BEFORE THE STORM.
So the dinner at Audley Court was postponed, and Miss Alicia had to wait still longer for an to the widower, Mr. George Talboys.
I am afraid, if the truth is to be told, there was, perhaps, something of in the this lady to make George's acquaintance; but if Alicia for a moment calculated upon any of in her cousin's by this of interest, she was not so well with Robert Audley's as she might have been. Indolent, handsome, and indifferent, the took life as too a mistake for any one event in its to be for a moment by a man.
His pretty, gipsy-faced might have been over and ears in love with him; and she might have told him so, in some charming, roundabout, fashion, a hundred times a day for all the three hundred and sixty-five days in the year; but unless she had waited for some 29th of February, and walked up to him, saying, "Robert, will you me?" I very much if he would have the of her feelings.
Again, had he been in love with her himself, I that the would, with him, have been so and a that he might have gone to his with a of some which might be love or indigestion, and with, this, no knowledge of his state.
So it was not the least use, my Alicia, to about the around Audley those three days which the two men in Essex; it was trouble to wear that and plume, and to be always, by the most of chances, meeting Robert and his friend. The black (nothing like Lady Audley's ringlets, but locks, that about your throat), the red and lips, the nose to be retrousse, the dark complexion, with its flush, always to up like a light in a sky, when you came upon your cousin—all this espiegle, was away upon the of Robert Audley, and you might as well have taken your in the drawing-room at the Court, of your to death under the September sun.
Now fishing, to the of Izaak Walton, is not the most of occupations; therefore, it is scarcely, perhaps, to be that on the day after Lady Audley's departure, the two men (one of was by that which he so quietly, from taking in anything, and the other of looked upon almost all as a negative of trouble) to of the of the the about Audley.
"Figtree Court is not in the long vacation," said Robert, reflectively: "but I think, upon the whole, it's than this; at any rate, it's near a tobacconist's," he added, at an cigar from the of the Sun Inn.
George Talboys, who had only to the Essex in to his friend, was by no means to object to their return to London. "I shall be to back, Bob," he said, "for I want to take a to Southampton; I haven't the little one for of a month."
He always spoke of his son as "the little one;" always spoke of him than hopefully. He for this by saying that he had a that the child would learn to love him; and than this fancy, a that he would not live to see his little Georgey manhood.
"I'm not a man, Bob," he would say sometimes, "and I read a line of in my life that was any more to me than so many and so much jingle; but a has come over me, since my wife's death, that I am like a man upon a long, low shore, with upon him from behind, and the slowly but surely about his feet. It to nearer and nearer every day, that black, tide; not upon me with a great noise and a impetus, but crawling, creeping, stealing, toward me, to close in above my when I am least prepared for the end."
Robert Audley at his friend in amazement; and, after a pause of deliberation, said solemnly, "George Talboys, I this if you had been suppers. Cold pork, now, if underdone, might produce this of thing. You want of air, my dear boy; you want the of Figtree Court, and the air of Fleet street. Or, stay," he added, suddenly, "I have it! You've been our friend the landlord's cigars; that for everything."
They met Alicia Audley on her about an hour after they had come to the of Essex early the next morning. The lady was very much and at her cousin's determination, and for that very to take the with indifference.
"You are very soon of Audley, Robert," she said, carelessly; "but of you have no friends here, your relations at the Court; while in London, no doubt, you have the most and—"
"I good tobacco," Robert, his cousin. "Audley is the old place, but when a man has to leaves, you know, Alicia—"
"Then you are going to-morrow morning?"
"Positively—by the train that at 10.50."
"Then Lady Audley will an to Mr. Talboys, and Mr. Talboys will the of the woman in Essex."
"Really—" George.
"The woman in Essex would have a of much out of my friend, George Talboys," said Robert. "His is at Southampton, where he has a curly-headed little urchin, about as high as his knee, who calls him 'the big gentleman,' and him for sugar-plums."
"I am going to to my step-mother by to-night's post," said Alicia. "She asked me particularly in her how long you were going to stop, and there was any of her being in time to you."
Miss Audley took a from the pocket of her riding-jacket as she spoke—a pretty, fairy-like note, on paper of a hue.
"She says in her postcript, 'Be sure you answer my question about Mr. Audley and his friend, you volatile, Alicia!'"
"What a hand she writes!" said Robert, as his the note.
"Yes, it is pretty, is it not? Look at it, Robert."
She put the into his hand, and he it for a minutes, while Alicia the of her mare, which was to be off once more.
"Presently, Atalanta, presently. Give me my note, Bob."
"It is the prettiest, most little hand I saw. Do you know, Alicia, I have no great in those who ask you for thirteen stamps, and offer to tell you what you have been able to out yourself; but upon my word I think that if I had your aunt, I should know what she was like by this of paper. Yes, here it all is—the feathery, gold-shot, curls, the eyebrows, the tiny, nose, the winning, smile; all to be in these up-strokes and down-strokes. George, look here!"
