AFTER A YEAR.
The year of George Talboys' passed away, the of about his and dusty, and as the last day of another August out, he sat in the of Figtree Court, much as he had done the year before, when the of his was new to him, and every object in life, or important, with his one great sorrow.
But the big ex-dragoon had his by a twelvemonth, and hard as it may be to have to tell it, he did not look much the for it. Heaven what of and self-reproach may not have George's heart, as he at nights of the wife he had in the of a fortune, which she to share.
Once, while they were abroad, Robert Audley to him upon his spirits. He into a laugh.
"Do you know, Bob," he said, "that when some of our were in India, they came home, them. They did not talk of them, and they were and hearty, and looked as well, perhaps, as you or I; but every in the weather, slight, every of the atmosphere, trifling, the old of their as as they had it on the battle-field. I've had my wound, Bob; I the still, and I shall it into my coffin."
The travelers returned from St. Petersburg in the spring, and George again took up his at his old friend's chambers, only them now and then to to Southampton and take a look at his little boy. He always with toys and to give to the child; but, for all this, Georgey would not very familiar with his papa, and the man's as he to that his child was to him.
"What can I do?" he thought. "If I take him away from his grandfather, I shall his heart; if I let him remain, he will up a to me, and more for that old than for his own father. But then, what an ignorant, like me do with such a child? What I teach him, to and around all day with his hands in his pockets?"
So the of that 30th of August, upon which George had the of his wife's death in the Times newspaper, came for the time, and the man put off his black and the from his hat, and his in a in which he a packet of his wife's letters, her portrait, and that lock of which had been cut from her after death. Robert Audley had either the letters, the portrait, or the long of hair; nor, indeed, had George mentioned the name of his wife after that one day at Ventnor, on which he learned the full particulars of her decease.
"I shall to my Alicia to-day, George," the said, upon this very 30th of August. "Do you know that the day after to-morrow is the 1st of September? I shall and tell her that we will to the Court for a week's shooting."
"No, no, Bob; go by yourself; they don't want me, and I'd rather—"
"Bury in Figtree Court, with no company but my dogs and canaries! No, George, you shall do nothing of the kind."
"But I don't for shooting."
"And do you I for it?" Robert, with naivete. "Why, man, I don't know a from a pigeon, and it might be the 1st of April, of the 1st of September, for I care. I a bird in my life, but I have my own with the weight of my gun. I only go to Essex for the of air, the good dinners, and the of my uncle's honest, face. Besides, this time I've another inducement, as I want to see this fair-haired paragon—my new aunt. You'll go with me, George?"
"Yes, if you wish it."
The his had taken after its violence, left him as as a child to the will of his friend; to go or do anything; himself, or any enjoyment, but joining in the of others with a hopeless, uncomplaining, to his nature. But the return of post a from Alicia Audley, to say that the two men not be at the Court.
"There are seventeen bed-rooms," the lady, in an hand, "but for all that, my dear Robert, you can't come; for my lady has taken it into her that she is too to visitors (there is no more the with her than there is with me), and she cannot have (great, men, she says) in the house. Please to your friend Mr. Talboys, and tell him that papa to see you in the season."
"My lady's and shan't keep us out of Essex for all that," said Robert, as he the into a pipe-light for his big meerschaum. "I'll tell you what we'll do, George: there's a at Audley, and of in the neighborhood; we'll go there and have a week's sport. Fishing is much than shooting; you've only to on a bank and at your line; I don't that you often catch anything, but it's very pleasant."
He the to the of fire in the grate, as he spoke, and then his mind, it, and the paper with his hand.
"Poor little Alicia!" he said, thoughtfully; "it's hard to her so cavalierly—I'll keep it;" upon which Mr. Robert Audley put the note into its envelope, and it into a pigeon-hole in his office desk, marked important. Heaven what documents there were in this particular pigeon-hole, but I do not think it likely to have anything of great value. If any one at that moment have told the that so a thing as his cousin's would one day come to be a link in that terrible of to be slowly in the only case in which he was to be concerned, Mr. Robert Audley would have his a little higher than usual.
So the two men left London the next day, with one and a and them, and the straggling, old-fashioned, fast-decaying village of Audley, in time to order a good dinner at the Sun Inn.
Audley Court was about three-quarters of a mile from the village, lying, as I have said, in the hollow, in by timber. You only it by a cross-road by trees, and as as the in a gentleman's park. It was a place enough, in all its beauty, for so a as the late Miss Lucy Graham, but the had the of the old into a little for his wife, and Lady Audley as happy as a child by new and toys.
In her fortunes, as in her old days of dependence, she she to take and with her. In of Miss Alicia's for her step-mother's and frivolity, Lucy was loved and more than the baronet's daughter. That very had a which resist. The and of an in Lady Audley's face, and out of her large and liquid eyes. The lips, the nose, the of ringlets, all to to her the of and freshness. She owned to twenty years of age, but it was hard to her more than seventeen. Her figure, which she loved to dress in velvets, and stiff, silks, till she looked like a child out for a masquerade, was as as if she had just left the nursery. All her were childish. She reading, or study of any kind, and loved society. Rather than be alone, she would admit Phoebe Marks into her confidence, and on one of the in her dressing-room, a new for some dinner-party; or to the girl with her jewel-box her, upon the cushions, and Sir Michael's presents spread out in her lap, while she and her treasures.
