Robert Audley sat alone in the library with the physician's upon the table him, of the work which was still to be done.
The had himself the of this woman. He had been her judge; and he was now her jailer. Not until he had delivered the which him to its proper address, not until he had up his into the safe-keeping of the mad-house doctor, not until then would the be from him and his done.
He a lines to my lady, telling her that he was going to her away from Audley Court to a place from which she was not likely to return, and her to no time in preparing for the journey. He to start that evening, if possible, he told her.
Miss Susan Martin, the lady's maid, it a very hard thing to have to pack her mistress' in such a hurry, but my lady in the task. She in and her servant, who and in all this packing up and away, and was therefore and in the of her duties; and at six o'clock in the she sent her to tell Mr. Audley that she was to as soon as he pleased.
Robert had a of Bradshaw, and had that Villebrumeuse out of the of all railway traffic, and was only by from Brussels. The for Dover left London Bridge at nine o'clock, and be easily by Robert and his charge, as the seven o'clock up-train from Audley Shoreditch at a past eight. Traveling by the Dover and Calais route, they would Villebrumeuse by the or evening.
It was late in the of the next day when the and over the of the in Villebrumeuse.
Robert Audley and my lady had had the coupé of the to themselves for the whole of the journey, for there were not many travelers Brussels and Villebrumeuse, and the public was supported by the of than any great profit attaching to it as a speculation.
My lady had not spoken the journey, to some which Robert had offered her at a place upon the road. Her when they left Brussels behind, for she had that city might have been the end of her journey, and she had with a of and from the Belgian landscape.
She looked up at last as the vehicle into a great quadrangle, which had been the approach to a once, but which was now the of a hotel, in of and while the was in the above.
Lady Audley as she from the diligence, and herself in that yard. Robert was by porters, who for his "baggages," and among themselves as to the hotel at which he was to rest. One of these men ran away to a hackney-coach at Mr. Audley's behest, and presently, on a pair of horses—which were so small as to the idea that they had been out of one ordinary-sized animal—with wild and that had a in the darkness.
Mr. Audley left my lady in a coffee-room in the of a while he away to some part of the city. There was official to be gone through Sir Michael's wife be put away in the place by Dr. Mosgrave. Robert had to see all manner of personages; and to take oaths; and to the English physician's letter; and to go through much of and he take his friend's wife to the home which was to be her last upon earth. Upward of two hours all this was arranged, and the man was free to return to the hotel, where he his at a pair of wax-candles, with a cup of coffee cold and her.
Robert my lady into the vehicle, and took his seat opposite to her once more.
"Where are you going to take me?" she asked, at last. "I am of being like some child, who is put into a dark as a for its offenses. Where are you taking me?"
"To a place in which you will have to the past, Mrs. Talboys," Robert answered, gravely.
They had left the them, and had out of a great square, in which there appeared to be about a dozen cathedrals, into a small boulevard, a lamp-lit road, on which the of the and came tremblingly, like the of a skeleton. There were houses here and there upon this boulevard; houses, et jardin, and with plaster of on the of the gateways. The hackney-carriage of three-quarters of a mile along this it up against a gateway, older and more than any of those they had passed.
My lady gave a little as she looked out of the coach-window. The was by an lamp; a great of iron and glass, in which one little with the March wind.
The the bell, and a little door at the of the gate was opened by a gray-haired man, who looked out at the carriage, and then retired. He three minutes the iron gates, which he and to their full extent, a of stone-paved courtyard.
The his into the courtyard, and the vehicle to the of the house, a great of stone, with long of windows, many of which were lighted, and looked out like the of upon the of the night.
My lady, and as the cold in the sky, looked up at these with an and gaze. One of the was by a of red; and upon this there and came a dark shadow, the of a woman with a dress, the of a creature, who and the window.
Sir Michael Audley's wife her hand upon Robert's arm, and pointed with the other hand to this window.
"I know where you have me," she said. "This is a MAD-HOUSE."
Mr. Audley did not answer her. He had been at the door of the coach when she him, and he her to alight, and her up a of steps, and into the entrance-hall of the mansion. He Dr. Mosgrave's to a neatly-dressed, cheerful-looking, middle-aged woman, who came out of a little which opened out of the hall, and was very much like the of an hotel. This person welcome Robert and his charge: and after a with the letter, them into her little apartment, which was with and by a stove.
"Madam herself very much fatigued?" the Frenchwoman said, interrogatively, with a look of sympathy, as she an arm-chair for my lady.
"Madam" her wearily, and looked the little with a of that no very great favor.
