HIDDEN IN THE GRAVE.
Upon his return from Wildernsea, Robert Audley a from his Cousin Alicia, him at his chambers.
"Papa is much better," the lady wrote, "and is very to have you at the Court. For some reason, my has taken it into her that your presence is desirable, and me with her questions about your movements. So pray come without delay, and set these people at rest. Your cousin, A.A."
"So my lady is to know my movements," Robert Audley, as he sat and by his fireside. "She is anxious; and she questions her step-daughter in that pretty, manner which has such a air of frivolity. Poor little creature; little golden-haired sinner; the us unfair. Why doesn't she away while there is still time? I have her warning, I have her my cards, and openly in this business, Heaven knows. Why doesn't she away?"
He this question again and again as he and his meerschaum, himself with the from his pipe until he looked like some modern seated in his laboratory.
"Why doesn't she away? I would no needless upon that house, of all other houses upon this wide earth. I would only do my to my missing friend, and to that and man who has his to a woman. Heaven I have no wish to punish. Heaven I was to be the of or the of the guilty. I only wish to do my duty. I will give her one more warning, a full and one, and then—"
His away to that in which he saw no of to the dull, black that the future, in his on every side, and a around and about him, which Hope was powerless to penetrate. He was by the of his uncle's anguish, by the of that and which, being about by his instrumentality, would in a manner his handiwork. But all, and through all, Clara Talboys, with an gesture, him to her brother's unknown grave.
"Shall I go to Southampton," he thought, "and to the history of the woman who died at Ventnor? Shall I work underground, the in that conspiracy, until I my way to the thrice principal? No! not till I have other means of the truth. Shall I go to that old man, and him with his in the which I to have been played upon my friend? No; I will not that terror-stricken as I him a ago. I will go to that arch-conspirator, and will tear away the under which she her wickedness, and will from her the of my friend's fate, and her from the house which her presence has polluted."
He started early the next for Essex, and Audley eleven o'clock.
Early as it was, my lady was out. She had to Chelmsford upon a shopping with her step-daughter. She had calls to make in the neighborhood of the town, and was not likely to return until dinner-time. Sir Michael's health was very much improved, and he would come stairs in the afternoon. Would Mr. Audley go to his uncle's room?
No; Robert had no wish to meet that kinsman. What he say to him? How he the way to the trouble that was to come?—how the of the great that was preparing for that and heart?
"If I her the done to my friend," Robert thought, "I should still her for the her must upon the man who has in her."
He told his uncle's that he would into the village, and return dinner. He walked slowly away from the Court, across the his uncle's house and the village, and indifferent, with the great trouble and of his life upon his and in his manner.
"I will go into the churchyard," he thought, "and at the tombstones. There is nothing I can do that will make me more than I am."
He was in those very through which he had from Audley Court to the station upon the September day in which George Talboys had disappeared. He looked at the by which he had gone upon that day, and his hurry, and the of terror which had taken of him upon of his friend.
"Why did that terror upon me," he thought. "Why was it that I saw some in my friend's disappearance? Was it a monition, or a monomania? What if I am after all? What if this of which I have link by link, is out of my own folly? What if this of and is a of crotchets—the of a bachelor? Mr. Harcourt Talboys sees no meaning in the events out of which I have myself a mystery. I the of the him, and he cannot their fitness. He is unable to put them together. Oh, my God, if it should be in myself all this time that the lies; if—" he bitterly, and his head. "I have the in my pocket-book which is the of the conspiracy," he thought. "It for me to the of my lady's secret."
He the village, still to the meadows. The church a little way from the High street, and a gate opened from the into a meadow, that was by a stream, and into a by groups of cattle.
Robert slowly the narrow leading up to the gate in the churchyard. The of the with his own gloom. The of an old man toward a at the end of the wide was the only visible upon the area over which the looked. The slowly from the houses in the long High was the only of life. The slow progress of the hands of the old clock in the church was the only by which a traveler that a of life had not come to a full stop in the village of Audley.
