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

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Audley. How long is that nephew of yours going to stay here?”

      “As long as he likes, my pet; he’s always welcome,” said the baronet; and then, as if remembering himself, he added, tenderly: “But not unless his visit is agreeable to you, darling; not if his lazy habits, or his smoking, or his dogs, or anything about him is displeasing to you.”

      Lady Audley pursed up her rosy lips and looked thoughtfully at the ground.

      “It isn’t that,” she said, hesitatingly. “Mr. Audley is a very agreeable young man, and a very honorable young man; but you know, Sir Michael, I’m rather a young aunt for such a nephew, and —”

      “And what, Lucy?” asked the baronet, fiercely.

      “Poor Alicia is rather jealous of any attention Mr. Audley pays me, and — and — I think it would be better for her happiness if your nephew were to bring his visit to a close.”

      “He shall go to-night, Lucy,” exclaimed Sir Michael. “I am a blind, neglectful fool not to have thought of this before. My lovely little darling, it was scarcely just to Bob to expose the poor lad to your fascinations. I know him to be as good and true-hearted a fellow as ever breathed, but — but — he shall go tonight.”

      “But you won’t be too abrupt, dear? You won’t be rude?”

      “Rude! No, Lucy. I left him smoking in the lime-walk. I’ll go and tell him that he must get out of the house in an hour.”

      So in that leafless avenue, under whose gloomy shade George Talboys had stood on that thunderous evening before the day of his disappearance, Sir Michael Audley told his nephew that the Court was no home for him, and that my lady was too young and pretty to accept the attentions of a handsome nephew of eight-and-twenty.

      Robert only shrugged his shoulders and elevated his thick, black eyebrows as Sir Michael delicately hinted all this.

      “I have been attentive to my lady,” he said. “She interests me;” and then, with a change in his voice, and an emotion not common to him, he turned to the baronet, and grasping his hand, exclaimed, “God forbid, my dear uncle, that I should ever bring trouble upon such a noble heart as yours! God forbid that the slightest shadow of dishonor should ever fall upon your honored head — least of all through agency of mine.”

      The young man uttered these few words in a broken and disjointed fashion in which Sir Michael had never heard him speak, before, and then turning away his head, fairly broke down.

      He left the court that night, but he did not go far. Instead of taking the evening train for London, he went straight up to the little village of Mount Stanning, and walking into the neatly-kept inn, asked Phoebe Marks if he could be accommodated with apartments.

      Chapter 17

       At the Castle Inn.

       Table of Contents

      The little sitting-room into which Phoebe Marks ushered the baronet’s nephew was situated on the ground floor, and only separated by a lath-and-plaster partition from the little bar-parlor occupied by the innkeeper and his wife.

      It seemed as though the wise architect who had superintended the building of the Castle Inn had taken especial care that nothing but the frailest and most flimsy material should be used, and that the wind, having a special fancy for this unprotected spot, should have full play for the indulgence of its caprices.

      To this end pitiful woodwork had been used instead of solid masonry; rickety ceilings had been propped up by fragile rafters, and beams that threatened on every stormy night to fall upon the heads of those beneath them; doors whose specialty was never to be shut, yet always to be banging; windows constructed with a peculiar view to letting in the draft when they were shut, and keeping out the air when they were open. The hand of genius had devised this lonely country inn; and there was not an inch of woodwork, or trowelful of plaster employed in all the rickety construction that did not offer its own peculiar weak point to every assault of its indefatigable foe.

      Robert looked about him with a feeble smile of resignation.

      It was a change, decidedly, from the luxurious comforts of Audley Court, and it was rather a strange fancy of the young barrister to prefer loitering at this dreary village hostelry to returning to his snug chambers in Figtree Court.

      But he had brought his Lares and Penates with him, in the shape of his German pipe, his tobacco canister, half a dozen French novels, and his two ill-conditioned, canine favorites, which sat shivering before the smoky little fire, barking shortly and sharply now and then, by way of hinting for some slight refreshment.

      While Mr. Robert Audley contemplated his new quarters, Phoebe Marks summoned a little village lad who was in the habit of running errands for her, and taking him into the kitchen, gave him a tiny note, carefully folded and sealed.

      “You know Audley Court?”

      “Yes, mum.”

      “If you’ll run there with this letter to-night, and see that it’s put safely in Lady Audley’s hands, I’ll give you a shilling.”

      “Yes, mum.”

      “You understand? Ask to see my lady; you can say you’ve a message — not a note, mind — but a message from Phoebe Marks; and when you see her, give this into her own hand.”

      “Yes, mum.”

      “You won’t forget?”

      “No, mum.”

      “Then be off with you.”

      The boy waited for no second bidding, but in another moment was scudding along the lonely high road, down the sharp descent that led to Audley.

      Phoebe Marks went to the window, and looked out at the black figure of the lad hurrying through the dusky winter evening.

      “If there’s any bad meaning in his coming here,” she thought, “my lady will know of it in time, at any rate,”

      Phoebe herself brought the neatly arranged tea-tray, and the little covered dish of ham and eggs which had been prepared for this unlooked-for visitor. Her pale hair was as smoothly braided, and her light gray dress fitted as precisely as of old. The same neutral tints pervaded her person and her dress; no showy rose-colored ribbons or rustling silk gown proclaimed the well-to-do innkeeper’s wife. Phoebe Marks was a person who never lost her individuality. Silent and self-constrained, she seemed to hold herself within herself, and take no color from the outer world.

      Robert looked at her thoughtfully as she spread the cloth, and drew the table nearer to the fireplace.

      “That,” he thought, “is a woman who could keep a secret.”

      The dogs looked rather suspiciously at the quiet figure of Mrs. Marks gliding softly about the room, from the teapot to the caddy, and from the caddy to the kettle singing on the hob.

      “Will you pour out my tea for me, Mrs. Marks?” said Robert, seating himself on a horsehair-covered arm-chair, which fitted him as tightly in every direction as if he had been measured for it.

      “You have come straight from the Court, sir?” said Phoebe, as she handed Robert the sugar-basin.

      “Yes; I only left my uncle’s an hour ago.”

      “And my lady, sir, was she quite well?”

      “Yes, quite well.”

      “As gay and light-hearted as ever, sir?”

      “As gay and light-hearted as ever.”

      Phoebe retired respectfully after having given Mr. Audley his tea, but as she stood with her hand upon the lock of the door he spoke again.

      “You knew Lady Audley when she was Miss Lucy Graham, did you not?” he asked.

      “Yes,

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