"WHAT is this place, Robert Audley?" she fiercely. "Do you think I am a baby, that you may with and me—what is it? It is what I said just now, is it not?"
"It is a de santé, my lady," the man answered, gravely. "I have no wish to with or to you."
My lady paused for a moments, looking at Robert.
"A de santé," she repeated. "Yes, they manage these in France. In England we should call it a madhouse. This a house for people, this, is it not, madam?" she said in French, upon the woman, and the with her foot.
"Ah, but no, madam," the woman answered with a of protest. "It is an of the most agreeable, where one one's self—"
She was by the entrance of the of this establishment, who came into the room with a his countenance, and with Dr. Mosgrave's open in his hand.
It was to say how he was to make the of M'sieu. There was nothing upon earth which he was not to do for M'sieu in his own person, and nothing under which he would not to for him, as the friend of his acquaintance, so very much distinguished, the English doctor. Dr. Mosgrave's had him a of the case, he Robert, in an undertone, and he was prepared to the of the and very "Madam—Madam—"
He his hands politely, and looked at Robert. Mr. Audley remembered, for the time, that he had been to his under a name.
He not to the proprietor's question. It might a very easy to have upon a of names, any one of which would have answered his purpose; but Mr. Audley appeared to have that he had any that of himself and of his friend.
Perhaps the and his embarrassment. He at any it by to the woman who had them, and something about No. 14, Bis. The woman took a key from a long range of others, that over the mantel-piece, and a from a in a of the room, and having the candle, the way across the stone-paved hall, and up a broad, of wood.
The English physician had his Belgian that money would be of minor in any for the of the English lady who was to be to his care. Acting upon this hint, Monsieur Val opened the door of a of apartments, which a lobby, with diamonds of black and white marble, but of a and cellar-like darkness; a with draperies, and with a which is not to the of the spirits; and a bed-chamber, a so made, as to appear to have no opening in its coverings, unless the had been with a pen-knife.
My lady at the range of rooms, which looked in the light of a single wax-candle. This flame, and ghost-like in itself, was by of its ghostliness, which about the rooms; in the of the and wainscot, or the window-panes, in the looking-glasses, or in those great of something which the rooms, and which my lady for mirrors, but which were in of tin.
Amid all the of velvet, and gilding, and wood, the woman into an arm-chair, and her with her hands. The of them, and the light of diamonds about them, in the dimly-lighted chamber. She sat silent, motionless, despairing, sullen, and angry, while Robert and the French doctor retired to an chamber, and talked together in undertones. Mr. Audley had very little to say that had not been already said for him, with a than he himself have it, by the English physician. He had, after great trouble of mind, upon the name of Taylor, as a safe and for that other name, to which alone my lady had a right. He told the Frenchman that this Mrs. Taylor was related to him—that she had the of from her mother, as Dr. Mosgrave had Monsieur Val; and that she had some of the that was in her mind; but that she was not to be called "mad." He that she might be with all and compassion; that she might all indulgences; but he upon Monsieur Val, that under no was she to be permitted to the house and without the protection of some person, who should be for her safe-keeping. He had only one other point to urge, and that was, that Monsieur Val, who, as he had understood, was himself a Protestant—the doctor bowed—would make with some and Protestant clergyman, through and might be for the lady; who had need, Robert added, gravely, of such advantages.
This—with all necessary as to matters, which were to be settled from time to time Mr. Audley and the doctor, by any whatever—was the of the the two men, and about a of an hour.
My lady sat in the same when they re-entered the in which they had left her, with her hands still over her face.
Robert over to in her ear.
"Your name is Madam Taylor here," he said. "I do not think you would wish to be by your name."
She only her in answer to him, and did not remove her hands from over her face.
"Madam will have an to her service." said Monsieur Val. "Madam will have all her obeyed; her wishes, but that goes without saying," adds, with a shrug. "Every will be to madam's at Villebrumeuse agreeable. The together when it is wished. I with the sometimes; my subordinate, a and a man always. I with my wife and children in a little in the grounds; my in the establishment. Madam may upon our being to her comfort."
Monsieur is saying a great more to the same effect, his hands and upon Robert and his charge, when suddenly, and furious, and her from her face, tells him to his tongue.
"Leave me alone with the man who has me here." she cried, her set teeth. "Leave me!"
She points to the door with a sharp, gesture; so that the about her arm makes a as she her hand. The French through her teeth as she them, and to her mood and to herself than the familiar English she has spoken hitherto.
The French doctor his as he goes out into the lobby, and something about a "beautiful devil," and a of "the Mars." My lady walked with a to the door the bed-chamber and the saloon; closed it, and with the of the door still in her hand, and looked at Robert Audley.
