RETROGRADE INVESTIGATION.
The London January its length slowly out. The last records of Christmas time were away, and Robert Audley still in town—still his in his sitting-room in Figtree Court—still in the Temple Gardens on sunny mornings, to the children's babble, their play. He had many friends among the of the old him; he had other friends away in country places, were always at Bob's service, had chairs to him. But he to have all taste for companionship, all with the and of his class, since the of George Talboys. Elderly in upon the man's and manner. They the of some attachment, some ill-usage as the of the change. They told him to be of good cheer, and him to supper-parties, at which "lovely woman, with all her faults, God her," was by who as they the toast, and were and in their cups toward the close of the entertainment. Robert had no for the wine-bibbing and the punch-making. The one idea of his life had his master. He was the of one thought—one presentiment. A dark cloud was above his uncle's house, and it was his hand which was to give the for the thunder-clap, and the that was to that life.
"If she would only take and away," he said to himself sometimes. "Heaven knows, I have her a chance. Why doesn't she take it and away?"
He sometimes from Sir Michael, sometimes from Alicia. The lady's more than a lines him that her papa was well; and that Lady Audley was in very high spirits, herself in her manner, and with her for other people.
A from Mr. Marchmont, the Southampton schoolmaster, Robert that little Georgey was going on very well, but that he was in his education, and had not yet passed the Rubicon of of two syllables. Captain Maldon had called to see his grandson, but that had been from him, in with Mr. Audley's instructions. The old man had sent a parcel of and to the little boy, which had also been rejected on the ground of and in the edibles.
Toward the close of February, Robert a from his Alicia, which him one step toward his destiny, by him to return to the house from which he had in a manner at the of his uncle's wife.
"Papa is very ill," Alicia wrote; "not ill, thank God; but to his room by an attack of low which has succeeded a cold. Come and see him, Robert, if you have any for your nearest relations. He has spoken about you times; and I know he will be to have you with him. Come at once, but say nothing about this letter.
"From your cousin, ALICIA."
A and terror Robert Audley's heart, as he read this letter—a yet fear, which he not shape into any form.
"Have I done right?" he thought, in the of this new horror—"have I done right to with justice; and to keep the of my in the that I was those I love from and disgrace? What shall I do if I him ill, very ill, perhaps, upon her breast! What shall I do?"
One clear him; and the step of that was a to Audley Court. He packed his portmanteau, jumped into a cab, and the railway station an hour of his receipt of Alicia's letter, which had come by the post.
The village lights through the when Robert Audley. He left his with the station-master, and walked at a through the that away to the still of the Court. The over-arching trees their above his head, and in the light. A low wind across the land, and those and against the dark sky. They looked like the arms of and giants, Robert to his uncle's house. They looked like in the winter twilight, to him to upon his journey. The long so and when the their light upon the pathway, and the dog-rose on the air, was and in the that the of Christmas from the of spring—a pause in the year, in which Nature to in a sleep, the for the of the flower.
A into Robert Audley's as he nearer to his uncle's house. Every in the was familiar to him; every of the trees; every of the branches; every in the hedge, by horse-chestnuts, willows, and bushes.
Sir Michael had been a second father to the man, a and friend, a and adviser; and the of Robert's was his love for the gray-bearded baronet. But the was so much a part of himself, that it an in words, and a would have the of which lay, a and powerful current, the surface of the barrister's character.
"What would of this place if my uncle were to die?" he thought, and he nearer to the archway, and the still water-pools, in the twilight. "Would other people live in the old house, and under the low in the familiar rooms?"
