HIDDEN RELICS.
The same August sun which had gone the waste of upon the of the old clock over that ivy-covered which leads into the gardens of Audley Court.
A and sunset. The and are all with the red glory; the light upon the of the in the long avenue, and the still fish-pond into a of copper; into those of and brushwood, which the old well is hidden, the in till the and the iron wheel and as if they were with blood.
The of a cow in the meadows, the of a in the fish-pond, the last notes of a bird, the of wagon-wheels upon the road, every now and then the silence, only the of the place more intense. It was almost oppressive, this stillness. The very of the place painful from its intensity, and you as if a must be that and ivy-covered of building—so was the of all around.
As the clock over the eight, a door at the of the house was opened, and a girl came out into the gardens.
But the presence of a being the silence; for the girl slowly over the thick grass, and into the by the of the fish-pond, in the rich of the limes.
She was not, perhaps, positively a girl; but her was of that order which is called interesting. Interesting, it may be, in the and the light eyes, the small and lips, there was something which at a power of and self-control not common in a woman of or twenty. She might have been pretty, I think, but for the one fault in her small face. This fault was an of color. Not one of the of her cheeks; not one of the of her and eyelashes; not one of gold or the of her hair. Even her dress was by this same deficiency. The into a gray, and the her melted into the same hue.
Her was and fragile, and in of her dress, she had something of the and of a gentlewoman, but she was only a country girl, called Phoebe Marks, who had been in Mr. Dawson's family, and Lady Audley had for her after her marriage with Sir Michael.
Of course, this was a piece of good for Phoebe, who her and her work in the well-ordered at the Court; and who was therefore as much the object of among her particular friends as my lady herself to higher circles.
A man, who was on the wood-work of the well, started as the lady's-maid came out of the of the and him among the and brushwood.
I have said that this was a neglected spot; it in the of a low shrubbery, away from the of the gardens, and only visible from the at the of the west wing.
"Why, Phoebe," said the man, a clasp-knife with which he had been the from a stake, "you came upon me so still and sudden, that I you was an spirit. I've come across through the fields, and come in here at the gate the moat, and I was taking a I came up to the house to ask if you was come back."
"I can see the well from my window, Luke," Phoebe answered, pointing to an open in one of the gables. "I saw you here, and came to have a chat; it's talking out here than in the house, where there's always somebody listening."
The man was a big, broad-shouldered, stupid-looking clod-hopper of about twenty-three years of age. His dark red low upon his forehead, and his met over a pair of eyes; his nose was large and well-shaped, but the mouth was in and animal in expression. Rosy-cheeked, red-haired, and bull-necked, he was not one of the in the about the Court.
The girl seated herself upon the wood-work at his side, and put one of her hands, which had white in her new and easy service, about his thick neck.
"Are you to see me, Luke?" she asked.
"Of I'm glad, lass," he answered, boorishly, opening his knife again, and away at the hedge-stake.
They were cousins, and had been play in childhood, and in early youth.
"You don't much as if you were glad," said the girl; "you might look at me, Luke, and tell me if you think my has me."
"It ain't put any color into your cheeks, my girl," he said, up at her from under his eyebrows; "you're every as white as you was when you away."
"But they say traveling makes people genteel, Luke. I've been on the Continent with my lady, through all manner of places; and you know, when I was a child, Squire Horton's me to speak a little French, and I it so to be able to talk to the people abroad."
"Genteel!" Luke Marks, with a laugh; "who wants you to be genteel, I wonder? Not me, for one; when you're my wife you won't have time for gentility, my girl. French, too! Dang me, Phoebe, I when we've saved money us to a of a farm, you'll be to the cows?"
She her lip as her lover spoke, and looked away. He on and at a he was to the stake, to himself all the while, and not once looking at his cousin.
For some time they were silent, but by-and-by she said, with her still away from her companion:
"What a thing it is for Miss Graham that was, to travel with her and her courier, and her and four, and a husband that thinks there isn't one spot upon all the earth that's good for her to set her upon!"
"Ay, it is a thing, Phoebe, to have of money," answered Luke, "and I you'll be by that, my lass, to save up your we married."
"Why, what was she in Mr. Dawson's house only three months ago?" the girl, as if she had not her cousin's speech. "What was she but a like me? Taking and for them as hard, or harder, than I did. You should have her clothes, Luke—worn and patched, and and and twisted, yet always looking upon her, somehow. She me more as lady's-maid here than she got from Mr. Dawson then. Why, I've her come out of the with a and a little in her hand, that master had just her for her quarter's salary; and now look at her!"
"Never you mind her," said Luke; "take of yourself, Phoebe; that's all you've got to do. What should you say to a public-house for you and me, by-and-by, my girl? There's a of money to be out of a public-house."
