THE RED LIGHT IN THE SKY.
My lady the in her hand, and it from her into the flames.
"If he me now, and I kill him," she in a strange, whisper, "I would do it—I would do it!" She up the lamp and into the room. She the door her. She not any of her despair—she nothing, neither herself her surroundings.
The door my lady's dressing-room and the bed-chamber in which Sir Michael lay, had been left open. The slept peacefully, his visible in the lamplight. His was low and regular, his into a smile—a of which he often when he looked at his wife, the of an all-indulgent father, who looks at his child.
Some touch of feeling, some of Lady Audley's as it upon that noble, figure. For a moment the of her own to her for another. It was only a semi-selfish after all, in which for herself was as powerful as for her husband; but for once in a way, her ran out of the narrow of her own terrors and her own to with upon the of another.
"If they make him believe, how he will be," she thought. But with that there was another—there was the of her face, her manner, her smile, her low, laugh, which was like a of across a of meadow-land and a river in the evening. She of all these with a of triumph, which was than her terror.
If Sir Michael Audley to be a hundred years old, he might learn to of her, he might to her, would he be able to her from these attributes? No; a thousand times no. To the last hour of his life his memory would present her to him with the that had his admiration, his affection. Her not her of that which had been so in its upon her mind.
She up and the dressing-room in the lamplight, upon the which she had from Robert Audley. She walked and in that for some time she was able to her thoughts—before she was able to the of her narrow to upon the one all-important of the threat in the barrister's letter.
"He will do it," she said, her set teeth—"he will do it, unless I him into a lunatic-asylum first; or unless—"
She did not the in words. She did not think out the sentence; but some new and in her to each against her breast.
The was this: "He will do it, unless some him, and him for ever." The red blood up into my lady's with as and a as the of a fire, and died as away, her more than winter snow. Her hands, which had been locked together, and at her sides. She stopped in her to and fro—stopped as Lot's wife may have stopped, after that at the city—with every slackening, with every of blood in her veins, in the terrible that was to her from a woman into a statue.
Lady Audley still for about five minutes in that attitude, her erect, her her—staring the narrow of her wall, into dark of and horror.
But by-and-by she started from that almost as as she had into it. She herself from that semi-lethargy. She walked to her dressing-table, and, seating herself it, pushed away the of golden-stoppered bottles and essence-boxes, and looked at her in the large, glass. She was very pale; but there was no other of visible in her face. The lines of her were so beautiful, that it was only a very close who have a that was to them. She saw this herself, and to away that statue-like immobility: but to-night the to her; they were locked, and were no longer the of her will and pleasure. All the of her themselves in this one feature. She might her eyes, but she not the of her mouth. She rose from her dressing-table, and took a dark and from the of her wardrobe, and herself for walking. The little clock on the chimney-piece the after eleven while Lady Audley was in this manner; five minutes she re-entered the room in which she had left Phoebe Marks.
The innkeeper's wife was the low very much in the same as that in which her late had over that in the evening. Phoebe had the fire, and had her and shawl. She was to home to that husband, who was only too to into some in her absence. She looked up as Lady Audley entered the room, and an of at her late in a walking-costume.
"My lady," she cried, "you are not going out to-night?"
"Yes, I am, Phoebe," Lady Audley answered, very quietly. "I am going to Mount Stanning with you to see this bailiff, and to pay and him myself."
"But, my lady, you what the time is; you can't go out at such an hour."
Lady Audley did not answer. She with her upon the of the bell, quietly.
"The are always locked, and the men in by ten o'clock," she murmured, "when we are at home. It will make a terrible to a ready; but yet I say one of the manage the for me."
"But why should you go to-night, my lady?" Phoebe Marks. "To-morrow will do as well. A week hence will do as well. Our would take the man away if he had your promise to settle the debt."
Lady Audley took no notice of this interruption. She into the dressing-room, and off her and cloak, and then returned to the boudoir, in her dinner-costume, with her away from her face.
