AT THE CASTLE INN.
The little sitting-room into which Phoebe Marks the baronet's nephew was on the ground floor, and only by a lath-and-plaster partition from the little bar-parlor by the and his wife.
It as though the wise who had the of the Castle Inn had taken that nothing but the and most material should be used, and that the wind, having a special for this spot, should have full play for the of its caprices.
To this end had been used of solid masonry; had been up by rafters, and that on every night to upon the of those them; doors was to be shut, yet always to be banging; with a view to in the when they were shut, and out the air when they were open. The hand of had this country inn; and there was not an of woodwork, or of plaster in all the that did not offer its own weak point to every of its foe.
Robert looked about him with a of resignation.
It was a change, decidedly, from the of Audley Court, and it was a of the to at this village to returning to his in Figtree Court.
But he had his Lares and Penates with him, in the shape of his German pipe, his tobacco canister, a dozen French novels, and his two ill-conditioned, favorites, which sat the little fire, barking and now and then, by way of for some refreshment.
While Mr. Robert Audley his new quarters, Phoebe Marks a little village who was in the of for her, and taking him into the kitchen, gave him a note, and sealed.
"You know Audley Court?"
"Yes, mum."
"If you'll there with this to-night, and see that it's put safely in Lady Audley's hands, I'll give you a shilling."
"Yes, mum."
"You understand? Ask to see my lady; you can say you've a message—not a note, mind—but a message from Phoebe Marks; and when you see her, give this into her own hand."
"Yes, mum."
"You won't forget?"
"No, mum."
"Then be off with you."
The boy waited for no second bidding, but in another moment was along the high road, the that to Audley.
Phoebe Marks to the window, and looked out at the black of the through the winter evening.
"If there's any meaning in his here," she thought, "my lady will know of it in time, at any rate."
Phoebe herself the tea-tray, and the little dish of and eggs which had been prepared for this unlooked-for visitor. Her was as braided, and her light dress as as of old. The same her person and her dress; no rose-colored or the well-to-do innkeeper's wife. Phoebe Marks was a person who her individuality. Silent and self-constrained, she to herself herself, and take no color from the world.
Robert looked at her as she spread the cloth, and the table nearer to the fireplace.
"That," he thought, "is a woman who keep a secret."
The dogs looked at the of Mrs. Marks about the room, from the to the caddy, and from the to the on the hob.
"Will you out my tea for me, Mrs. Marks?" said Robert, seating himself on a horsehair-covered arm-chair, which him as in every direction as if he had been for it.
"You have come from the Court, sir?" said Phoebe, as she Robert the sugar-basin.
"Yes; I only left my uncle's an hour ago."
"And my lady, sir, was she well?"
"Yes, well."
"As and light-hearted as ever, sir?"
"As and light-hearted as ever."
Phoebe retired after having Mr. Audley his tea, but as she with her hand upon the lock of the door he spoke again.
"You Lady Audley when she was Miss Lucy Graham, did you not?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. I at Mrs. Dawson's when my lady was there."
"Indeed! Was she long in the surgeon's family?"
"A year and a half, sir."
"And she came from London?"
"Yes, sir."
"And she was an orphan, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
"Always as as she is now?"
"Always, sir."
Robert his and it to Mrs. Marks. Their met—a lazy look in his, and an active, in hers.
"This woman would be good in a witness-box," he thought; "it would take a lawyer to her in a cross-examination."
He his second cup of tea, pushed away his plate, his dogs, and his pipe, while Phoebe off the tea-tray.
The wind came up across the open country, and through the woods, and at the window-frames.
"There's a from those two and the door that to the of this apartment," Robert; "and there are pleasantér than that of up to one's in cold water."
He the fire, his dogs, put on his great coat, rolled a old sofa close to the hearth, his in his railway rug, and himself at full length upon the narrow cushion, his pipe, and the bluish-gray to the ceiling.
