Lady Audley's Secret, Mary Elizabeth Braddon [world of reading .txt] 📗
- Author: Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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upon her husband’s face—not with any very tender expression in the pale
light, but with a sharp, terrified anxiety, which showed that it was the
coming of death itself that she dreaded, rather than the loss of her
husband. The old woman was busy at the fireplace, airing linen, and
preparing some mess of broth which it was not likely the patient would
ever eat. The sick man lay with his head propped up by pillows, his
coarse face deadly pale, and his great hands wandering uneasily about
the coverlet. Phoebe had been reading to him, for an open Testament lay
among the medicine and lotion bottles upon the table near the bed. Every
object in the room was neat and orderly, and bore witness of that
delicate precision which had always been a distinguishing characteristic
of Phoebe.
The young woman rose as Robert Audley crossed the threshold, and hurried
toward him.
“Let me speak to you for a moment, sir, before you talk to Luke,” she
said, in an eager whisper. “Pray let me speak to you first.”
“What’s the gal a-sayin’, there?” asked the invalid in a subdued roar,
which died away hoarsely on his lips. He was feebly savage, even in his
weakness. The dull glaze of death was gathering over his eyes, but they
still watched Phoebe with a sharp glance of dissatisfaction. “What’s she
up to there?” he said. “I won’t have no plottin’ and no hatchin’ agen
me. I want to speak to Mr. Audley my own self; and whatever I done I’m
goin’ to answer for. If I done any mischief, I’m a-goin’ to try and undo
it. What’s she a-sayin’?”
“She ain’t a-sayin’ nothin’, lovey,” answered the old woman, going to
the bedside of her son, who even when made more interesting than usual
by illness, did not seem a very fit subject for this tender appellation.
“She’s only a-tellin’ the gentleman how bad you’ve been, my pretty.”
“What I’m a-goin’ to tell I’m only a-goin’ to tell to him, remember,”
growled Mr. Mark; “and ketch me a-tellin’ of it to him if it warn’t for
what he done for me the other night.”
“To be sure not, lovey,” answered the old woman soothingly.
Phoebe Marks had drawn Mr. Audley out of the room and onto the narrow
landing at the top of the little staircase. This landing was a platform
of about three feet square, and it was as much as the two could manage
to stand upon it without pushing each other against the whitewashed
wall, or backward down the stairs.
“Oh, sir, I wanted to speak to you so badly,” Phoebe answered, eagerly;
“you know what I told you when I found you safe and well upon the night
of the fire?”
“Yes, yes.”
“I told you what I suspected; what I think still.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“But I never breathed a word of it to anybody but you, sir, and I think
that Luke has forgotten all about that night; I think that what went
before the fire has gone clean out of his head altogether. He was tipsy,
you know, when my la—when she came to the Castle; and I think he was so
dazed and scared like by the fire that it all went out of his memory. He
doesn’t suspect what I suspect, at any rate, or he’d have spoken of it
to anybody or everybody; but he’s dreadful spiteful against my lady, for
he says if she’d have let him have a place at Brentwood or Chelmsford,
this wouldn’t have happened. So what I wanted to beg of you, sir, is not
to let a word drop before Luke.”
“Yes, yes, I understand; I will be careful.”
“My lady has left the Court, I hear, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Never to come back, sir?”
“Never to come back.”
“But she has not gone where she’ll be cruelly treated; where she’ll be
ill-used?”
“No: she will be very kindly treated.”
“I’m glad of that, sir; I beg your pardon for troubling you with the
question, sir, but my lady was a kind mistress to me.”
Luke’s voice, husky and feeble, was heard within the little chamber at
this period of the conversation, demanding angrily when “that gal would
have done jawing;” upon which Phoebe put her finger to her lips, and led
Mr. Audley back into the sick-room.
“I don’t want you” said Mr. Marks, decisively, as his wife re-entered
the chamber—“I don’t want you; you’ve no call to hear what I’ve got
to say—I only want Mr. Audley, and I wants to speak to him all alone,
with none o’ your sneakin’ listenin’ at doors, d’ye hear? so you may go
downstairs and keep there till you’re wanted; and you may take
mother—no, mother may stay, I shall want her presently.”
The sick man’s feeble hand pointed to the door, through which his wife
departed very submissively.
“I’ve no wish to hear anything, Luke,” she said, “but I hope you won’t
say anything against those that have been good and generous to you.”
“I shall say what I like,” answered Mr. Marks, fiercely, “and I’m not
a-goin’ to be ordered by you. You ain’t the parson, as I’ve ever heerd
of; nor the lawyer neither.”
The landlord of the Castle Inn had undergone no moral transformation by
his death-bed sufferings, fierce and rapid as they had been. Perhaps
some faint glimmer of a light that had been far off from his life now
struggled feebly through the black obscurities of ignorance that
darkened his soul. Perhaps a half angry, half sullen penitence urged him
to make some rugged effort to atone for a life that had been selfish and
drunken and wicked. Be it how it might he wiped his white lips, and
turning his haggard eyes earnestly upon Robert Audley, pointed to a
chair by the bedside.
