SO FAR AND NO FARTHER.
Robert left Audley the next by an early train, and Shoreditch a little after nine o'clock. He did not return to his chambers, but called a and to Crescent Villas, West Brompton. He that he should fail in the lady he to at this address, as his uncle had failed a months before, but he it possible to obtain some to the schoolmistress' new residence, in of Sir Michael's ill-success.
"Mrs. Vincent was in a state, according to the message," Robert thought. "If I do her, I shall at least succeed in that message was genuine."
He Crescent Villas after some difficulty. The houses were large, but they among the of and around them. New terraces, new streets, new away into of and plaster on every side. The were with clay, which the of the and the of the horse. The desolations—that of and which a new and neighborhood—had set its seal upon the which had about and Crescent Villas; and Robert minutes by his watch, and an hour and a by the cabman's reckoning, in up and and terraces, trying to the Villas; chimney-tops were upon him black and venerable, of plaster, by time or smoke.
But having at last succeeded in his destination, Mr. Audley from the cab, the driver to wait for him at a corner, and set out upon his of discovery.
"If I were a Q.C., I not do this of thing," he thought; "my time would be a or so a minute, and I should be in the great case of Hoggs vs. Boggs, going this very day a special at Westminster Hall. As it is, I can to be patient."
He for Mrs. Vincent at the number which Mr. Dawson had him. The who opened the door had that lady's name; but after going to of her mistress, she returned to tell Robert that Mrs. Vincent had there, but that she had left two months the present had entered the house, "and has been here fifteen months," the girl added emphatically.
"But you cannot tell where she on here?" Robert asked, despondingly.
"No, sir; says she the lady failed, and that she left like, and didn't want her address to be in the neighborhood."
Mr. Audley himself at a once more. If Mrs. Vincent had left the place in debt, she had no her whereabouts. There was little hope, then, of learning her address from the tradespeople; and yet, on the other hand, it was just possible that some of her might have it their to the defaulter's retreat.
He looked about him for the nearest shops, and a baker's, a stationer's, and a fruiterer's a from the Crescent. Three empty-looking, shops, with plate-glass windows, and a air of gentility.
He stopped at the baker's, who called himself a and confectioner, and some of sponge-cake in bottles, and some highly-glazed tarts, with green gauze.
"She must have bread," Robert thought, as he the baker's shop; "and she is likely to have it at the place. I'll try the baker."
The was his counter, the of a bill with a shabby-genteel woman. He did not trouble himself to to Robert Audley until he had settled the dispute, but he looked up as he was the bill, and asked the what he pleased to want.
"Can you tell me the address of a Mrs. Vincent, who at No. 9 Crescent Villas a year and a ago?" Mr. Audley inquired, mildly.
"No, I can't," answered the baker, very red in the face, and speaking in an loud voice; "and what's more, I wish I could. That lady me of eleven for bread, and it's more than I can to lose. If can tell me where she lives, I shall be much to 'em for so doing."
Robert Audley his and the man good-morning. He that his of the lady's would involve more trouble than he had expected. He might have looked for Mrs. Vincent's name in the Post-Office directory, but he it likely that a lady who was on such terms with her creditors, would them so easy a means of her residence.
"If the can't her, how should I her?" he thought, despairingly. "If a resolute, sanguine, active and creature, such as the baker, fail to this business, how can a like me to it? Where the has been defeated, what it would be for me to try to succeed."
Mr. Audley himself to these as he walked slowly toward the at which he had left the cab. About half-way the baker's shop and this he was by a woman's step close at his side, and a woman's voice him to stop. He and himself to with the shabbily-dressed woman he had left settling her account with the baker.
"Eh, what?" he asked, vaguely. "Can I do anything for you, ma'am? Does Mrs. Vincent you money, too?"
"Yes, sir," the woman answered, with a semi-genteel manner which with the of her dress. "Mrs. Vincent is in my debt; but it isn't that, sir. I—I want to know, please, what your may be with her—because—because—"
"You can give me her address if you choose, ma'am. That's what you to say, isn't it?"