But absent-minded and George Talboys had away along the of the ditch, and the with his cane, a dozen away from Robert and Alicia.
"Nevermind," said the lady, impatiently; for she by no means this long upon my lady's note. "Give me the letter, and let me go; it's past eight, and I must answer it by to-night's post. Come, Atalanta! Good-by, Robert—good-by, Mr. Talboys. A to town."
The through the lane, and Miss Audley was out of those two big, that in her for one moment, her sent them, again, rose from her angry heart.
"To have only one in the world," she cried, passionately, "my nearest relation after papa, and for him to about as much for me as he would for a dog!"
By the of accidents, however, Robert and his friend did not go by the 10.50 on the morning, for the with such a headache, that he asked George to send him a cup of the green tea that had been at the Sun, and to be so good as to their until the next day. Of George assented, and Robert Audley the in a room with a five-days'-old Chelmsford paper to himself withal.
"It's nothing but the cigars, George," he said, repeatedly. "Get me out of the place without my the landlord; for if that man and I meet there will be bloodshed."
Fortunately for the peace of Audley, it to be market-day at Chelmsford; and the had off in his chaise-cart to purchase for his house—among other things, perhaps, a fresh stock of those very which had been so in their upon Robert.
The men a dull, dawdling, stupid, day; and toward Mr. Audley that they should to the Court, and ask Alicia to take them over the house.
"It will kill a of hours, you know, George: and it a great to you away from Audley without having you the old place, which, I give you my honor, is very well seeing."
The sun was low in the as they took a cut through the meadows, and a into the leading to the archway—a lurid, heavy-looking, sunset, and a in the air, which the that had a mind to sing, and left the open to a in the ditches. Still as the was, the with that sinister, motion which from no cause, but is an of the branches, of a storm. That clock, which no middle course, and always from one hour to the other, pointed to seven as the men passed under the archway; but, for all that, it was nearer eight.
They Alicia in the lime-walk, up and under the black of the trees, from which every now and then a slowly to the ground.
Strange to say, George Talboys, who very anything, took particular notice of this place.
"It ought to be an in a churchyard," he said. "How peacefully the might sleep under this shade! I wish the at Ventnor was like this."
They walked on to the well; and Alicia told them some old with the spot—some story, such as those always to an old house, as if the past were one dark page of and crime.
"We want to see the house it is dark, Alicia," said Robert.
"Then we must be quick." she answered. "Come."
She the way through an open French window, a years before, into the library, and to the hall.
In the they passed my lady's pale-faced maid, who looked under her white at the two men.
They were going up-stairs, when Alicia and spoke to the girl.
"After we have been in the drawing-room, I should like to these Lady Audley's rooms. Are they in good order, Phoebe?"
"Yes, miss; but the door of the is locked, and I that my lady has taken the key to London."
"Taken the key! Impossible!" Alicia.
"Indeed, miss, I think she has. I cannot it, and it always used to be in the door."
"I declare," said Alicia, impatiently, "that is not at all my lady to have taken this into her head. I say she was we should go into her rooms, and about among her dresses, and with her jewelry. It is very provoking, for the best pictures in the house are in that antechamber. There is her own portrait, too, but like."
"Her portrait!" Robert Audley. "I would give anything to see it, for I have only an of her face. Is there no other way of into the room, Alicia?"
"Another way?"
"Yes; is there any door, leading through some of the other rooms, by which we can to into hers?"
His her head, and them into a where there were some family portraits. She them a chamber, the large upon the looking in the light.
"That with the battle-ax looks as if he wanted to George's open," said Mr. Audley, pointing to a warrior, arm appeared above George Talboys' dark hair.
"Come out of this room, Alicia," added the man, nervously; "I it's damp, or else haunted. Indeed, I all to be the result of or dyspepsia. You sleep in a bed—you in the of the night with a cold shiver, and see an old lady in the of George the First's time, at the of the bed. The old lady's indigestion, and the cold is a sheet."
There were in the drawing-room. No new-fangled had their at Audley Court. Sir Michael's rooms were by honest, thick, yellow-looking candles, in candlesticks, and in against the walls.
There was very little to see in the drawing-room; and George Talboys soon of at the modern furniture, and at a pictures of some of the Academicians.
"Isn't there a passage, or an old chest, or something of that kind, about the place, Alicia?" asked Robert.
"To be sure!" Miss Audley, with a that her cousin; "of course. Why didn't I think of it before? How of me, to be sure!"
"Why stupid?"
"Because, if you don't mind upon your hands and knees, you can see my lady's apartments, for that passage with her dressing-room. She doesn't know of it herself, I believe. How she'd be if some black-visored burglar, with a dark-lantern, were to through the some night as she sat her looking-glass, having her for a party!"
"Shall we try the passage, George?" asked Mr. Audley.
"Yes, if you wish it."
Alicia them into the room which had once been her nursery. It was now disused, on very occasions when the house was full of company.
Robert Audley a of the carpet, according to his cousin's directions, and a rudely-cut trap-door in the flooring.
