ON THE WATCH.
Upon a late in November, with the yellow low upon the meadows, and the their way through the obscurity, and against black and hedges, or into ditches, in the atmosphere; with the village church and through the light; with every path and door, every end and old chimney, every village child and and of in the semi-darkness, Phoebe Marks and her Cousin Luke their way through the of Audley, and presented themselves a curate, in folds, by the mist, and was not by his having waited five minutes for the and bridegroom.
Luke Marks, in his ill-fitting Sunday clothes, looked by no means than in his every-day apparel; but Phoebe, in a of gray, that had been about a dozen times by her mistress, looked, as the of the remarked, "quite the lady."
A very and lady, of outline, and of coloring, with eyes, hair, and dress all melting into such and that, in the light of the November a might have the for the of some other bride, and in the the church.
Mr. Luke Marks, the hero of the occasion, very little of all this. He had the wife of his choice, and the object of his life-long ambition—a public house. My lady had provided the seventy-five necessary for the purchase of the good-will and fixtures, with the stock of and spirits, of a small in the center of a little village, on the of a hill, and called Mount Stanning. It was not a very house to look at; it had something of a tumble-down, weather-beaten appearance, standing, as it did, upon high ground, only by four or five and poplars, that had up too for their strength, and had a blighted, look in consequence. The wind had had its own way with the Castle Inn, and had sometimes use of its power. It was the wind that and the low, of and stables, till they over and forward, as a over the low of some village ruffian; it was the wind that and the the narrow casements, till they and upon their hinges; it was the wind that the pigeon house, and the that had been set up to tell the movements of its mightiness; it was the wind that light of any little of trellis-work, or plant, or balcony, or any whatsoever, and and it in its fury; it was the wind that left on the surface of the plaster walls; it was the wind, in short, that shattered, and ruined, and rent, and upon the of buildings, and then off, to and in its strength. The of his long with this enemy; so the wind was left to work its own will, and the Castle Inn slowly to decay. But for all that it without, it was not the less doors. Sturdy stopped to drink at the little bar; well-to-do farmers their and talked politics in the low, parlor, while their some mixture of and in the tumble-down stables. Sometimes the members of the Audley stopped to drink and their at the Castle Inn; while, on one and never-to-be-forgotten occasion, a dinner had been ordered by the master of the for some thirty gentlemen, and the nearly by the of the demand.
So Luke Marks, who was by no means with an for the beautiful, himself very in the of the Castle Inn, Mount Stanning.
A chaise-cart was waiting in the to the and to their new home; and a of the villagers, who had Phoebe from a child, were around the gate to her good-by. Her were still from the she had shed, and the red which them. The was at this of emotion.
"What are you for, lass?" he said, fiercely. "If you didn't want to me you should have told me so. I ain't going to you, am I?"
The lady's as he spoke to her, and her little closely around her.
"You're cold in all this here finery," said Luke, at her dress with no of good-will. "Why can't dress according to their station? You won't have no out of my pocket, I can tell you."
He the girl into the chaise, a great-coat about her, and off through the yellow fog, by a from two or three around the gate.
A new was from London to replace Phoebe Marks about the person of my lady—a very damsel, who a black gown, and rose-colored in her cap, and of the of Audley Court.
But Christmas visitors to the old mansion. A country and his wife the chamber; girls up and the long passages, and men out of the windows, for and cloudy skies; there was not an empty in the old stables; an had been set up in the for the of hunters; dogs the place noisy with their clamor; together on the story; and every little away under some pointed gable, and every window in the old roof, upon the winter's night with its taper, till, upon Audley Court, the stranger, by the light, and noise, and of the place, might have easily into Marlowe's error, and have the for a good, old-fashioned inn, such as have from this earth since the last coach and took their last to the knacker's yard.
Among other visitors Mr. Robert Audley came to Essex for the season, with a dozen French novels, a case of cigars, and three of Turkish tobacco in his portmanteau.
The country squires, who talked all time of Flying Dutchman and Voltigeur colts; of of seven hours' hard over three counties, and a midnight of thirty miles upon their hacks; and who ran away from the well-spread table with their mouths full of cold sirloin, to look at that off pastern, or that forearm, or the that had just come from the surgeon's, set Robert Audley, over a slice of and marmalade, as a person of any whatsoever.
