RESTORED.
Clara Talboys returned to Dorsetshire, to tell her father that his only son had for Australia upon the 9th of September, and that it was most he yet lived, and would return to the of the father he had very particularly injured; in the of having that terrible mistake which had so an upon his youth.
Mr. Harcourt-Talboys was nonplused. Junius Brutus had been in such a position as this, and no way of out of this by acting after his model, Mr. Talboys was to be natural for once in his life, and to that he had much and pain of mind about his only son since his with Robert Audley, and that he would be to take his boy to his arms, he should return to England. But when was he likely to return? and how was he to be with? That was the question. Robert Audley the which he had to be in the Melbourne and Sydney papers. If George had re-entered either city alive, how was it that no notice had been taken of that advertisement? Was it likely that his friend would be to his uneasiness? But then, again, it was just possible that George Talboys had not to see this advertisement; and, as he had under a name, neither his the captain of the would have been able to identify him with the person for. What was to be done? Must they wait till George of his exile, and returned to his friends who loved him? or were there any means to be taken by which his return might be hastened? Robert Audley was at fault! Perhaps, in the of mind which he had upon the of his friend's escape, he was unable to look the one of that preservation.
In this of mind he to Dorsetshire to pay a visit to Mr. Talboys, who had way to a perfect of impulses, and had gone so as to his son's friend to the of the square, red mansion.
Mr. Talboys had only two upon the of George's story; one was a natural and in the that his son had been saved, the other was an wish that my lady had been his wife, and that he might thus have had the of making a example of her.
"It is not for me to you, Mr. Audley," he said, "for having this woman out of the of justice, and thus, as I may say, with the laws of your country. I can only that, had the lady into my hands, she would have been very treated."
It was in the middle of April when Robert Audley himself once more under those black fir-trees which his had so often since his meeting with Clara Talboys. There were and early in the now, and the streams, which, upon his visit, had been hard and frost-bound as the of Harcourt Talboys, had thawed, like that gentleman, and ran under the in the April sunshine.
Robert had a bedroom, and an dressing-room him in the square house, and he every upon a mattress, which always gave him the idea of sleeping upon some instrument, to see the sun in upon him through the square, white and up the two which the of the iron bedstead, until they like two of the Roman period. He Mr. Harcourt Talboys in the of shower-baths and cold water, and and as that himself, as the clock in the seven, to join the master of the house in his ante-breakfast under the fir-trees in the plantation.
But there was a third person who in the promenades, and that third person was Clara Talboys, who used to walk by her father's side, more than the morning—for that was sometimes and cloudy, while she was always fresh and bright—in a broad-leaved straw-hat and ribbons, one of an of which Mr. Audley would have a than a creature's button-hole.
At they were very toward each other, and were only familiar and upon the one of George's adventures; but little by little a them, and the three of Robert's visit had elapsed, Miss Talboys him happy, by taking him in hand and him on the life he had so long, and the little use he had of the and opportunities that had been to him.
How it was to be by the woman he loved! How it was to himself and himself her! How it was to such opportunities of that if his life had been by an object he might have to be something than an upon the that have no particular goal; that, by the which would have a purpose to every hour of his existence, he might have the and unflinchingly. He up with a to the that it was only likely he would over the of the Temple Gardens some when the river was and in the low sunlight, and the little children had gone home to their tea.
"Do you think I can read French and mild Turkish until I am three-score-and-ten, Miss Talboys?" he asked. "Do you think there will not come a day in which my will be foul, and the French more than stupid, and life such a that I shall want to of it somehow or other?"
I am sorry to say that while this was in this way, he had up his possessions, all Michel Levy's publications, and a dozen solid silver-mounted meerschaums; pensioned off Mrs. Maloney, and out two or three thousand in the purchase of a of and lawn, which there should be a ornée, should out of of and to see themselves in the of the lake.
Of course, Clara Talboys was from the of these lamentations. She Mr. Audley to read hard and think of his profession, and life in earnest. It was a hard, of existence, perhaps, which she recommended; a life of work and application, in which he should to be useful to his fellow-creatures, and win a for himself.
"I'd do all that," he thought, "and do it earnestly, if I be sure of a for my labor. If she would accept my when it was won, and support me in the by her companionship. But what if she sends me away to the battle, and marries some country while my is turned?"
Being naturally of a and disposition, there is no saying how long Mr. Audley might have his secret, to speak and the of that which, though not always hopeful, was very despairing, had not he been by the of an moment into a full of the truth.
He had five at Grange Heath, and that he not, in common decency, any longer; so he had packed his one May morning, and had his departure.
Mr. Talboys was not the of man to any at the of his guest, but he himself with a which with him as the of friendship.
"We have got on very well together, Mr. Audley," he said, "and you have been pleased to appear happy in the of our household; nay, more, you have to our little in a manner which I cannot from saying I take as an to myself."
Robert bowed. How he was to the good which had him to the of the bell, or him away the of at Mr. Talboys' hour.
"I trust as we have got on so well together," Mr. Talboys resumed, "you will do me the of your visit to Dorsetshire you inclined. You will of sport among my farms, and you will meet with every and attention from my tenants, if you like to your gun with you."
Robert most to these overtures. He that there was no that was more to him than partridge-shooting, and that he should be only too to himself of the so offered to him. He not help toward Clara as he said this. The perfect a little over the eyes, and the of a the face.