That of association, so with the of the nature, the man's with a pain as he that, long or late, the day must come on which the would be closed for awhile, and the out of the house he loved. It was painful to him to this; as it must always be painful to think of the narrow the upon this earth can of its grandeurs. Is it so that some asleep under the hedges, to on a that leads to no habitation? Is it that there have been in the world since Christ's religion was upon earth. Is it that there is a patient and resignation, of that which is to come on the of the dark river? Is it not to be that should to be great for greatness' sake; for any other than pure conscientiousness; the of the who to his by in a napkin, that is near to dishonesty? If Robert Audley had in the time of Thomas à Kempis, he would very likely have himself a narrow some loneliness, and his life in of the author of The Imitation. As it was, Figtree Court was a in its way, and for and Books of Hours, I am to say the Paul de Kock and Dumas, fils. But his were of so negative an order, that it would have been very easy for him to have them for negative virtues.
Only one light was visible in the long range of the archway, as Robert passed under the of the ivy, in the of the wind. He that window as the large in his uncle's room. When last he had looked at the old house it had been with visitors, every window like a low star in the dusk; now, dark and silent, it the winter's night like some habitation, in a solitude.
The man who opened the door to the unlooked-for visitor, as he his master's nephew.
"Sir Michael will be up a bit, sir, by the of you," he said, as he Robert Audley into the fire-lit library, which by of the baronet's easy-chair empty on the hearth-rug. "Shall I you some dinner here, sir, you go up-stairs?" the asked. "My lady and Miss Audley have early my master's illness, but I can you anything you would to take, sir."
"I'll take nothing until I have my uncle," Robert answered, hurriedly; "that is to say, if I can see him at once. He is not too to me, I suppose?" he added, anxiously.
"Oh, no, sir—not too ill; only a little low, sir. This way, if you please."
He Robert up the of stairs to the in which George Talboys had sat long five months before, at my lady's portrait. The picture was now, and in the post of opposite the window, Claudes, Poussins and Wouvermans, less were killed by the of the modern artist. The looked out of that of hair, in which the Pre-Raphaelites delight, with a smile, as Robert paused for a moment to at the well-remembered picture. Two or three moments he had passed through my lady's and dressing-room and upon the of Sir Michael's room. The in a sleep, his arm the bed, and his hand in his wife's fingers. Alicia sat in a low chair the open hearth, on which the in the atmosphere. The of this might have a picture for an artist's pencil. The furniture, dark and somber, yet up and here and there by of gilding, and of color; the of every detail, in which was to purity of taste; and last, but in importance, the of the two women, and the of the old man would have a study for any painter.
Lucy Audley, with her in a of yellow gold about her face, the lines of her soft dressing-gown in to her feet, and at the by a narrow of might have as a model for a saint, in one of the away in the and of a old cathedral, by Reformation or Cromwell; and what of the Middle Ages have a than the man upon the dark of the bed?
Robert paused upon the threshold, of his uncle. The two ladies had his step, though he had been, and their to look at him. My lady's face, the man, had an which it only more beautiful; but the same Robert Audley, from its brightness, and looked and in the lamplight.
"Mr. Audley!" she cried, in a faint, voice.
"Hush!" Alicia, with a gesture; "you will wake papa. How good of you to come, Robert," she added, in the same tones, to her to take an empty chair near the bed.
The man seated himself in the seat at the of the bed, and opposite to my lady, who sat close the pillows. He looked long and at the of the sleeper; still longer, still more at the of Lady Audley, which was slowly its natural hues.
"He has not been very ill, has he?" Robert asked, in the same key as that in which Alicia had spoken.
My lady answered the question.
"Oh, no, not ill," she said, without taking her from her husband's face; "but still we have been anxious, very, very anxious."
Robert his of that face.
"She shall look at me," he thought; "I will make her meet my eyes, and I will read her as I have read her before. She shall know how her are with me."
He paused for a minutes he spoke again. The regular of the the of a gold hunting-watch at the of the bed, and the of the logs, were the only that the stillness.
"I have no you have been anxious, Lady Audley," Robert said, after a pause, my lady's as they to his face. "There is no one to my uncle's life can be of more value than to you. Your happiness, your prosperity, your safety upon his existence."
