BEGINNING AT THE OTHER END.
Robert Audley walked slowly through the grove, under the and trees in the February atmosphere, as he of the he had just made.
"I have that in my pocket-book," he pondered, "which the link the woman death George Talboys read of in the Times newspaper and the woman who in my uncle's house. The history of Lucy Graham ends on the of Mrs. Vincent's school. She entered that in August, 1854. The and her can tell me this but they cannot tell me she came. They cannot give me one to the of her life from the day of her birth until the day she entered that house. I can go no in this of my lady's antecedents. What am I to do, then, if I to keep my promise to Clara Talboys?"
He walked on for a this question in his mind, with a than the of the winter on his face, and a of and his heart.
"My is clear enough," he thought—"not the less clear it leads me step by step, and with me, to the home I love. I must at the other end—I must at the other end, and the history of Helen Talboys from the hour of George's until the day of the in the at Ventnor."
Mr. Audley a hansom, and to his chambers.
He Figtree Court in time to a lines to Miss Talboys, and to post his at St. Martin's-le-Grand off six o'clock.
"It will save me a day," he thought, as he to the General Post Office with this epistle.
He had to Clara Talboys to the name of the little town in which George had met Captain Maldon and his daughter; for in of the the two men, Robert Audley very particulars of his friend's married life.
From the hour in which George Talboys had read the of his wife's death in the of the Times, he had all mention of the history which had been so broken, the familiar record which had been so out.
There was so much that was painful in that story! There was such self-reproach in the of that which must have so to her who waited and at home! Robert Audley this, and he did not wonder at his friend's silence. The had been by both, and Robert was as of the history of this one year in his schoolfellow's life as if they had together in in those Temple chambers.
The letter, to Miss Talboys by her George, a month of his marriage, was Harrowgate. It was at Harrowgate, therefore, Robert concluded, the their honeymoon.
Robert Audley had Clara Talboys to an answer to his question, in order to avoid the of a day in the of the he had promised to perform.
The answer Figtree Court twelve o'clock the next day.
The name of the town was Wildernsea, Yorkshire.
Within an hour of the receipt of this message, Mr. Audley at the King's-cross station, and took his ticket for Wildernsea by an train that started at a two.
The engine him on the journey, him over of meadow-land and cornfields, with fresh green. This northern road was and to the barrister, and the wide of the him by its of loneliness. The knowledge of the purpose of his every object upon which his themselves for a moment, only to away; only to turn upon that picture always itself to his mind.
It was dark when the train the Hull terminus, but Mr. Audley's was not ended. Amidst a of and of that and with which travelers themselves, he was led, and asleep, to another train which was to him along the branch line that past Wildernsea, and the border of the German Ocean.
Half an hour after Hull, Robert the of the sea upon the that in at the open window of the carriage, and an hour the train stopped at a station, a desert, and by two or three officials, one of a upon a as the train approached.
Mr. Audley was the only who at the station. The train on to the the had time to his senses, or to up the which had been with some a black of only by one lantern.
"I wonder in the of America as and as I to-night?" he thought, as he about him in the darkness.
He called to one of the officials, and pointed to his portmanteau.
"Will you that to the nearest hotel for me?" he asked—"that is to say, if I can a good there."
The man laughed as he the portmanteau.
"You can thirty beds, I say, sir, if you wanted 'em," he said. "We ain't over at Wildernsea at this time o' year. This way, sir."
The opened a door in the station wall, and Robert Audley himself upon a wide bowling-green of grass, which a huge, square building, that on him through the winter's night, its black only by two windows, from each other, and like on the darkness.
"This is the Victoria Hotel, sir," said the porter. "You wouldn't the of company we have here in the summer."
In the of the grass-plat, the alcoves, and the dark of the hotel, it was difficult to that the place was with people taking in the weather; but Robert Audley himself to anything the pleased to tell him, and his to a little door at the of the big hotel, which into a bar, where the of visitors were with such as they pleased to pay for, without the of the prim, white-waistcoated waiters on at the entrance.
But there were very at the hotel in the February season, and it was the himself who Robert into a of tables and chairs, which he called the coffee-room.
Mr. Audley seated himself close to the wide fender, and his upon the hearth-rug, while the the into the of coal, and sent a through the chimney.
"If you would a private room, sir—" the man began.
"No, thank you," said Robert, indifferently; "this room private just now. If you will order me a mutton and a of sherry, I shall be obliged."
"Certainly, sir."
"And I shall be still more if you will me with a minutes' you do so."
"With very great pleasure, sir," the answered, good-naturedly. "We see so very little company at this season of the year, that we are only too to those who do visit us. Any which I can you the neighborhood of Wildernsea and its attractions," added the landlord, a small hand-book of the watering-place which he in the bar, "I shall be most happy to—"
"But I don't want to know anything about the neighborhood of Wildernsea," Robert, with a against the landlord's volubility. "I want to ask you a questions about some people who once here."