"Now to me," said Alicia. "You must let by the hands into the passage, which is about four high; your head, walk along it till you come to a turn which will take you to the left, and at the end of it you will a a trap-door like this, which you will have to unbolt; that door opens into the of my lady's dressing-room, which is only with a square Persian that you can easily manage to raise. You me?"
"Perfectly."
"Then take the light; Mr. Talboys will you. I give you twenty minutes for your of the paintings—that is, about a minute apiece—and at the end of that time I shall to see you return."
Robert her implicitly, and George his friend, himself, in five minutes, the of Lady Audley's dressing-room.
She had left the house in a on her unlooked-for to London, and the whole of her about on the marble dressing-table. The of the room was almost for the rich of in bottles gold had not been replaced. A of hot-house flowers was upon a writing-table. Two or three in a upon the ground, and the open doors of a the within. Jewelry, ivory-backed hair-brushes, and were here and there about the apartment. George Talboys saw his and tall, in the glass, and to see how out of place he among all these luxuries.
They from the dressing-room to the boudoir, and through the into the ante-chamber, in which there were, as Alicia had said, about twenty valuable paintings, my lady's portrait.
My lady's portrait on an easel, with a green in the center of the chamber. It had been a of the artist to paint her in this very room, and to make his a of the pictured walls. I am the man to the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood, for he had a most time upon the of this picture—upon my lady's and the of her dress.
The two men looked at the paintings on the first, this portrait for a bouche.
By this time it was dark, the by Robert only making one of light as he moved about it the pictures one by one. The broad, window looked out upon the sky, with the last cold of the twilight. The against the with the same as that which every in the garden, of the that was to come.
"There are our friend's white horses," said Robert, a Wouvermans. "Nicholas Poussin—Salvator—ha—hum! Now for the portrait."
He paused with his hand on the baize, and his friend.
"George Talboys," he said, "we have us only one candle, a very light with which to look at a painting. Let me, therefore, that you will us to look at it one at a time; if there is one thing more than another, it is to have a person your and over your shoulder, when you're trying to see what a picture's of."
George immediately. He took no more in any lady's picture than in all the other of this world. He back, and his against the window-panes, looked out at the night.
When he he saw that Robert had the very conveniently, and that he had seated himself on a chair it for the purpose of the painting at his leisure.
He rose as George round.
"Now, then, for your turn, Talboys," he said. "It's an picture."
He took George's place at the window, and George seated himself in the chair the easel.
Yes, the painter must have been a pre-Raphaelite. No one but a pre-Raphaelite would have painted, by hair, those of ringlets, with every of gold, and every of brown. No one but a pre-Raphaelite would have so every of that as to give a to the complexion, and a strange, light to the eyes. No one but a pre-Raphaelite have to that mouth the hard and almost look it had in the portrait.
It was so like, and yet so unlike. It was as if you had strange-colored my lady's face, and by their out new lines and new in it before. The perfection of feature, the of coloring, were there; but I the painter had until his brain had bewildered, for my lady, in his portrait of her, had something of the of a fiend.
Her dress, like all the in this picture, about her in that looked like flames, her out of the of color as if out of a furnace. Indeed the dress, the on the face, the red gold in the yellow hair, the of the lips, the colors of each of the painted background, all to the of the painting by no means an one.
But as the picture was, it not have any great on George Talboys, for he sat it for about a of an hour without a word—only at the painted canvas, with the in his right hand, and his left arm by his side. He sat so long in this attitude, that Robert at last.
"Why, George, I you had gone to sleep!"
"I had almost."
"You've a cold from in that room. Mark my words, George Talboys, you've a cold; you're as as a raven. But come along."
Robert Audley took the from his friend's hand, and through the passage, by George—very quiet, but more than usual.
They Alicia in the waiting for them.
"Well?" she said, interrogatively.
"We managed it capitally. But I don't like the portrait; there's something odd about it."
"There is," said Alicia; "I've a on that point. I think that sometimes a painter is in a manner inspired, and is able to see, through the normal of the face, another that is a part of it, though not to be by common eyes. We have my lady look as she in that picture; but I think that she look so."
"Alicia," said Robert Audley, imploringly, "don't be German!"
"But, Robert—"
"Don't be German, Alicia, if you love me. The picture is—the picture: and my lady is—my lady. That's my way of taking things, and I'm not metaphysical; don't me."
He this times with an air of terror that was perfectly sincere; and then, having an in case of being overtaken by the storm, left the Court, leading George Talboys away with him. The one hand of the clock had to nine by the time they the archway; but they pass under its they had to step to allow a to past them. It was a from the village, but Lady Audley's out at the window. Dark as it was, she see the two of the men black against the dusk.
"Who is that?" she asked, out her head. "Is it the gardener?"
"No, my dear aunt," said Robert, laughing; "it is your most nephew."
He and George stopped by the while the up at the door, and the came out to welcome their master and mistress.
"I think the will off to-night," said the looking up at the sky; "but we shall have it tomorrow."