The in which he these was too low to the other of the room, where Alicia sat.
Lucy Audley's met those of the with some of in their light.
"I know that," she said. "Those who me must through him."
She pointed to the as she spoke, still looking at Robert Audley. She him with her eyes, their by the in their glance. She him with her smile—a of beauty, full of and meaning—the which the artist had in his portrait of Sir Michael's wife.
Robert away from the face, and his with his hand; a my lady and himself; a screen which her and her curiosity. Was he still her or was he thinking? and of what was he thinking?
Robert had been seated at the for of an hour his uncle awoke. The was at his nephew's coming.
"It was very good of you to come to me, Bob," he said. "I have been of you a good since I have been ill. You and Lucy must be good friends, you know, Bob; and you must learn to think of her as your aunt, sir; though she is and beautiful; and—and—you understand, eh?"
Robert his uncle's hand, but he looked as he answered: "I do you, sir," he said, quietly; "and I give you my word of that I am against my lady's fascinations. She that as well as I do."
Lucy Audley a little with her little lips. "Bah, you Robert," she exclaimed; "you take au serieux. If I you were too for a nephew, it was only in my of other people's gossip; not from any—"
She for a moment, and any to her by the timely of Mr. Dawson, her late employer, who entered the room upon his visit while she was speaking.
He the patient's pulse; asked two or three questions; the to be improving; a with Alicia and Lady Audley, and prepared to the room. Robert rose and him to the door.
"I will light you to the staircase," he said, taking a from one of the tables, and it at the lamp.
"No, no, Mr. Audley, pray do not trouble yourself," the surgeon; "I know my way very well indeed."
Robert insisted, and the two men left the room together. As they entered the ante-chamber the paused and the door him.
"Will you see that the door is closed, Mr. Dawson?" he said, pointing to that which opened upon the staircase. "I wish to have a moments' private with you."
"With much pleasure," the surgeon, with Robert's request; "but if you are at all about your uncle, Mr. Audley, I can set your mind at rest. There is no occasion for the least uneasiness. Had his been at all I should have for the family physician."
"I am sure that you would have done your duty, sir," answered Robert, gravely. "But I am not going to speak of my uncle. I wish to ask you two or three questions about another person."
"Indeed."
"The person who once in your family as Miss Lucy Graham; the person who is now Lady Audley."
Mr. Dawson looked up with an of upon his face.
"Pardon me, Mr. Audley," he answered; "you can me to answer any questions about your uncle's wife without Sir Michael's permission. I can no which can you to ask such questions—no motive, at least." He looked at the man, as much as to say: "You have been in love with your uncle's wife, sir, and you want to make me a go-between in some flirtation; but it won't do, sir, it won't do."
"I always the lady as Miss Graham, sir," he said, "and I her as Lady Audley—not on account of her position, but she is the wife of one of the men in Christendom."
"You cannot respect my uncle or my uncle's more than I do," answered Robert. "I have no for the questions I am about to ask; and you must answer them."
"Must!" Mr. Dawson, indignantly.
"Yes, you are my uncle's friend. It was at your house he met the woman who is now his wife. She called herself an orphan, I believe, and his as well as his in her behalf. She told him that she alone in the world, did she not?—without a friend or relative. This was all I learn of her antecedents."
"What have you to wish to know more?" asked the surgeon.
"A very terrible reason," answered Robert Audley. "For some months past I have with and which have my life. They have every day; and they will not be set at by the and the with which men try to themselves than that which of all upon earth they most to believe. I do not think that the woman who my uncle's name, is to be his wife. I may her. Heaven that it is so. But if I do, the of yet itself so closely about an person. I wish to set my at or—or to my fears. There is but one manner in which I can do this. I must the life of my uncle's wife backward, and carefully, from this night to a period of six years ago. This is the twenty-fourth of February, fifty-nine. I want to know every record of her life to-night and the February of the year fifty-three."
"And your is a one?"
