Lady Audley's Secret, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [world of reading .txt] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
- Performer: -
Book online «Lady Audley's Secret, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [world of reading .txt] 📗». Author Mary Elizabeth Braddon
he would have seen a yearning gaze which seemed as if it would have
pierced the far obscurity and looked away—away into another world.
“Lucy, you heard me?”
“Yes,” she said, gravely; not coldly, or in any way as if she were
offended at his words.
“And your answer?”
She did not remove her gaze from the darkening country side, but for
some moments was quite silent; then turning to him, with a sudden
passion in her manner, that lighted up her face with a new and wonderful
beauty which the baronet perceived even in the growing twilight, she
fell on her knees at his feet.
“No, Lucy; no, no!” he cried, vehemently, “not here, not here!”
“Yes, here, here,” she said, the strange passion which agitated her
making her voice sound shrill and piercing—not loud, but
preternaturally distinct; “here and nowhere else. How good you are—how
noble and how generous! Love you! Why, there are women a hundred times
my superiors in beauty and in goodness who might love you dearly; but
you ask too much of me! Remember what my life has been; only remember
that! From my very babyhood I have never seen anything but poverty. My
father was a gentleman: clever, accomplished, handsome—but poor—and
what a pitiful wretch poverty made of him! My mother—But do not let me
speak of her. Poverty—poverty, trials, vexations, humiliations,
deprivations. You cannot tell; you, who are among those for whom life is
so smooth and easy, you can never guess what is endured by such as we.
Do not ask too much of me, then. I cannot be disinterested; I cannot be
blind to the advantages of such an alliance. I cannot, I cannot!”
Beyond her agitation and her passionate vehemence, there is an undefined
something in her manner which fills the baronet with a vague alarm. She
is still on the ground at his feet, crouching rather than kneeling, her
thin white dress clinging about her, her pale hair streaming over her
shoulders, her great blue eyes glittering in the dusk, and her hands
clutching at the black ribbon about her throat, as if it had been
strangling her. “Don’t ask too much of me,” she kept repeating; “I have
been selfish from my babyhood.”
“Lucy—Lucy, speak plainly. Do you dislike me?”
“Dislike you? No—no!”
“But is there any one else whom you love?”
She laughed aloud at his question. “I do not love any one in the world,”
she answered.
He was glad of her reply; and yet that and the strange laugh jarred upon
his feelings. He was silent for some moments, and then said, with a kind
of effort:
“Well, Lucy, I will not ask too much of you. I dare say I am a romantic
old fool; but if you do not dislike me, and if you do not love any one
else, I see no reason why we should not make a very happy couple. Is it
a bargain, Lucy?”
“Yes.”
The baronet lifted her in his arms and kissed her once upon the
forehead, then quietly bidding her good-night, he walked straight out of
the house.
He walked straight out of the house, this foolish old man, because there
was some strong emotion at work in his breast—neither joy nor triumph,
but something almost akin to disappointment—some stifled and
unsatisfied longing which lay heavy and dull at his heart, as if he had
carried a corpse in his bosom. He carried the corpse of that hope which
had died at the sound of Lucy’s words. All the doubts and fears and
timid aspirations were ended now. He must be contented, like other men
of his age, to be married for his fortune and his position.
Lucy Graham went slowly up the stairs to her little room at the top of
the house. She placed her dim candle on the chest of drawers, and seated
herself on the edge of the white bed, still and white as the draperies
hanging around her.
“No more dependence, no more drudgery, no more humiliations,” she said;
“every trace of the old life melted away—every clew to identity buried
and forgotten—except these, except these.”
She had never taken her left hand from the black ribbon at her throat.
She drew it from her bosom, as she spoke, and looked at the object
attached to it.
It was neither a locket, a miniature, nor a cross; it was a ring wrapped
in an oblong piece of paper—the paper partly written, partly printed,
yellow with age, and crumpled with much folding.
CHAPTER II.
ON BOARD THE ARGUS.
He threw the end of his cigar into the water, and leaning his elbows
upon the bulwarks, stared meditatively at the waves.
“How wearisome they are,” he said; “blue and green, and opal; opal, and
blue, and green; all very well in their way, of course, but three months
of them are rather too much, especially—”
He did not attempt to finish his sentence; his thoughts seemed to wander
in the very midst of it, and carry him a thousand miles or so away.
“Poor little girl, how pleased she’ll be!” he muttered, opening his
cigar-case, lazily surveying its contents; “how pleased and how
surprised? Poor little girl. After three years and a half, too; she
will be surprised.”
He was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with dark face bronzed by
exposure to the sun; he had handsome brown eyes, with a lazy smile in
them that sparkled through the black lashes, and a bushy beard and
mustache that covered the whole lower part of his face. He was tall and
powerfully built; he wore a loose gray suit and a felt hat, thrown
carelessly upon his black hair. His name was George Talboys, and he was
aft-cabin passenger on board the good ship Argus, laden with
Australian wool and sailing from Sydney to Liverpool.
