Lady Audley's Secret (Oxford World's Classics)

by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

  Yes; the painter must have been a pre-Raphaelite. No one but a pre-Raphaelite would have painted, hair by hair, those feathery masses of ringlets with every glimmer of gold, and every shadow of pale brown. No one but a pre-Raphaelite would have so exaggerated every attribute of that delicate face as to give a lurid lightness to the blonde complexion, and a strange, sinister light to the deep blue eyes. No one but a pre-Raphaelite could have given to that pretty pouting mouth the hard and almost wicked look it had in the portrait.

  It was so like and yet so unlike; it was as if you had burned strange-coloured fires before my lady’s face, and by their influence brought out new lines and new expressions never seen in it before. The perfection of feature, the brilliancy of colouring, were there; but I suppose the painter had copied quaint mediaeval monstrosities until his brain had grown bewildered, for my lady, in his portrait of her, had something of the aspect of a beautiful fiend.

  Her crimson dress, exaggerated like all the rest in this strange picture, hung about her in folds that looked like flames, her fair head peeping out of the lurid mass of colour, as if out of a raging furnace. Indeed, the crimson dress, the sunshine on the face, the red gold gleaming in the yellow hair, the ripe scarlet of the pouting lips, the glowing colours of each accessory of the minutely-painted background, all combined to render the first effect of the painting by no means an agreeable one.

  But strange as the picture was, it could not have made any great impression on George Talboys, for he sat before it for about a quarter of an hour without uttering a word—only staring blankly at the painted canvas, with the candlestick grasped in his strong right hand, and his left arm hanging loosely by his side. He sat so long in this attitude, that Robert turned round at last.

  ‘Why, George, I thought you had gone to sleep!’

  ‘I had almost.’

  ‘You’ve caught a cold from standing in that damp tapestried room. Mark my words, George Talboys, you’ve caught a cold; you’re as hoarse as a raven. But come along.’

  Robert Audley took the candle from his friend’s hand, and crept back through the secret passage, followed by George, very quiet, but scarcely more quiet than usual.

  They found Alicia in the nursery waiting for them.

  ‘Well?’ she said interrogatively.

  ‘We managed it capitally. But I don’t like the portrait; there’s something odd about it.’

  ‘There is,’ said Alicia; ‘I’ve a strange fancy on that point. I think that sometimes a painter is in a manner inspired, and is able to see, through the normal expression of the face, another expression that is equally a part of it, though not to be perceived by common eyes. We have never seen my lady look as she does in that picture; but I think that she could look so.’

  ‘Alicia,’ said Robert Audley imploringly, ‘don’t be German!’*

  ‘But, Robert——’

  ‘Don’t be German, Alicia, if you love me. The picture is—the picture; and my lady is—my lady. That’s my way of taking things, and I’m not metaphysical; don’t unsettle me.’

  He repeated this several times with an air of terror perfectly sincere; and then, having borrowed an umbrella in case of being over-taken by the coming storm, left the Court, leading passive George Talboys away with him. The one hand of the stupid old clock had skipped to nine by the time they reached the archway; but before they could pass under its shadow they had to step aside to allow a carriage to dash by them. It was a fly from the village, but Lady Audley’s fair face peeped out at the window. Dark as it was, she could see the two figures of the young men black against the dusk.

  ‘Who is that?’ she asked, putting out her head. ‘Is it the gardener?’

  ‘No, my dear aunt,’ said Robert, laughing; ‘it is your most dutiful nephew.’

  He and George stopped by the archway while the fly drew up at the door, and the surprised servants came out to welcome their master and mistress.

  ‘I think the storm will hold off to-night,’ said the baronet, looking up at the sky; ‘but we shall certainly have it to-morrow.’

  CHAPTER IX

  AFTER THE STORM

  SIR MICHAEL was mistaken in his prophecy upon the weather. The storm did not hold off until next day, but burst with terrible fury over the village of Audley about half an hour before midnight.