The woman a little, looking at Robert.
"You're not with—with the business, are you, sir?" she asked, after Mr. Audley's personal for a moments.
"The what, ma'am?" asked the barrister, at his questioner.
"I'm sure I your pardon, sir," the little woman, that she had some mistake. "I you might have been, you know. Some of the who for the shops do dress so very handsome; and I know Mrs. Vincent a good of money."
Robert Audley his hand upon the speaker's arm.
"My dear madam," he said, "I want to know nothing of Mrs. Vincent's affairs. So from being in what you call the business, I have not the idea what you by that expression. You may a political conspiracy; you may some new of taxes. Mrs. Vincent not me any money, she may with that awful-looking baker. I saw her in my life; but I wish to see her to-day for the purpose of her a very plain questions about a lady who once in her house. If you know where Mrs. Vincent and will give me her address, you will be doing me a great favor."
He took out his card-case and a card to the woman, who the of she spoke again.
"I'm sure you look and speak like a gentleman, sir," she said, after a pause, "and I you will me if I've like; but Mrs. Vincent has had difficulties, and I'm the only person that she's with her addresses. I'm a dressmaker, sir, and I've for her for of six years, and though she doesn't pay me regular, you know, sir, she me a little money on account now and then, and I on as well as I can. I may tell you where she lives, then, sir? You haven't me, have you?"
"On my honor, no."
"Well, then sir," said the dressmaker, her voice as if she the her feet, or the iron the houses by her side, might have ears to her, "it's Acacia Cottage, Peckham Grove. I took a dress there yesterday for Mrs. Vincent."
"Thank you," said Robert, the address in his pocketbook. "I am very much to you, and you may upon it, Mrs. Vincent shall not any through me."
He his hat, to the little dressmaker, and to the cab.
"I have the baker, at any rate," he thought. "Now for the second stage, traveling backward, in my lady's life."
The drive from Brompton to the Peckham Road was a very long one, and Crescent Villas and Acacia Cottage, Robert Audley had for reflection. He of his uncle weak and in the oak-room at Audley Court. He of the Sir Michael's slumbers; the soft, white hands on his moments; the low voice his loneliness, and his years. What a picture it might have been, had he been able to look upon it ignorantly, no more than others saw, looking no than a look. But with the black cloud which he saw over it, what an mockery, what a it seemed.
Peckham Grove—pleasant in the summer-time—has a upon a February day, when the trees are and leafless, and the little gardens desolate. Acacia Cottage small of the of its nomenclature, and the road with its only by a of poplars. But it that it was Acacia Cottage by means of a small plate upon one of the gate-posts, which was for the sharp-sighted cabman, who Mr. Audley upon the the little gate.
Acacia Cottage was much in the social than Crescent Villas, and the small maid-servant who came to the low gate and with Mr. Audley, was well used to the of across the same barricade.
She the familiar of the her mistress's whereabouts; and told Robert that if he would to his name and business, she would go and see if Mrs. Vincent was at home.
Mr. Audley produced a card, and in pencil under his own name: "a of the late Miss Graham."
He the small to his card to her mistress, and the result.
The returned in about five minutes with the key of the gate. Her was at home, she told Robert as she him, and would be happy to see the gentleman.
The square into which Robert was in every of ornament, in every article of furniture, the of that of which is most it is stationary. The who his sitting-room with half-a-dozen chairs, a Pembroke table, a Dutch clock, a looking-glass, a and shepherdess, and a set of gaudily-japanned iron tea-trays, makes the most of his limited possessions, and to some of out of them; but the lady who the of the house she is to and in some smaller with the remainder—bought in by some friend at the sale of her effects—carries with her an of and not easily to be in by any other phase which can assume.
The room which Robert Audley was with the from the which had overtaken the in Crescent Villas. A piano, a chiffonier, six too large for the room, and in that were and broken; a slim-legged card-table, in the post of honor, the pieces of furniture. A of Brussels the center of the room, and an of roses and upon a of green drugget. Knitted the windows, in which wire of horrible-looking plants of the species, that downward, like some class of vegetation, and spider-like members had a for on their heads.