The and smiled, with an air which his to the of all the of the little seaport, if by Mr. Audley to do so.
"How many years have you here?" Robert asked, taking his book from his pocket. "Will it you if I make notes of your to my questions?"
"Not at all, sir," the landlord, with a of the air of and which this business. "Any which I can that is likely to be of value—"
"Yes, thank you," Robert murmured, the of words. "You have here—"
"Six years, sir."
"Since the year fifty-three?"
"Since November, in the year fifty-two, sir. I was in at Hull to that time. This house was only in the October I entered it."
"Do you a in the navy, on half-pay, I believe, at that time, called Maldon?"
"Captain Maldon, sir?"
"Yes, called Captain Maldon. I see you do him."
"Yes, sir. Captain Maldon was one of our best customers. He used to his in this very room, though the were at that time, and we weren't able to paper the place for nearly a afterward. His married a officer that came here with his regiment, at Christmas time in fifty-two. They were married here, sir, and they on the Continent for six months, and came here again. But the ran away to Australia, and left the lady, a week or two after her was born. The a in Wildernsea, sir, and Mrs.—Mrs.—I the name—"
"Mrs. Talboys," Robert.
"To be sure, sir, Mrs. Talboys. Mrs. Talboys was very much by the Wildernsea folks, sir, I was going to say, for she was very pretty, and had such that she was a with who her."
"Can you tell me how long Mr. Maldon and his at Wildernsea after Mr. Talboys left them?" Robert asked.
"Well—no, sir," answered the landlord, after a moments' deliberation. "I can't say how long it was. I know Mr. Maldon used to here in this very parlor, and tell people how his had been treated, and how he'd been by a man he'd put so much in; but I can't say how long it was he left Wildernsea. But Mrs. Barkamb tell you, sir," added the landlord, briskly.
"Mrs. Barkamb."
"Yes, Mrs. Barkamb is the person who No. 17 North Cottages, the house in which Mr. Maldon and his lived. She's a nice, spoken, woman, sir, and I'm sure she'll tell you anything you may want to know."
"Thank you, I will call upon Mrs. Barkamb to-morrow. Stay—one more question. Should you Mrs. Talboys if you were to see her?"
"Certainly, sir. As sure as I should one of my own daughters."
Robert Audley Mrs. Barkamb's address in his pocket-book, ate his dinner, a of of sherry, a cigar, and then retired to the in which a fire had been for his comfort.
He soon asleep, out with the of from place to place the last two days; but his was not a one, and he the of the wind upon the wastes, and the long in upon the shore. Mingling with these sounds, the by his themselves in never-varying in the of his brain, and themselves into of that had been and be upon this earth, but which had some relation to events by the sleeper.
In those he saw Audley Court, up from the green and the of Essex, and upon that northern shore, by the of a sea, to and the house he loved. As the rolled nearer and nearer to the mansion, the saw a pale, looking out of the foam, and that it was my lady, into a mermaid, his uncle to destruction. Beyond that sea great of cloud, than the ink, more than the night, upon the dreamer's eye; but as he looked at the the storm-clouds slowly parted, and from a narrow rent in the a of light out upon the waves, which slowly, very slowly, receded, the old safe and on the shore.
Robert with the memory of this in his mind, and a of physical relief, as if some weight, which had him all the night, had been from his breast.
He asleep again, and did not until the winter upon the window-blind, and the voice of the at his door that it was half-past eight o'clock. At a quarter-before ten he had left Victoria Hotel, and was making his way along the in of a of houses that the sea.
This of hard, uncompromising, square-built away to the little harbor, in which two or three merchant and a of were anchored. Beyond the there loomed, and cold upon the horizon, a barrack, from the Wildernsea houses by a narrow creek, by an iron drawbridge. The of the who walked and two cannons, at the wall, was the only of color that the neutral-tinted picture of the houses and the sea.
On one of the a long out away into the of the sea, as if for the of some modern Timon, too to be satisfied with the of Wildernsea, and to still away from his fellow-creatures.
It was on that George Talboys had met his wife, under the of a sky, and to the music of a band. It was there that the had to that sweet delusion, that which had so dark an upon his after-life.
Robert looked at this watering-place—the seaport.
"It is such a place as this," he thought, "that a man's ruin. He comes here, whole and happy, with no of than is to be learned at a flower-show or in a ball-room; with no more familiar knowledge of the than he has of the far-away or the planets; with a that she is a in pink or gauze, or a for the of milliners' manufacture. He comes to some place of this kind, and the is into about a dozen acres; the of is into a bandbox. The far-away he had about him, and indistinct, are under his very nose; and he has time to his bewilderment, presto, the has begun; the magic circle is around him! the are at work, the whole of is in full play, and the is as powerless to as the marble-legged in the Eastern story."