She had appeared at public at Chelmsford and Colchester, and was as the of the county. Pleased with her high position and her house; with every gratified, every indulged; and she went; of her husband; rich in a of pin-money; with no relations to worry her with upon her or patronage; it would have been hard to in the County of Essex a more than Lucy, Lady Audley.
The two men over the dinner-table in the private sitting-room at the Sun Inn. The were wide open, and the fresh country air in upon them as they dined. The weather was lovely; the of the touched here and there with of the of autumn; the yellow still in some of the fields, in others just under the sickle; while in the narrow you met great by broad-chested cart-horses, home the rich store. To any one who has been, the months, up in London, there is in the taste of life a of to be described. George Talboys this, and in this he the nearest approach to that he had since his wife's death.
The clock five as they dinner.
"Put on your hat, George," said Robert Audley; "they don't at the Court till seven; we shall have time to and see the old place and its inhabitants."
The landlord, who had come into the room with a bottle of wine, looked up as the man spoke.
"I your pardon, Mr. Audley," he said, "but if you want to see your uncle, you'll your time by going to the Court just now. Sir Michael and my lady and Miss Alicia have all gone to the up at Chorley, and they won't be till upon eight o'clock, most likely. They must pass by here to go home."
Under these of it was no use going to the Court, so the two men through the village and looked at the old church, and then and the in which they were to fish the next day, and by such means the time until after seven o'clock. At about a past that hour they returned to the inn, and seating themselves in the open window, their and looked out at the peaceful prospect.
We every day of in the country. Brutal and murders; slow, from by some hand; and deaths by blows, with a cut from some oak, every promised—peace. In the of which I write, I have been a in which, on a Sunday evening, a farmer the girl who had loved and him; and yet, now, with the of that upon it, the of the spot is—peace. No of has been in the about Seven Dials that has not been also done in the of that which still, in of all, we look on with a tender, half-mournful yearning, and with—peace.
It was when and chaises, dog-carts and farmers' phaetons, to through the village street, and under the of the Sun Inn; still when an open and four up the sign-post.
It was Sir Michael Audley's which came to so a stop the little inn. The of one of the had out of order, and the to set it right.
"Why, it's my uncle," Robert Audley, as the stopped. "I'll and speak to him."
George another cigar, and, by the window-curtains, looked out at the little party. Alicia sat with her to the horses, and he perceive, in the dusk, that she was a brunette; but Lady Audley was seated on the of the from the inn, and he see nothing of the fair-haired of he had so much.
"Why, Robert," Sir Michael, as his nephew from the inn, "this is a surprise!"
"I have not come to upon you at the Court, my dear uncle," said the man, as the him by the hand in his own fashion. "Essex is my native county, you know, and about this time of year I have a touch of homesickness; so George and I have come to the for two or three day's fishing."
"George—George who?"
"George Talboys."
"What, has he come?" Alicia. "I'm so glad; for I'm to see this widower."
"Are you, Alicia?" said her cousin, "Then egad, I'll and him, and you to him at once."
Now, so complete was the which Lady Audley had, in her own childish, way, over her husband, that it was very that the baronet's were long from his wife's face. When Robert, therefore, was about to re-enter the inn, it needed but the of Lucy's eyebrows, with a of and terror, to make her husband aware that she did not want to be by an to Mr. George Talboys.
"Never mind to-night, Bob," he said. "My wife is a little after our long day's pleasure. Bring your friend to dinner to-morrow, and then he and Alicia can make each other's acquaintance. Come and speak to Lady Audley, and then we'll drive home."
My lady was so that she only sweetly, and out a hand to her nephew by marriage.
"You will come and with us to-morrow, and your friend?" she said, in a low and voice. She had been the of the race-course, and was out by the of the county.
"It's a wonder she didn't you to her never-ending laugh," Alicia, as she over the carriage-door to Robert good-night; "but I say she that for your to-morrow. I you are as well as else?" added the lady, snappishly.
"She is a creature, certainly," Robert, with admiration.
"Oh, of course! Now, she is the woman of I you say a word, Robert Audley. I'm sorry to you can only dolls."
Poor Alicia had had many with her upon that particular of his, which, while it him to go through life with perfect and enjoyment, his one of upon any whatever.
"As to his in love," the lady sometimes, "the idea is preposterous. If all the on earth were him, waiting for his to the handkerchief, he would only his to the middle of his forehead, and tell them to for it."
But, for once in his life, Robert was almost enthusiastic.
"She's the little you saw in your life, George," he cried, when the had off and he returned to his friend. "Such eyes, such ringlets, such a smile, such a fairy-like bonnet—all of a-tremble with heart's-ease and spangles, out of a cloud of gauze. George Talboys, I like the hero of a French novel: I am in love with my aunt."
