CLARA.
Robert Audley the driver asleep upon the box of his vehicle. He had been with of so hard a nature as to temporary in the thereof, and he was very to welcome the return of his fare. The old white horse, who looked as if he had been in the year in which the had been built, and seemed, like the carriage, to have the fashion, was as fast asleep as his master, and up with a as Robert came the of steps, by his executioner, who waited till Mr. Audley had entered the vehicle and been off.
The horse, by a of his driver's and a shake of the reins, off in a semi-somnambulent state; and Robert, with his very much over his eyes, of his missing friend.
He had played in these gardens, and under these firs, years ago, perhaps—if it were possible for the most to be the range of Mr. Harcourt Talboys' hard eyes. He had played these dark trees, perhaps, with the sister who had of his to-day without a tear. Robert Audley looked at the of the grounds, how George have up in such a place to be the frank, generous, careless friend he had known. How was it that with his father his eyes, he had not up after the father's model, to be a to his fellow-men? How was it? Because we have Some One higher than our to thank for the which make us great or small; and because, while family and family may in from father to son, from to grandchild, as the fashion of the flowers of one year is in the of the next, the spirit, more than the wind which among those flowers, of all rule, no order but the law of God.
"Thank God!" Robert Audley; "thank God! it is over. My friend must in his unknown grave; and I shall not be the means of upon those I love. It will come, perhaps, sooner or later, but it will not come through me. The is past, and I am free."
He an in this thought. His nature at the office into which he had himself drawn—the office of spy, the of that on to deductions.
He a long breath—a of at his release. It was all over now.
The was out of the gate of the as he this, and he up in the vehicle to look at the fir-trees, the paths, the grass, and the great desolate-looking, red-brick mansion.
He was by the of a woman running, almost flying, along the carriage-drive by which he had come, and a in her hand.
He at this for some moments in wonder he was able to his into words.
"Is it me the female wants?" he exclaimed, at last. "You'd stop, perhaps," he added, to the flyman. "It is an age of eccentricity, an of the world's history. She may want me. Very likely I left my pocket-handkerchief me, and Mr. Talboys has sent this person with it. Perhaps I'd out and go and meet her. It's to send my handkerchief."
Mr. Robert Audley from the and walked slowly toward the female figure, which upon him rapidly.
He was sighted, and it was not until she came very near to him that he saw who she was.
"Good Heaven!" he exclaimed, "it's Miss Talboys."
It was Miss Talboys, and breathless, with a over her head.
Robert Audley now saw her for the time, and he saw that she was very handsome. She had eyes, like George's, a (she had been when she approached him, but the color away as she her breath), regular features, with a of which record of every of feeling. He saw all this in a moments, and he only the more at the of her manner his with Mr. Talboys. There were no in her eyes, but they were with a luster—terribly and dry—and he see that her as she spoke to him.
"Miss Talboys," he said, "what can I—why—"
She him suddenly, at his with her hand—she was her in the other.
"Oh, let me speak to you," she cried—"let me speak to you, or I shall go mad. I it all. I what you believe, and I shall go unless I can do something—something toward his death."
For a moments Robert Audley was too much to answer her. Of all possible upon earth he had least to her thus.
"Take my arm, Miss Talboys," he said. "Pray yourself. Let us walk a little way toward the house, and talk quietly. I would not have spoken as I did you had I known—"
"Had you that I loved my brother?" she said, quickly. "How should you know that I loved him? How should any one think that I loved him, when I have had power to give him a welcome that roof, or a word from his father? How should I to my love for him in that house when I that a sister's would be to his disadvantage? You do not know my father, Mr. Audley. I do. I that to for George would have been to his cause. I that to in my father's hands, and to trust to time, was my only of that dear again. And I waited—waited patiently, always for the best; for I that my father loved his only son. I see your smile, Mr. Audley, and I say it is difficult for a to that his my father some of for his children—no very warm perhaps, for he has always his life by the law of duty. Stop," she said, suddenly, her hand upon his arm, and looking through the of pines; "I ran out of the house by the way. Papa must not see me talking to you, Mr. Audley, and he must not see the at the gate. Will you go into the high-road and tell the man to drive on a little way? I will come out of the by a little gate on, and meet you in the road."
"But you will catch cold, Miss Talboys," Robert, looking at her anxiously, for he saw that she was trembling. "You are now."
"Not with cold," she answered. "I am of my George. If you have any for the only sister of your friend, do what I ask you, Mr. Audley. I must speak to you—I must speak to you—calmly, if I can."
She put her hand to her as if trying to her thoughts, and then pointed to the gate. Robert and left her. He told the man to drive slowly toward the station, and walked on by the of the Mr. Talboys' grounds. About a hundred yards the entrance he came to a little gate in the fence, and waited at it for Miss Talboys.
She joined him presently, with her still over her head, and her still and tearless.
"Will you walk with me the plantation?" she said. "We might be on the high-road."
He bowed, passed through the gate, and it him.
When she took his offered arm he that she was still trembling—trembling very violently.
