THE MARK UPON MY LADY'S WRIST.
Robert Sir Michael and Lady Audley in the drawing-room. My lady was on a music-stool the piano, over the of some new music. She upon the seat, making a with her flounces, as Mr. Robert Audley's name was announced; then, the piano, she her nephew a pretty, courtesy.
"Thank you so much for the sables," she said, out her little fingers, all and with the diamonds she upon them; "thank you for those sables. How good it was of you to them for me."
Robert had almost the he had for Lady Audley his Russian expedition. His mind was so full of George Talboys that he only my lady's by a bow.
"Would you it, Sir Michael?" he said. "That of mine has gone to London me in the lurch."
"Mr. George Talboys returned to town?" my lady, her eyebrows. "What a catastrophe!" said Alicia, maliciously, "since Pythias, in the person of Mr. Robert Audley, cannot for an hour without Damon, as George Talboys."
"He's a very good fellow," Robert said, stoutly; "and to tell the truth, I'm about him."
"Uneasy about him!" My lady was to know why Robert was about his friend.
"I'll tell you why, Lady Audley," answered the barrister. "George had a a year ago in the death of his wife. He has got over that trouble. He takes life quietly—almost as as I do—but he often talks very strangely, and I sometimes think that one day this will the of him, and he will do something rash."
Mr. Robert Audley spoke vaguely, but all three of his that the something to which he was that one for which there is no repentance.
There was a pause, which Lady Audley her yellow by the of the over the table opposite to her.
"Dear me!" she said, "this is very strange. I did not think men were of these and affections. I that one was as good as another to them; and that when number one with and died, they had only to look out for number two, with dark and black hair, by way of variety."
"George Talboys is not one of those men. I that his wife's death his heart."
"How sad!" Lady Audley. "It almost of Mrs. Talboys to die, and her husband so much."
"Alicia was right, she is childish," Robert as he looked at his aunt's face.
My lady was very at the dinner-table; she the most for the set her, and called Robert to her assistance.
"I a leg of mutton at Mr. Dawson's," she said, laughing; "but a leg of mutton is so easy, and then I used to up."
Sir Michael the my lady upon his nephew with a proud in her and fascination.
"I am so to see my little woman in her good once more," he said. "She was very down-hearted yesterday at a she met with in London."
"A disappointment!"
"Yes, Mr. Audley, a very one," answered my lady. "I the other a message from my dear old friend and school-mistress, telling me that she was dying, and that if I wanted to see her again, I must to her immediately. The no address, and of course, from that very circumstance, I that she must be in the house in which I left her three years ago. Sir Michael and I up to town immediately, and to the old address. The house was by people, who give me no of my friend. It is in a retired place, where there are very about. Sir Michael at the shops there are, but, after taking an of trouble, nothing likely to lead to the we wanted. I have no friends in London, and had therefore no one to me my dear, husband, who did all in his power, but in vain, to my friend's new residence."
"It was very not to send the address in the message," said Robert.
"When people are it is not so easy to think of all these things," my lady, looking at Mr. Audley with her soft eyes.
In of Lady Audley's fascination, and in of Robert's very of her, the not overcome a of on this September evening.
As he sat in the of a window, talking to my lady, his mind away to Figtree Court, and he of George Talboys his cigar in the room with the and canaries.
"I wish I'd any for the fellow," he thought. "I like a man who has an only son life has gone with him. I wish to Heaven I give him his wife, and send him to Ventnor to his days in peace."
Still my lady's ran on as and as the in some brook; and still Robert's wandered, in of himself, to George Talboys.
He of him to Southampton by the train to see his boy. He of him as he had often him over the in the Times, looking for a to take him to Australia. Once he of him with a shudder, cold and at the of some with his toward the sky.
Lady Audley noticed his abstraction, and asked him what he was of.
"George Talboys," he answered abruptly.
She gave a little shudder.
"Upon my word," she said, "you make me by the way in which you talk of Mr. Talboys. One would think that something had to him."
"God forbid! But I cannot help about him."
Later in the Sir Michael asked for some music, and my lady to the piano. Robert Audley after her to the to turn over the of her music; but she played from memory, and he was the trouble his would have upon him.
He a pair of to the piano, and them for the musician. She a chords, and then into a of Beethoven's. It was one of the many in her character, that love of and melodies, so opposite to her nature.
Robert Audley by her side, and as he had no in over the of her music, he himself by her jeweled, white hands over the keys, with the away from, her graceful, wrists. He looked at her one by one; this one with a heart; that by an serpent; and about them all a of diamonds. From the his to the wrists: the broad, flat, gold upon her right over her hand, as she a passage. She stopped to it; but she do so Robert Audley noticed a upon her skin.
"You have your arm, Lady Audley!" he exclaimed. She replaced the bracelet.
"It is nothing," she said. "I am in having a skin which the touch bruises."
She on playing, but Sir Michael came across the room to look into the of the upon his wife's wrist.
"What is it, Lucy?" he asked; "and how did it happen?"
"How you all are to trouble yourselves about anything so absurd!" said Lady Audley, laughing. "I am in mind, and myself a days ago by a piece of around my arm so tightly, that it left a when I it."
"Hum!" Robert. "My lady tells little white lies; the is of a more date than a days ago; the skin has only just to color."
Sir Michael took the in his hand.
"Hold the candle, Robert," he said, "and let us look at this little arm."
It was not one bruise, but four slender, marks, such as might have been by the four of a powerful hand, that had the a too roughly. A narrow ribbon, tightly, might have left some such marks, it is true, and my lady once more that, to the best of her recollection, that must have been how they were made.
Across one of the marks there was a tinge, as if a ring on one of those and had been ground into the flesh.
"I am sure my lady must tell white lies," Robert, "for I can't the of the ribbon."
He his relations good-night and good-by at about past ten o'clock; he should up to London by the train to look for George in Figtree Court.
"If I don't him there I shall go to Southampton," he said; "and if I don't him there—"
"What then?" asked my lady.
"I shall think that something has happened."
Robert Audley very low-spirited as he walked slowly home the meadows; more low-spirited still when he re-entered the room at Sun Inn, where he and George had together, out of the window and their cigars.
"To think," he said, meditatively, "that it is possible to so much for a fellow! But come what may, I'll go up to town after him the thing to-morrow morning; and, sooner than be in him, I'll go to the very end of the world."
With Mr. Audley's nature, was so much the than the rule, that when he did for once in his life upon any of action, he had a dogged, iron-like that pushed him on to the of his purpose.
The lazy of his mind, which him from of a dozen at a time, and not of any one of them, as is the manner of your more people, him clear-sighted upon any point to which he gave his attention.
Indeed, after all, though laughed at him, and their under gowns, when people spoke of Robert Audley, I if, had he taken the trouble to a brief, he might not have the magnates who his abilities.