“You made game of me in a general way, Mr. Audley,” he said, presently,
“and you’ve drawed me out, and you’ve tumbled and tossed me about like
in a gentlemanly way, till I was nothink or anythink in your hands; and
you’ve looked me through and through, and turned me inside out till you
thought you knowed as much as I knowed. I’d no particular call to be
grateful to you, not before the fire at the Castle t’other night. But I
am grateful to you for that. I’m not grateful to folks in a general way,
p’r’aps, because the things as gentlefolks have give have a’most allus
been the very things I didn’t want. They’ve give me soup, and tracks,
and flannel, and coals; but, Lord, they’ve made such a precious noise
about it that I’d have been to send ‘em all back to ‘em. But when a
gentleman goes and puts his own life in danger to save a drunken brute
like me, the drunkenest brute as ever was feels grateful like to that
gentleman, and wishes to say before he dies—which he sees in the
doctor’s face as he ain’t got long to live—‘Thank ye, sir, I’m obliged
to you.”
Luke Marks stretched out his left hand—the right hand had been injured
by the fire, and was wrapped in linen—and groped feebly for that of Mr.
Robert Audley.
The young man took the coarse but shrunken hand in both his own, and
pressed it cordially.
“I need no thanks, Luke Marks,” he said; “I was very glad to be of
service to you.”
Mr. Marks did not speak immediately. He was lying quietly upon his side,
staring reflectingly at Robert Audley.
“You was oncommon fond of that gent as disappeared at the Court, warn’t
you, sir?” he said at last.
Robert started at the mention of his dead friend.
“You was oncommon fond of that Mr. Talboys, I’ve heard say, sir,”
repeated Luke.
“Yes, yes,” answered Robert, rather impatiently, “he was my very dear
friend.”
“I’ve heard the servants at the Court say how you took on when you
couldn’t find him. I’ve heered the landlord of the Sun Inn say how cut
up you was when you first missed him. ‘If the two gents had been
brothers,’ the landlord said, ‘our gent,’ meanin’ you, sir, ‘couldn’t
have been more cut up when he missed the other.’”
“Yes, yes, I know, I know,” said Robert; “pray do not speak any more of
this subject. I cannot tell you now much it distresses me.”
Was he to be haunted forever by the ghost of his unburied friend? He
came here to comfort the sick man, and even here he was pursued by this
relentless shadow; even here he was reminded of the secret crime which
had darkened his life.
“Listen to me, Marks,” he said, earnestly; “believe me that I appreciate
your grateful words, and that I am very glad to have been of service to
you. But before you say anything more, let me make one most solemn
request. If you have sent for me that you may tell me anything of the
fate of my lost friend, I entreat you to spare yourself and to spare me
that horrible story. You can tell me nothing which I do not already
know. The worst you can tell me of the woman who was once in your power,
has already been revealed to me by her own lips. Pray, then, be silent
upon this subject; I say again, you can tell me nothing which I do not
know.”
Luke Marks looked musingly at the earnest face of his visitor, and some
shadowy expression, which was almost like a smile, flitted feebly across
the sick man’s haggard features.
“I can’t tell you nothin’ you don’t know?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then it ain’t no good for me to try,” said the invalid, thoughtfully.
“Did she tell you?” he asked, after a pause.
“I must beg, Marks, that you will drop the subject,” Robert answered,
almost sternly. “I have already told you that I do not wish to hear it
spoken of. Whatever discoveries you made, you made your market out of
them. Whatever guilty secrets you got possession of, you were paid for
keeping silence. You had better keep silence to the end.”
“Had I?” cried Luke Marks, in an eager whisper. “Had I really now better
hold my tongue to the last?”
“I think so, most decidedly. You traded on your secret, and you were
paid to keep it. It would be more honest to hold to your bargain, and
keep it still.”
“But, suppose I want to tell something,” cried Luke, with feverish
energy, “suppose I feel I can’t die with a secret on my mind, and have
asked to see you on purpose that I might tell you; suppose that, and
you’ll suppose nothing but the truth. I’d have been burnt alive before
I’d have told her.” He spoke these words between his set teeth, and
scowled savagely as he uttered them. “I’d have been burnt alive first. I
made her pay for her pretty insolent ways; I made her pay for her airs
and graces; I’d never have told her—never, never! I had my power over
her, and I kept it; I had my secret and was paid for it; and there
wasn’t a petty slight as she ever put upon me or mine that I didn’t pay
her out for twenty times over!”
“Marks, Marks, for Heaven’s sake be calm” said Robert, earnestly. “What
are you talking of? What is it that you could have told?”
“I’m a-goin to tell you,” answered Luke, wiping his lips. “Give us a
drink, mother.”
The old woman poured
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