PHOEBE'S PETITION.
The Lady Audley and her step-daughter had not any in the two months which had since the Christmas time had been at Audley Court. There was no open the two women; there was only an neutrality, every now and then by and tempests. I am sorry to say that Alicia would very much have a to this and disunion; but it was not very easy to with my lady. She had soft for the away of wrath. She at her step-daughter's open petulance, and laugh at the lady's ill-temper. Perhaps had she been less amiable, had she been more like Alicia in disposition, the two ladies might have their in one quarrel, and might have been and friendly. But Lucy Audley would not make war. She the of her dislike, and put it out at a of interest, until the her step-daughter and herself, a little every day, a great gulf, by olive-branch-bearing from either of the abyss. There can be no where there is no open warfare. There must be a battle, a brave, battle, with and roaring, there can be peaceful and of hands. Perhaps the France and England its to the of Cressy and Waterloo, Navarino and Trafalgar. We have each other and each other and had it out, as the common phrase goes; and we can now to into each others' arms and and brotherhood. Let us that when Northern Yankeedom has and been decimated, Jonathan may himself upon his Southern brother's breast, and forgiven.
Alicia Audley and her father's wife had of room for the of their in the old mansion. My lady had her own apartments, as we know—luxurious chambers, in which all had been for the of their occupant. Alicia had her own rooms in another part of the large house. She had her mare, her Newfoundland dog, and her materials, and she herself happy. She was not very happy, this frank, generous-hearted girl, for it was possible that she be at in the of the Court. Her father was changed; that dear father over she had once with the authority of a child, had another ruler and submitted to a new dynasty. Little by little my lady's power itself in that narrow household; and Alicia saw her father across the that Lady Audley from her step-daughter, until he at last upon the other of the abyss, and looked upon his only child across that chasm.
Alicia that he was to her. My lady's smiles, my lady's words, my lady's and had done their work of enchantment, and Sir Michael had to look upon his as a and person who had with to the wife he loved.
Poor Alicia saw all this, and her as well as she could. It very hard to be a handsome, gray-eyed heiress, with dogs and and at her command, and yet to be so much alone in the world as to know of not one ear into which she might her sorrows.
"If Bob was good for anything I have told him how I am," Miss Audley; "but I may just as well tell Caesar my for any I should from Cousin Robert."
Sir Michael Audley his nurse, and to a little after nine o'clock upon this March evening. Perhaps the baronet's was about the pleasantést that an have in such cold and weather. The dark-green were the and about the bed. The fire upon the hearth. The reading lamp was upon a little table close to Sir Michael's pillow, and a of and newspapers had been by my lady's own hands for the of the invalid.
Lady Audley sat by the for about ten minutes, talking to her husband, talking very seriously, about this and question—Robert Audley's lunacy; but at the end of that time she rose and her husband good-night.
She the green the reading lamp, it for the of the baronet's eyes.
"I shall you, dear," she said. "If you can sleep, so much the better. If you wish to read, the books and papers are close to you. I will the doors the rooms open, and I shall your voice if you call me."
Lady Audley through her dressing-room into the boudoir, where she had sat with her husband since dinner.
Every of was visible in the chamber. My lady's piano was open, with of music and exquisitely-bound of and which no master need have to study. My lady's near the window, to my lady's talent, in the shape of a water-colored sketch of the Court and gardens. My lady's fairy-like of and muslin, rainbow-hued silks, and delicately-tinted the apartment; while the looking-glasses, at and opposite by an upholsterer, my lady's image, and in that image the most object in the chamber.
Amid all this lamplight, gilding, color, wealth, and beauty, Lucy Audley sat on a low seat by the fire to think.
If Mr. Holman Hunt have into the boudoir, I think the picture would have been upon his brain to be by-and-by upon a bishop's half-length for the of the pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. My lady in that half-recumbent attitude, with her on one knee, and her perfect supported by her hand, the rich of away in long lines from the of her figure, and the luminous, rose-colored her in a soft haze, only by the of her yellow hair—beautiful in herself, but by the which the of her loveliness. Drinking-cups of gold and ivory, by Benvenuto Cellini; of and porcelain, the of Austrian Marie-Antoinette, of and true-lovers' knots, and butterflies, and shepherdesses, goddesses, courtiers, cottagers, and milkmaids; of Parian marble and biscuit china; of flowers; of Indian filigree-work; tea-cups of china, by of Louis the Great and Louis the Well-beloved, Louise de la Valliere, Athenais de Montespan, and Marie Jeanne Gomard de Vaubernier: cabinet pictures and mirrors, and lace; all that gold can or art had been together for the of this in which my lady sat to the of the March wind, and the of the against the casements, and looking into the red in the coals.
