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begin with the verb hntal, a verb of the first conjugation, which
signifies rejoice. Come along. Hntam, I rejoice; hntas, thou rejoicest.
Why don't you follow, Belle?"
"I'm sure I don't rejoice, whatever you may do," said Belle.
"The chief difficulty, Belle," said I, "that I find in teaching you the
Armenian grammar proceeds from your applying to yourself and me every
example I give."
"I can't bear this much longer," said Belle.
"Keep yourself quiet," said I. "We will skip hntal and proceed to the
second conjugation. Belle, I will now select for you to conjugate the
prettiest verb in Armenian--the verb siriel. Here is the present tense:
siriem, siries, sirč, siriemk, sirčk, sirien. Come on, Belle, and say
'siriem.'"
Belle hesitated. "You must admit, Belle, it is much softer than hntam."
"It is so," said Belle, "and to oblige you, I will say 'siriem.'"
"Very well indeed, Belle," said I. "And now, to show you how verbs act
upon pronouns, I will say 'siriem zkiez.' Please to repeat 'siriem
zkiez.'"
"'Siriem zkiez!'" said Belle. "That last word is very hard to say."
"Sorry that you think so, Belle," said I. "Now please to say 'siria
zis.'" Belle did so.
"Now say 'yerani thč sirčir zis,'" said I.
"'Yerani thč sirčir zis,'" said Belle.
"Capital!" said I. "You have now said, 'I love you--love me--ah! would
that you would love me!'"
"And I have said all these things?"
"You have said them in Armenian," said I.
"I would have said them in no language that I understood; and it was
very wrong of you to take advantage of my ignorance and make me say such
things."
"Why so?" said I. "If you said them, I said them, too."
"You did so," said Belle; "but I believe you were merely bantering and
jeering."
"As I told you before, Belle," said I, "the chief difficulty which I
find in teaching you Armenian proceeds from your persisting in applying
to yourself and me every example I give."
"Then you meant nothing, after all?" said Belle, raising her voice.
"Let us proceed: sirietsi, I loved."
"You never loved anyone but yourself," said Belle; "and what's more----"
"Sirietsits, I will love," said I; "sirietsies, thou wilt love."
"Never one so thoroughly heartless."
"I tell you what, Belle--you are becoming intolerable. But we will
change the verb. You would hardly believe, Belle," said I, "that the
Armenian is in some respects closely connected with the Irish, but so it
is. For example: that word parghatsoutsaniem is evidently derived from
the same root as fear-gaim, which, in Irish, is as much as to say, 'I
vex.'"
"You do, indeed," said Belle, sobbing.
"But how do you account for it?"
"Oh, man, man!" cried Belle, bursting into tears, "for what purpose do
you ask a poor ignorant girl such a question, unless it be to vex and
irritate her? If you wish to display your learning, do so to the wise
and instructed, and not to me, who can scarcely read or write."
"I am sorry to see you take on so, dear Belle," said I. "I had no idea
of making you cry. Come, I beg your pardon; what more can I do? Come,
cheer up, Belle. You were talking of parting; don't let us part, but
depart, and that together."
"Our ways lie different," said Belle.
"I don't see why they should," said I. "Come, let us be off to America
together."
"To America together?" said Belle.
"Yes," said I; "where we will settle down in some forest, and conjugate
the verb siriel conjugally."
"Conjugally?" said Belle.
"Yes; as man and wife in America."
"You are jesting, as usual," said Belle.
"Not I, indeed. Come, Belle, make up your mind, and let us be off to
America."
"I don't think you are jesting," said Belle; "but I can hardly entertain
your offers; however, young man, I thank you. I will say nothing more at
present. I must have time to consider."
Next day, when I got up to go with Mr. Petulengro to the fair, on
leaving my tent I observed Belle, entirely dressed, standing close to
her own little encampment.
"Dear me," said I. "I little expected to find you up so early."
"I merely lay down in my things," said Belle; "I wished to be in
readiness to bid you farewell when you departed."
"Well, God bless you, Belle!" said I. "I shall be home to-night; by
which time I expect you will have made up your mind."
On arriving at the extremity of the plain, I looked towards the dingle.
Isopel Berners stood at the mouth, the beams of the early morning sun
shone full on her noble face and figure. I waved my hand towards her.
She slowly lifted up her right arm. I turned away, and never saw Isopel
Berners again.