"Now, Phoebe Marks, to me," she said, her confidante's wrist, and speaking in a low, voice, but with a air that and obedience. "Listen to me, Phoebe," she repeated. "I am going to the Castle Inn to-night; it is early or late is of very little to me; I have set my mind upon going, and I shall go. You have asked me why, and I have told you. I am going in order that I may pay this myself; and that I may see for myself that the money I give is to the purpose for which I give it. There is nothing out of the common of life in my doing this. I am going to do what other in my position very often do. I am going to a servant."
"But it's on for twelve o'clock, my lady," Phoebe.
Lady Audley at this interruption.
"If my going to your house to pay this man should be known," she continued, still her of Phoebe's wrist, "I am to answer for my conduct; but I would that the should be quiet. I think that I can this house without being by any creature, if you will do as I tell you."
"I will do anything you wish, my lady," answered Phoebe, submissively.
"Then you will wish me good-night presently, when my comes into the room, and you will her to you out of the house. You will the and wait for me in the upon the other of the archway. It may be an hour I am able to join you, for I must not my room till the have all gone to bed, but you may wait for me patiently, for come what may I will join you."
Lady Audley's was no longer pale. An in her great eyes. She spoke with an rapidity. She had the and manner of a person who has to the of some excitement. Phoebe Marks at her late in mute bewilderment. She to that my lady was going mad.
The which Lady Audley was answered by the lady's-maid who rose-colored ribbons, and black gowns, and other which were unknown to the people who sat the salt in the good old days when linsey-woolsey.
"I did not know that it was so late, Martin," said my lady, in that which always for her the service of her inferiors. "I have been talking with Mrs. Marks and have let the time by me. I sha'n't want anything to-night, so you may go to when you please."
"Thank you, my lady," answered the girl, who looked very sleepy, and had some in a in her mistress' presence, for the Audley very early hours. "I'd Mrs. Marks out, my lady, hadn't I?" asked the maid, "before I go to bed?"
"Oh, yes, to be sure; you can let Phoebe out. All the other have gone to bed, then, I suppose?"
"Yes, my lady."
Lady Audley laughed as she at the timepiece.
"We have been terrible up here, Phoebe," she said. "Good-night. You may tell your husband that his rent shall be paid."
"Thank you very much, my lady, and good-night," Phoebe as she out of the room, by the lady's maid.
Lady Audley at the door, waiting till the of their died away in the and on the staircase.
"Martin at the top of the house," she said, "half a mile away from this room. In ten minutes I may safely make my escape."
She into her dressing-room, and put on her and for the second time. The color still like a in her cheeks; the light still in her eyes. The which she was under her in so a spell that neither her mind her to have any of fatigue. However I may be in my of her feelings, I can a of her or her sufferings. She that would closely printed volumes, with a thousand pages, in that one night. She of anguish, and doubt, and perplexity; sometimes the same of her over and over again; sometimes through a thousand pages of her without one pause, without one moment of time. She by the low in her boudoir, the minute-hand of the clock, and waiting till it should be time for her to the house in safety.
"I will wait ten minutes," she said, "not a moment beyond, I enter on my new peril."
She to the wild of the March wind, which to have with the and of the night.
The hand slowly its way to the which told that the ten minutes were past. It was a to twelve when my lady took her lamp in her hand, and from the room. Her was as light as that of some wild animal, and there was no of that step any echo upon the and staircase. She did not pause until she the upon the ground floor. Several doors opened out of the vestibule, which was octagon, like my lady's ante-chamber. One of these doors into the library, and it was this door which Lady Audley opened and cautiously.
To have to the house by any of the would have been madness, for the herself the of the great doors, and front. The of the bolts, and bars, and chains, and which these doors, and provided for the safety of Sir Michael Audley's plate-room, the door of which was with sheet-iron, were only to the who had to with them. But although all these were taken with the to the citadel, a and a iron bar, light to be by a child, were safeguard for the half-glass door which opened out of the breakfast-room into the and in the courtyard.