There were very few passengers in the aft-cabin of the Argus. An
elderly woolstapler returning to his native country with his wife and
daughters, after having made a fortune in the colonies; a governess of
three-and-thirty years of age, going home to marry a man to whom she had
been engaged fifteen years; the sentimental daughter of a wealthy
Australian wine-merchant, invoiced to England to finish her education,
and George Talboys, were the only first-class passengers on board.
This George Talboys was the life and soul of the vessel; nobody knew who
or what he was, or where he came from, but everybody liked him. He sat
at the bottom of the dinner-table, and assisted the captain in doing the
honors of the friendly meal. He opened the champagne bottles, and took
wine with every one present; be told funny stories, and led the life
himself with such a joyous peal that the man must have been a churl who
could not have laughed for pure sympathy. He was a capital hand at
speculation and vingt-et-un, and all the merry games, which kept the
little circle round the cabin-lamp so deep in innocent amusement, that a
hurricane might have howled overhead without their hearing it; but he
freely owned that he had no talent for whist, and that he didn’t know a
knight from a castle upon the chess-board.
Indeed, Mr. Talboys was by no means too learned a gentleman. The pale
governess had tried to talk to him about fashionable literature, but
George had only pulled his beard and stared very hard at her, saying
occasionally, “Ah, yes, by Jove!” and “To be sure, ah!”
The sentimental young lady, going home to finish her education, had
tried him with Shelby and Byron, and he had fairly laughed in her face,
as if poetry where a joke. The woolstapler sounded him on politics, but
he did not seem very deeply versed in them; so they let him go his own
way, smoke his cigars and talk to the sailors, lounge over the bulwarks
and stare at the water, and make himself agreeable to everybody in his
own fashion. But when the Argus came to be within about a fortnight’s
sail of England everybody noticed a change in George Talboys. He grew
restless and fidgety; sometimes so merry that the cabin rung with his
laughter; sometimes moody and thoughtful. Favorite as he was among the
sailors, they were tired at last of answering his perpetual questions
about the probable time of touching land. Would it be in ten days, in
eleven, in twelve, in thirteen? Was the wind favorable? How many knots
an hour was the vessel doing? Then a sudden passion would sieze him, and
he would stamp upon the deck, crying out that she was a rickety old
craft, and that her owners were swindlers to advertise her as the
fast-sailing Argus. She was not fit for passenger traffic; she was not
fit to carry impatient living creatures, with hearts and souls; she was
fit for nothing but to be laden with bales of stupid wool, that might
rot on the sea and be none the worse for it.
The sun was drooping down behind the waves as George Talboys lighted his
cigar upon this August evening. Only ten days more, the sailors had told
him that afternoon, and they would see the English coast. “I will go
ashore in the first boat that hails us,” he cried; “I will go ashore in
a cockle-shell. By Jove, if it comes to that, I will swim to land.”
His friends in the aft-cabin, with the exception of the pale governess,
laughed at his impatience; she sighed as she watched the young man,
chafing at the slow hours, pushing away his untasted wine, flinging
himself restlessly about upon the cabin sofa, rushing up and down the
companion ladder, and staring at the waves.
As the red rim of the sun dropped into the water, the governess ascended
the cabin stairs for a stroll on deck, while the passengers sat over
their wine below. She stopped when she came up to George, and, standing
by his side, watched the fading crimson in the western sky.
The lady was very quiet and reserved, seldom sharing in the after-cabin
amusements, never laughing, and speaking very little; but she and George
Talboys had been excellent friends throughout the passage.
“Does my cigar annoy you, Miss Morley?” he said, taking it out of his
mouth.
“Not at all; pray do not leave off smoking. I only came up to look at
the sunset. What a lovely evening!”
“Yes, yes, I dare say,” he answered, impatiently; “yet so long, so long!
Ten more interminable days and ten more weary nights before we land.”
“Yes,” said Miss Morley, sighing. “Do you wish the time shorter?”
“Do I?” cried George. “Indeed I do. Don’t you?”
“Scarcely.”
“But is there no one you love in England? Is there no one you love
looking out for your arrival?”
“I hope so,” she said gravely. They were silent for some time, he
smoking his cigar with a furious impatience, as if he could hasten the
course of the vessel by his own restlessness; she looking out at the
waning light with melancholy blue eyes—eyes that seemed to have faded
with poring over closely-printed books and difficult needlework; eyes
that had faded a little, perhaps, by reason of tears secretly shed in
the lonely night.
“See!” said George, suddenly, pointing in another direction from that
toward which Miss Morley was looking, “there’s the new moon!”
She looked up at the pale crescent, her own face almost as pale and wan.
“This is the first time we have seen it.”
“We must wish!” said George. “I know
Comments (0)