PREPARING THE GROUND.
Lady Audley from the garden to the library, a pleasant, oak-paneled, in which Sir Michael liked to reading or writing, or the of his with his steward, a countryman, agriculturalist, lawyer, who rented a small farm a miles from the Court.
The was seated in a easy-chair near the hearth. The of the fire rose and fell, now upon the of the black-oak bookcase, now upon the gold and of the books; sometimes upon the Athenian of a marble Pallas, sometimes up the of Sir Robert Peel.
The lamp upon the reading-table had not yet been lighted, and Sir Michael sat in the waiting for the of his wife.
It is for me to tell the purity of his love—it is to that which was as as the love of a mother for her born, as and as the of a Bayard for his mistress.
The door opened while he was of this fondly-loved wife, and looking up, the saw the in the doorway.
"Why, my darling!" he exclaimed, as my lady closed the door her, and came toward his chair, "I have been of you and waiting for you for an hour. Where have you been, and what have you been doing?"
My lady, in the than the light, paused a moments to this question.
"I have been to Chelmsford," she said, "shopping; and—"
She hesitated—twisting her in her thin white with an air of embarrassment.
"And what, my dear?" asked the baronet—"what have you been doing since you came from Chelmsford? I a stop at the door an hour ago. It was yours, was it not?"
"Yes, I came home an hour ago," answered my lady, with the same air of embarrassment.
"And what have you been doing since you came home?"
Sir Michael Audley asked this question with a accent. His wife's presence the of his life; and though he not to her to his side, it him to think that she from him, away her time in some talk or occupation.
"What have you been doing since you came home, my dear?" he repeated. "What has you so long away from me?"
"I have been—talking—to—Mr. Robert Audley."
She still her bonnet-string and her fingers.
She still spoke with the same air of embarrassment.
"Robert!" the baronet; "is Robert here?"
"He was here a little while ago."
"And is here still, I suppose?"
"No, he has gone away."
"Gone away!" Sir Michael. "What do you mean, my darling?"
"I that your nephew came to the Court this afternoon. Alicia and I him about the gardens. He here till about a of an hour ago talking to me, and then he off without a word of explanation; except, indeed, some about at Mount Stanning."
"Business at Mount Stanning! Why, what can he possibly have in that out-of-the-way place? He has gone to sleep at Mount Stanning, then, I suppose?
"Yes; I think he said something to that effect."
"Upon my word," the baronet, "I think that boy is mad."
My lady's was so much in shadow, that Sir Michael Audley was of the that came over its as he this very observation. A Lucy Audley's countenance, a that said, "It is coming—it is coming; I can him which way I like. I can put black him, and if I say it is white, he will me."
But Sir Michael Audley in that his nephew's were disordered, that which is well-known to have very little meaning. The had, it is true, no very great of Robert's for the of this life. He was in the of looking upon his nephew as a good-natured nonentity—a man had been by Nature with all the best the had to bestow, but brain had been in the of gifts. Sir Michael Audley that mistake which is very by easy-going, well-to-do-observers, who have no occasion to look the surface. He for incapacity. He his nephew was idle, he must necessarily be stupid. He that if Robert did not himself, it was he not.
He the mute Miltons, who die and for want of that perseverance, that courage, which the must he can a publisher; he the Cromwells, who see the of the upon a sea of confusion, and going in a of noisy bewilderment, and who yet are powerless to at the helm; to send out a life-boat to the ship. Surely it is a mistake to judge of what a man can do by that which he has done.
The world's Valhalla is a close borough, and the men may be those who away from the portal. Perhaps the purest and are those who from the of the race-course—the and of the struggle. The game of life is something like the game of écarte, and it may be that the very best cards are sometimes left in the pack.
My lady off her bonnet, and seated herself upon a velvet-covered at Sir Michael's feet. There was nothing or in this action. It was so natural to Lucy Audley to be childish, that no one would have to see her otherwise. It would have as to or from this amber-haired siren, as to wish for rich the clear of a sky-lark's song.
She sat with her away from the firelight, and with her hands locked together upon the arm of her husband's easy-chair. They were very restless, these white hands. My lady the in and out of each other as she talked to her husband.
"I wanted to come to you, you know, dear," said she—"I wanted to come to you directly I got home, but Mr. Audley upon my stopping to talk to him."
"But what about, my love?" asked the baronet. "What Robert have to say to you?"
My lady did not answer this question. Her upon her husband's knee, her rippling, yellow over her face.
Sir Michael that with his hands, and my lady's face. The on that up the large, soft and them in tears.
"Lucy, Lucy!" the baronet, "what is the meaning of this? My love, my love! what has to you in this manner?"
