Sir Michael Audley rose from his chair, trembling with indignation, and ready to do immediate battle with the person who had caused his wife’s grief.
‘Lucy,’ he said, ‘Lucy, I insist upon your telling me what and who has distressed you. I insist upon it. Whoever has annoyed you shall answer to me for your grief. Come, my love, tell me directly what it is!’
He reseated himself and bent over the drooping figure at his feet, calming his own agitation in his desire to soothe his wife’s distress.
‘Tell me what it is, my dear!’ he whispered tenderly.
The sharp paroxysm had passed away, and my lady looked up: a glittering light shone through the tears in her eyes, and the lines about her pretty rosy mouth, those hard and cruel lines which Robert Audley had observed in the pre-Raphaelite portrait, were plainly visible in the firelight.
‘I am very silly,’ she said; ‘but really he has made me quite hysterical.’
‘Who—who has made you hysterical?’
‘Your nephew—Mr Robert Audley.’
‘Robert!’ cried the baronet. ‘Lucy, what do you mean?’
‘I told you that Mr Audley insisted upon my going into the lime-walk, dear,’ said my lady. ‘He wanted to talk to me, he said, and I went, and he said such horrible things that—’
‘What horrible things, Lucy?’
Lady Audley shuddered and clung with convulsive fingers to the strong hand that had rested caressingly upon her shoulder.
‘What did he say, Lucy?’
‘Oh, my dear love, how can I tell you?’ cried my lady. ‘I know that I shall distress you—or you will laugh at me, and then—’
‘Laugh at you? no, Lucy.’
Lady Audley was silent for a moment. She sat looking straight before her into the fire, with her fingers still locked about her husband’s hand.
‘My dear,’ she said, slowly, hesitating now and then between her words, as if she almost shrank from uttering them, ‘have you ever—I am so afraid of vexing you—or—have you ever thought Mr Audley—a little—’
‘A little what, my darling?’
‘A little out of his mind,’ faltered Lady Audley.
‘Out of his mind!’ cried Sir Michael. ‘My dear girl, what are you thinking of?’
‘You said just now, dear, that you thought he was half mad.’
‘Did I, my love?’ said the baronet, laughing. ‘I don’t remember saying it, and it was a mere façon de parler,* that meant nothing whatever. Robert may be a little eccentric—a little stupid, perhaps—he mayn’t be overburdened with wits, but I don’t think he has brains enough for madness. I believe it’s generally your great intellects that get out of order.’
‘But madness is sometimes hereditary,’ said my lady. ‘Mr Audley may have inherited—’
‘He has inherited no madness from his father’s family,’ interrupted Sir Michael. ‘The Audleys have never peopled private lunatic asylums or fee’d mad doctors.’
‘Nor from his mother’s family?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘People generally keep these things a secret,’ said my lady, gravely. ‘There may have been madness in your sister-in-law’s family.’
‘I don’t think so, my dear,’ replied Sir Michael. ‘But, Lucy, tell me what, in Heaven’s name, has put this idea into your head?’
‘I have been trying to account for your nephew’s conduct. I can account for it in no other manner. If you had heard the things he said to me to-night, Sir Michael, you too might have thought him mad.’
‘But what did he say, Lucy?’
‘I can scarcely tell you. You can see how much he has stupefied and bewildered me. I believe he has lived too long alone in those solitary Temple chambers. Perhaps he reads too much, or smokes too much. You know that some physicians declare madness to be a mere illness of the brain—an illness to which any one is subject, and which may be produced by given causes, and cured by given means.’
Lady Audley’s eyes were still fixed upon the burning coals in the wide grate. She spoke as if she had been discussing a subject that she had often heard discussed before. She spoke as if her mind had almost wandered away from the thought of her husband’s nephew to the wider question of madness in the abstract.