"No," he murmured, again; "that is a woman who can keep a secret. A for the very little out of her."
I have said that the bar-parlor was only from the sitting-room by Robert by a lath-and-plaster partition. The the two or three village and a of farmers laughing and talking the bar, while Luke Marks them from his stock of liquors.
Very often he their words, the landlord's, for he spoke in a coarse, loud voice, and had a more manner than any of his customers.
"The man is a fool," said Robert, as he his pipe. "I'll go and talk to him by-and-by."
He waited till the visitors to the Castle had away one by one, and when Luke Marks had the door upon the last of his customers, he into the bar-parlor, where the was seated with his wife.
Phoebe was at a little table, upon which a work-box, with every of and in its place. She was the that her husband's feet, but she did her work as as if they had been my lady's hose.
I say that she took no color from things, and that the air of that her nature to her as closely in the of her husband at the Castle Inn as in Lady Audley's at the Court.
She looked up as Robert entered the bar-parlor. There was some of in her eyes, which to an of anxiety—nay, of almost terror—as she from Mr. Audley to Luke Marks.
"I have come in for a minutes' I go to bed," said Robert, settling himself very the fire. "Would you object to a cigar, Mrs. Marks? I mean, of course, to my one," he added, explanatorily.
"Not at all, sir."
"It would be a good 'un her objectin' to a o' 'bacca," Mr. Marks, "when me and the all day."
Robert his cigar with a gilt-paper match of Phoebe's making that the chimney-piece, and took a dozen he spoke.
"I want you to tell me all about Mount Stanning, Mr. Marks," he said, presently.
"Then that's soon told," Luke, with a harsh, laugh. "Of all the as a man set in, this is about the dullest. Not that the don't pay tidy; I don't complain of that; but I should ha' liked a public at Chelmsford, or Brentwood, or Romford, or some place where there's a of life in the streets; and I might have had it," he added, discontentedly, "if hadn't been so stingy."
As her husband this in a undertone, Phoebe looked up from her work and spoke to him.
"We the brew-house door, Luke," she said. "Will you come with me and help me put up the bar?"
"The brew-house door can for to-night," said Mr. Marks; "I ain't agoin' to move now. I've seated myself for a smoke."
He took a long pipe from a of the as he spoke, and to it deliberately.
"I don't easy about that brew-house door, Luke," his wife; "there are always about, and they can in easily when the isn't up."
"Go and put the up yourself, then, can't you?" answered Mr. Marks.
"It's too for me to lift."
"Then let it bide, if you're too a lady to see to it yourself. You're very all of a about this here brew-house door. I you don't want me to open my mouth to this here gent, that's about it. Oh, you needn't at me to stop my speaking! You're always in your and off my I've said 'em; but I won't it."
"Do you hear? I won't it!"
Phoebe Marks her shoulders, her work, her work-box, and her hands in her lap, sat with her upon her husband's bull-like face.
"Then you don't particularly to live at Mount Stanning?" said Robert, politely, as if to the conversation.
"No, I don't," answered Luke; "and I don't who it; and, as I said before, if hadn't been so stingy, I might have had a public in a thrivin' market town, of this tumble-down old place, where a man has his off his on a day. What's fifty pound, or what's a hundred pound—"
"Luke! Luke!"
"No, you're not goin' to stop my mouth with all your 'Luke, Lukes!'" answered Mr. Marks to his wife's remonstrance. "I say again, what's a hundred pound?"
"No," answered Robert Audley, with distinctness, and his to Luke Marks, but his upon Phoebe's face. "What, indeed, is a hundred to a man of the power which you hold, or which your wife holds, over the person in question."
Phoebe's face, at all times almost colorless, of paler; but as her under Robert Audley's glance, a visible came over the of her complexion.
"A to twelve," said Robert, looking at his watch.
"Late hours for such a village as Mount Stanning. Good-night, my host. Good-night, Mrs. Marks. You needn't send me my water till nine o'clock to-morrow morning."