Lady Audley to speak, but the died upon her lips. A in her to those false and words, her only against her enemies. She not speak. The she had in the lime-walk had too for her, and she into a of sobbing. It was no that her and at her like some that would have rent her with its strength. It was a of and terror, of and misery. It was the one wild outcry, in which the woman's nature got the of the siren's art.
It was not thus that she had meant to her terrible with Robert Audley. Those were not the which she had to use; but no which she have would have her so well as this one of natural grief. It her husband to the very soul. It and him. It the of the man to and perplexity. It at the one weak point in a good man's nature. It to Sir Michael Audley's for his wife.
Ah, Heaven help a man's for the woman he loves! Heaven him when the has him and comes with her and to herself at his in self-abandonment and remorse; him with the of her agony; his with her sobs, his with her groans—multiplying her into a great for him to bear! them by twenty-fold; them in a of a man's for endurance. Heaven him, if by that agony, the for a moment, and he is to anything; to take this one to the of his breast, and to that which the voice of must not be pardoned. Pity him, him! The wife's when she without the of the home she may enter more is not equal to the of the husband who the portal on that familiar and face. The of the mother who may look again upon her children is less than the of the father who has to say to those little ones, "My darlings, you are motherless."
Sir Michael Audley rose from his chair, with indignation, and to do with the person who had his wife's grief.
"Lucy," he said, "Lucy, I upon your telling me what and who has you. I upon it. Whoever has you shall answer to me for your grief. Come, my love, tell me directly what it is."
He seated himself and over the at his feet, his own in his to his wife's distress.
"Tell me what it is, my dear," he whispered, tenderly.
The had passed away, and my lady looked up. A light through the in her eyes, and the lines about her mouth, those hard and lines which Robert Audley had in the pre-Raphaelite portrait, were visible in the firelight.
"I am very silly," she said; "but he has me hysterical."
"Who—who has you hysterical?"
"Your nephew—Mr. Robert Audley."
"Robert," the baronet. "Lucy, what do you mean?"
"I told you that Mr. Audley upon my going into the lime-walk, dear," said my lady. "He wanted to talk to me, he said, and I went, and he said such that—"
"What things, Lucy?"
Lady Audley shuddered, and with to the hand that had rested upon her shoulder.
"What did he say, Lucy?"
"Oh, my dear love, how can I tell you?" my lady. "I know that I shall you—or you will laugh at me, and then—"
"Laugh at you? no, Lucy."
Lady Audley was for a moment. She sat looking her into the fire, with her still locked about her husband's hand.
"My dear," she said, slowly, now and then her words, as if she almost from them, "have you ever—I am so of you—have you Mr. Audley a little—a little—"
"A little what, my darling?"
"A little out of his mind?" Lady Audley.
"Out of his mind!" Sir Michael. "My dear girl, what are you of?"
"You said just now, dear, that you he was mad."
"Did I, my love?" said the baronet, laughing. "I don't saying it, and it was a façon de parler, that meant nothing whatever. Robert may be a little eccentric—a little stupid, perhaps—he mayn't be with wits, but I don't think he has for madness. I it's your great that out of order."
"But is sometimes hereditary," said my lady. "Mr. Audley may have inherited—"
"He has no from his father's family," Sir Michael. "The Audleys have private or doctors."
"Nor from his mother's family?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"People keep these a secret," said my lady, gravely. "There may have been in your sister-in-law's family."
"I don't think so, my dear," Sir Michael. "But, Lucy, tell me what, in Heaven's name, has put this idea into your head."
"I have been trying to account for your nephew's conduct. I can account for it in no other manner. If you had the he said to me to-night, Sir Michael, you too might have him mad."
"But what did he say, Lucy?"
"I can tell you. You can see how much he has and me. I he has too long alone in those Temple chambers. Perhaps he reads too much, or too much. You know that some physicians to be a of the brain—an to which any one is subject, and which may be produced by causes, and by means."
Lady Audley's were still upon the in the wide grate. She spoke as if she had been a that she had often before. She spoke as if her mind had almost away from the of her husband's nephew to the question of in the abstract.
"Why should he not be mad?" my lady. "People are for years and years their is out. They know that they are mad, but they know how to keep their secret; and, perhaps, they may sometimes keep it till they die. Sometimes a them, and in an hour they themselves. They a crime, perhaps. The of opportunity them; the knife is in their hand, and the by their side. They may the and go away and die of any deed; but they may to the temptation—the frightful, passionate, for and horror. They sometimes and are lost."