I should be a very sermon, and upon a very familiar moral, if I were to this opportunity of against art and beauty, my lady was more in this than many a half-starved in her garret. She was by of a which too for the possibility of any from such as and luxury; but her was of an nature, and I can see no occasion for upon the of her as an in of and as to opulence. The Benvenuto Cellini and the Sevres not give her happiness, she had passed out of their region. She was no longer innocent; and the we take in art and being an pleasure, had passed her reach. Six or seven years before, she would have been happy in the of this little Aladdin's palace; but she had out of the circle of careless, creatures, she had away into a of and treachery, terror and crime, and all the that had been for her have her no but one, the of them into a her and upon them and them in her despair.
There were some that would have her with an joy, a rejoicing. If Robert Audley, her enemy, her pursuer, had in the chamber, she would have over his bier.
What have for Lucretia Borgia and Catharine de Medici, when the line and was passed, and the upon the side? Only horrible, joys, and were left for these women. With what they must have the vanities, the deceptions, the of ordinary offenders. Perhaps they took a in the of their wickedness; in this "Divinity of Hell," which them among creatures.
My lady, by the fire in her chamber, with her large, clear upon the of in the coals, may have of many very away from the in which she was engaged. She may have of long-ago years of innocence, and selfishness, of frivolous, that had very upon her conscience. Perhaps in that she that early time in which she had looked in the and that she was beautiful; that early time in which she had to look upon her as a right divine, a which was to be a set-off against all shortcomings, a of every sin. Did she the day in which that of had her to be selfish and cruel, to the and of others, cold-hearted and capricious, of admiration, and with that woman's which is the of despotism? Did she every of her life to its true source? and did she that in her own of the value of a face? Surely, if her so along the of her life, she must have in and of that day in which the master-passions of her life had her rulers, and the three of Vanity, Selfishness, and Ambition, had joined hands and said, "This woman is our slave, let us see what she will under our guidance."
How small those errors as my lady looked upon them in that long by the hearth! What small vanities, what cruelties! A over a schoolfellow; a with the lover of a friend; an of the right in and golden-tinted hair. But how that narrow had out into the of sin, and how the had upon the now familiar way!
My lady her in her curls, and as if she would have them from her head. But in that moment of mute the of itself, and she the of ringlets, them to make a her in the firelight.
"I was not when I was young," she thought, as she at the fire, "I was only thoughtless. I did any harm—at least, wilfully. Have I been wicked, I wonder?" she mused. "My have been the result of wild impulses, and not of deeply-laid plots. I am not like the I have read of, who have night after night in the and stillness, out deeds, and every of an crime. I wonder they suffered—those women—whether they as—"
Her away into a of confusion. Suddenly she herself up with a proud, gesture, and her with a light that was not from the fire.
"You are mad, Mr. Robert Audley," she said, "you are mad, and your are a madman's fancies. I know what is. I know its and tokens, and I say that you are mad."
She put her hand to her head, as if of something which and her, and which she it difficult to with calmness.
"Dare I him?" she muttered. "Dare I? I? Will he stop, now that he has once gone so far? Will he stop for of me? Will he stop for of me, when the of what his uncle must has not stopped him? Will anything stop him—but death?"
She the last in an whisper; and with her forward, her dilated, and her still as they had been in her of that final word "death," she sat at the fire.
"I can't plot things," she muttered, presently; "my brain isn't enough, or I'm not enough, or enough. If I met Robert Audley in those gardens, as I—"
The of her was by a at her door. She rose suddenly, by any in the of her room. She rose, and herself into a low chair near the fire. She her upon the soft cushions, and took a book from the table near her. Insignificant as this action was, it spoke very plainly. It spoke very of ever-recurring fears—of for concealment—of a mind that in its was alive to the of effect. It told more than anything else have told how complete an my lady had been by the of her life.
The at the door was repeated.
"Come in," Lady Audley, in her tone.
The door was opened with that to a well-bred servant, and a woman, dressed, and some of the cold March in the of her garments, the of the and near the door, waiting permission to approach the regions of my lady's retreat.
It was Phoebe Marks, the pale-faced wife of the Mount Stanning innkeeper.
"I pardon, my lady, for without leave," she said; "but I I might to come up without waiting for permission."
"Yes, yes, Phoebe, to be sure. Take off your bonnet, you wretched, cold-looking creature, and come here."
Lady Audley pointed to the low upon which she had herself been seated a minutes before. The lady's had often sat upon it to her mistress' in the old days, when she had been my lady's and confidante.
