LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET
By Mary Elizabeth Braddon
CHAPTER I.
LUCY.
It in a hollow, rich with
old
and pastures; and you came upon it through an of limes, on either by meadows, over the high of which the looked at you as you passed, wondering, perhaps, what you wanted; for there was no thorough-fare, and unless you were going to the Court you had no there at all.
At the end of this
there was an old and a clock tower, with a stupid, clock, which had only one hand—and which jumped from one hour to the next—and was therefore always in extremes. Through this you walked into the gardens of Audley Court.
A lawn you, with groups of rhododendrons, which in more perfection here than else in the county. To the right there were the gardens, the fish-pond, and an by a moat, and a of a wall, in some places than it was high, and with ivy, yellow stonecrop, and dark moss. To the left there was a walk, which, years ago, when the place had been a convent, the had walked hand in hand; a with espaliers, and on one by oaks, which out the landscape, and in the house and gardens with a shelter.
The house the arch, and three of a quadrangle. It was very old, and very and rambling. The were uneven; some small, some large, some with and rich glass; others with that in every breeze; others so modern that they might have been added only yesterday. Great of rose up here and there the pointed gables, and as if they were so by age and long service that they must have but for the which, up the and over the roof, itself about them and supported them. The door was into a of a at one of the building, as if it were in from visitors, and to keep itself a secret—a door for all that—old oak, and with great square-headed iron nails, and so thick that the iron upon it with a sound, and the visitor a that in a among the ivy, the noise of the should the stronghold.
A old place. A place that visitors in with; a wish to have done with life, and to there forever, into the fish-ponds and the as the and rose to the surface of the water. A spot in which peace to have taken up her abode, setting her hand on every tree and flower, on the still and alleys, the of the old-fashioned rooms, the window-seats the painted glass, the low and the avenues—ay, upon the well, which, and as all else in the old place, itself away in a the gardens, with an that was and a lazy rope so that the had away from it, and had into the water.
A place; as well as out, a place—a house in which you if you were so as to attempt to its alone; a house in which no one room had any with another, every off at a into an chamber, and through that some narrow leading to a door which, in its turn, into that very part of the house from which you the furthest; a house that have been planned by any architect, but must have been the of that good old builder, Time, who, adding a room one year, and a room another year, a with the Plantagenets, and setting up one in the of the Tudors; a of Saxon wall, a Norman to here; in a of high narrow in the of Queen Anne, and joining on a dining-room after the fashion of the time of Hanoverian George I, to a that had been since the Conquest, had contrived, in some eleven centuries, to up such a as was not to be met with the of Essex. Of course, in such a house there were chambers; the little of the present owner, Sir Michael Audley, had by accident upon the of one. A had under her in the great where she played, and on attention being to it, it was to be loose, and so removed, a ladder, leading to a hiding-place the of the and the of the room below—a hiding-place so small that he who had there must have on his hands and or at full length, and yet large to a old chest, with priests' vestments, which had been away, no doubt, in those days when the life of a man was in if he was to have a Roman Catholic priest, or to have said in his house.
The was and grass-grown, and the trees of the over it with gnarled, that upon the green slope. Within this there was, as I have said, the fish-pond—a of water that the whole length of the garden and which there was an called the lime-tree walk; an so from the sun and sky, so screened from by the thick of the over-arching trees that it a place for or for interviews; a place in which a might have been planned, or a lover's registered with equal safety; and yet it was twenty from the house.
At the end of this dark there was the shrubbery, where, among the and the neglected weeds, the wheel of that old well of which I have spoken. It had been of good service in its time, no doubt; and have the water with their own hands; but it had into now, and any one at Audley Court the had up or not. But as was the of this lime-tree walk, I very much if it was put to any uses. Often in the of the Sir Michael Audley would up and his cigar, with his dogs at his heels, and his wife by his side; but in about ten minutes the and his would of the and the still water, under the of the water-lilies, and the long green with the well at the end, and would to the drawing-room, where my lady played by Beethoven and Mendelssohn till her husband asleep in his easy-chair.
Sir Michael Audley was fifty-six years of age, and he had married a second wife three months after his fifty-fifth birthday. He was a big man, tall and stout, with a deep, voice, black eyes, and a white beard—a white which him look against his will, for he was as active as a boy, and one of the in the country. For seventeen years he had been a with an only child, a daughter, Alicia Audley, now eighteen, and by no means too well pleased at having a step-mother home to the Court; for Miss Alicia had in her father's house since her childhood, and had the keys, and them in the pockets of her aprons, and them in the shrubbery, and them into the pond, and all manner of trouble about them from the hour in which she entered her teens, and had, on that account, herself into the belief, that for the whole of that period, she had been the house.