The green-baize card-table was with gaudily-bound or books of beauty, at right angles; but Robert Audley did not himself of these distractions. He seated himself upon one of the chairs, and waited for the of the schoolmistress. He the of half-a-dozen voices in a room near him, and the of a set of in Deh Conte, upon a piano, every wire was in the last stage of attenuation.
He had waited for about a of an hour, when the door was opened, and a lady, very much dressed, and with the setting of upon her face, entered the room.
"Mr. Audley, I presume," she said, to Robert to himself, and herself in an easy-chair opposite to him. "You will me, I hope, for you so long; my duties—"
"It is I who should for upon you," Robert answered, politely; "but my for calling upon you is a very one, and must my excuse. You the lady name I upon my card?"
"Perfectly."
"May I ask how much you know of that lady's history since her from your house?"
"Very little. In point of fact, anything at all. Miss Graham, I believe, a in the family of a in Essex. Indeed, it was I who her to that gentleman. I have from her since she left me."
"But you have with her?" Robert asked, eagerly.
"No, indeed."
Mr. Audley was for a moments, the of on his face.
"May I ask if you sent a to Miss Graham early in last September, that you were ill, and that you to see her?"
Mrs. Vincent at her visitor's question.
"I had no occasion to send such a message," she said; "I have been in my life."
Robert Audley paused he asked any questions, and a in his note-book.
"If I ask you a questions about Miss Lucy Graham, madam," he said. "Will you do me the to answer them without my in making such inquiries?"
"Most certainly," Mrs. Vincent. "I know nothing to Miss Graham's disadvantage, and have no for making a of the little I do know."
"Then will you tell me at what date the lady came to you?"
Mrs. Vincent and her head. She had a smile—the of a woman who had been admired, and who has too long the of being able to please, to be by any misfortune.
"It's not the least use to ask me, Mr. Audley," she said. "I'm the most careless in the world; I did, and dates, though I do all in my power to upon my girls how it is for their that they should know when William the Conqueror to reign, and all that of thing. But I haven't the idea when Miss Graham came to me, although I know it was ago, for it was the very I had my peach-colored silk. But we must Tonks—Tonks is sure to be right."
Robert Audley who or what Tonks be; a diary, perhaps, or a memorandum-book—some of Letsome.
Mrs. Vincent the bell, which was answered by the maid-servant who had Robert.
"Ask Miss Tonks to come to me," she said. "I want to see her particularly."
In less than five minutes Miss Tonks her appearance. She was and frost-bitten in aspect, and to cold air in the of her dress. She was no age in particular, and looked as if she had been younger, and would older, but would and in her narrow groove, like some self-feeding machine for the of ladies.
"Tonks, my dear," said Mrs. Vincent, without ceremony, "this is a relative of Miss Graham's. Do you how long it is since she came to us at Crescent Villas?"
"She came in August, 1854," answered Miss Tonks; "I think it was the eighteenth of August, but I'm not sure that it wasn't the seventeenth. I know it was on a Tuesday."
"Thank you, Tonks; you are a most darling," Mrs. Vincent, with her smile. It was, perhaps, of the nature of Miss Tonks' services that she had no from her for the last three or four years. Mrs. Vincent might have to pay from very for the nature of the as with the of the teacher.
"Is there anything else that Tonks or I can tell you, Mr. Audley?" asked the schoolmistress. "Tonks has a memory than I have."
"Can you tell me where Miss Graham came from when she entered your household?" Robert inquired.
"Not very precisely," answered Mrs. Vincent. "I have a that Miss Graham said something about from the seaside, but she didn't say where, or if she did I have it. Tonks, did Miss Graham tell you where she came from?"
"Oh, no!" Miss Tonks, her little significantly. "Miss Graham told me nothing; she was too for that. She how to keep her own secrets, in of her and her hair," Miss Tonks added, spitefully.
"You think she had secrets?" Robert asked, eagerly.