The had a of dogs with him; and the country who gave fifty for a pointer; and a of hundred miles to look at a of he a bargain, laughed at the two curs, one of which had Robert Audley through Chancery Lane, and the length of Holborn; while his had been taken by the vi et from a coster-monger who was ill-using him. And as Robert on having these two animals under his easy-chair in the drawing-room, much to the of my lady, who, as we know, all dogs, the visitors at Audley Court looked upon the baronet's nephew as an of maniac.
During other visits to the Court Robert Audley had a of joining in the of the assembly. He had across a dozen on a of Sir Michael's, and up and at the door of some farm-house, had his of the no that morning. He had gone so as to put on, with great labor, a pair of skates, with a view to taking a turn on the surface of the fishpond, and had at the attempt, on the of his until such time as the should think fit to him up. He had the seat in a dog-cart a drive, against being taken up hill, and the vehicle to be stopped every ten minutes in order to the cushions. But this year he no for any of these amusements, and he his time in in the drawing-room, and making himself agreeable, after his own lazy fashion, to my lady and Alicia.
Lady Audley her nephew's in that half-childish fashion which her so charming; but Alicia was at the in her cousin's conduct.
"You were always a poor, fellow, Bob," said the lady, contemptuously, as she into the drawing-room in her riding-habit, after a breakfast, from which Robert had himself, a cup of tea in my lady's boudoir; "but this year I don't know what has come to you. You are good for nothing but to a of or read Tennyson to Lady Audley."
"My dear, hasty, Alicia, don't be violent," said the man imploringly. "A isn't a five-barred gate; and you needn't give your its head, as you give your Atalanta hers, when you're across country at the of an fox. Lady Audley me, and my uncle's friends do not. Is that a answer, Alicia?"
Miss Audley gave her a little toss.
"It's as good an answer as I shall from, you, Bob," she said, impatiently; "but pray in your own way; in an easy-chair all day, with those two dogs asleep on your knees; my lady's window-curtains with your and in the house with your stupid, countenance."
Mr. Robert Audley opened his to their at this tirade, and looked at Miss Alicia.
The lady was walking up and the room, the skirt of her with her riding-whip. Her with an angry flash, and a under her clear skin. The very well, by these diagnostics, that his was in a passion.
"Yes," she repeated, "your stupid, countenance. Do you know, Robert Audley, that with all your amiability, you are of and superciliousness. You look upon our amusements; you up your eyebrows, and your shoulders, and in your chair, and wash your hands of us and our pleasures. You are a selfish, cold-hearted Sybarite—"
"Alicia! Good—gracious—me!"
The paper out of his hands, and he sat at his assailant.
"Yes, selfish, Robert Audley! You take home half-starved dogs, you like half-starved dogs. You down, and the of every good-for-nothing in the village street, you like good-for-nothing curs. You notice little children, and give them halfpence, it you to do so. But you your a of a when Sir Harry Towers tells a story, and the out of with your lazy insolence. As to your amiability, you would let a man you, and say 'Thank you' for the blow, than take the trouble to him again; but you wouldn't go a mile out of your way to your friend. Sir Harry is twenty of you, though he did to ask if my m-a-i-r Atalanta had from the sprain. He can't spell, or his to the of his hair; but he would go through fire and water for the girl he loves; while you—"
At this very point, when Robert was most prepared to his cousin's violence, and when Miss Alicia about to make her attack, the lady altogether, and into tears.
Robert from his easy-chair, his dogs on the carpet.
"Alicia, my darling, what is it?"
"It's—it's—it's the of my that got into my eyes," his cousin; and he the truth of this Alicia had out of the room.
Robert Audley was preparing to her, when he her voice in the court-yard below, the of and the of visitors, dogs, and grooms. Sir Harry Towers, the most sportsman in the neighborhood, had just taken her little in his hand as she into her saddle.
"Good Heaven!" Robert, as he the party of until they under the archway. "What all this mean? How she her horse! What a figure, too, and a fine, candid, brown, face: but to at a like that, without the least provocation! That's the of a girl the hounds. She to look at in life as she at six of or a fence; she goes through the world as she goes across country—straight ahead, and over everything. Such a girl as she might have been, too, if she'd been up in Figtree Court! If I marry, and have (which may Heaven forefend!) they shall be in Paper Buildings, take their in the Temple Gardens, and they shall go the gates till they are marriageable, when I will walk them across Fleet to St. Dunstan's church, and deliver them into the hands of their husbands."
With such as these did Mr. Robert Audley the time until my lady re-entered the drawing-room, fresh and in her costume, her yellow with the in which she had bathed, and her velvet-covered sketch-book in her arms. She planted a little upon a table by the window, seated herself it, and to mix the colors upon her palette, Robert her out of his half-closed eyes.