It was by this that Lady Audley meant to make her escape. She easily remove the and the shutter, and she might safely to the window while she was absent. There was little of Sir Michael's for some time, as he was a in the early part of the night, and had slept more than since his illness.
Lady Audley the library, and opened the door of the breakfast-room, which with it. This was one of the later to the Court. It was a simple, chamber, with and furniture, and was more by Alicia than any one else. The of that lady's were about the room—drawing-materials, of work, of silk, and all the other of a careless damsel's presence; while Miss Audley's picture—a sketch of a rosy-faced in a riding-habit and hat—hung over the Wedgewood on the chimneypiece. My lady looked upon these familiar objects with in her eyes.
"How she will be if any me," she thought; "how she will if I am out of this house!"
Lady Audley set the lamp upon a table near the fireplace, and to the window. She the iron-bar and the light shutter, and then opened the glass-door. The March night was black and moonless, and a of wind in upon her as she opened this door, and the room with its breath, the lamp upon the table.
"No matter," my lady muttered, "I not have left it burning. I shall know how to my way through the house when I come back. I have left all the doors ajar."
She out upon the gravel, and closed the glass-door her. She was that wind should blow-to the door opening into the library, and thus her.
She was in the now, with that wind against her, and her her with a shrill, noise, like the of a against the of a yacht. She the and looked back—looked for a moment at the the rosy-tinted in her boudoir, and the of the lamp through the in the room where Sir Michael Audley asleep.
"I as if I were away," she thought; "I as if I were away in the of the night, to myself and be forgotten. Perhaps it would be in me to away, to take this man's warning, and out of his power forever. If I were to away and as—as George Talboys disappeared. But where I go? what would of me? I have no money; my are not a of hundred pounds, now that I have got of the best part of them. What I do? I must go to the old life, the old, hard, cruel, life—the life of poverty, and humiliation, and vexation, and discontent. I should have to go and wear myself out in that long struggle, and die—as my mother died, perhaps!"
My lady still for a moment on the lawn the and the archway, with her upon her and her hands locked together, this question in the activity of her mind. Her the of that mind—it and perplexity. But presently a came over her; she her head—lifted it with an action of and determination.
"No! Mr. Robert Audley," she said, aloud, in a low, clear voice; "I will not go back—I will not go back. If the us is to be a to the death, you shall not me my weapon."
She walked with a and step under the archway. As she passed under that arch, it as if she into some black that had waited open to her. The clock twelve, and the whole to under its strokes, as Lady Audley upon the other and joined Phoebe Marks, who had waited for her late very near the of the Court.
"Now, Phoebe," she said, "it is three miles from here to Mount Stanning, isn't it?"
"Yes, my lady."
"Then we can walk the in an hour and a half."
Lady Audley had not stopped to say this; she was walking along the with her by her side. Fragile and as she was in appearance, she was a very good walker. She had been in the of taking long country with Mr. Dawson's children in her old days of dependence, and she very little of a of three miles.
"Your husband will up for you, I suppose, Phoebe?" she said, as they across an open that was used as a cut from Audley Court to the high-road.
"Oh, yes, my lady; he's sure to up. He'll be with the man, I say."
"The man! What man?"
"The man that's in possession, my lady."
"Ah, to be sure," said Lady Audley, indifferently.
It was that Phoebe's should so very away from her at the time she was taking such an step toward setting right at the Castle Inn.
The two the and into the high road. The way to Mount Stanning was all up hill, and the long road looked black and in the dark night; but my lady walked on with a courage, which was no common in her selfish nature, but a out of her great despair. She did not speak again to her until they were close upon the lights at the top of the hill. One of these village lights, through a curtain, marked out the particular window which it was likely that Luke Marks sat over his liquor, and waiting for the of his wife.