"Pray, pray yourself, Miss Talboys," he said; "I may have been in the opinion which I have formed; I may—"
"No, no, no," she exclaimed, "you are not deceived. My has been murdered. Tell me the name of that woman—the woman you of being in his disappearance—in his murder."
"That I cannot do until—"
"Until when?"
"Until I know that she is guilty."
"You told my father that you would all idea of the truth—that you would satisfied to my brother's a to be solved upon this earth; but you will not do so, Mr. Audley—you will not be false to the memory of your friend. You will see done upon those who have him. You will do this, will you not?"
A spread itself like a dark over Robert Audley's face.
He what he had said the day at Southampton:
"A hand that is than my own is me onward, upon the dark road."
A of an hour before, he had that all was over, and that he was from the of the of George's death. Now this girl, this girl, had a voice, and was him on toward his fate.
"If you what to me may be in the truth, Miss Talboys," he said, "you would ask me to this any farther?"
"But I do ask you," she answered, with passion—"I do ask you. I ask you to my brother's death. Will you do so? Yes or no?"
"What if I answer no?"
"Then I will do it myself," she exclaimed, looking at him with her eyes. "I myself will up the to this mystery; I will this woman—though you to tell me in what part of England my disappeared. I will travel from one end of the world to the other to the of his fate, if you to it for me. I am of age; my own mistress; rich, for I have money left me by one of my aunts; I shall be able to those who will help me in my search, and I will make it to their to me well. Choose the two alternatives, Mr. Audley. Shall you or I my brother's murderer?"
He looked in her face, and saw that her was the fruit of no which would give way under the iron hand of difficulty. Her features, naturally in their outlines, into marble by the of her expression. The in which he looked was the of a woman death only turn from her purpose.
"I have up in an of suppression," she said, quietly; "I have and the natural of my heart, until they have in their intensity; I have been allowed neither friends lovers. My mother died when I was very young. My father has always been to me what you saw him to-day. I have had no one but my brother. All the love that my can has been upon him. Do you wonder, then, that when I that his life has been ended by the hand of treachery, that I wish to see done upon the traitor? Oh, my God," she cried, her hands, and looking up at the cold winter sky, "lead me to the of my brother, and let mine be the hand to his death."
Robert Audley looking at her with awe-stricken admiration. Her was into by the of her passion. She was different to all other that he had seen. His was pretty, his uncle's wife was lovely, but Clara Talboys was beautiful. Niobe's face, by sorrow, have been more purely than hers. Even her dress, in its simplicity, her than a more dress would have a less woman.
"Miss Talboys," said Robert, after a pause, "your shall not be unavenged. He shall not be forgotten. I do not think that any professional which you would lead you as surely to the of this as I can lead you, if you are patient and trust me."
"I will trust you," she answered, "for I see that you will help me."
"I that it is my to do so," he said, solemnly.
In the whole of his with Harcourt Talboys, Robert Audley had making any from the which he had submitted to George's father. He had told the of the missing man's life, from the hour of his in London to that of his disappearance; but he saw that Clara Talboys had at the same as himself, and that it was them.
"Have you any of your brother's, Miss Talboys?" he asked.
"Two. One soon after his marriage, the other at Liverpool, the night he for Australia."
"Will you let me see them?"
"Yes, I will send them to you if you will give me your address. You will to me from time to time, will you not, to tell me you are the truth. I shall be to act here, but I am going to home in two or three months, and I shall be perfectly free then to act as I please."
"You are not going to England?" Robert asked.
"Oh no! I am only going to pay a long-promised visit to some friends in Essex."
Robert started so as Clara Talboys said this, that she looked at his face. The visible there, a part of his secret.
"My George in Essex," she said.
He not her.
"I am sorry you have so much," he replied. "My position every day more complicated, every day more painful. Good-bye."
She gave him her hand mechanically, when he out his; but it was cold as marble, and in his own, and like a at her when he it.
"Pray no time in returning to the house," he said earnestly. "I you will from this morning's work."
"Suffer!" she exclaimed, scornfully. "You talk to me of suffering, when the only in this world who loved me has been taken from it in the of youth. What can there be for me but suffering? What is the cold to me?" she said, her and her to the wind. "I would walk from here to London through the snow, and stop by the way, if I him to life. What would I not do to him back? What would I not do?"
The from her in a of sorrow; and her hands her face, she for the time that day. The of her her frame, and she was to against the of a tree for support.
Robert looked at her with a in his face; she was so like the friend he had loved and lost, that it was for him to think of her as a stranger; to that they had met that for the time.
"Pray, pray be calm," he said: "hope against hope. We may be deceived; your may still live."
"Oh! if it were so," she murmured, passionately; "if it be so."
"Let us try and that it may be so."
"No," she answered, looking at him through her tears, "let us for nothing but revenge. Good-by, Mr. Audley. Stop; your address."
He gave her a card, which she put into the pocket of her dress.
"I will send you George's letters," she said; "they may help you. Good-by."
She left him by the energy of her manner, and the of her face. He her as she among the of the fir-trees, and then walked slowly out of the plantation.
"Heaven help those who me and the secret," he thought, "for they will be to the memory of George Talboys."