"You are sure my cigar not you, Lady Audley?"
"Oh, no indeed; I am used to the of tobacco. Mr. Dawson, the surgeon, all the when I in his house."
"Dawson is a good fellow, isn't he?" Robert asked, carelessly.
My lady into her pretty, laugh.
"The of good creatures," she said. "He paid me five-and-twenty a year—only fancy, five-and-twenty pounds! That six five a quarter. How well I the money—six old sovereigns, and a little of untidy, dirty silver, that came from the till in the surgery! And then how I was to it! While now—I can't help laughing while I think of it—these colors I am using cost a each at Winsor & Newton's—the and thirty shillings. I gave Mrs. Dawson one of my the other day, and the thing me, and the the home under his cloak."
My lady laughed long and at the thought. Her colors were mixed; she was a water-colored sketch of an Turneresque atmosphere. The sketch was nearly finished, and she had only to put in some little touches with the most of her pencils. She prepared herself for the work, looking at the painting.
All this time Mr. Robert Audley's were on her face.
"It is a change," he said, after so long a pause that my lady might have what she had been talking of, "it is a change! Some would do a great to such a as that."
Lady Audley's clear as she them on the barrister. The sunlight, full upon her from a window, up the of those eyes, till their color to and and green, as the of the sea upon a summer's day. The small from her hand, and out the peasant's under a circle of lake.
Robert Audley was the of his cigar with fingers.
"My friend at the of Chancery Lane has not me such good Manillas as usual," he murmured. "If you smoke, my dear aunt (and I am told that many take a under the rose), be very how you choose your cigars."
My lady a long breath, up her brush, and laughed at Robert's advice.
"What an you are, Mr. Audley I Do you know that you sometimes puzzle me—"
"Not more than you puzzle me, dear aunt."
My lady put away her colors and sketch book, and seating herself in the of another window, at a from Robert Audley, settled to a large piece of Berlin-wool work—a piece of which the Penelopes of ten or twelve years ago were very of their upon—the Olden Time at Bolton Abbey.
Seated in the of this window, my lady was from Robert Audley by the whole length of the room, and the man only catch an occasional of her face, by its of hazy, hair.
Robert Audley had been a week at the Court, but as yet neither he my lady had mentioned the name of George Talboys.
This morning, however, after the of conversation, Lady Audley an about her nephew's friend; "That Mr. George—George—" she said, hesitating.
"Talboys," Robert.
"Yes, to be sure—Mr. George Talboys. Rather a name, by-the-by, and certainly, by all accounts, a very person. Have you him lately?"
"I have not him since the 7th of September last—the day upon which he left me asleep in the on the other of the village."
"Dear me!" my lady, "what a very man this Mr. George Talboys must be! Pray tell me all about it."
Robert told, in a words, of his visit to Southampton and his to Liverpool, with their different results, my lady very attentively.
In order to tell this to advantage, the man left his chair, and, the room, took up his place opposite to Lady Audley, in the of the window.
"And what do you from all this?" asked my lady, after a pause.
"It is so great a to me," he answered, "that I to any whatever; but in the I think I can my way to two suppositions, which to me almost certainties."
"And they are—"
"First, that George Talboys Southampton. Second, that he to Southampton at all."
"But you him there. His father-in-law had him."
"I have to his father-in-law's integrity."
"Good me!" my lady, piteously. "What do you by all this?"
"Lady Audley," answered the man, gravely, "I have as a barrister. I have myself in the ranks of a profession, the members of which and have to perform; and I have from those and duties, as I have from all the of this life. But we are sometimes into the very position we have most avoided, and I have myself to think of these things. Lady Audley, did you study the of evidence?"
"How can you ask a little woman about such things?" my lady.
"Circumstantial evidence," the man, as if he Lady Audley's interruption—"that which is out of at every point of the compass, and which is yet to a man. Upon what may sometimes the whole of some mystery, to the upon the earth! A of paper, a of some garment, the off a coat, a word from the of guilt, the of a letter, the or opening of a door, a on a window-blind, the of a moment by one of Benson's watches—a thousand so as to be by the criminal, but of iron in the by the science of the officer; and lo! the is up; the through the of the early morning, the under the feet, and the of is paid."
Faint of green and upon my lady's from the painted in the window by which she sat; but every of the natural color of that had out, it a gray.
Sitting in her chair, her upon the cushions, and her little hands powerless in her lap, Lady Audley had away.
"The day by day," said Robert Audley. "George Talboys Southampton."