"He has not gone to bed, Phoebe," said my lady, eagerly. "But there is no other light at the inn. I Mr. Audley is in and asleep."
"Yes, my lady, I so."
"You are sure he was going to at the Castle to night?"
"Oh, yes, my lady. I helped the girl to his room I came away."
The wind, everywhere, was and more in the neighborhood of that hill-top upon which the Castle Inn its walls. The that erection. They themselves with the pigeon-house, the weathercock, the tiles, and chimneys; they at the window-panes, and in the crevices; they the from to roof, and battered, and banged, and it in their gambols, until it and with the of their play.
Mr. Luke Marks had not himself to secure the door of his dwelling-house to with the man who of his and chattels. The of the Castle Inn was a lazy, brute, who had no higher than a selfish for his own enjoyments, and a for who in the way of his gratification.
Phoebe pushed open the door with her hand, and into the house, by my lady. The was in the bar, and the low ceiling. The door of the bar-parlor was open, and Lady Audley the of Mr. Marks as she the of the inn.
"I'll tell him you're here, my lady," Phoebe to her late mistress. "I know he'll be tipsy. You—you won't be offended, my lady, if he should say anything rude? You know it wasn't my wish that you should come."
"Yes, yes," answered Lady Audley, impatiently, "I know that. What should I for his rudeness! Let him say what he likes."
Phoebe Marks pushed open the door, my lady in the close her.
Luke sat with his out upon the hearth. He a of gin-and-water in one hand and the in the other. He had just the into a of black coals, and was them to make a blaze, when his wife appeared upon the of the room.
He the from the bars, and a drunken, motion with it as he saw her.
"So you've to come home at last, ma'am," he said; "I you was no more."
He spoke in a thick and voice, and was by no means too intelligible. He was to the very in alcohol. His were and watery; his hands were unsteady; his voice was and with drink. A brute, when most sober; a brute, on his best behavior, he was ten times more in his drunkenness, when the which his ignorant, every day in check were in the of intoxication.
"I—I've been longer than I to be, Luke," Phoebe answered, in her most manner; "but I've my lady, and she's been very kind, and—and she'll settle this for us."
"She's been very kind, has she?" Mr. Marks, with a laugh; "thank her for nothing. I know the of her kindness. She'd be kind, I dessay, if she warn't to be it."
The man in possession, who had into a and semi-unconscious of upon about a third of the that Mr. Marks had consumed, only in at his and hostess. He sat near the table. Indeed, he had himself on to it with his elbows, as a safeguard against under it, and he was making to light his pipe at the of a near him.
"My lady has promised to settle the for us, Luke," Phoebe repeated, without noticing Luke's remarks. She her husband's nature well by this time to know that it was than to try to stop him from doing or saying anything which his own will him to do or say. "My lady will settle it," she said, "and she's come here to see about it to-night," she added.
The from the landlord's hand, and among the on the hearth.
"My Lady Audley come here to-night!" he said.
"Yes, Luke."
My lady appeared upon the of the door as Phoebe spoke.
"Yes, Luke Marks," she said, "I have come to pay this man, and to send him about his business."
Lady Audley said these in a strange, semi-mechanical manner; very much as if she had learned the by rote, and were it without what she said.
Mr. Marks gave a growl, and set his empty upon the table with an gesture.
"You might have the money to Phoebe," he said, "as well as have it yourself. We don't want no ladies up here, pryin' and pokin' their into everythink."
"Luke, Luke!" Phoebe, "when my lady has been so kind!"
"Oh, her kindness!" Mr. Marks; "it ain't her as we want, gal, it's her money. She won't no snivelin' from me. Whatever she for us she she is obliged; and if she wasn't she wouldn't do it—"
Heaven how much more Luke Marks might have said, had not my lady upon him and him into by the of her beauty. Her had been away from her face, and being of a light, quality, had spread itself into a that her like a yellow flame. There was another in her eyes—a light, such as might from the changing-hued of an angry mermaid.