The fourth morning afterwards I received from her a letter in which she
sent me a lock of her hair and told me she was just embarking for a
distant country, never expecting to see her own again. She concluded
with this piece of advice: "_Fear God_, and take your own part. Fear
God, young man, and never give in! The world can bully, and is fond, if
it sees a man in a kind of difficulty, of getting about him, calling him
coarse names; but no sooner sees the man taking off his coat and
offering to fight, than it scatters, and is always civil to him
afterwards."
_III.--Horse-Keeping and Horse-Dealing_
After thus losing Isopel, I decided to leave the dingle, and having, by
Mr. Petulengro's kind advice, become the possessor of a fine horse, I
gave my pony and tinker's outfit to the gipsies, and set out on the
road, whereupon I was to meet with strange adventures.
At length, awaiting the time when I could take my horse to Horncastle
Fair and sell him, I settled at a busy inn on the high-road, where, in
return for board and lodging for myself and horse, I had to supervise
the distribution of hay and corn in the stables, and to keep an account
thereof. The old ostler, with whom I was soon on excellent terms, was a
regular character--a Yorkshireman by birth, who had seen a great deal of
life in the vicinity of London. He had served as ostler at a small inn
at Hounslow, much frequented by highway men. Jerry Abershaw and Richard
Ferguson, generally called Galloping Dick, were capital customers then,
he told me, and he had frequently drunk with them in the corn-room. No
man could desire jollier companions over a glass of "summut"; but on the
road they were terrible, cursing and swearing, and thrusting the muzzles
of their pistols into people's mouths.
From the old ostler I picked up many valuable hints about horses.
"When you are a gentleman," said he, "should you ever wish to take a
journey on a horse of your own, follow my advice. Before you start,
merely give your horse a couple of handfuls of corn, and a little
water--somewhat under a quart. Then you may walk and trot for about ten
miles till you come to some nice inn, where you see your horse led into
a nice stall, telling the ostler not to feed him till you come. If the
ostler happens to have a dog, say what a nice one it is; if he hasn't,
ask him how he's getting on, and whether he ever knew worse times; when
your back's turned, he'll say what a nice gentleman you are, and how he
thinks he has seen you before.
"Then go and sit down to breakfast, and before you have finished, get up
and go and give your horse a feed of corn; chat with the ostler two or
three minutes till your horse has taken the shine out of his corn, which
will prevent the ostler taking any of it away when your back's turned.
Then go and finish your breakfast, and when you have finished your
breakfast, when you have called for the newspaper, go and water your
horse, letting him have about one pailful; then give him another feed of
corn, and enter into discourse with the ostler about bull-baiting, the
prime minister, and the like; and when your horse has once more taken
the shine out of his corn, go back to your room and your newspaper. Then
pull the bell-rope and order in your bill, which you will pay without
counting it up--supposing you to be a gentleman. Give the waiter
sixpence, and order out your horse, and when your horse is out, pay for
the corn, and give the ostler a shilling, then mount your horse and walk
him gently for five miles.
"See to your horse at night, and have him well rubbed down. Next day,
you may ride your horse forty miles just as you please, and those will
bring you to your journey's end, unless it's a plaguey long one. If so,
never ride your horse more than five-and-thirty miles a day, always
seeing him well fed, and taking more care of him than yourself, seeing
as how he is the best animal of the two."
The stage-coachmen of that time--low fellows, but masters of driving--
were made so much fuss of by sprigs of nobility and others that their
brutality and rapacious insolence had reached a climax. One, who
frequented our inn, and who was called the "bang-up coachman," was a
swaggering bully, who not only lashed his horses unmercifully, but in
one or two instances had beaten in a barbarous manner individuals who
had quarrelled with him. One day an inoffensive old fellow of sixty, who
refused him a tip for his insolence, was lighting his pipe, when the
coachman struck it out of his mouth.
The elderly individual, without manifesting much surprise, said: "I
thank you; and if you will wait a minute I'll give you a receipt for
that favour." Then, gathering up his pipe, and taking off his coat and
hat, he advanced towards the coachman, holding his hands crossed very
near his face.
The coachman, who expected anything but such a movement, pointed at him
derisively with his finger. The next moment, however, the other had
struck aside the hand with his left fist, and given him a severe blow on
the nose with his right, which he immediately followed by a left-hand
blow in the eye. The coachman endeavoured to close, but his foe was not
to be closed with; he did not shift or dodge about, but warded off the
blows of his opponent with the greatest _sangfroid_, always using the
same guard, and putting in short, chopping blows with the quickness of
lightning. In a very few minutes the coachman was literally cut to
pieces. He did not appear on the box again for a week, and never held up
his head afterwards.