Lady Audley's voice rose as she this question, The from which she had only just had left its upon her, but she herself, and her as she resumed:
"Robert Audley is mad," she said, decisively. "What is one of the of madness—what is the of aberration? The mind stationary; the brain stagnates; the of is interrupted; the power of the brain itself into a monotone. As the of a by of their stagnation, the mind and through of action; and the upon one itself into monomania. Robert Audley is a monomaniac. The of his friend, George Talboys, and him. He upon this one idea until he the power of of anything else. The one idea looked at to his vision. Repeat the word in the English language twenty times, and the you will have to wonder the word which you repeat is the word you to utter. Robert Audley has of his friend's until the one idea has done its and work. He looks at a common event with a that is diseased, and he it into a of his own monomania. If you do not want to make me as as he is, you must let me see him again. He to-night that George Talboys was in this place, and that he will up every tree in the garden, and every in the house in search for—"
My lady paused. The died away upon her lips. She had herself by the energy with which she had spoken. She had been from a frivolous, into a woman, to argue her own and her own defense.
"Pull this house?" the baronet. "George Talboys at Audley Court! Did Robert say this, Lucy?"
"He said something of that kind—something that me very much."
"Then he must be mad," said Sir Michael, gravely. "I'm by what you tell me. Did he say this, Lucy, or did you him?"
"I—I—don't think I did," my lady. "You saw how I was when I came in. I should not have been so much if he hadn't said something horrible."
Lady Audley had herself of the very by which she help her cause.
"To be sure, my darling, to be sure," answered the baronet. "What have put such a into the boy's head. This Mr. Talboys—a perfect to all of us—murdered at Audley Court! I'll go to Mount Stanning to-night, and see Robert. I have him since he was a baby, and I cannot be in him. If there is anything wrong, he will not be able to it from me."
My lady her shoulders.
"That is an open question," she said. "It is a who is the to any peculiarity."
The big from my lady's lips; but her newly-adopted had a about it, which and her husband.
"But you must not go to Mount Stanning, my dear darling," she said, tenderly. "Remember that you are under orders to in doors until the weather is milder, and the sun upon this ice-bound country."
Sir Michael Audley in his chair with a of resignation.
"That's true, Lucy," he said; "we must Mr. Dawson. I Robert will come to see me to-morrow."
"Yes, dear. I think he said he would."
"Then we must wait till to-morrow, my darling. I can't that there is anything with the boy—I can't it, Lucy."
"Then how do you account for this about this Mr. Talboys?" asked my lady.
Sir Michael his head.
"I don't know, Lucy—I don't know," he answered. "It is always so difficult to that any one of the that our fellow-men will to us. I can't that my nephew's mind is impaired—I can't it. I—I'll him to stop here, Lucy, and I'll watch him closely. I tell you, my love, if there is anything I am sure to it out. I can't be in a man who has always been the same to me as my own son. But, my darling, why were you so by Robert's wild talk? It not affect you."
My lady piteously.
"You must think me very strong-minded, Sir Michael," she said, with an air, "if you I can of these of indifferently. I know I shall be able to see Mr. Audley again."
"And you shall not, my dear—you shall not."
"You said just now you would have him here," Lady Audley.
"But I will not, my girl, if his presence you. Good Heaven! Lucy, can you for a moment that I have any higher wish than to promote your happiness? I will some London physician about Robert, and let him if there is anything the with my brother's only son. You shall not be annoyed, Lucy."
"You must think me very unkind, dear," said my lady, "and I know I ought not to be by the fellow; but he to have taken some into his about me."
"About you, Lucy!" Sir Michael.
"Yes, dear. He to me in some manner—which I cannot understand—with the of this Mr. Talboys."
"Impossible, Lucy! You must have him."
"I don't think so."
"Then he must be mad," said the baronet—"he must be mad. I will wait till he goes to town, and then send some one to his to talk to him. Good Heaven! what a this is."
"I I have you, darling," Lady Audley.
"Yes, my dear, I am very much by what you have told me; but you were right to talk to me about this business. I must think it over, dearest, and try and decide what is best to be done."
My lady rose from the low on which she had been seated. The fire had down, and there was only a of red light in the room. Lucy Audley over her husband's chair, and put her to his forehead.
"How good you have always been to me, dear," she softly. "You would let any one you against me, would you, dear?"
"Influence me against you?" the baronet. "No, my love."
"Because you know, dear," my lady, "there are people as well as people in the world, and there may be some to it would be to me."
"They had not try it, then, my dear," answered Sir Michael; "they would themselves in a position if they did."
Lady Audley laughed aloud, with a gay, triumphant, of that through the room.
"My own dear darling," she said, "I know you love me. And now I must away, dear, for it's past seven o'clock. I was to at Mrs. Montford's, but I must send a with a message of apology, for Mr. Audley has me for company. I shall at home and nurse you, dear. You'll go to very early, won't you, and take great of yourself?"
"Yes, dear."
My lady out of the room to give her orders about the message that was to be to the house at which she was to have dined. She paused for a moment as she closed the library door—she paused, and her hand upon her to check the of her heart.
"I have been of you, Mr. Robert Audley," she thought; "but the time may come in which you will have to be of me."
