Lady Audley’s Secret, M. E. Braddon [good books to read for young adults TXT] 📗

dear girl,” he thought; “a generous-hearted, bouncing, noble English lassie; and yet⁠—” He lost himself in a quagmire of doubt and difficulty. There was some hitch in his mind which he could not understand; some change in himself, beyond the change made in him by his anxiety about George Talboys, which mystified and bewildered him.

“And pray where have you been wandering during the last day or two, Mr. Audley?” asked my lady, as she lingered with her stepdaughter upon the threshold of the turret-door, waiting until Robert should be pleased to stand aside and allow them to pass. The young man started as she asked this question and looked up at her suddenly. Something in the aspect of her bright young beauty, something in the childish innocence of her expression, seemed to smite him to the heart, and his face grew ghastly pale as he looked at her.

“I have been⁠—in Yorkshire,” he said; “at the little watering place where my poor friend George Talboys lived at the time of his marriage.”

The white change in my lady’s face was the only sign of her having heard these words. She smiled, a faint, sickly smile, and tried to pass her husband’s nephew.

“I must dress for dinner,” she said. “I am going to a dinner-party, Mr. Audley; please let me go in.”

“I must ask you to spare me half an hour, Lady Audley,” Robert answered, in a low voice. “I came down to Essex on purpose to speak to you.”

“What about?” asked my lady.

She had recovered herself from any shock which she might have sustained a few moments before, and it was in her usual manner that she asked this question. Her face expressed the mingled bewilderment and curiosity of a puzzled child, rather than the serious surprise of a woman.

“What can you want to talk to me about, Mr. Audley?” she repeated.

“I will tell you when we are alone,” Robert said, glancing at his cousin, who stood a little way behind my lady, watching this confidential little dialogue.

“He is in love with my stepmother’s wax-doll beauty,” thought Alicia, “and it is for her sake he has become such a disconsolate object. He’s just the sort of person to fall in love with his aunt.”

Miss Audley walked away to the grass-plat, turning her back upon Robert and my lady.

“The absurd creature turned as white as a sheet when he saw her,” she thought. “So he can be in love, after all. That slow lump of torpidity he calls his heart can beat, I suppose, once in a quarter of a century; but it seems that nothing but a blue-eyed wax-doll can set it going. I should have given him up long ago if I’d known that his idea of beauty was to be found in a toyshop.”

Poor Alicia crossed the grass-plat and disappeared upon the opposite side of the quadrangle, where there was a Gothic gate that communicated with the stables. I am sorry to say that Sir Michael Audley’s daughter went to seek consolation from her dog Caesar and her chestnut mare Atalanta, whose loose-box the young lady was in the habit of visiting every day.

“Will you come into the lime-walk, Lady Audley?” said Robert, as his cousin left the garden. “I wish to talk to you without fear of interruption or observation. I think we could choose no safer place than that. Will you come there with me?”

“If you please,” answered my lady. Mr. Audley could see that she was trembling, and that she glanced from side to side as if looking for some outlet by which she might escape him.

“You are shivering, Lady Audley,” he said.

“Yes, I am very cold. I would rather speak to you some other day, please. Let it be tomorrow, if you will. I have to dress for dinner, and I want to see Sir Michael; I have not seen him since ten o’clock this morning. Please let it be tomorrow.”

There was a painful piteousness in her tone. Heaven knows how painful to Robert’s heart. Heaven knows what horrible images arose in his mind as he looked down at that fair young face and thought of the task that lay before him.

“I must speak to you, Lady Audley,” he said. “If I am cruel, it is you who have made me cruel. You might have escaped this ordeal. You might have avoided me. I gave you fair warning. But you have chosen to defy me, and it is your own folly which is to blame if I no longer spare you. Come with me. I tell you again I must speak to you.”

There was a cold determination in his tone which silenced my lady’s objections. She followed him submissively to the little iron gate which communicated with the long garden behind the house⁠—the garden in which a little rustic wooden bridge led across the quiet fishpond into the lime-walk.

The early winter twilight was closing in, and the intricate tracery of the leafless branches that overarched the lonely pathway looked black against the cold gray of the evening sky. The lime-walk seemed like some cloister in this uncertain light.

“Why do you bring me to this horrible place to frighten me out of my poor wits?” cried my lady, peevishly. “You ought to know how nervous I am.”

“You are nervous, my lady?”

“Yes, dreadfully nervous. I am worth a fortune to poor Mr. Dawson. He is always sending me camphor, and sal volatile, and red lavender, and all kinds of abominable mixtures, but he can’t cure me.”

“Do you remember what Macbeth tells his physician, my lady?” asked Robert, gravely. “Mr. Dawson may be very much more clever than the Scottish leech, but I doubt if even he can minister to the mind that is diseased.”

“Who said that my mind was diseased?” exclaimed Lady Audley.

“I say so, my lady,” answered Robert. “You tell me that you are nervous, and that all the medicines your doctor can prescribe are only so much physic that might as well be thrown to the dogs. Let me be the physician