"Yes, I wish to clear her from a very suspicion."
"Which only in your mind?"
"And in the mind of one other person."
"May I ask who that person is?"
"No, Mr. Dawson," answered Robert, decisively; "I cannot anything more than what I have already told you. I am a very irresolute, man in most things. In this I am to be decided. I repeat once more that I must know the history of Lucy Graham's life. If you to help me to the small in your power, I will others who will help me. Painful as it would become, I will ask my uncle for the which you would withhold, than be in the step of my investigation."
Mr. Dawson was for some minutes.
"I cannot how much you have and me, Mr. Audley." he said. "I can tell you so little about Lady Audley's antecedents, that it would be to the small amount of I possess. I have always your uncle's wife one of the most of women. I cannot myself to think her otherwise. It would be an of one of the of my life were I to think her otherwise. You wish to her life from the present hour to the year fifty-three?"
"I do."
"She was married to your uncle last June twelvemonth, in the of fifty-seven. She had in my house a little more than thirteen months. She a of my upon the of May, in the year fifty-six."
"And she came to you—"
"From a at Brompton, a by a lady of the name of Vincent. It was Mrs. Vincent's that me to Miss Graham into my family without any more special knowledge of her antecedents."
"Did you see this Mrs. Vincent?"
"I did not. I for a governess, and Miss Graham answered my advertisement. In her she me to Mrs. Vincent, the of a in which she was then as junior teacher. My time is always so occupied, that I was to the of a day's in going from Audley to London to about the lady's qualifications. I looked for Mrs. Vincent's name in the directory, it, and that she was a person, and to her. Her reply was perfectly satisfactory;—Miss Lucy Graham was and conscientious; as well as for the I offered. I this reference, and I had no to what may have been an indiscretion. And now, Mr. Audley, I have told you all that I have the power to tell."
"Will you be so as to give me the address of this Mrs. Vincent?" asked Robert, taking out his pocketbook.
"Certainly; she was then at No. 9 Crescent Villas, Brompton."
"Ah, to be sure," Mr. Audley, a of last September upon him as the spoke.
"Crescent Villas—yes, I have the address from Lady Audley herself. This Mrs. Vincent to my uncle's wife early in last September. She was ill—dying, I believe—and sent for my lady; but had from her old house and was not to be found."
"Indeed! I Lady Audley mention the circumstance."
"Perhaps not. It while I was here. Thank you, Mr. Dawson, for the you have so and me. It takes me two and a-half years in the history of my lady's life; but I have still a blank of three years to up I can her from my terrible suspicion. Good evening."
Robert hands with the and returned to his uncle's room. He had been away about a of an hour. Sir Michael had asleep once more, and my lady's hands had the and the lamp by the bedside. Alicia and her father's wife were taking tea in Lady Audley's boudoir, the room next to the in which Robert and Mr. Dawson had been seated.
Lucy Audley looked up from her among the cups and Robert as he walked to his uncle's room and again to the boudoir. She looked very and innocent, seated the group of and silver. Surely a woman looks than when making tea. The most and most of all a magic to her every movement, a to her every glance. The from the liquid in which she the herbs; are to her alone, her in a cloud of vapor, through which she a social fairy, with Gunpowder and Bohea. At the tea-table she omnipotent, unapproachable. What do men know of the beverage? Read how Hazlitt his tea, and at the barbarism. How the attempt to the president of the tea-tray; how they the kettle, how they the cups and saucers, or the hands of the priestess. To do away with the tea-table is to woman of her empire. To send a of men about among your visitors, a mixture in the housekeeper's room, is to the most social and of to a out of rations. Better the of the tea cups and in a woman's hand than all the power at the point of the pen from the sex. Imagine all the of England to the high level of intellectuality, to crinoline; above pearl and Mrs. Rachael Levison; above taking the pains to be pretty; above tea-tables and that and which men in; and what a drear, utilitarian, life the must lead.