"Sit here, Phoebe," Lady Audley repeated; "sit here and talk to me; I'm very you came here to-night. I was in this place."
My lady and looked at the of bric-a-brac, as if the Sevres and bronze, the and ormolu, had been the of some castle. The of her had itself to every object about her, and all took their color from that life which its slow of in her breast. She had spoken the entire truth in saying that she was of her lady's maid's visit. Her nature to this weak in the hour of her and suffering. There were her and this girl, who was like herself, as well as outwardly—like herself, selfish, and cold, and cruel, for her own advancement, and of and elegance; angry with the that had been her, and of dependence. My lady Alicia for her frank, passionate, generous, nature; she her step-daughter, and to this pale-faced, pale-haired girl, she neither than herself.
Phoebe Marks her late mistress' commands, and took off her seating herself on the at Lady Audley's feet. Her of light were by the March winds; her trimly-made dress and were as as they have been had she only that moment her toilet.
"Sir Michael is better, I hope, my lady," she said.
"Yes, Phoebe, much better. He is asleep. You may close that door," added Lady Audley, with a motion of her toward the door of the rooms, which had been left open.
Mrs. Marks submissively, and then returned to her seat.
"I am very, very unhappy, Phoebe," my lady said, fretfully; "wretchedly miserable."
"About the—secret?" asked Mrs. Marks, in a whisper.
My lady did not notice that question. She in the same tone. She was to be able to complain to this lady's maid. She had over her fears, and had in so long, that it was an to her to her aloud.
"I am and harassed, Phoebe Marks," she said. "I am and by a man I injured, I have to injure. I am to by this tormentor, and—"
She paused, at the fire again, as she had done in her loneliness. Lost again in the dark of which and in a of bewilderments, she not come to any conclusion.
Phoebe Marks my lady's face, looking at her late with pale, eyes, that only their when Lady Audley's met that of her companion.
"I think I know you mean, my lady," said the innkeeper's wife, after a pause; "I think I know who it is who is so to you."
"Oh, of course," answered my lady, bitterly; "my are everybody's secrets. You know all about it, no doubt."
"The person is a gentleman—is he not, my lady?"
"Yes."
"A who came to the Castle Inn two months ago, when I you—"
"Yes, yes," answered my lady, impatiently.
"I so. The same is at our place to-night, my lady."
Lady Audley started up from her chair—started up as if she would have done something in her fury; but she again with a weary, sigh. What such a against her fate? What she do but wind like a till she her way to the starting-point of the chase, to be there by her pursuers?
"At the Castle Inn?" she cried. "I might have as much. He has gone there to my from your husband. Fool!" she exclaimed, upon Phoebe Marks in a transport of anger, "do you want to me that you have left those two men together?"
Mrs. Marks her hands piteously.
"I didn't come away of my own free will, my lady," she said; "no one have been more to the house than I was this night. I was sent here."
"Who sent you here?"
"Luke, my lady. You can't tell how hard he can be upon me if I go against him."
"Why did he send you?"
The innkeeper's wife her under Lady Audley's angry glances, and she answered this question.
"Indeed, my lady," she stammered, "I didn't want to come. I told Luke that it was too for us to worry you, this favor, and then that, and you alone for a month together; but—but—he me with his loud, talk, and he me come."
"Yes, yes," Lady Audley, impatiently. "I know that. I want to know why you have come."
"Why, you know, my lady," answered Phoebe, reluctantly, "Luke is very extravagant; and all I can say to him, I can't him to be or steady. He's not sober; and when he's with a of countrymen, and drinking, more than they do, it isn't likely that his can be very clear for accounts. If it hadn't been for me we should have been this; and hard as I've tried, I haven't been able to keep the off. You me the money for the brewer's bill, my lady?"
"Yes, I very well," answered Lady Audley, with a laugh, "for I wanted that money to pay my own bills."
"I know you did, my lady, and it was very, very hard for me to have to come and ask you for it, after all that we'd from you before. But that isn't the worst: when Luke sent me here to the of that help he told me that the Christmas rent was still owing; but it was, my lady, and it's now, and—and there's a in the house to-night, and we're to be up to-morrow unless—"
"Unless I pay your rent, I suppose," Lucy Audley. "I might have what was coming."
"Indeed, indeed, my lady, I wouldn't have asked it," Phoebe Marks, "but he me come."
