Lady Audley’s Secret by M. E. Braddon (top ebook reader TXT) 📕

up into my room, and sat upon the bed, and cried⁠—and she left the watch under my pillow, and she⁠—Why do you make faces at me, Mrs. Plowson? I may tell this gentleman,” Georgey added, suddenly addressing the widow, who was standing behind Robert’s shoulder.

Mrs. Plowson mumbled some confused apology to the effect that she was afraid Master George was troublesome.

“Suppose you wait till I say so, ma’am, before you stop the little fellow’s mouth,” said Robert Audley, sharply. “A suspicious person might think from your manner that Mr. Maldon and you had some conspiracy between you, and that you were afraid of what the boy’s talk may let slip.”

He rose from his chair, and looked full at Mrs. Plowson as he said this. The fair-haired widow’s face was as white as her cap when she tried to answer him, and her pale lips were so dry that she was compelled to wet them with her tongue before the words would come.

The little boy relieved her embarrassment.

“Don’t be cross to Mrs. Plowson,” he said. “Mrs. Plowson is very kind to me. Mrs. Plowson is Matilda’s mother. You don’t know Matilda. Poor Matilda was always crying; she was ill, she⁠—”

The boy was stopped by the sudden appearance of Mr. Maldon, who stood on the threshold of the parlor door staring at Robert Audley with a half-drunken, half-terrified aspect, scarcely consistent with the dignity of a retired naval officer. The servant girl, breathless and panting, stood close behind her master. Early in the day though it was, the old man’s speech was thick and confused, as he addressed himself fiercely to Mrs. Plowson.

“You’re a prett’ creature to call yoursel’ sensible woman?” he said. “Why don’t you take th’ chile ’way, er wash ’s face? D’yer want to ruin me? D’yer want to ’stroy me? Take th’ chile ’way! Mr. Audley, sir, I’m ver’ glad to see yer; ver’ ’appy to ’ceive yer in m’ humbl’ ’bode,” the old man added with tipsy politeness, dropping into a chair as he spoke, and trying to look steadily at his unexpected visitor.

“Whatever this man’s secrets are,” thought Robert, as Mrs. Plowson hustled little George Talboys out of the room, “that woman has no unimportant share of them. Whatever the mystery may be, it grows darker and thicker at every step; but I try in vain to draw back or to stop short upon the road, for a stronger hand than my own is pointing the way to my lost friend’s unknown grave.”

XXI Little Georgey Leaves His Old Home

“I am going to take your grandson away with me, Mr. Maldon,” Robert said gravely, as Mrs. Plowson retired with her young charge.

The old man’s drunken imbecility was slowly clearing away like the heavy mists of a London fog, through which the feeble sunshine struggles dimly to appear. The very uncertain radiance of Lieutenant Maldon’s intellect took a considerable time in piercing the hazy vapors of rum-and-water; but the flickering light at last faintly glimmered athwart the clouds, and the old man screwed his poor wits to the sticking-point.

“Yes, yes,” he said, feebly; “take the boy away from his poor old grandfather; I always thought so.”

“You always thought that I should take him away?” scrutinizing the half-drunken countenance with a searching glance. “Why did you think so, Mr. Maldon?”

The fogs of intoxication got the better of the light of sobriety for a moment, and the lieutenant answered vaguely:

“Thought so⁠—’cause I thought so.”

Meeting the young barrister’s impatient frown, he made another effort, and the light glimmered again.

“Because I thought you or his father would fetch ’m away.”

“When I was last in this house, Mr. Maldon, you told me that George Talboys had sailed for Australia.”

“Yes, yes⁠—I know, I know,” the old man answered, confusedly, shuffling his scanty limp gray hairs with his two wandering hands⁠—“I know; but he might have come back⁠—mightn’t he? He was restless, and⁠—and⁠—queer in his mind, perhaps, sometimes. He might have come back.”

He repeated this two or three times in feeble, muttering tones; groping about on the littered mantlepiece for a dirty-looking clay pipe, and filling and lighting it with hands that trembled violently.

Robert Audley watched those poor, withered, tremulous fingers dropping shreds of tobacco upon the hearth rug, and scarcely able to kindle a lucifer for their unsteadiness. Then walking once or twice up and down the little room, he left the old man to take a few puffs from the great consoler.

Presently he turned suddenly upon the half-pay lieutenant with a dark solemnity in his handsome face.

“Mr. Maldon,” he said, slowly watching the effect of every syllable as he spoke, “George Talboys never sailed for Australia⁠—that I know. More than this, he never came to Southampton; and the lie you told me on the 8th of last September was dictated to you by the telegraphic message which you received on that day.”

The dirty clay pipe dropped from the tremulous hand, and shivered against the iron fender, but the old man made no effort to find a fresh one; he sat trembling in every limb, and looking, Heaven knows how piteously, at Robert Audley.

“The lie was dictated to you, and you repeated your lesson. But you no more saw George Talboys here on the 7th of September than I see him in this room now. You thought you had burnt the telegraphic message, but you had only burnt a part of it⁠—the remainder is in my possession.”

Lieutenant Maldon was quite sober now.

“What have I done?” he murmured, hopelessly. “Oh, my God! what have I done?”

“At two o’clock on the 7th of September last,” continued the pitiless, accusing voice, “George Talboys was seen alive and well at a house in Essex.”

Robert paused to see the effect of these words. They had produced no change in the old man. He still sat trembling from head to foot, and staring with the fixed and solid gaze of some helpless wretch whose every sense is gradually becoming numbed by terror.

“At two o’clock on that day,” remarked Robert Audley, “my poor friend was seen alive