Reaching Horncastle at last, I managed to get quarters for myself and
horse, and, by making friends with the ostlers and others, picked up
more hints.
"There a'n't a better horse in the fair," said one companion to me, "and
as you are one of us, and appear to be all right, I'll give you a piece
of advice--don't take less than a hundred and fifty for him."
"Well," said I, "thank you for your advice; and, if successful, I will
give you 'summut' handsome."
"Thank you," said the ostler; "and now let me ask whether you are up to
all the ways of this here place?"
"I've never been here before," said I.
Thereupon he gave me half a dozen cautions, one of which was not to stop
and listen to what any chance customer might have to say; and another,
by no manner of means to permit a Yorkshireman to get up into the
saddle. "For," said he, "if you do, it is three to one that he rides off
with the horse; he can't help it. Trust a cat amongst cream, but never
trust a Yorkshireman on the saddle of a good horse."
"A fine horse! A capital horse!" said several of the connoisseurs. "What
do you ask for him?"
"A hundred and fifty pounds," said I.
"Why, I thought you would have asked double that amount! You do yourself
injustice, young man."
"Perhaps I do," said I; "but that's my affair. I do not choose to take
more."
"I wish you would let me get into the saddle," said the man. "The horse
knows you, and therefore shows to more advantage; but I should like to
see how he would move under me, who am a stranger. Will you let me get
into the saddle, young man?"
"No," said I.
"Why not?" said the man.
"Lest you should be a Yorkshireman," said I, "and should run away with
the horse."
"Yorkshire?" said the man. "I am from Suffolk--silly Suffolk--so you
need not be afraid of my running away with him."
"Oh, if that's the case," said I, "I should be afraid that the horse
would run away with you!"
Threading my way as well as I could through the press, I returned to the
yard of the inn, where, dismounting, I stood still, holding the horse by
the bridle. A jockey, who had already bargained with me, entered,
accompanied by another individual.
"Here is my lord come to look at the horse, young man," said the jockey.
My lord was a tall figure of about five-and-thirty. He had on his head a
hat somewhat rusty, and on his back a surtout of blue rather worse for
wear. His forehead, if not high, was exceedingly narrow; his eyes were
brown, with a rat-like glare in them. He had scarcely glanced at the
horse when, drawing in his cheeks, he thrust out his lips like a baboon
to a piece of sugar.
"Is this horse yours?" said he.
"It's my horse," said I. "Are you the person who wishes to make an
honest penny by it?" alluding to a phrase of the jockey's.
"How?" said he, drawing up his head with a very consequential look, and
speaking with a very haughty tone. "What do you mean?" We looked at each
other full in the face. "My agent here informs me that you ask one
hundred and fifty pounds, which I cannot think of giving. The horse is a
showy horse. But look, my dear sir, he has a defect here, and in his
near foreleg I observe something which looks very much like a splint!
Yes, upon my credit, he has a splint, or something which will end in
one! A hundred and fifty pounds, sir! What could have induced you to ask
anything like that for this animal? I protest--Who are you, sir? I am in
treaty for this horse," said he, turning to a man who had come up whilst
he was talking, and was now looking into the horse's mouth.
"Who am I?" said the man, still looking into the horse's mouth. "Who am
I? his lordship asks me. Ah, I see, close on five," said he, releasing
the horse's jaws.
Close beside him stood a tall youth in a handsome riding dress, and
wearing a singular green hat with a high peak.
"What do you ask for him?" said the man.
"A hundred and fifty," said I.
"I shouldn't mind giving it to you," said he.
"You will do no such thing," said his lordship. "Sir," said he to me, "I
must give you what you ask."
"No," said I; "had you come forward in a manly and gentlemanly manner to
purchase the horse I should have been happy to sell him to you; but
after all the fault you have found with him I would not sell him to you
at any price."
His lordship, after a contemptuous look at me and a scowl at the jockey,
stalked out.
"And now," said the other, "I suppose I may consider myself as the
purchaser of this here animal for this young gentleman?"
"By no means," said I. "I am utterly unacquainted with either of you."
"Oh, I have plenty of vouchers for my respectability!" said he. And,
thrusting his hand into his bosom, he drew out a bundle of notes. "These
are the kind of things which vouch best for a man's respectability."