"Yes," answered my lady, bitterly, "he you come; and he will make you come he pleases, and he wants money for the of his low vices; and you and he are my as long as I live, or as long as I have any money to give; for I when my is empty and my ruined, you and your husband will turn upon me and sell me to the bidder. Do you know, Phoebe Marks, that my jewel-case has been to meet your claims? Do you know that my pin-money, which I such a when my marriage settlement was made, and when I was a at Mr. Dawson's, Heaven help me! my pin-money has been a year to satisfy your demands? What can I do to you? Shall I sell my Marie Antoinette cabinet, or my china, Leroy's and Benson's clocks, or my Gobelin chairs and ottomans? How shall I satisfy you next?"
"Oh, my lady, my lady," Phoebe, piteously, "don't be so to me; you know, you know that it isn't I who want to upon you."
"I know nothing," Lady Audley, "except that I am the most of women. Let me think," she cried, Phoebe's with an gesture. "Hold your tongue, girl, and let me think of this business, if I can."
She put her hands to her forehead, her across her brow, as if she would have the action of her brain by their pressure.
"Robert Audley is with your husband," she said, slowly, speaking to herself than to her companion. "These two men are together, and there are in the house, and your husband is no by this time, and and in his drunkenness. If I to pay this money his will be by a hundredfold. There's little use in that matter. The money must be paid."
"But if you do pay it," said Phoebe, earnestly, "I you will upon Luke that it is the last money you will give him while he stops in that house."
"Why?" asked Lady Audley, her hands on her lap, and looking at Mrs. Marks.
"Because I want Luke to the Castle."
"But why do you want him to leave?"
"Oh, for so many reasons, my lady," answered Phoebe. "He's not fit to be the of a public-house. I didn't know that when I married him, or I would have gone against the business, and to him to take to the line. Not that I he'd have up his own fancy, either; for he's enough, as you know, my lady. He's not fit for his present business. He's after dark; and when he's he almost wild, and doesn't to know what he does. We've had two or three narrow with him already."
"Narrow escapes!" Lady Audley. "What do you mean?"
"Why, we've the of being in our through his carelessness."
"Burnt in your through his carelessness! Why, how was that?" asked my lady, listlessly. She was too selfish, and too in her own to take much in any which had her some-time lady's-maid.
"You know what a old place the Castle is, my lady; all tumble-down wood-work, and rafters, and such like. The Chelmsford Insurance Company won't it; for they say if the place did to catch fire of a night it would away like so much tinder, and nothing in the world save it. Well, Luke this; and the has him of it times and often, for he close against us, and he a upon all my husband's on; but when Luke's he doesn't know what he's about, and only a week ago he left a in one of the out-houses, and the one of the of the roof, and if it hadn't been for me it out when I the house the last thing, we should have all been to death, perhaps. And that's the third time the same of thing has in the six months we've had the place, and you can't wonder that I'm frightened, can you, my lady?"
My lady had not wondered, she had not about the at all. She had to these details; why should she for this low-born waiting-woman's and troubles? Had she not her own terrors, her own soul-absorbing to every of which her brain was capable?
She did not make any upon that which Phoebe just told her; she what had been said, until some moments after the girl had speaking, when the their full meaning, as some do after they have been without being heeded.
"Burnt in your beds," said the lady, at last. "It would have been a good thing for me if that creature, your husband, had been in his to-night."
A picture had upon her as she spoke. The picture of that tenement, the Castle Inn, to a of and plaster, from its black mouth, and toward the cold night sky.
She gave a as she this image from her brain. She would be no off if this enemy should be for silenced. She had another and more foe—a who was not to be or off, though she had been as rich as an empress.
"I'll give you the money to send this away," my lady said, after a pause. "I must give you the last in my purse, but what of that? you know as well as I do that I not you."
Lady Audley rose and took the lamp from her writing-table. "The money is in my dressing-room," she said; "I will go and it."
"Oh, my lady," Phoebe, suddenly, "I something; I was in such a way about this that I it."
"Quite what?"
"A that was me to to you, my lady, just I left home."
"What letter?"
"A from Mr. Audley. He my husband mention that I was here, and he asked me to this letter."
Lady Audley set the lamp upon the table nearest to her, and out her hand to the letter. Phoebe Marks fail to that the little hand like a leaf.
"Give it me—give it me," she cried; "let me see what more he has to say."
Lady Audley almost the from Phoebe's hand in her wild impatience. She open the and it from her; she the of note-paper in her excitement.
The was very brief. It only these words:
"Should Mrs. George Talboys have the date of her death, as recorded in the public prints, and upon the in Ventnor churchyard, and should she in the person of the lady and by the of this, there can be no great in some one able and to identify her. Mrs. Barkamb, the owner of North Cottages, Wildernsea, would no to some light upon this matter; either to a or to a suspicion.
"ROBERT AUDLEY.
"March 3, 1859.
"The Castle Inn, Mount Stanning."