"You have me to my grave, Mr. Audley," she cried; "you have used your power and cruelly, and have me to a grave."
"I have done that which I just to others and to you," Robert answered, quietly. "I should have been a to had I you to at after—the of George Talboys and the fire at Castle Inn. I have you to a place in which you will be by people who have no knowledge of your story—no power to or to you. You will lead a and peaceful life, my lady; such a life as many a good and woman in this Catholic country takes upon herself, and until the end. The of your in this place will be no than that of a king's daughter, who, from the of the time, was to take in a house as as this. Surely, it is a small which I ask you to for your sins, a light which I call upon you to perform. Live here and repent; nobody will you, nobody will you. I only say to you, repent!"
"I cannot!" my lady, pushing her from her white forehead, and her upon Robert Audley, "I cannot! Has my me to this? Have I plotted and to myself and in the long nights, to think of my dangers, for this? I had have up at once, since this was to be the end. I had have to the that was upon me, and up when George Talboys came to England."
She at the as if she would have them from her head. It had her so little after all, that hair, that of yellow light that had so with the melting of her eyes. She herself and her beauty.
"I would laugh at you and you, if I dared," she cried; "I would kill myself and you, if I dared. But I am a poor, coward, and have been so from the first. Afraid of my mother's inheritance; of poverty; of George Talboys; of you."
She was for a little while, but she her place by the door, as if to Robert as long as it was her to do so.
"Do you know what I am of?" she said, presently. "Do you know what I am of, as I look at you in the light of this room? I am of the day upon which George Talboys disappeared."
Robert started as she mentioned the name of his friend; his in the light, and his and louder.
"He was opposite me, as you are now," my lady. "You said that you would the old house to the ground; that you would up every tree in the gardens to your friend. You would have had no need to do so much: the of George Talboys at the of the old well, in the the lime-walk."
Robert Audley his hands and them above his head, with one loud of horror.
"Oh, my God!" he said, after a pause; "have all the that I have prepared me so little for the truth, that it should come upon me like this at last?"
"He came to me in the lime-walk," my lady, in the same hard, as that in which she had the of her life. "I that he would come, and I had prepared myself, as well as I could, to meet him. I was to him, to him, to him; to do anything sooner than the and the position I had won, and go to my old life. He came, and he me for the at Ventnor. He that so long as he he would me for the that had his heart. He told me that I had his out of his and upon it; and that he had now no in which to one of for me. That he would have me any upon earth, but that one and that I had done him. He said this and a great more, and he told me that no power on earth should turn him from his purpose, which was to take me to the man I had deceived, and make me tell my story. He did not know the that I had in with my mother's milk. He did not know that it was possible to drive me mad. He me as you have me; he was as as you have been merciless. We were in the at the end of the lime-walk. I was seated upon the at the mouth of the well. George Talboys was upon the windlass, in which the iron he his position. I rose at last, and upon him to him, as I had to him at the worst. I told him that if he me to Sir Michael, I would him to be a or a liar, and I him to the man who loved me—blindly, as I told him—that he had any to me. I was going to him after having told him this, when he me by the and me by force. You saw the that his upon my wrist, and noticed them, and did not the account I gave of them. I see that, Mr. Robert Audley, and I saw that you were a person I should have to fear."
She paused, as if she had Robert to speak; but he and motionless, waiting for the end.
"George Talboys me as you me," she said, petulantly. "He that if there was but one of my identity, and that was from Audley Court by the of the whole earth, he would him there to to my identity, and to me. It was then that I was mad, it was then that I the iron from the wood, and saw my husband with one into the black mouth of the well. There is a of its depth. I do not know how it is. It is dry, I suppose, for I no splash, only a thud. I looked and I saw nothing but black emptiness. I and listened, but the was not repeated, though I waited for nearly a of an hour—God how long it to me!—by the mouth of the well."
Robert Audley a word of when the was finished. He moved a little nearer toward the door against which Helen Talboys stood. Had there been any other means of from the room, he would have himself of it. He from a with this creature.
"Let me pass you, if you please," he said, in an voice.
"You see I do not to make my to you," said Helen Talboys; "for two reasons. The is, that you not use it against me, you know it would kill your uncle to see me in a dock; the second is, that the law no than this—a life-long in a mad-house. You see I do not thank you for your mercy, Mr. Robert Audley, for I know what it is worth."
She moved away from the door, and Robert passed her without a word, without a look.
Half an hour he was in one of the at Villebrumeuse, at a neatly-ordered supper-table, with no power to eat; with no power to his mind, for a moment, from the image of that friend who had been in the at Audley Court.
