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
any possibility have made; but her opponent’s hand had been too powerful
for her, and he had won.
She looked upon herself as a species of state prisoner, who would have
to be taken good care of. A second Iron Mask, who must be provided for
in some comfortable place of confinement. She abandoned herself to a
dull indifference. She had lived a hundred lives within the space of the
last few days of her existence, and she had worn out her capacity for
suffering—for a time at least.
She ate her breakfast, and took her morning bath, and emerged, with
perfumed hair and in the most exquisitely careless of morning toilets,
from her luxurious dressing-room. She looked at herself in the
cheval-glass before she left the room. A long night’s rest had brought
back the delicate rose-tints of her complexion, and the natural luster
of her blue eyes. That unnatural light which had burned so fearfully the
day before had gone, and my lady smiled triumphantly as she contemplated
the reflection of her beauty. The days were gone in which her enemies
could have branded her with white-hot irons, and burned away the
loveliness which had done such mischief. Whatever they did to her they
must leave her her beauty, she thought. At the worst, they were
powerless to rob her of that.
The March day was bright and sunny, with a cheerless sunshine certainly.
My lady wrapped herself in an Indian shawl; a shawl that had cost Sir
Michael a hundred guineas. I think she had an idea that it would be well
to wear this costly garment; so that if hustled suddenly away, she might
carry at least one of her possessions with her. Remember how much she
had periled for a fine house and gorgeous furniture, for carriages and
horses, jewels and laces; and do not wonder if she clings with a
desperate tenacity to gauds and gew-gaws, in the hour of her despair. If
she had been Judas, she would have held to her thirty pieces of silver
to the last moment of her shameful life.
Mr. Robert Audley breakfasted in the library. He sat long over his
solitary cup of tea, smoking his meerschaum pipe, and meditating darkly
upon the task that lay before him.
“I will appeal to the experience of this Dr. Mosgrave,” he though;
“physicians and lawyers are the confessors of this prosaic nineteenth
century. Surely, he will be able to help me.”
The first fast train from London arrived at Audley at half-past ten
o’clock, and at five minutes before eleven, Richards, the grave servant,
announced Dr. Alwyn Mosgrave.
The physician from Saville Row was a tall man of about fifty years of
age. He was thin and sallow, with lantern jaws, and eyes of a pale,
feeble gray, that seemed as if they had once been blue, and had faded by
the progress of time to their present neutral shade. However powerful
the science of medicine as wielded by Dr. Alwyn Mosgrave, it had not
been strong enough to put flesh upon his bones, or brightness into his
face. He had a strangely expressionless, and yet strangely attentive
countenance. He had the face of a man who had spent the greater part of
his life in listening to other people, and who had parted with his own
individuality and his own passions at the very outset of his career.
He bowed to Robert Audley, took the opposite seat indicated by him, and
addressed his attentive face to the young barrister. Robert saw that the
physician’s glance for a moment lost its quiet look of attention, and
became earnest and searching.
“He is wondering whether I am the patient,” thought Mr. Audley, “and is
looking for the diagnoses of madness in my face.”
Dr. Mosgrave spoke as if in answer to this thought.
“Is it not about your own—health—that you wish to consult me?” he
said, interrogatively.
“Oh, no!”
Dr. Mosgrave looked at his watch, a fifty-guinea Benson-made
chronometer, which he carried loose in his waistcoat pocket as
carelessly as if it had been a potato.
“I need not remind you that my time is precious,” he said; “your
telegram informed me that my services were required in a case
of—danger—as I apprehend, or I should not be here this morning.”
Robert Audley had sat looking gloomily at the fire, wondering how he
should begin the conversation, and had needed this reminder of the
physician’s presence.
“You are very good, Dr. Mosgrave,” he said, rousing himself by an
effort, “and I thank you very much for having responded to my summons. I
am about to appeal to you upon a subject which is more painful to me
than words can describe. I am about to implore your advice in a most
difficult case, and I trust almost blindly to your experience to rescue
me, and others who are very dear to me, from a cruel and complicated
position.”
The business-like attention in Dr. Mosgrave’s face grew into a look of
interest as he listened to Robert Audley.
“The revelation made by the patient to the physician is, I believe, as
sacred as the confession of a penitent to his priest?” Robert asked,
gravely.
“Quite as sacred.”
“A solemn confidence, to be violated under no circumstances?”
“Most certainly.”
Robert Audley looked at the fire again. How much should he tell, or how
little, of the dark history of his uncle’s second wife?
“I have been given to understand, Dr. Mosgrave, that you have devoted
much of your attention to the treatment of insanity.”
“Yes, my practice is almost confined to the treatment of mental
diseases.”
