The Greatest Murder Mysteries of Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Mary Elizabeth Braddon

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СКАЧАТЬ out of the duty which Robert had dictated to her. She assisted in the packing of her portmanteaus, and hopelessly bewildered her maid by stuffing silk dresses into her bonnet-boxes and satin shoes into her dressing-case. She roamed about her rooms, gathering together drawing-materials, music-books, needle-work, hair-brushes, jewelry, and perfume-bottles, very much as she might have done had she been about to sail for some savage country, devoid of all civilized resources. She was thinking all the time of her father’s unknown grief, and perhaps a little of the serious face and earnest voice which had that night revealed her Cousin Robert to her in a new character.

      Mr. Audley went up-stairs after his cousin, and found his way to Sir Michael’s dressing-room. He knocked at the door and listened, Heaven knows how anxiously, for the expected answer. There was a moment’s pause, during which the young man’s heart beat loud and fast, and then the door was opened by the baronet himself. Robert saw that his uncle’s valet was already hard at work preparing for his master’s hurried journey.

      Sir Michael came out into the corridor.

      “Have you anything more to say to me, Robert?” he asked, quietly.

      “I only came to ascertain if I could assist in any of your arrangements. You go to London by the mail?”

      “Yes.”

      “Have you any idea of where you will stay.”

      “Yes, I shall stop at the Clarendon; I am known there. Is that all you have to say?”

      “Yes; except that Alicia will accompany you?”

      “Alicia!”

      “She could not very well stay here, you know, just now. It would be best for her to leave the Court until —”

      “Yes, yes, I understand,” interrupted the baronet; “but is there nowhere else that she could go — must she be with me?”

      “She could go nowhere else so immediately, and she would not be happy anywhere else.”

      “Let her come, then,” said Sir Michael, “let her come.”

      He spoke in a strange, subdued voice, and with an apparent effort, as if it were painful to him to have to speak at all; as if all this ordinary business of life were a cruel torture to him, and jarred so much upon his grief as to be almost worse to bear than that grief itself.

      “Very well, my dear uncle, then all is arranged; Alicia will be ready to start at nine o’clock.”

      “Very good, very good,” muttered the baronet; “let her come if she pleases, poor child, let her come.”

      He sighed heavily as he spoke in that half pitying tone of his daughter. He was thinking how comparatively indifferent he had been toward that only child for the sake of the woman now shut in the fire-lit room below.

      “I shall see you again before you go, sir,” said Robert; “I will leave you till then.”

      “Stay!” said Sir Michael, suddenly; “have you told Alicia?”

      “I have told her nothing, except that you are about to leave the Court for some time.”

      “You are very good, my boy, you are very good,” the baronet murmured in a broken voice.

      He stretched out his hand. His nephew took it in both his own, and pressed it to his lips.

      “Oh, sir! how can I ever forgive myself?” he said; “how can I ever cease to hate myself for having brought this grief upon you?”

      “No, no, Robert, you did right; I wish that God had been so merciful to me as to take my miserable life before this night; but you did right.”

      Sir Michael re-entered his dressing-room, and Robert slowly returned to the vestibule. He paused upon the threshold of that chamber in which he had left Lucy — Lady Audley, otherwise Helen Talboys, the wife of his lost friend.

      She was lying upon the floor, upon the very spot in which she had crouched at her husband’s feet telling her guilty story. Whether she was in a swoon, or whether she lay there in the utter helplessness of her misery, Robert scarcely cared to know. He went out into the vestibule, and sent one of the servants to look for her maid, the smart, be-ribboned damsel who was loud in wonder and consternation at the sight of her mistress.

      “Lady Audley is very ill,” he said; “take her to her room and see that she does not leave it to-night. You will be good enough to remain near her, but do not either talk to her or suffer her to excite herself by talking.”

      My lady had not fainted; she allowed the girl to assist her, and rose from the ground upon which she had groveled. Her golden hair fell in loose, disheveled masses about her ivory throat and shoulders, her face and lips were colorless, her eyes terrible in their unnatural light.

      “Take me away,” she said, “and let me sleep! Let me sleep, for my brain is on fire!”

      As she was leaving the room with her maid, she turned and looked at Robert. “Is Sir Michael gone?” she asked.

      “He will leave in half an hour.”

      “There were no lives lost in the fire at Mount Stanning?”

      “None.”

      “I am glad of that.”

      “The landlord of the house, Marks, was very terribly burned, and lies in a precarious state at his mother’s cottage; but he may recover.”

      “I am glad of that — I am glad no life was lost. Good-night, Mr. Audley.”

      “I shall ask to see you for half an hour’s conversation in the course of to-morrow, my lady.”

      “Whenever you please. Good night.”

      “Good night.”

      She went away quietly leaning upon her maid’s shoulder, and leaving Robert with a sense of strange bewilderment that was very painful to him.

      He sat down by the broad hearth upon which the red embers were fading, and wondered at the change in that old house which, until the day of his friend’s disappearance, had been so pleasant a home for all who sheltered beneath its hospitable roof. He sat brooding over the desolate hearth, and trying to decide upon what must be done in this sudden crisis. He sat helpless and powerless to determine upon any course of action, lost in a dull revery, from which he was aroused by the sound of carriage-wheels driving up to the little turret entrance.

      The clock in the vestibule struck nine as Robert opened the library door. Alicia had just descended the stairs with her maid; a rosy-faced country girl.

      “Good-by, Robert,” said Miss Audley, holding out her hand to her cousin; “good-by, and God bless you! You may trust me to take care of papa.”

      “I am sure I may. God bless you, my dear.”

      For the second time that night Robert Audley pressed his lips to his cousin’s candid forehead, and for the second time the embrace was of a brotherly or paternal character, rather than the rapturous proceeding which it would have been had Sir Harry Towers been the privileged performer.

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