  Robert Audley took the thunder and lightning with the same composure with which he accepted all the other ills of life. He lay on a sofa in the sitting-room, ostensibly reading the five-days’-old Chelmsford paper, and regaling himself occasionally with a few sips from a large tumbler of cold punch. But the storm had quite a different effect upon George Talboys. His friend was startled when he looked at the young man’s white face as he sat opposite the open window listening to the thunder, and staring at the black sky, rent every now and then by forked streaks of steel-blue lightning.

  ‘George,’ said Robert, after watching him for some time, ‘are you frightened at the lightning?’

  ‘No,’ he answered curtly.

  ‘But, my dear fellow, some of the most courageous men have been frightened at it. It is scarcely to be called a fear; it is constitutional. I am sure you are frightened at it.’

  ‘No, I am not.’

  ‘But, George, if you could see yourself, white and haggard, with your great hollow eyes staring out at the sky as if they were fixed upon a ghost. I tell you I know that you are frightened.’

  ‘And I tell you that I am not.’

  ‘George Talboys, you are not only afraid of the lightning, but you are savage with yourself for being afraid, and with me for telling you of your fear.’

  ‘Robert Audley, if you say another word to me I shall knock you down;’ having said which, Mr Talboys strode out of the room, banging the door after him with a violence that shook the house. Those inky clouds which had shut in the sultry earth as if with a roof of hot iron, poured out their blackness in a sudden deluge as George left the room; but if the young man was afraid of the lightning, he certainly was not afraid of the rain; for he walked straight down-stairs to the inn door, and went out into the wet high road. He walked up and down, up and down, in the soaking shower for about twenty minutes, and then, re-entering the inn, strode up to his bed-room.

  Robert Audley met him on the landing, with his hair beaten about his white face, and his garments dripping wet.

  ‘Are you going to bed, George?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you have no candle.’

  ‘I don’t want one.’

  ‘But look at your clothes, man! Do you see the wet streaming down your coat sleeves? What on earth made you go out upon such a night?’

  ‘I am tired, and want to go to bed—don’t bother me.’

  ‘You’ll take some hot brandy-and-water, George?’

  Robert Audley stood in his friend’s way as he spoke, anxious to prevent his going to bed in the state he was in; but George pushed him fiercely aside, and striding past him, said, in the same hoarse voice Robert had noticed at the Court —

  ‘Let me alone, Robert Audley, and keep clear of me if you can.’

  Robert followed George to his bed-room, but the young man banged the door in his face; so there was nothing for it but to leave Mr Talboys to himself, to recover his temper as best he might.

  ‘He was irritated at my noticing his terror at the lightning,’ thought Robert, as he calmly retired to rest, serenely indifferent to the thunder, which seemed to shake him in his bed, and the lightning playing fitfully round the razors in his open dressing-case.

  The storm rolled away from the quiet village of Audley, and when Robert awoke the next morning it was to see bright sunshine, and a peep of cloudless sky between the white curtains of his bed-room window.

  It was one of those serene and lovely mornings that sometimes succeed a storm. The birds sung loud and cheerily, the yellow corn uplifted itself in the broad fields, and waved proudly after its sharp tussle with the storm, which had done its best to beat down the heavy ears with
cruel wind and driving rain half the night through. The vine-leaves clustering round Robert’s window fluttered with a joyous rustling, shaking the rain-drops in diamond showers from every spray and tendril.

  Robert Audley found his friend waiting for him at the breakfast-table.

  George was very pale, but perfectly tranquil—if anything, indeed, more cheerful than usual.

  He shook Robert by the hand with something of that old hearty manner for which he had been distinguished before the one affliction of his life overtook and shipwrecked him.

  ‘Forgive me, Bob,’ he said frankly, ‘for my surly temper of last night. You were quite correct in your assertion; the thunder-storm did upset me. It always had the same effect upon me in my youth.’

  ‘Poor old boy! Shall we go up by the express, or shall we stop here and dine with my uncle to-night?’ asked Robert.

  ‘To tell the truth, Bob, I would rather do neither. It’s a glorious morning. Suppose we stroll about all day, take another turn with the rod and line, and go up to town by the train that leaves here at 6.15 in the evening?’