"Stop," she cried. "I didn't come up here in the of night to to your insolence. How much is this debt?"
"Nine pound."
Lady Audley produced her purse—a toy of ivory, silver, and turquoise—she took from it a note and four sovereigns. She these upon the table.
"Let that man give me a receipt for the money," she said, "before I go."
It was some time the man be into for the performance of this duty, and it was only by a pen into the and pushing it his fingers, that he was at last to that his was wanted at the of the receipt which had been out by Phoebe Marks. Lady Audley took the document as soon as the was dry, and to the parlor. Phoebe her.
"You mustn't go home alone, my lady," she said. "You'll let me go with you?"
"Yes, yes; you shall go home with me."
The two were near the door of the as my lady said this. Phoebe at her patroness. She had that Lady Audley would be in a to return home after settling this which she had taken upon herself; but it was not so; my lady against the door and into vacancy, and again Mrs. Marks to that trouble had her late mad.
A little Dutch clock in the two while Lady Audley in this irresolute, manner. She started at the and to violently.
"I think I am going to faint, Phoebe," she said; "where can I some cold water?"
"The pump is in the wash-house, my lady; I'll and you a of cold water."
"No, no, no," my lady, Phoebe's arm as she was about to away upon this errand; "I'll it myself. I must my in a of water if I want to save myself from fainting. In which room Mr. Audley sleep?"
There was something so in this question that Phoebe Marks at her she answered it.
"It was number three that I got ready, my lady—the room—the room next to ours," she replied, after that pause of astonishment.
"Give me a candle," said my lady. "I'll go into your room, and some water for my head; where you are, and see that that of a husband of yours not me!"
She the which Phoebe had from the girl's hand and ran up the rickety, which to the narrow upon the upper floor. Five bed-rooms opened out of this low-ceilinged, close-smelling corridor; the numbers of these rooms were by black painted upon the panels of the doors. Lady Audley had up to Mount Stanning to the house when she the for her servant's bridegroom, and she her way about the old place; she where to Phoebe's bedroom, but she stopped the door of that other which had been prepared for Mr. Robert Audley.
She stopped and looked at the number on the door. The key was in the lock, and her hand upon it as if unconsciously. But presently she to again, as she had a minutes at the of the clock. She for a moments thus, with her hand still upon the key; then a came over her face, and she the key in the lock. She it twice, locking the door.
There was no from within; the of the no of having that of the key in the lock.
Lady Audley into the next room. She set the on the dressing-table, off her and it across her arm; then she to the wash-stand and the with water. She her into this water, and then for a moments in the center of the room looking about her, with a white, face, and an that to take in every object in the chamber. Phoebe's was very furnished; she had been to select all the most for those best which were set for any traveler who might stop for a night's at the Castle Inn; but Phoebe Marks had done her best to for the of in her by a of drapery. Crisp of from the tent-bedstead; of the same material the narrow window out the light of day, and a for of and of spiders. Even the looking-glass, a which every owner had the to look into it, upon a of and pink calico, and was with of and work.
My lady as she looked at the and which met her upon every side. She had reason, perhaps, to smile, the of her own apartments; but there was something in that that to have a meaning than any natural for Phoebe's at decoration. She to the dressing-table and, her wet the looking-glass, and then put on her bonnet. She was to place the very close to the about the glass; so close that the to the toward it by some power of in its tissue.
Phoebe waited by the door for my lady's She the minute hand of the little Dutch clock, at the slowness of its progress. It was only ten minutes past two when Lady Audley came down-stairs, with her on and her still wet, but without the candle.
Phoebe was about this missing candle.
"The light, my lady," she said, "you have left it up-stairs!"
"The wind it out as I was your room," Lady Audley answered, quietly. "I left it there."
"In my room, my lady?"
"Yes."
"And it was out?"
"Yes, I tell you; why do you worry me about your candle? It is past two o'clock. Come."