"I know she had," Miss Tonks, with decision; "all manner of secrets. I wouldn't have such a person as junior teacher in a school, without so much as one word of from any creature."
"You had no reference, then, from Miss Graham?" asked Robert, Mrs. Vincent.
"No," the lady answered, with some little embarrassment; "I that. Miss Graham the question of salary; I not do less than the question of reference. She with her papa, she told me, and she wanted to a home away from all the people she had known. She to keep herself from these people. She had so much, she said, as she was, and she wanted to from her troubles. How I press her for a under these circumstances, when I saw that she was a perfect lady. You know that Lucy Graham was a perfect lady, Tonks, and it is very for you to say such about my taking her without a reference."
"When people make favorites, they are to be in them," Miss Tonks answered, with sententiousness, and with no very to the point in discussion.
"I her a favorite, you Tonks," Mrs. Vincent answered, reproachfully. "I said she was as useful as you, dear. You know I did."
"Oh, no!" Miss Tonks, with a accent, "you said she was useful. She was only ornamental; a person to be off to visitors, and to play on the drawing-room piano."
"Then you can give me no to Miss Graham's previous history?" Robert asked, looking from the to her teacher. He saw very that Miss Tonks an against Lucy Graham—a which the of time had not healed.
"If this woman anything to my lady's detriment, she will tell it," he thought. "She will tell it only too willingly."
But Miss Tonks appeared to know nothing whatever; that Miss Graham had sometimes herself an ill-used creature, by the of mankind, and the of sufferings, in the way of and deprivation. Beyond this, Miss Tonks tell nothing; and although she the most of what she did know, Robert soon the of her small stock of information.
"I have only one more question to ask," he said at last. "It is this: Did Miss Graham any books or knick-knacks, or any other of property whatever, her, when she left your establishment?"
"Not to my knowledge," Mrs. Vincent replied.
"Yes," Miss Tonks, sharply. "She did something. She left a box. It's up-stairs in my room. I've got an old in it. Would you like to see the box?" she asked, Robert.
"If you will be so good as to allow me," he answered, "I should very much like to see it."
"I'll it down," said Miss Tonks. "It's not very big."
She ran out of the room Mr. Audley had time to any remonstrance.
"How these are to each other," he thought, while the teacher was absent. "This one that there is some to the other my questions. She the trouble to her female creature, and in it, and would take any pains to help me. What a world it is, and how these take life out of her hands. Helen Maldon, Lady Audley, Clara Talboys, and now Miss Tonks—all from to end."
Miss Tonks re-entered while the was upon the of her sex. She a paper-covered bonnet-box, which she submitted to Robert's inspection.
Mr. Audley to the of railway and which were here and there upon the box. It had been upon a great many different lines of railway, and had considerably. Many of the had been off, but of some of them remained, and upon one yellow of paper Robert read the letters, TURI.
"The box has been to Italy," he thought. "Those are the four of the word Turin, and the label is a one."
The only direction which had not been either or away was the last, which the name of Miss Graham, to London. Looking very closely at this label, Mr. Audley that it had been over another.
"Will you be so good as to let me have a little water and a piece of sponge?" he said. "I want to off this upper label. Believe me that I am in what I am doing."
Miss Tonks ran out of the room and returned with a of water and a sponge.
"Shall I take off the label?" she asked.
"No, thank you," Robert answered, coldly. "I can do it very well myself."
He the upper label times he the of the paper; but after two or three the surface off, without to the address.
Miss Tonks not to read this address across Robert's shoulder, though she in her to that object.
Mr. Audley his operations upon the label, which he from the box, and very two blank of his pocket-book.
"I need upon you no longer, ladies," he said, when he had done this. "I am to you for having me all the in your power. I wish you good-morning."
Mrs. Vincent and bowed, some about the she had in Mr. Audley's visit. Miss Tonks, more observant, at the white change, which had come over the man's since he had the upper label from the box.
Robert walked slowly away from Acacia Cottage. "If that which I have to-day is no for a jury," he thought, "it is surely to my uncle that he has married a and woman."