My lady was by no means strong-minded. The diamonds upon her white and among the tea-things, and she her over the Indian tea-caddy of sandal-wood and silver, with as much as if life no higher purpose than the of Bohea.
"You'll take a cup of tea with us, Mr. Audley?" she asked, with the in her hand to look up at Robert, who was near the door.
"If you please."
"But you have not dined, perhaps? Shall I ring and tell them to you something a little more than biscuits and and butter?"
"No, thank you, Lady Audley. I took some I left town. I'll trouble you for nothing but a cup of tea."
He seated himself at the little table and looked across it at his Cousin Alicia, who sat with a book in her lap, and had the air of being very much by its pages. The had its crimson, and the of the lady's manner was suppressed—on account of her father's illness, no doubt, Robert thought.
"Alicia, my dear," the said, after a very of his cousin, "you're not looking well."
Miss Audley her shoulders, but did not to her from her book.
"Perhaps not," she answered, contemptuously. "What it matter? I'm a of your school, Robert Audley. What it matter? Who I am well or ill?"
"What a she is," the barrister. He always his was angry with him when she him as "Robert Audley."
"You needn't into a he you a question, Alicia," he said, reproachfully. "As to nobody about your health, that's nonsense. I care." Miss Audley looked up with a smile. "Sir Harry Towers cares." Miss Audley returned to her book with a frown.
"What are you reading there, Alicia?" Robert asked, after a pause, which he had sat his tea.
"Changes and Chances."
"A novel?"
"Yes."
"Who is it by?"
"The author of Follies and Faults," answered Alicia, still her study of the upon her lap.
"Is it interesting?"
Miss Audley up her mouth and her shoulders.
"Not particularly," she said.
"Then I think you might have manners than to read it while your is opposite you," Mr. Audley, with some gravity, "especially as he has only come to pay you a visit, and will be off to-morrow morning."
"To-morrow morning!" my lady, looking up suddenly.
Though the look of upon Lady Audley's was as as a of on a sky, it was not by Robert.
"Yes," he said; "I shall be to up to London to-morrow on business, but I shall return the next day, if you will allow me, Lady Audley, and here till my uncle recovers."
"But you are not about him, are you?" asked my lady, anxiously.
"You do not think him very ill?"
"No," answered Robert. "Thank Heaven, I think there is not the for apprehension."
My lady sat for a moments, looking at the empty with a face—a with the of a child.
"But you were such a long time with Mr. Dawson, just now," she said, after this pause. "I was at the length of your conversation. Were you talking of Sir Michael all the time?"
"No; not all the time?"
My lady looked at the once more.
"Why, what you to say to Mr. Dawson, or he to say to you?" she asked, after another pause. "You are almost to each other."
"Suppose Mr. Dawson to me about some law business."
"Was it that?" Lady Audley, eagerly.
"It would be to tell you if it were so, my lady," answered Robert, gravely.
My lady her lip, and into silence. Alicia her book, and her cousin's face. He talked to her now and then for a minutes, but it was an to him to himself from his revery.
"Upon my word, Robert Audley, you are a very companion," Alicia at length, her limited stock of patience by two or three of these at conversation. "Perhaps the next time you come to the Court you will be good to your mind with you. By your present appearance, I should that you had left your intellect, such as it is, in the Temple. You were one of the of people, but you have almost unendurable. I you are in love, Mr. Audley, and are of the object of your affections."
He was of Clara Talboys' face, in its grief; of her still in his ears as as when they were spoken. Again he saw her looking at him with her eyes. Again he that question: "Shall you or I my brother's murderer?" And he was in Essex; in the little village from which he George Talboys had departed. He was on the spot at which all record of his friend's life ended as as a ends when the reader the book. And he now from the in which he himself involved? Could he stop now? For any consideration? No; a thousand times no! Not with the image of that grief-stricken on his mind. Not with the of that on his ear.