But Miss Alicia's day was over; and now, when she asked anything of the housekeeper, the would tell her that she would speak to my lady, or she would my lady, and if my lady pleased it should be done. So the baronet's daughter, who was an excellent and a very artist, most of her time out of doors, about the green lanes, and sketching the children, and the plow-boys, and the cattle, and all manner of animal life that came in her way. She set her with a against any herself and the baronet's wife; and as that lady was, she it to overcome Miss Alicia's and dislike; or to the girl that she had not done her a by marrying Sir Michael Audley. The truth was that Lady Audley had, in the wife of Sir Michael, one of those matches which are to upon a woman the and of her sex. She had come into the neighborhood as a in the family of a in the village near Audley Court. No one anything of her, that she came in answer to an which Mr. Dawson, the surgeon, had in The Times. She came from London; and the only she gave was to a lady at a at Brompton, where she had once been a teacher. But this was so satisfactory that none other was needed, and Miss Lucy Graham was by the as the of his daughters. Her were so and numerous, that it that she should have answered an such very terms of as those named by Mr. Dawson; but Miss Graham perfectly well satisfied with her situation, and she the girls to play by Beethoven, and to paint from nature after Creswick, and walked through a dull, out-of-the-way village to the little church, three times every Sunday, as as if she had no higher in the world than to do so all the of her life.
People who this, for it by saying that it was a part of her and nature always to be light-hearted, happy and under any circumstances.
Wherever she she to take and with her. In the of the her like a sunbeam. She would for a of an hour talking to some old woman, and as pleased with the of a as if she had been to the of a marquis; and when she away, nothing her (for her salary gave no scope to her benevolence), the old woman would out into with her grace, beauty, and her kindliness, such as she upon the vicar's wife, who and her. For you see, Miss Lucy Graham was with that magic power of fascination, by which a woman can with a word or with a smile. Every one loved, admired, and her. The boy who opened the five-barred gate that in her pathway, ran home to his mother to tell of her looks, and the sweet voice in which she thanked him for the little service. The at the church, who her into the surgeon's pew; the vicar, who saw the soft to his as he his sermon; the from the railway station, who her sometimes a or a parcel, and who looked for from her; her employer; his visitors; her pupils; the servants; everybody, high and low, in that Lucy Graham was the girl that lived.
Perhaps it was the of this which into the of Audley Court; or, perhaps, it was the of her face, looking over the surgeon's high every Sunday morning; it was, it was that Sir Michael Audley a to be with Mr. Dawson's governess.
He had only to hint his wish to the doctor for a little party to be got up, to which the and his wife, and the and his daughter, were invited.
That one sealed Sir Michael's fate. He no more the of those soft and melting eyes; the of that and head, with its of curls; the low music of that voice; the perfect which every charm, and all in this woman; than he his destiny! Destiny! Why, she was his destiny! He had loved before. What had been his marriage with Alicia's mother but a dull, jog-trot to keep some in the family that would have been just as well out of it? What had been his love for his wife but a poor, pitiful, spark, too to be extinguished, too to burn? But this was love—this fever, this longing, this restless, uncertain, hesitation; these that his age was an to his happiness; this of his white beard; this wish to be again, with hair, and a waist, such as he had twenty years before; these, nights and days, so if he to catch a of her sweet the window curtains, as he past the surgeon's house; all these gave of the truth, and told only too that, at the age of fifty-five, Sir Michael Audley had of the terrible called love.
I do not think that, his courtship, the once calculated upon his or his position as for his success. If he these things, he the of them with a shudder. It him too much to for a moment that any one so and value herself against a house or a good old title. No; his was that, as her life had been most likely one of and dependence, and as she was very nobody her age, but she looked little more than twenty, she might have any attachment, and that he, being the to her, might, by attentions, by watchfulness, by a love which should to her the father she had lost, and by a protecting that should make him necessary to her, win her heart, and obtain from her fresh and love, the promise of her hand. It was a very day-dream, no doubt; but, for all that, it in a very way to be realized. Lucy Graham appeared by no means to the baronet's attentions. There was nothing in her manner that the by a woman who to a rich man. She was so to from every one, high and low, that Sir Michael's very little upon her. Again, he had been so many years a that people had up the idea of his marrying again. At last, however, Mrs. Dawson spoke to the on the subject. The surgeon's wife was in the school-room at work, while Lucy was the touches on some water-color sketches done by her pupils.
"Do you know, my dear Miss Graham," said Mrs. Dawson, "I think you ought to a lucky girl?"
The her from its attitude, and at her employer, a of curls. They were the most in the world—soft and feathery, always away from her face, and making a her when the through them.
"What do you mean, my dear Mrs. Dawson?" she asked, her camel's-hair into the wet upon the palette, and it in the of which was to the in her pupil's sketch.
"Why, I mean, my dear, that it only rests with to Lady Audley, and the of Audley Court."
Lucy Graham the upon the picture, and to the of her hair; and then again, than Mrs. Dawson had her before.