Yes, there was one other sign. As Robert opened the gate of the churchyard, and into the little inclosure, he aware of the music of an organ, through a half-open window in the steeple.
He stopped and to the slow of a that like an of an player.
"Who would have that Audley church such an organ?" Robert. "When last I was here, the national used to his children by a performance of common chords. I didn't think the old organ had such music in it."
He at the gate, not to the lazy spell about him by the of the organist's performance. The of the instrument, now to their power, now to a low, softness, toward him upon the winter atmosphere, and had a influence, that to him in his trouble.
He closed the gate softly, and the little of the door of the church. The door had been left ajar—by the organist, perhaps. Robert Audley pushed it open, and walked into the square porch, from which a of narrow steps to the organ-loft and the belfry. Mr. Audley took off his hat, and opened the door the and the of the church. He into the edifice, which had a damp, upon week-days. He walked the narrow to the altar-rails, and from that point of took a survey of the church. The little was opposite to him, but the green the organ were closely drawn, and he not a of the player.
The music still rolled on. The had into a of Mendelssohn's, a to Robert's heart. He in the and of the church, the of the well-nigh dead, and to the music.
"If my friend, George Talboys, had died in my arms, and I had him in this church, in one of the over which I to-day, how much of mind, and I might have escaped," Robert Audley, as he read the upon of marble; "I should have his fate—I should have his fate! Ah, how much there would have been in that. It is this uncertainty, this which has my very life."
He looked at his watch.
"Half-past one," he muttered. "I shall have to wait four or five hours my lady comes home from her calls—her visits of or friendliness. Good Heaven! what an this woman is. What an trickster—what an all-accomplished deceiver. But she shall play her no longer under my uncle's roof. I have long enough. She has to accept an warning. To-night I will speak plainly."
The music of the organ ceased, and Robert the of the instrument.
"I'll have a look at this new organist," he thought, "who can to his at Audley, and play Mendelssohn's for a of sixteen a year." He in the porch, waiting for the to the little stair-case. In the trouble of his mind, and with the of through the five hours in the best way he could, Mr. Audley was to any of thought, idle. He therefore his about the new organist.
The person who appeared upon the steps was a boy in and a dark smock-frock, who the stairs with a good of of his shoes, and who was red in the from the of the of the old organ. Close this boy came a lady, very in a black and a large shawl, who started and at of Mr. Audley.
This lady was Clara Talboys.
Of all people in the world she was the last Robert either or to see. She had told him that she was going to pay a visit to some friends who in Essex; but the is a wide one, and the village of Audley one of the most and least in the whole of its extent. That the sister of his friend should be here—here where she watch his every action, and from those the of his mind, his home to their object, a of his that he have anticipated. It him to that of his own helplessness, in which he had exclaimed:
"A hand that is than my own is me on the dark road that leads to my friend's unknown grave."
Clara Talboys was the to speak.
"You are to see me here, Mr. Audley," she said.
"Very much surprised."
"I told you that I was to Essex. I left home day yesterday. I was home when I your message. The friend with I am is Mrs. Martyn, the wife of the new of Mount Stanning. I came this to see the village and church, and as Mrs. Martyn had to pay a visit to the with the and his wife, I stopped here and myself by trying the old organ. I was not aware till I came here that there was a village called Audley. The place takes its name from your family, I suppose?"
"I so," Robert answered, at the lady's calmness, in to his own embarrassment. "I have a of the of some who was called Audley of Audley in the of Edward the Fourth. The the rails near the to one of the of Audley, but I have taken the trouble to his achievements. Are you going to wait here for your friends, Miss Talboys?"
"Yes; they are to return here for me after they have their rounds."
"And you go to Mount Stanning with them this afternoon?"
"Yes."
Robert with his in his hand, looking out at the and the low of the church yard. Clara Talboys his face, under the that had rested upon it so long.
