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

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      He rose as George turned round.

      “Now, then, for your turn, Talboys,” he said. “It’s an extraordinary picture.”

      He took George’s place at the window, and George seated himself in the chair before the easel.

      Yes, the painter must have been a pre-Raphaelite. No one but a pre-Raphaelite would have painted, hair by hair, those feathery masses of ringlets, with every glimmer of gold, and every shadow of pale brown. No one but a pre-Raphaelite would have so exaggerated every attribute of that delicate face as to give a lurid brightness to the blonde complexion, and a strange, sinister light to the deep blue eyes. No one but a pre-Raphaelite could have given to that pretty pouting mouth the hard and almost wicked look it had in the portrait.

      It was so like, and yet so unlike. It was as if you had burned strange-colored fires before my lady’s face, and by their influence brought out new lines and new expressions never seen in it before. The perfection of feature, the brilliancy of coloring, were there; but I suppose the painter had copied quaint mediaeval monstrosities until his brain had grown bewildered, for my lady, in his portrait of her, had something of the aspect of a beautiful fiend.

      Her crimson dress, exaggerated like all the rest in this strange picture, hung about her in folds that looked like flames, her fair head peeping out of the lurid mass of color as if out of a raging furnace. Indeed the crimson dress, the sunshine on the face, the red gold gleaming in the yellow hair, the ripe scarlet of the pouting lips, the glowing colors of each accessory of the minutely painted background, all combined to render the first effect of the painting by no means an agreeable one.

      But strange as the picture was, it could not have made any great impression on George Talboys, for he sat before it for about a quarter of an hour without uttering a word — only staring blankly at the painted canvas, with the candlestick grasped in his strong right hand, and his left arm hanging loosely by his side. He sat so long in this attitude, that Robert turned round at last.

      “Why, George, I thought you had gone to sleep!”

      “I had almost.”

      “You’ve caught a cold from standing in that damp tapestried room. Mark my words, George Talboys, you’ve caught a cold; you’re as hoarse as a raven. But come along.”

      Robert Audley took the candle from his friend’s hand, and crept back through the secret passage, followed by George — very quiet, but scarcely more quiet than usual.

      They found Alicia in the nursery waiting for them.

      “Well?” she said, interrogatively.

      “We managed it capitally. But I don’t like the portrait; there’s something odd about it.”

      “There is,” said Alicia; “I’ve a strange fancy on that point. I think that sometimes a painter is in a manner inspired, and is able to see, through the normal expression of the face, another expression that is equally a part of it, though not to be perceived by common eyes. We have never seen my lady look as she does in that picture; but I think that she could look so.”

      “Alicia,” said Robert Audley, imploringly, “don’t be German!”

      “But, Robert —”

      “Don’t be German, Alicia, if you love me. The picture is — the picture: and my lady is — my lady. That’s my way of taking things, and I’m not metaphysical; don’t unsettle me.”

      He repeated this several times with an air of terror that was perfectly sincere; and then, having borrowed an umbrella in case of being overtaken by the coming storm, left the Court, leading passive George Talboys away with him. The one hand of the stupid clock had skipped to nine by the time they reached the archway; but before they could pass under its shadow they had to step aside to allow a carriage to dash past them. It was a fly from the village, but Lady Audley’s fair face peeped out at the window. Dark as it was, she could see the two figures of the young men black against the dusk.

      “Who is that?” she asked, putting out her head. “Is it the gardener?”

      “No, my dear aunt,” said Robert, laughing; “it is your most dutiful nephew.”

      He and George stopped by the archway while the fly drew up at the door, and the surprised servants came out to welcome their master and mistress.

      “I think the storm will hold off to-night,” said the baronet looking up at the sky; “but we shall certainly have it tomorrow.”

      Chapter 9

       After the Storm.

       Table of Contents

      Sir Michael was mistaken in his prophecy upon the weather. The storm did not hold off until next day, but burst with terrible fury over the village of Audley about half an hour before midnight.

      Robert Audley took the thunder and lightning with the same composure with which he accepted all the other ills of life. He lay on a sofa in the sitting-room, ostensibly reading the five-days-old Chelmsford paper, and regaling himself occasionally with a few sips from a large tumbler of cold punch. But the storm had quite a different effect upon George Talboys. His friend was startled when he looked at the young man’s white face as he sat opposite the open window listening to the thunder, and staring at the black sky, rent every now and then by forked streaks of steel-blue lightning.

      “George,” said Robert, after watching him for some time, “are you frightened of the lightning?”

      “No,” he answered, curtly.

      “But, dear boy, some of the most courageous men have been frightened of it. It is scarcely to be called a fear: it is constitutional. I am sure you are frightened of it.”

      “No, I am not.”

      “But, George, if you could see yourself, white and haggard, with your great hollow eyes staring out at the sky as if they were fixed upon a ghost. I tell you I know that you are frightened.”

      “And I tell you that I am not.”

      “George Talboys, you are not only afraid of the lightning, but you are savage with yourself for being afraid, and with me for telling you of your fear.”

      “Robert Audley, if you say another word to me, I shall knock you down,” cried George, furiously; having said which, Mr. Talboys strode out of the room, banging the door after him with a violence that shook the house. Those inky clouds, which had shut in the sultry earth as if with a roof of hot iron, poured out their blackness in a sudden deluge as George left the room; but if the young man was afraid of the lightning, he certainly was not afraid of the rain; for he walked straight down-stairs to the inn door, and went out into the wet high road. He walked up and down, up and down, in the soaking shower for about twenty minutes, and then, re-entering the inn, strode up to his bedroom.

      Robert Audley met him on the landing, with his hair beaten about his white face, and his garments dripping wet.

      “Are you going to bed, George?”

      “Yes.”

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