  Robert Audley would have assented to a far more disagreeable proposition than this, rather than have taken the trouble to oppose his friend, so the matter was immediately agreed upon; and after they had finished their breakfast, and ordered a four-o’clock dinner, George Talboys took the fishing-rod across his broad shoulders, and strode out of the house with his friend and companion.

  But if the equable temperament of Mr Robert Audley had been undisturbed by the crackling peals of thunder that shook the very foundations of the Sun Inn, it had not been so with the more delicate sensibilities of his uncle’s young wife. Lady Audley confessed herself terribly frightened of the lightning. She had her bedstead wheeled into a corner of the room, and with the heavy curtains drawn tightly round her, she lay with her face buried in the pillows, shuddering convulsively at every sound of the tempest without. Sir Michael, whose stout heart had never known a fear, almost trembled for this fragile creature, whom it was his happy privilege to protect and defend. My lady would not consent to undress till nearly three o’clock in the morning, when the last lingering peal of thunder had died away amongst the distant hills. Until that hour she lay in the handsome silk dress in which she had travelled, huddled together, amongst the bedclothes, only looking up now and then with a scared face to ask if the storm was over.

  Towards four o’clock, her husband, who spent the night in watching by her bed-side, saw her drop off into a deep sleep, from which she did not awake for nearly five hours.

  But she came into the breakfast-room, at half-past nine o’clock, singing a little Scotch melody, her cheeks tinged with as delicate a pink as the pale hue of her muslin morning dress. Like the birds and the flowers, she seemed to recover her beauty and joyousness in the morning sunshine. She tripped lightly out on to the lawn, gathering a last lingering rosebud here and there, and a sprig or two of geranium, and returning through the dewy grass, warbling long cadences for very happiness of heart, and looking as fresh and radiant as the flowers in her hands. The baronet caught her in his strong arms as she came in through the open window.

  ‘My pretty one,’ he said, ‘my darling, what happiness to see you your own merry self again! Do you know, Lucy, that once last night, when you looked out through the dark green bed-curtains, with your poor white face, and the purple rims round your hollow eyes, I had almost a difficulty to recognise my little wife in that ghastly, terrified, agonised-looking creature, crying out about the storm. Thank God for the morning sun, which has brought back the rosy cheeks and the bright smile! I hope to Heaven, Lucy, I shall never again see you look as you did last night.’

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and was then only tall enough to reach his white beard. She told him, laughing, that she had always been a silly, frightened creature,—frightened of dogs, frightened of cattle, frightened of a thunder-storm, frightened of a rough sea. ‘Frightened of everything and every body, but my dear, noble, handsome husband,’ she said.

  She had found the carpet in her dressing-room disarranged, and had inquired into the mystery of the secret passage. She chid Miss Alicia in a playful, laughing way, for her boldness in introducing two great men into my lady’s rooms.

  ‘And they had the audacity to look at my picture, Alicia,’ she said, with mock indignation. ‘I found the baize thrown on the ground, and a great man’s glove on the carpet. Look!’ She held up a thick driving-glove as she spoke. It was George’s, which he had dropped while looking at the picture. ‘I shall go up to the Sun, and ask those boys to dinner,’ Sir Michael said, as he left the Court upon his morning walk round his farm.

  Lady Audley flitted from room to room in the bright September sunshine—now sitting down to the piano to trill out a ballad, or the first page of an Italian bravura, or running with rapid fingers through a brilliant waltz—now hovering about a stand of hothouse flowers, doing amateur gardening with a pair of fairy-like silver-mounted embroidery scissors—now strolling into her dressing-room to talk to Phœbe Marks, and have her curls re-arranged for the third or fourth time; for the ringlets were always getting into disorder, and gave no little trouble to Lady Audley’s maid.

  My lady seemed, on this particular September day, restless from very joyousness of spirit, and unable to stay long in one place, or occupy herself with one thing.

  While Lady Audley amused herself in her own frivolous fashion, the two young men strolled slowly along the margin of a stream until they reached a shady corner where the water was deep and still, and the long branches of the willows trailed into the brook.

  George Talboys took the fishing-rod, while Robert stretched himself at full length on a railway rug, and balancing his hat upon his nose as a screen from the sunshine, fell fast asleep.