"My dear, don't yourself," said the surgeon's wife, soothingly; "you know that nobody you to Sir Michael unless you wish. Of it would be a match; he has a income, and is one of the most of men. Your position would be very high, and you would be to do a great of good; but, as I said before, you must be by your own feelings. Only one thing I must say, and that is that if Sir Michael's are not to you, it is to him."
"His attentions—encourage him!" Lucy, as if the her. "Pray, pray don't talk to me, Mrs. Dawson. I had no idea of this. It is the last thing that would have to me." She her on the drawing-board her, and her hands over her face, for some minutes to be deeply. She a narrow black her neck, with a locket, or a cross, or a miniature, perhaps, to it; but the was, she always it under her dress. Once or twice, while she sat thinking, she one of her hands from her face, and with the ribbon, at it with a half-angry gesture, and it and her fingers.
"I think some people are to be unlucky, Mrs. Dawson," she said, by-and-by; "it would be a great too much good for me to Lady Audley."
She said this with so much in her tone, that the surgeon's wife looked up at her with surprise.
"You unlucky, my dear!" she exclaimed. "I think you are the last person who ought to talk like that—you, such a bright, happy creature, that it every one good to see you. I'm sure I don't know what we shall do if Sir Michael us of you."
After this they often spoke upon the subject, and Lucy again any when the baronet's for her was canvassed. It was a thing in the surgeon's family that Sir Michael proposed, the would accept him; and, indeed, the Dawsons would have it something more than in a girl to reject such an offer.
So, one August evening, Sir Michael, opposite to Lucy Graham, at a window in the surgeon's little drawing-room, took an opportunity while the family by some accident to be from the room, of speaking upon the nearest to his heart. He the governess, in a but words, an offer of his hand. There was something almost in the manner and in which he spoke to her—half in deprecation, that he to be the choice of a girl, and praying that she would reject him, though she his by doing so, than that she should accept his offer if she did not love him.
"I think there is a sin, Lucy," he said, solemnly, "than that of a woman who marries a man she not love. You are so to me, my beloved, that as my is set on this, and as the of is to me, I would not have you such a for any of mine. If my be by such an act, which it not—which it could," he repeated, earnestly—"nothing but can result from a marriage by any but truth and love."
Lucy Graham was not looking at Sir Michael, but out into the and away the little garden. The to see her face, but her profile was to him, and he not the of her eyes. If he have done so, he would have a which as if it would have the and looked away—away into another world.
"Lucy, you me?"
"Yes," she said, gravely; not coldly, or in any way as if she were at his words.
"And your answer?"
She did not remove her from the country side, but for some moments was silent; then to him, with a in her manner, that up her with a new and which the in the twilight, she on her at his feet.
"No, Lucy; no, no!" he cried, vehemently, "not here, not here!"
"Yes, here, here," she said, the which her making her voice and piercing—not loud, but distinct; "here and else. How good you are—how and how generous! Love you! Why, there are a hundred times my in and in who might love you dearly; but you ask too much of me! Remember what my life has been; only that! From my very I have anything but poverty. My father was a gentleman: clever, accomplished, handsome—but poor—and what a of him! My mother—But do not let me speak of her. Poverty—poverty, trials, vexations, humiliations, deprivations. You cannot tell; you, who are among those for life is so and easy, you can what is by such as we. Do not ask too much of me, then. I cannot be disinterested; I cannot be to the of such an alliance. I cannot, I cannot!"
Beyond her and her vehemence, there is an something in her manner which the with a alarm. She is still on the ground at his feet, than kneeling, her thin white dress about her, her over her shoulders, her great in the dusk, and her hands at the black about her throat, as if it had been her. "Don't ask too much of me," she repeating; "I have been selfish from my babyhood."
"Lucy—Lucy, speak plainly. Do you me?"
"Dislike you? No—no!"
"But is there any one else you love?"
She laughed at his question. "I do not love any one in the world," she answered.
He was of her reply; and yet that and the laugh upon his feelings. He was for some moments, and then said, with a of effort:
"Well, Lucy, I will not ask too much of you. I say I am a old fool; but if you do not me, and if you do not love any one else, I see no why we should not make a very happy couple. Is it a bargain, Lucy?"
"Yes."
The her in his arms and her once upon the forehead, then her good-night, he walked out of the house.
He walked out of the house, this old man, there was some at work in his breast—neither triumph, but something almost to disappointment—some and which and at his heart, as if he had a in his bosom. He the of that which had died at the of Lucy's words. All the and and were ended now. He must be contented, like other men of his age, to be married for his and his position.
Lucy Graham slowly up the stairs to her little room at the top of the house. She her on the of drawers, and seated herself on the of the white bed, still and white as the around her.
"No more dependence, no more drudgery, no more humiliations," she said; "every of the old life melted away—every to identity and forgotten—except these, these."
She had taken her left hand from the black at her throat. She it from her bosom, as she spoke, and looked at the object to it.
It was neither a locket, a miniature, a cross; it was a ring in an piece of paper—the paper written, printed, yellow with age, and with much folding.
