The Greatest Murder Mysteries of Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Mary Elizabeth Braddon
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said Sir Michael, gravely. “I’m bewildered by what you tell me. Did he really say this, Lucy, or did you misunderstand him?”
“I— I— don’t think I did,” faltered my lady. “You saw how frightened I was when I first came in. I should not have been so much agitated if he hadn’t said something horrible.”
Lady Audley had availed herself of the very strongest arguments by which she could help her cause.
“To be sure, my darling, to be sure,” answered the baronet. “What could have put such a horrible fancy into the unhappy boy’s head. This Mr. Talboys — a perfect stranger to all of us — murdered at Audley Court! I’ll go to Mount Stanning to-night, and see Robert. I have known him ever since he was a baby, and I cannot be deceived in him. If there is really anything wrong, he will not be able to conceal it from me.”
My lady shrugged her shoulders.
“That is rather an open question,” she said. “It is generally a stranger who is the first to observe any psychological peculiarity.”
The big words sounded strange from my lady’s rosy lips; but her newly-adopted wisdom had a certain quaint prettiness about it, which charmed and bewildered her husband.
“But you must not go to Mount Stanning, my dear darling,” she said, tenderly. “Remember that you are under strict orders to stay in doors until the weather is milder, and the sun shines upon this cruel ice-bound country.”
Sir Michael Audley sank back in his capacious chair with a sigh of resignation.
“That’s true, Lucy,” he said; “we must obey Mr. Dawson. I suppose Robert will come to see me to-morrow.”
“Yes, dear. I think he said he would.”
“Then we must wait till to-morrow, my darling. I can’t believe that there really is anything wrong with the poor boy — I can’t believe it, Lucy.”
“Then how do you account for this extraordinary delusion about this Mr. Talboys?” asked my lady.
Sir Michael shook his head.
“I don’t know, Lucy — I don’t know,” he answered. “It is always so difficult to believe that any one of the calamities that continually befall our fellow-men will ever happen to us. I can’t believe that my nephew’s mind is impaired — I can’t believe it. I— I’ll get him to stop here, Lucy, and I’ll watch him closely. I tell you, my love, if there is anything wrong I am sure to find it out. I can’t be mistaken in a young man who has always been the same to me as my own son. But, my darling, why were you so frightened by Robert’s wild talk? It could not affect you.”
My lady sighed piteously.
“You must think me very strong-minded, Sir Michael,” she said, with rather an injured air, “if you imagine I can hear of these sort of things indifferently. I know I shall never be able to see Mr. Audley again.”
“And you shall not, my dear — you shall not.”
“You said just now you would have him here,” murmured Lady Audley.
“But I will not, my darling girl, if his presence annoys you. Good Heaven! Lucy, can you imagine for a moment that I have any higher wish than to promote your happiness? I will consult some London physician about Robert, and let him discover if there is really anything the matter with my poor brother’s only son. You shall not be annoyed, Lucy.”
“You must think me very unkind, dear,” said my lady, “and I know I ought not to be annoyed by the poor fellow; but he really seems to have taken some absurd notion into his head about me.”
“About you, Lucy!” cried Sir Michael.
“Yes, dear. He seems to connect me in some vague manner — which I cannot quite understand — with the disappearance of this Mr. Talboys.”
“Impossible, Lucy! You must have misunderstood him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then he must be mad,” said the baronet —“he must be mad. I will wait till he goes back to town, and then send some one to his chambers to talk to him. Good Heaven! what a mysterious business this is.”
“I fear I have distressed you, darling,” murmured Lady Audley.
“Yes, my dear, I am very much distressed by what you have told me; but you were quite right to talk to me frankly about this dreadful business. I must think it over, dearest, and try and decide what is best to be done.”
My lady rose from the low ottoman on which she had been seated. The fire had burned down, and there was only a faint glow of red light in the room. Lucy Audley bent over her husband’s chair, and put her lips to his broad forehead.
“How good you have always been to me, dear,” she whispered softly. “You would never let any one influence you against me, would you, dear?”
“Influence me against you?” repeated the baronet. “No, my love.”
“Because you know, dear,” pursued my lady, “there are wicked people as well as mad people in the world, and there may be some persons to whose interest it would be to injure me.”
“They had better not try it, then, my dear,” answered Sir Michael; “they would find themselves in rather a dangerous position if they did.”
Lady Audley laughed aloud, with a gay, triumphant, silvery peal of laughter that vibrated through the quiet room.
“My own dear darling,” she said, “I know you love me. And now I must run away, dear, for it’s past seven o’clock. I was engaged to dine at Mrs. Montford’s, but I must send a groom with a message of apology, for Mr. Audley has made me quite unfit for company. I shall stay at home and nurse you, dear. You’ll go to bed very early, won’t you, and take great care of yourself?”
“Yes, dear.”
My lady tripped out of the room to give her orders about the message that was to be carried to the house at which she was to have dined. She paused for a moment as she closed the library door — she paused, and laid her hand upon her breast to check the rapid throbbing of her heart.
“I have been afraid of you, Mr. Robert Audley,” she thought; “but perhaps the time may come in which you will have cause to be afraid of me.”
Chapter 31
Phoebe’s Petition.
The division between Lady Audley and her step-daughter had not become any narrower in the two months which had elapsed since the pleasant Christmas holiday time had been kept at Audley Court. There was no open warfare between the two women; there was only an armed neutrality, broken every now and then by brief feminine skirmishes and transient wordy tempests. I am sorry to say that Alicia would very much have preferred a hearty pitched battle to this silent and undemonstrative disunion; but it was not very easy to quarrel with my lady. She had soft answers for the turning away of wrath. She could smile bewitchingly at her step-daughter’s open petulance, and laugh merrily at the young lady’s ill-temper. Perhaps had she been less amiable, had she been more like Alicia in disposition, the two ladies might have expended their enmity in one tremendous quarrel, and might ever afterward have been affectionate and friendly. But Lucy Audley would not make war. She carried forward the sum of her dislike, and put it out at a steady rate of interest, until the breach between her step-daughter and herself, widening a little every day, became a great gulf, utterly impassable by olive-branch-bearing doves from either side of the abyss. There can be no reconciliation where there is no open warfare. There must be a battle, a brave, boisterous battle, with pennants waving and cannon roaring, before there can be peaceful treaties and enthusiastic shaking of hands. Perhaps the union between France and England owes its greatest