"Not always," said I; "sometimes these kind of things need vouchers for
themselves." The man looked at me with a peculiar look. "Do you mean to
say that these notes are not sufficient notes?" said he; "because, if
you do, I shall take the liberty of thinking that you are not over
civil; and when I thinks a person is not over and above civil I
sometimes takes off my coat; and when my coat is off----"
"You sometimes knock people down," I added. "Well, whether you knock me
down or not, I beg leave to tell you that I am a stranger in this fair,
and shall part with the horse to nobody who has no better guarantee for
his respectability than a roll of bank-notes, which may be good or not
for what I know, who am not a judge of such things."
"Oh, if you are a stranger here," said the man, "you are quite right to
be cautious, queer things being done in this fair. But I suppose if the
landlord of the house vouches for me and my notes you will have no
objection to part with the horse to me?"
"None whatever," said I.
Thereupon I delivered the horse to my friend the ostler. The landlord
informed me that my new acquaintance was a respectable horse-dealer and
an intimate friend of his, whereupon the purchase was soon brought to a
satisfactory conclusion.
_IV.--A Recruiting Sergeant_
Leaving Horncastle the next day, I bent my steps eastward, and on the
following day I reached a large town situated on a river. At the end of
the town I was accosted by a fiery-faced individual dressed as a
recruiting sergeant.
"Young man, you are just the kind of person to serve the Honourable East
India Company."
"I had rather the Honourable Company should serve me," said I.
"Of course, young man. Take this shilling; 'tis service money. The
Honourable Company engages to serve you, and you the Honourable
Company."
"And what must I do for the Company?"
"Only go to India--the finest country in the world. Rivers bigger than
the Ouse. Hills higher than anything near Spalding. Trees--you never saw
such trees! Fruits--you never saw such fruits!"
"And the people--what kind are they?"
"Pah! Kauloes--blacks--a set of rascals! And they calls us lolloes,
which, in their beastly gibberish, means reds. Why do you stare so?"
"Why," said I, "this is the very language of Mr. Petulengro."
"I say, young fellow, I don't like your way of speaking; you are mad,
sir. You won't do for the Honourable Company. Good-day to you!"
"I shouldn't wonder," said I, as I proceeded rapidly eastward, "if Mr.
Petulengro came from India. I think I'll go there."
* * * * *
M. E. BRADDON
Lady Audley's Secret
Mary Elizabeth Maxwell, youngest daughter of Henry Braddon,
solicitor, and widow of John Maxwell, publisher, was born in
London in 1837. Early in life she had literary aspirations,
and, as a girl of twenty-three, wrote her first novel, "The
Trail of the Serpent," which first appeared in serial form.
"Lady Audley's Secret" was published in 1862, and Miss Braddon
immediately sprang into fame as an authoress, combining a
graphic style with keen analysis of character, and exceptional
ingenuity in the construction of a plot of tantalising
complexities and DRAMATIC _DÉNOUEMENT_. The book passed
through many editions, and there was an immediate demand for
other stories by the gifted authoress. That demand was met
with an industry and resource rarely equalled. Every year
since, Miss Braddon, who throughout retained her maiden as her
pen-name, furnished the reading public with one, and for a
long period two romances of absorbing interest.
_I.--The Second Lady Audley_
SIR MICHAEL AUDLEY was fifty-six years of age, and had married a second
wife nine months before. For seventeen years he had been a widower with
an only child--Alicia, now eighteen. Lady Audley had come into the
neighbourhood from London, in response to an advertisement in the
"Times," as a governess in the family of Mr. Dawson, the village
surgeon. Her accomplishments were brilliant and numerous. Everyone, high
and low, loved, admired, and praised her, and united in declaring that
Lucy Graham was the sweetest girl that ever lived. Sir Michael Audley
expressed a strong desire to be acquainted with her. A meeting was
arranged at the surgeon's house, and that day Sir Michael's fate was
sealed. One misty June evening Sir Michael, sitting opposite Lucy Graham
at the window of the surgeon's little drawing-room, spoke to her on the
subject nearest his heart.
"I scarcely think," he said, "there is a greater sin, Lucy, than that of
a woman who marries a man she does not love. You are so precious to me
that, deeply as my heart is set on this, and bitter as the mere thought
of disappointment is to me, I would not have you commit such a sin for
any happiness of mine. Nothing but misery can result from a marriage
dictated by any motive but truth and love."