The only and his cigar out of the open window. Perhaps he was of that far-away time—little than five years ago, in fact; but such an age gone by to him—when he met the woman for he had his three days before. They returned, all those old feelings; they came back, with the of their birth-place. Again he with his officers upon the at the watering-place, to a with a that was a note and a flat. Again he the old airs, and again she came toward him, on her old father's arm, and (with such a charming, delicious, serio-comic pretense) to be to the music, and of the of a dozen open-mouthed officers. Again the old came that she was something too for earth, or uses, and that to approach her was to walk in a higher and to breathe a air. And since this she had been his wife, and the mother of his child. She in the little at Ventnor, and only a year ago he had the order for her tombstone. A slow, upon his as he of these in the and room.
Lady Audley was so when she home, that she herself from the dinner-table, and retired at once to her dressing-room, by her maid, Phoebe Marks.
She was a little in her to this maid—sometimes very confidential, sometimes reserved; but she was a mistress, and the girl had every to be satisfied with her situation.
This evening, in of her fatigue, she was in high spirits, and gave an account of the races, and the company present at them.
"I am to death, though, Phoebe," she said, by-and-by. "I am I must look a perfect fright, after a day in the sun."
There were on each of the which Lady Audley was her dress. She looked full at her as she spoke, her clear and bright, and the into an smile.
"You are a little pale, my lady," answered the girl, "but you look as as ever."
"That's right, Phoebe," she said, herself into a chair, and her at the maid, who stood, in hand, to the for the night. "Do you know, Phoebe, I have some people say that you and I are alike?"
"I have them say so, too, my lady," said the girl, "but they must be very to say it, for your is a beauty, and I am a poor, plain creature."
"Not at all, Phoebe," said the little lady, superbly; "you are like me, and your are very nice; it is only color that you want. My is yellow with gold, and yours is drab; my and are dark brown, and yours are almost—I like to say it, but they're almost white, my dear Phoebe. Your is sallow, and mine is pink and rosy. Why, with a bottle of hair-dye, such as we see in the papers, and a pot of rouge, you'd be as good-looking as I, any day, Phoebe."
She on in this way for a long time, talking of a hundred different subjects, and the people she had met at the races, for her maid's amusement. Her step-daughter came into the dressing-room to her good-night, and the and laughing over one of the day's adventures. Alicia, who was familiar with her servants, in at my lady's frivolity.
"Go on my hair, Phoebe," Lady Audley said, every time the girl was about to complete her task, "I a with you."
At last, just as she had her maid, she called her back. "Phoebe Marks," she said, "I want you to do me a favor."
"Yes, my lady."
"I want you to go to London by the train to-morrow to a little for me. You may take a day's afterward, as I know you have friends in town; and I shall give you a five-pound note if you do what I want, and keep your own about it."
"Yes, my lady."
"See that that door is shut, and come and on this at my feet."
The girl obeyed. Lady Audley her maid's neutral-tinted with her plump, white, and hand as she for a moments.
"And now listen, Phoebe. What I want you to do is very simple."
It was so that it was told in five minutes, and then Lady Audley retired into her bed-room, and herself up under the eider-down quilt. She was a creature, and loved to herself in soft of and fur.
"Kiss me, Phoebe," she said, as the girl the curtains. "I Sir Michael's step in the anteroom; you will meet him as you go out, and you may as well tell him that you are going up by the train to-morrow to my dress from Madam Frederick for the dinner at Morton Abbey."
It was late the next when Lady Audley to breakfast—past ten o'clock. While she was her coffee a her a sealed packet, and a book for her to sign.
"A message!" she cried; for the word had not yet been invented. "What can be the matter?"
She looked up at her husband with wide-open, eyes, and to the seal. The was to Miss Lucy Graham, at Mr. Dawson's, and had been sent on from the village.
"Read it, my darling," he said, "and do not be alarmed; it may be nothing of any importance."
It came from a Mrs. Vincent, the with she had entering Mr. Dawson's family. The lady was ill, and her old to go and see her.
"Poor soul! she always meant to me her money," said Lucy, with a smile. "She has of the in my fortunes. Dear Sir Michael, I must go to her."
"To be sure you must, dearest. If she was to my girl in her adversity, she has a upon her that shall be forgotten. Put on your bonnet, Lucy; we shall be in time to catch the express."
"You will go with me?"
"Of course, my darling. Do you I would let you go alone?"
"I was sure you would go with me," she said, thoughtfully.
"Does your friend send any address?"
"No; but she always at Crescent Villa, West Brompton; and no she there still."
There was only time for Lady Audley to on her and she the drive to the door, and Sir Michael calling to her at the of the staircase.
Her of rooms, as I have said, opened one out of another, and in an with oil-paintings. Even in her she paused at the door of this room, double-locked it, and the key into her pocket. This door once locked cut off all to my lady's apartments.