Ruminating in this wise, Robert Audley the house to which he had been as the of Mrs. Barkamb. He was by a prim, servant, who him into a sitting-room as and elderly-looking as herself. Mrs. Barkamb, a of about sixty years of age, was in an arm-chair a of fire in the grate. An terrier, black-and-tan was with gray, in Mrs. Barkamb's lap. Every object in the sitting-room had an of and precision, which is the of repose.
"I should like to live here," Robert thought, "and watch the sea slowly over the under the still, sky. I should like to live here, and tell the upon my rosary, and and rest."
He seated himself in the arm-chair opposite Mrs. Barkamb, at that lady's invitation, and his upon the ground. The from his mistress' to at and otherwise take to this hat.
"You were wishing, I suppose, sir, to take one—be quiet, Dash—one of the cottages," Mrs. Barkamb, mind ran in one narrow groove, and life the last twenty years had been an of house-letting.
Robert Audley the purpose of his visit.
"I come to ask one question," he said, in conclusion, "I wish to the exact date of Mrs. Talboys' from Wildernsea. The of the Victoria Hotel me that you were the most likely person to me that information."
Mrs. Barkamb for some moments.
"I can give you the date of Captain Maldon's departure," she said, "for he left No. 17 in my debt, and I have the whole in black and white; but with to Mrs. Talboys—"
Mrs. Barkamb paused for a moments resuming.
"You are aware that Mrs. Talboys left abruptly?" she asked.
"I was not aware of that fact."
"Indeed! Yes, she left abruptly, little woman! She to support herself after her husband's by music lessons; she was a very pianist, and succeeded well, I believe. But I her father took her money from her, and it in public houses. However that might be, they had a very one night; and the next Mrs. Talboys left Wildernsea, her little boy, who was out at nurse in the neighborhood."
"But you cannot tell me the date of her leaving?"
"I'm not," answered Mrs. Barkamb; "and yet, stay. Captain Maldon to me upon the day his left. He was in very great distress, old gentleman, and he always came to me in his troubles. If I that letter, it might be dated, you know—mightn't it, now?"
Mr. Audley said that it was only the was dated.
Mrs. Barkamb retired to a table in the window on which an old-fashioned desk, with green baize, and from a of documents, which out of it in every direction. Letters, receipts, bills, and tax-papers were in confusion; and among these Mrs. Barkamb set to work to search for Captain Maldon's letter.
Mr. Audley waited very patiently, the clouds across the sky, the past upon the sea.
After about ten minutes' search, and a great of rustling, crackling, and of the papers, Mrs. Barkamb an of triumph.
"I've got the letter," she said; "and there's a note it from Mrs. Talboys."
Robert Audley's a as he out his hand to the papers.
"The who Helen Maldon's love-letters from George's in my might have saved themselves the trouble," he thought.
The from the old was not long, but almost every other word was underscored.
"My friend," the began—Mr. Maldon had the lady's his in her house, paying his rent until with the presence of the broker's man—"I am in the of despair. My has left me! You may my feelings! We had a last night upon the of money matters, which has always been a one us, and on this I I was deserted! The from Helen was waiting for me on the table.
"Yours in and despair,
"HENRY MALDON.
"NORTH COTTAGES, August 16th, 1854."
The note from Mrs. Talboys was still more brief. It thus:
"I am of my life here, and wish, if I can, to a new one. I go out into the world, from every link which me to the past, to another home and another fortune. Forgive me if I have been fretful, capricious, changeable. You should me, for you know why I have been so. You know the which is the key to my life.
"HELEN TALBOYS."
These lines were in a hand that Robert Audley only too well.
He sat for a long time over the by Helen Talboys.
What was the meaning of those two last sentences—"You should me, for you know why I have been so. You know the which is the key to my life?"
He his brain in to a to the of these two sentences. He nothing, he anything that would a light upon their meaning. The date of Helen's departure, according to Mr. Maldon's letter, was the 16th of August, 1854. Miss Tonks had that Lucy Graham entered the at Crescent Villas upon the 17th or 18th of August in the same year. Between the of Helen Talboys from the Yorkshire watering-place and the of Lucy Graham at the Brompton school, not more than eight-and-forty hours have elapsed. This a very small link in the of evidence, perhaps; but it was a link, nevertheless, and it into its place.
"Did Mr. Maldon from his after she had left Wildernsea?" Robert asked.
"Well, I he did from her," Mrs. Barkamb answered; "but I didn't see much of the old after that August. I was to sell him up in November, fellow, for he me fifteen months' rent; and it was only by selling his little of that I him out of my place. We very good friends, in of my sending in the brokers; and the old to London with the child, who was a old."
Mrs. Barkamb had nothing more to tell, and Robert had no questions to ask. He permission to the two by the and his daughter, and left the house with them in his pocket-book.
He walked to the hotel, where he called for a time-table. An for London left Wildernsea at a past one. Robert sent his to the station, paid his bill, and walked up and the the sea, waiting for the starting of the train.
"I have the of Lucy Graham and Helen Talboys to a point," he thought; "my next is to the history of the woman who in Ventnor churchyard."
