he would

never see his old friend again.

 

“And to think that I should care so much for the fellow!” he said,

lifting his eyebrows to the center of his forehead.

 

“The place smells of stale tobacco like a tap-room,” he muttered

presently; “there can be no harm in my smoking a cigar here.”

 

He took one from the case in his pocket: there was a spark of fire in

the little grate, and he looked about for something to light his cigar

with.

 

A twisted piece of paper lay half burned upon the hearthrug; he picked

it up, and unfolded it, in order to get a better pipe-light by folding

it the other way of the paper. As he did so, absently glancing at the

penciled writing upon the fragment of thin paper, a portion of a name

caught his eye—a portion of the name that was most in his thoughts. He

took the scrap of paper to the window, and examined it by the declining

light.

 

It was part of a telegraphic dispatch. The upper portion had been burnt

away, but the more important part, the greater part of the message

itself, remained.

 

“—alboys came to last night, and left by the

mail for London, on his way to Liverpool, whence he was to sail for

Sydney.”

 

The date and the name and address of the sender of the message had been

burnt with the heading. Robert Audley’s face blanched to a deathly

whiteness. He carefully folded the scrap of paper, and placed it between

the leaves of his pocketbook.

 

“My God!” he said, “what is the meaning of this? I shall go to Liverpool

tonight, and make inquiries there!”

 

CHAPTER XIII.

 

TROUBLED DREAMS.

 

Robert Audley left Southampton by the mail, and let himself into his

chambers just as the dawn was creeping cold and gray into the solitary

rooms, and the canaries were beginning to rustle their feathers feebly

in the early morning.

 

There were several letters in the box behind the door, but there was

none from George Talboys.

 

The young barrister was worn out by a long day spent in hurrying from

place to place. The usual lazy monotony of his life had been broken as

it had