She took the girl's arm, and led, her from the house. The pressure of her hand her as an iron have her. The March wind to the door of the house, and left the two it. The long, black road and them, visible lines of hedges.
A walk of three miles' length upon a country road, the hours of two and four on a cold winter's morning, is a for a woman—a woman toward and luxury. But my lady along the hard, highway, her with her as if she had been by some which no abatement. With the black night above them—with the wind around them, across a of country, as if it had from every point of the compass, and making those the focus of its ferocity—the two walked through the the hill upon which Mount Stanning stood, along a mile and a of road, and then up another hill, on the western of which Audley Court in that valley, which to in the old house from all the and of the world.
My lady stopped upon the of this hill to and to her hands upon her heart, in the that she might still its beating. They were now three-quarters of a mile of the Court, and they had been walking for nearly an hour since they had left the Castle Inn.
Lady Audley stopped to rest, with her still toward the place of her destination. Phoebe Marks, stopping also, and very of a moment's pause in that journey, looked into the which that that had her so much uneasiness. And she did so, she a of horror, and at her companion's cloak.
The night sky was no longer all dark. The thick was by one of light.
"My lady, my lady!" Phoebe, pointing to this patch; "do you see?"
"Yes, child, I see," answered Lady Audley, trying to shake the hands from her garments. "What's the matter?"
"It's a fire—a fire, my lady!"
"Yes, I am it is a fire. At Brentwood, most likely. Let me go, Phoebe; it's nothing to us."
"Yes, yes, my lady; it's nearer than Brentwood—much nearer; it's at Mount Stanning."
Lady Audley did not answer. She was again, with the cold perhaps, for the wind had her from her shoulders, and had left her to the blast.
"It's at Mount Stanning, my lady!" Phoebe Marks. "It's the Castle that's on fire—I know it is, I know it is! I of fire to-night, and I was and uneasy, for I this would some day. I wouldn't mind if it was only the place, but there'll be life lost, there'll be life lost!" the girl, distractedly. "There's Luke, too to help himself, unless others help him; there's Mr. Audley asleep—"
Phoebe Marks stopped at the mention of Robert's name, and upon her knees, her hands, and to Lady Audley.
"Oh, my God!" she cried. "Say it's not true, my lady, say it's not true! It's too horrible, it's too horrible, it's too horrible!"
"What's too horrible?"
"The that's in my mind; the terrible that's in my mind."
"What do you mean, girl?" my lady, fiercely.
"Oh, God me if I'm wrong!" the woman in sentences, "and God I may be. Why did you go up to the Castle, my lady? Why were you so set on going against all I say—you who are so against Mr. Audley and against Luke, and who they were under that roof? Oh, tell me that I do you a wrong, my lady; tell me so—tell me! for as there is a Heaven above me I think that you to that place to-night on purpose to set fire to it. Tell me that I'm wrong, my lady; tell me that I'm doing you a wrong."
"I will tell you nothing, that you are a woman," answered Lady Audley; in a cold, hard voice. "Get up; fool, idiot, coward! Is your husband such a that you should be there, and for him? What is Robert Audley to you, that you like a maniac, you think he is in danger? How do you know the fire is at Mount Stanning? You see a red in the sky, and you out directly that your own is in flames, as if there were no place in the world that that. The fire may be at Brentwood, or away—at Romford, or still away, on the of London, perhaps. Get up, woman, and go and look after your and chattels, and your husband and your lodger. Get up and go: I don't want you."
"Oh! my lady, my lady, me," Phoebe; "there's nothing you can say to me that's hard for having done you such a wrong, in my thoughts. I don't mind your words—I don't mind anything if I'm wrong."
"Go and see for yourself," answered Lady Audley, sternly. "I tell you again, I don't want you."
She walked away in the darkness, Phoebe Marks still upon the hard road, where she had herself in that of supplication. Sir Michael's wife walked toward the house in which her husband slept with the red up the her, and with nothing but the of the night before.