The girl still sat with her from her lover, her hands in her lap, and her upon the last low of out the of the trees.
"You should see the of the house, Luke," she said; "it's a looking place outside; but you should see my lady's rooms—all pictures and gilding, and great looking-glasses that from the to the floor. Painted ceilings, too, that cost hundreds of pounds, the told her, and all done for her."
"She's a lucky one," Luke, with lazy indifference.
"You should have her while we were abroad, with a of about her; Sir Michael not of them, only proud to see her so much admired. You should have her laugh and talk with them; all their and speeches at them, as it were, as if they had been her with roses. She set about her, she went. Her singing, her playing, her painting, her dancing, her smile, and ringlets! She was always the talk of a place, as long as we in it."
"Is she at home to-night?"
"No; she has gone out with Sir Michael to a dinner party at the Beeches. They've seven or eight miles to drive, and they won't be till after eleven."
"Then I'll tell you what, Phoebe, if the of the house is so fine, I should like to have a look at it."
"You shall, then. Mrs. Barton, the housekeeper, you by sight, and she can't object to my you some of the best rooms."
It was almost dark when the left the and walked slowly to the house. The door by which they entered into the servants' hall, on one of which was the housekeeper's room. Phoebe Marks stopped for a moment to ask the if she might take her through some of the rooms, and having permission to do so, a at the lamp in the hall, and to Luke to her into the other part of the house.
The long, black were in the twilight—the light by Phoebe looking only a in the passages through which the girl her cousin. Luke looked over his now and then, half-frightened by the of his own hob-nailed boots.
"It's a place, Phoebe," he said, as they from a passage into the hall, which was not yet lighted; "I've tell of a that was done here in old times."
"There are in these times, as to that, Luke," answered the girl, the staircase, by the man.
She the way through a great drawing-room, rich in and ormolu, and cabinets, bronzes, cameos, statuettes, and trinkets, that in the light; then through a room, with proof of valuable pictures; through this into an ante-chamber, where she stopped, the light above her head.
The man about him, open-mouthed and open-eyed.
"It's a place," he said, "and must have cost a of money."
"Look at the pictures on the walls," said Phoebe, at the panels of the chamber, which were with Claudes and Poussins, Wouvermans and Cuyps. "I've that those alone are a fortune. This is the entrance to my lady's apartments, Miss Graham that was." She a green cloth which across a doorway, and the into a fairy-like boudoir, and to a dressing-room, in which the open doors of a and a of about a sofa that it still as its had left it.
"I've got all these to put away my lady comes home, Luke; you might here while I do it, I shan't be long."
Her looked around in embarrassment, by the of the room; and after some the most of the chairs, on the of which he seated himself.
"I wish I you the jewels, Luke," said the girl; "but I can't, for she always the keys herself; that's the case on the dressing-table there."
"What, that?" Luke, at the walnut-wood and casket. "Why, that's big to every of I've got!"
"And it's as full as it can be of diamonds, rubies, pearls and emeralds," answered Phoebe, as she spoke in the dresses, and them one by one upon the of the wardrobe. As she was out the of the last, a her ear, and she put her hand into the pocket.
"I declare!" she exclaimed, "my lady has left her keys in her pocket for once in a way; I can you the jewelry, if you like, Luke."
"Well, I may as well have a look at it, my girl," he said, from his chair and the light while his the casket. He a of wonder when he saw the on white cushions. He wanted to the jewels; to them about, and out their value. Perhaps a of and through his as he how he would have liked to have taken one of them.
"Why, one of those diamond would set us up in life, Phoebe, he said, a over and over in his big red hands.
"Put it down, Luke! Put it directly!" the girl, with a look of terror; "how can you speak about such things?"
He the in its place with a sigh, and then his of the casket.
"What's this?" he asked presently, pointing to a in the frame-work of the box.
He pushed it as he spoke, and a drawer, with velvet, out of the casket.
"Look ye here!" Luke, pleased at his discovery.
Phoebe Marks the dress she had been folding, and over to the table.
"Why, I saw this before," she said; "I wonder what there is in it?"
There was not much in it; neither gold gems; only a baby's little shoe rolled up in a piece of paper, and a lock of and yellow hair, taken from a baby's head. Phoebe's as she the little packet.
"So this is what my lady in the drawer," she muttered.
"It's to keep in such a place," said Luke, carelessly.
The girl's thin lip into a smile.
"You will me where I this," she said, the little parcel into her pocket.
"Why, Phoebe, you're not going to be such a as to take that," the man.
"I'd have this than the diamond you would have liked to take," she answered; "you shall have the public house, Luke."