“Such being the case, I think I may venture to conclude that you
sometimes receive strange, and even terrible, revelations.”
Dr. Mosgrave bowed.
He looked like a man who could have carried, safely locked in his
passionless breast, the secrets of a nation, and who would have suffered
no inconvenience from the weight of such a burden.
“The story which I am about to tell you is not my own story,” said
Robert, after a pause; “you will forgive me, therefore, if I once more
remind you that I can only reveal it upon the understanding that under
no circumstances, or upon no apparent justification, is that confidence
to be betrayed.”
Dr. Mosgrave bowed again. A little sternly, perhaps, this time.
“I am all attention, Mr. Audley,” he said coldly.
Robert Audley drew his chair nearer to that of the physician, and in a
low voice began the story which my lady had told upon her knees in that
same chamber upon the previous night. Dr. Mosgrave’s listening face,
turned always toward the speaker, betrayed no surprise at that strange
revelation. He smiled once, a grave, quiet smile, when Mr. Audley came
to that part of the story which told of the conspiracy at Ventnor; but
he was not surprised. Robert Audley ended his story at the point at
which Sir Michael Audley had interrupted my lady’s confession. He told
nothing of the disappearance of George Talboys, nor of the horrible
suspicions that had grown out of that disappearance. He told nothing of
the fire at the Castle Inn.
Dr. Mosgrave shook his head, gravely, when Mr. Audley came to the end of
his story.
“You have nothing further to tell me?” he said.
“No. I do not think there is anything more that need be told,” Robert
answered, rather evasively.
“You would wish to prove that this lady is mad, and therefore
irresponsible for her actions, Mr. Audley?” said the physician.
Robert Audley stared, wondering at the mad doctor. By what process had
he so rapidly arrived at the young man’s secret desire?
“Yes, I would rather, if possible, think her mad; I should be glad to
find that excuse for her.”
“And to save the esclandre of a Chancery suit, I suppose, Mr, Audley,”
said Dr. Mosgrave.
Robert shuddered as he bowed an assent to this remark. It was something
worse than a Chancery suit that he dreaded with a horrible fear. It was
a trial for murder that had so long haunted his dreams. How often he had
awoke, in an agony of shame, from a vision of a crowded court-house, and
his uncle’s wife in a criminal dock, hemmed in on every side by a sea of
eager faces.
“I fear that I shall not be of any use to you,” the physician said,
quietly; “I will see the lady, if you please, but I do not believe that
she is mad.”
“Why not?”
“Because there is no evidence of madness in anything she has done. She
ran away from her home, because her home was not a pleasant one, and she
left in the hope of finding a better. There is no madness in that. She
committed the crime of bigamy, because by that crime she obtained
fortune and position. There is no madness there. When she found herself
in a desperate position, she did not grow desperate. She employed
intelligent means, and she carried out a conspiracy which required
coolness and deliberation in its execution. There is no madness in
that.”
“But the traits of hereditary insanity—”
“May descend to the third generation, and appear in the lady’s children,
if she have any. Madness is not necessarily transmitted from mother to
daughter. I should be glad to help you, if I could, Mr. Audley, but I do
not think there is any proof of insanity in the story you have told me.
I do not think any jury in England would accept the plea of insanity in
such a case as this. The best thing you can do with this lady is to send
her back to her first husband; if he will have her.”
Robert started at this sudden mention of his friend.
“Her first husband is dead,” he answered, “at least, he has been missing
for some time—and I have reason to believe that he is dead.”
Dr. Mosgrave saw the startled movement, and heard the embarrassment in
Robert Audley’s voice as he spoke of George Talboys.
“The lady’s first husband is missing,” he said, with a strange emphasis
on the word—“you think that he is dead?”
He paused for a few moments and looked at the fire, as Robert had looked
before.
“Mr. Audley,” he said, presently, “there must be no half-confidences
between us. You have not told me all.”
Robert, looking up suddenly, plainly expressed in his face the surprise
he felt at these words.
“I should be very poorly able to meet the contingencies of my
professional experience,” said Dr. Mosgrave, “if I could not perceive
where confidence ends and reservation begins. You have only told me half
this lady’s story, Mr. Audley. You must tell me more before I can offer
you any advice. What has become of the first husband?”
He asked this question in a decisive tone, as if he knew it to be the
keystone of an arch.
“I have already told you, Dr. Mosgrave, that I do not know.”
“Yes,” answered the physician, “but your face has told me what you have
withheld from me; it has told me that you suspect.”
Robert Audley was silent.
“If I am to be of use to you, you must trust me, Mr. Audley,” said the
physician. “The first husband disappeared—how and when? I want to know
the history of his disappearance.”
Robert paused for some time before he replied to this speech; but, by
and by, he
Comments (0)