Lucy for some moments was quite silent. Then, turning to him with a
sudden passion in her manner that lighted up her face with a new and
wonderful beauty, she fell on her knees at his feet. Clutching at a
black ribbon about her throat, she exclaimed:
"How good, how noble, how generous you are! But you ask too much of me.
Only remember what my life has been! From babyhood I have never seen
anything but poverty. My father was a gentleman, but poor; my mother--
but don't let me speak of her. You can never guess what is endured by
genteel paupers. I cannot be disinterested; I cannot be blind to the
advantages of such a marriage. I do not dislike you--no, no; and I do
not love anyone in the world," she added, with a laugh, when asked if
there was anyone else.
Sir Michael was silent for a few moments, and then, with a kind of
effort, said: "Well, Lucy, I will not ask too much of you; but I see no
reason why we should not make a very happy couple."
When Lucy went to her own room she sat down on the edge of the bed, and
murmured: "No more dependence, no more drudgery, no more humiliations!
Every trace of the old life melted away, every clue to identity buried
and forgotten except this"--and she drew from her bosom a black ribbon
and locket, and the object attached to it. It was a ring wrapped in an
oblong piece of crumpled paper, partly written and partly printed.
_II.--The Return of the Gold-Seeker_
A tall, powerfully-built young man of twenty-five, his face bronzed by
exposure, brown eyes, bushy black beard, moustache, and hair, was pacing
impatiently the deck of the Australian liner Argus, bound from Melbourne
to Liverpool. His name was George Talboys. He was joined in his
promenade by a shipboard-friend, who had been attracted by the feverish
ardour and freshness of the young man, and was made the confidant of his
story.
"Do you know, Miss Morley," he said, "that I left my little girl asleep,
with her baby in her arms, and with nothing but a few blotted lines to
tell her why her adoring husband had deserted her."
"Deserted her!" cried Miss Morley.
"Yes. I was a cornet in a cavalry regiment when I first met my darling.
We were quartered in a stupid seaport town, where my pet lived with her
shabby old father--a half-pay naval man. It was a case of love at first
sight on both sides, and my darling and I made a match of it. My father
is a rich man, but no sooner did he hear that I was married to a
penniless girl than he wrote a furious letter telling me that he would
never again hold any communication with me, and that my yearly allowance
was stopped.
"I sold out my commission, thinking that before the money I got for it
was exhausted I should be sure to drop into something. I took my darling
to Italy, lived in splendid style, and then, when there was nothing left
but a couple of hundred pounds, we came back to England and boarded with
my wretched father-in-law, who fleeced us finely. I went to London and
tried in vain to get employment; and on my return, my little girl burst
into a storm of lamentations, blaming me for the cruel wrong of marrying
her if I could give her nothing but poverty and misery. Her tears and
reproaches drove me almost mad. I ran out of the house, rushed down to
the pier, intending, after dark, to drop quietly into the water and end
all.
"While I sat smoking two men came along, and began to talk of the
Australian gold-diggings and the great fortunes that were to be made
there in a short time. I got into conversation with them, and learned
that a ship sailed from Liverpool for Melbourne in three days. The
thought flashed on me that that was better than the water. I returned
home, crept upstairs, and wrote a few hurried lines which told her that
I never loved her better than now when I seemed to desert her; that I
was going to try my fortune in a new world; that if I succeeded I should
come back to bring her plenty and happiness, but if I failed I should
never look upon her face again. I kissed her hand and the baby once, and
slipped out of the room. Three nights after I was out at sea, bound for
Melbourne, a steerage passenger with a digger's tools for my baggage,
and seven shillings in my pocket. After three and a half years of hard
and bitter struggles on the goldfields, at last I struck it rich,
realised twenty thousand pounds, and a fortnight later I took my passage
for England. All this time I had never communicated with my wife, but
the moment fortune came, I wrote, telling her I should be in England
almost as soon as my letter, and giving her an address at a coffee-house
in London."
That same evening Phoebe Marks, maid to Lady Audley, invited her cousin
and sweetheart, Luke Marks, a farm labourer with ambitions to own a
public-house, to survey the wonders of Audley Court, including my lady's
private apartments and her jewel-box. During the inspection, by
accident, a knob in the framework of the jewel-box was pushed, and a
secret drawer sprang out There were neither gold nor gems in it. Only a
baby's little worsted shoe, rolled in a piece of paper, and a tiny lock
of silky yellow hair, evidently taken from a baby's head. Phoebe's eyes
dilated as she examined the little packet.