  Those were happy fish in the stream on the banks of which Mr Talboys was seated. They might have amused themselves to their heart’s content with timid nibbles at this gentleman’s bait, without in any manner endangering their safety; for George only stared vacantly at the water, holding his rod in a loose, listless hand, and with a strange far-away look in his eyes. As the church clock struck two he threw down his rod, and striding away along the bank, left Robert Audley to enjoy a nap, which, according to that gentleman’s habits, was by no means unlikely to last for two or three hours. About a quarter of a mile further on George crossed a rustic bridge, and struck into the meadows which led to Audley Court.

  The birds had sung so much all the morning that they had, perhaps, by this time grown tired; the lazy cattle were asleep in the meadows; Sir Michael was still away on his morning’s ramble; Miss Alicia had scampered off an hour before upon her chestnut mare; the servants were all at dinner in the back part of the house; and my lady had strolled, book in hand, into the shadowy lime-walk; so the grey old building had never worn a more peaceful aspect than on that bright afternoon when George Talboys walked across the lawn to ring a sonorous peal at the sturdy, iron-bound oak door.

  The servant who answered his summons told him that Sir Michael was out, and my lady walking in the lime-tree avenue.

  He looked a little disappointed at this intelligence, and muttering something about wishing to see my lady, or going to look for my lady (the servant did not clearly distinguish his words), strode away from the door without leaving either card or message for the family.

  It was full an hour and a half after this when Lady Audley returned to the house, not coming from the lime-walk, but from exactly the opposite direction, carrying her open book in her hand, and singing as she came. Alicia had just dismounted from her mare, and stood in the low-arched doorway, with her great Newfoundland dog by her side.

  The dog, which had never liked my lady, showed his teeth with a suppressed growl.

  ‘Send that horrid animal away, Alicia,’ Lady Audley said impatiently. ‘The brute knows that I am frightened of him, and takes advantage of my terror. And yet they call the creatures generous and noble-natured! Bah, Cæsar; I hate
you, and you hate me; and if you met me in the dark in some narrow passage you would fly at my throat and strangle me, wouldn’t you?’

  My lady, safely sheltered behind her step-daughter, shook her yellow curls at the angry animal, and defied him maliciously.

  ‘Do you know, Lady Audley, that Mr Talboys, the young widower, has been here asking for Sir Michael and for you?’

  Lucy Audley lifted her pencilled eyebrows. ‘I thought he was coming to dinner,’ she said. ‘Surely we shall have enough of him then.’

  She had a heap of wild autumn flowers in the skirt of her muslin dress. She had come through the fields at the back of the Court, gathering the hedge-row blossoms in her way. She ran lightly up the broad staircase to her own rooms. George’s glove lay on her boudoir table. Lady Audley rang the bell violently, and it was answered by Phœbe Marks. ‘Take that litter away,’ she said sharply. The girl collected the glove and a few withered flowers and torn papers lying on the table into her apron.

  ‘What have you been doing all this morning?’ asked my lady. ‘Not wasting your time, I hope?’

  ‘No, my lady, I have been altering the blue dress. It is rather dark on this side of the house, so I took it up to my own room, and worked at the window.’

  The girl was leaving the room as she spoke, but she turned round and looked at Lady Audley as if waiting for further orders.

  Lucy looked up at the same moment, and the eyes of the two women met.

  ‘Phœbe Marks,’ said my lady, throwing herself into an easy chair, and trifling with the wild flowers in her lap, ‘you are a good industrious girl, and while I live and am prosperous you shall never want a firm friend or a twenty-pound note.’

  CHAPTER X

  MISSING

  WHEN Robert Audley awoke he was surprised to see the fishing-rod lying on the bank, the line trailing idly in the water, and the float bobbing harmlessly up and down in the afternoon sunshine. The young barrister was a long time stretching his arms and legs in various directions to convince himself, by means of such exercise, that he still retained the proper use of those members; then, with a mighty effort, he contrived to rise from the grass, and having deliberately folded his railway rug into a convenient shape for carrying over his shoulder, he strolled away to look for George Talboys.