"You have been since I saw you last, Mr. Audley," she said, in a low voice, that had the same as the notes of the old organ under her touch.
"No, I have not been ill; I have been only harassed, by a hundred and perplexities."
He was as he spoke to her:
"How much she guess? How much she suspect?"
He had told the of George's and of his own suspicions, only the names of those in the mystery; but what if this girl should this disguise, and for herself that which he had to withhold.
Her were upon his face, and he that she was trying to read the of his mind.
"What am I in her hands?" he thought. "What am I in the hands of this woman, who has my friend's and the manner of Pallas Athene. She reads my pitiful, soul, and the out of my with the magic of her eyes. How the must be us, and how can I to against the of her and her wisdom?"
Mr. Audley was his to his good-morning, and making his from the of her presence into the the churchyard, when Clara Talboys him by speaking upon that very which he was most to avoid.
"You promised to to me, Mr. Audley," she said, "if you any which you nearer to the of my brother's disappearance. You have not to me, and I imagine, therefore, that you have nothing."
Robert Audley was for some moments. How he answer this direct question?
"The of which the of your brother's with the person I suspect," he said, after a pause, "is of very links. I think that I have added another link to that since I saw you in Dorsetshire."
"And you to tell me what it is that you have discovered?"
"Only until I have more."
"I from your message that you were going to Wildernsea."
"I have been there."
"Indeed! It was there that you some discovery, then?"
"It was," answered Robert. "You must remember, Miss Talboys that the ground upon which my is the identity of two who have no connection—the identity of a person who is to be with one who is living. The of which I your to have been the upon this. If his wife, Helen Talboys, died when the papers recorded her death—if the woman who in Ventnor was the woman name is on the of the grave—I have no case, I have no to the of your brother's fate. I am about to put this to the test. I that I am now in a position to play a game, and I that I shall soon arrive at the truth."
He spoke in a low voice, and with a that the of his feeling. Miss Talboys out her hand, and it in his own. The cold touch of that hand sent a through his frame.
"You will not my brother's to a mystery, Mr. Audley," she said, quietly. "I know that you will do your to your friend."
The rector's wife and her two entered the as Clara Talboys said this. Robert Audley pressed the hand that rested in his own, and it to his lips.
"I am a lazy, good-for-nothing fellow, Miss Talboys," he said; "but if I your George to life and happiness, I should very little for any of my own feeling, that the most I can do is to the of his and in doing that I must those who are to me than myself."
He put on his hat, and through the leading into the as Mrs. Martyn came up to the porch.
"Who is that man I tête-a-tête with you, Clara?" she asked, laughing.
"He is a Mr. Audley, a friend of my brother's."
"Indeed! He is some relation of Sir Michael Audley, I suppose?"
"Sir Michael Audley!"
"Yes, my dear; the most in the of Audley. But we'll call at the Court in a day or two, and you shall see the and his wife."
"His wife!" Clara Talboys, looking at her friend. "Has Sir Michael Audley married, then?"
"Yes. He was a for sixteen years, and married a about a year and a ago. The is romantic, and Lady Audley is the of the county. But come, my dear Clara, the is of waiting for us, and we've a long drive dinner."
Clara Talboys took her seat in the little basket-carriage which was waiting at the gate of the churchyard, in the of the boy who had the organ-bellows. Mrs. Martyn the reins, and the off in the direction of Mount Stanning.
"Will you tell me more about this Lady Audley, Fanny?" Miss Talboys said, after a long pause. "I want to know all about her. Have you her name?"
"Yes; she was a Miss Graham."
"And she is very pretty?"
"Yes, very, very pretty. Rather a though, with large, clear eyes, and ringlets, that in a over her and shoulders."
Clara Talboys was silent. She did not ask any questions about my lady.
She was of a passage in that which George had to her his honeymoon—a passage in which he said: "My little wife is me as I this—Ah! how I wish you see her, Clara! Her are as and as clear as the on a summer's day, and her about her like the you see the of a Madonna in an Italian picture."