"So this is what my lady hides in the secret drawer," she said, putting
the little packet in her pocket.
"Why, Phoebe, you're never going to be such a fool as to take that?"
cried Luke.
"I'd rather have this than the diamond bracelet you would have liked to
take," she said, her lips curving into a curious smile. "You shall have
the public-house, Luke."
_III.--Robert Audley Comes on the Scene_
Robert Audley was supposed to be a barrister, and had chambers in Fig
Tree Court, Temple. He was a handsome, lazy, care-for-nothing fellow of
seven-and-twenty, the only son of the younger brother of Sir Michael
Audley, who had left him a moderate competency.
One morning, Robert Audley strolled out of the Temple, Blackfriarswards.
At the corner of a court in St. Paul's Churchyard he was almost knocked
down by a man of his own age dashing headlong into the narrow opening.
Robert remonstrated; the stranger stopped suddenly, looked very hard at
the speaker, and cried, in a tone of intense astonishment:
"Bob! I only touched British ground after dark last night, and to think
I should meet you this morning!"
George Talboys, for the stranger was the late passenger on board the
Argus, had been from boyhood the inseparable chum of Robert Audley. The
tale of Talboys' marriage, his expedition to Australia, and his return
with a fortune, was briefly told. The pair took a hansom to the
Westminster coffee-house where Talboys had written to his wife to
forward letters. There was no letter, and the young man showed very
bitter disappointment. By and by George mechanically picked up a "Times"
newspaper of a day or two before, and stared vacantly at the first page.
He turned a sickly colour, and pointed to a line which ran: "On the 24th
inst., at Ventnor-Isle of Wight, Helen Talboys, aged 22." He knew no
more until he opened his eyes in a room in his friend's chambers in the
Temple.
Next day he and Robert Audley journeyed by express to Ventnor, learned
on inquiry at the principal hotel that a Captain Maldon, whose daughter
was lately dead, was staying at Lansdowne Cottage; and thither they
proceeded. The captain and his little grandson, Georgey, were out.
George Talboys and his friend visited the churchyard where his wife was
buried, commissioned a mason to erect a headstone on the grave, and then
went to the beach to seek Captain Maldon and the little boy.
The captain, when he saw his son-in-law, coloured violently with
something of a frightened look. He told Talboys that only a few months
after his departure he and Helen came to live at Southampton, where she
had obtained a few pupils for the piano; but her health failed, and she
fell into a decline, of which she died. Broken-hearted, Talboys started
for Liverpool to take ship for Australia, but failed to catch the
steamer; returned to London, and accompanied Robert Audley on a long
visit to Russia.
A year passed, and Robert proposed to take his friend to Audley Court,
but had a letter from his cousin Alicia, saying that her stepmother had
taken into her head that she was too ill to entertain, though in reality
there was nothing the matter with her.
"My lady's airs and graces shan't keep us out of Essex, for all that,"
said Robert Audley. "We will go to a comfortable old inn in the village
of Audley."
Thither they went; but Lady Audley, who had casually seen him, although
he was unaware of it, continued on one excuse or another to avoid
meeting George Talboys. The two young men strolled up to the Court in
the absence of Sir Michael and Lady Audley, where they met Alicia
Audley, who showed them the lime walk and the old well.
Robert was anxious to see the portrait of his new aunt; but Lady
Audley's picture was in her private apartments, the door of which was
locked. Alicia remembered there was, unknown to Lady Audley, access to
these by means of a secret passage. In a spirit of fun the young men
explored the passage and reached the portrait. George Talboys sat before
it without uttering a word, only staring blankly.
"We managed it capitally; but I don't like the portrait," said Robert,
when they had crept back. "There is something odd about it."
"There is," answered Alicia. "We never have seen my lady look as she
does in that picture; but I think she could look so."
Next day Talboys and Robert went fishing. George pretended to fish;
Robert slept on the river-bank. The servants were at dinner at the
Court; Alicia had gone riding. Lady Audley sauntered out, book in hand,
to the shady lime walk. George Talboys came up to the hall, rang the
bell, was told that her ladyship was walking in the lime avenue. He
looked disappointed at the intelligence, and walked away. A full hour
and a half later, Lady Audley returned to the house, not coming from the
lime avenue, but from the opposite direction. In her own room she
confronted her maid, Phoebe. The eyes of the two women met.
"Phoebe Marks," said my lady presently, "you are a good girl; and while
I live and am prosperous, you shall not want a firm friend and a
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