But this was the barrister's last day in Elysium, and there must be a of days and nights and and months the of September would give him an for returning to Dorsetshire; a which fresh or of eight-and-forty, might use to his disadvantage. It was no wonder, therefore, that he this with despair, and was company for Miss Talboys that morning.
But in the after dinner, when the sun was low in the west, and Harcourt Talboys in his library upon some with his lawyer and a farmer, Mr. Audley a little more agreeable. He by Clara's in one of the long of the drawing-room, the in the sky and the light every moment as the sun died out. He not help that tête-a-tête, though the of the next morning's which was to him away to London across the of his joy. He not help being happy in her presence; of the past, of the future.
They talked of the one which was always a of them. They talked of her George. She spoke of him in a very this evening. How she be otherwise than sad, that if he lived—and she was not sure of that—he was a away from all who loved him, and the memory of a life he went.
"I cannot think how papa can be so to my brother's absence," she said, "for he love him, Mr. Audley; you must have that he love him. But I cannot think how he can so submit to his absence. If I were a man, I would go to Australia, and him, and him back; if he was still to be among the living," she added, in a voice.
She her away from Robert, and looked out at the sky. He his hand upon her arm. It in of him, and his voice trembled, too, as he spoke to her.
"Shall I go to look for your brother?" he said.
"You!" She her head, and looked at him through her tears. "You, Mr. Audley! Do you think that I ask you to make such a for me, or for those I love?"
"And do you think, Clara, that I should think any too great a one if it were for you? Do you think there is any I would to take, if I that you would welcome me when I came home, and thank me for having you faithfully? I will go from one end of the of Australia to the other to look for your brother, if you please, Clara; and will return alive unless I him with me, and will take my of what you shall give me for my labor."
Her was bent, and it was some moments she answered him.
"You are very good and generous, Mr. Audley," she said, at last, "and I this offer too much to be able to thank you for it. But what you speak of be. By what right I accept such a sacrifice?"
"By the right which makes me your and ever, you will or no. By right of the love I you, Clara," Mr. Audley, on his knees—rather awkwardly, it must be confessed—and a soft little hand, that he had among the of a dress, with kisses.
"I love you, Clara," he said, "I love you. You may call for your father, and have me out of the house this moment, if you like; but I shall go on you all the same; and I shall love you and ever, you will or no."
The little hand was away from his, but not with a or angry gesture, and it rested for one moment and upon his dark hair.
"Clara, Clara!" he murmured, in a low, voice, "shall I go to Australia to look for your brother?"
There was no answer. I don't know how it is, but there is anything more than in such cases. Every moment of is a avowal; every pause is a confession.
"Shall we go, dearest? Shall we go as man and wife? Shall we go together, my dear love, and our us?"
Mr. Harcourt Talboys, into the room a of an hour afterward, Robert Audley alone, and had to to a which very much him. Like all self-sufficient people, he was to that under his nose, and he had that his own society, and the Spartan of his household, had been the which had Dorsetshire to his guest.
He was disappointed, therefore; but he his well, and a and at the turn which had taken.
So Robert Audley to London, to his in Figtree Court, and to make all about such ships as from Liverpool for Sydney in the month of June.
He had until after at Grange Heath, and it was in the that he entered the Temple and his way to his chambers. He Mrs. Maloney the stairs, as was her upon a Saturday evening, and he had to make his way an of steam, that the under his touch.
"There's of letters, honor," the said, as she rose from her and herself against the to Robert to pass her, "and there's some parcels, and there's a which has called so many times, and is waitin' to-night, for I him you'd to me to say your rooms were to be aired."
He opened the door of his sitting-room, and walked in. The were their to the setting sun, and the faint, yellow light was upon the leaves. The visitor, he was, sat with his to the window and his upon his breast. But he started up as Robert Audley entered the room, and the man a great of and surprise, and opened his arms to his friend, George Talboys.
We know how much Robert had to tell. He touched and upon that which he was painful to his friends; he said very little of the woman who was out the of her life in the of the Belgian city.
George Talboys spoke very of that sunny seventh of September, upon which he had left his friend sleeping by the while he to his false wife of that which had well his heart.
"God that from the moment in which I into the black pit, the hand that had sent me to what might have been my death, my was of the safety of the woman who had me. I upon my upon a of and mire, but my was bruised, and my arm against the of the well. I was and for a minutes, but I myself by an effort, for I that the I was deadly. I had my Australian to help me in my peril; I climb like a cat. The of which the well was were and irregular, and I was able to work my way by my in the of the stones, and my at times against the opposite of the well, helping myself as well as I with my hands, though one arm was crippled. It was hard work, Bob, and it that a man who had long himself of his life, should take so much trouble to it. I think I must have been of an hour I got to the top; I know the time an of pain and peril. It was for me to the place until after dark without being observed, so I myself a of laurel-bushes, and on the and to wait for nightfall. The man who me there told you the rest. Robert."
"Yes, my old friend.—yes, he told me all."
George had returned to Australia after all. He had gone on the Victoria Regia, but had his for one in another to the same owners, and had gone to New York, where he had as long as he the of an which him from every friend he had known.
"Jonathan was very to me, Bob," he said; "I had money to me to on well in my own way and I meant to have started for the California gold to more when that was gone. I might have of friends had I pleased, but I the old in my breast; and what I have with men who nothing of my grief? I for the of your hand, Bob; the touch of the hand which had me through the passage of my life."