‘Why should he not be mad?’ resumed my lady. ‘People are insane for years and years before their insanity is found out. They know that they are mad, but they know how to keep their secret; and, perhaps they may sometimes keep it till they die. Sometimes a paroxysm seizes them, and in an evil hour they betray themselves. They commit a crime, perhaps. The horrible temptation of opportunity assails them, the knife is in their hand, and the unconscious victim by their side. They may conquer the restless demon and go away, and die innocent of any violent deed; but they may yield to the horrible temptation—the frightful, passionate, hungry craving for violence and horror. They sometimes yield, and are lost.’
Lady Audley’s voice rose as she argued this dreadful question. The hysterical excitement from which she had only just recovered had left its effects upon her, but she controlled herself, and her tone grew calmer as she resumed:—
‘Robert Audley is mad,’ she said, decisively. ‘What is one of the strongest diagnostics of madness—what is the first appalling sign of mental aberration? The mind becomes stationary; the brain stagnates; the even current of the mind is interrupted; the thinking power of the brain resolves itself into a monotone. As the waters of a tideless pool putrefy by reason of their stagnation, the mind becomes turbid and corrupt through lack of action; and perpetual reflection upon one subject resolves itself into monomania. Robert Audley is a monomaniac. The disappearance of his friend, George Talboys, grieved and bewildered him. He dwelt upon this one idea until he lost the power of thinking of anything else. The one idea looked at perpetually became distorted to his mental vision. Repeat the commonest word in the English language twenty times, and before the twentieth repetition you will have begun to wonder whether the word which you repeat is really the word you mean to utter. Robert Audley has thought of his friend’s disappearance until the one idea has done its fatal and unhealthy work. He looks at a common event with a vision that is diseased, and he distorts it into a gloomy horror engendered of his own monomania. If you do not want to make me as mad as he is, you must never let me see him again. He declared to-night that George Talboys was murdered in this place, and that he will root up every tree in the gardens, and pull down every brick in the house, in his search for—’
My lady paused. The words died away upon her lips. She had exhausted herself by the strange energy with which she had spoken. She had been transformed from a frivolous childish beauty into a woman, strong to argue her own cause and plead her own defence.
‘Pull down this house!’ cried the baronet. ‘George Talboys murdered at Audley Court! Did Robert say this, Lucy?’
‘He said something of that kind—something that frightened me very much.’
‘Then he must be mad,’ 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 argument 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.’
&
nbsp; The big words sounded strange from my lady’s rosy lips; but her newly-adopted wisdom had a certain quaint prettiness about it, which 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 his 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 heavens, 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 really is 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 heavens, 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, my darling?’
‘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 which 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 XIII
PHŒBE’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 indeed more like Alicia in disposition, the two ladies might have expended their enmity in one tremendous quarrel, and might ever afterwards 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 force to the recollection of bygone conquest and defeat. We have hated each other and licked each other and had it out, as the common phrase goes, and we can afford now to fall into each other’s arms and vow eternal friendship and everlasting brotherhood. Let us hope that when Northern Yankeydom has decimated and been decimated, blustering Jonathan* may fling himself upon his Southern brother’s breast, forgiving and forgiven.
Alicia Audley and her father’s pretty wife had plenty of room for the comfortable indulgence of their dislike in the spacious old mansion. My lady had her own apartments, as we know—luxurious chambers, in which all conceivable elegancies had been gathered for the comfort of their occupant. Alicia had her own rooms in another part of the large house. She had her favourite mare, her Newfoundland dog, and her drawing materials, and she made herself tolerably happy. She was not very happy, this frank, generous-hearted girl, for it was scarcely possible that she could be altogether at ease in the constrained atmosphere of the Court. Her father was changed—that dear father, over whom she had once reigned supreme with the boundless authority of a spoiled child, had accepted another ruler and submitted to a new dynasty. Little by little my lady’s pretty power made itself felt in that narrow household, and Alicia saw her father gradually lured across the gulf that divided Lady Audley from her step-daughter, until he stood at last quite upon the other side of the abyss, and looked coldly upon his only child across that widening chasm.
Alicia felt that he was lost to her. My lady’s beaming smiles, my lady’s winning words, my lady’s radiant glances and bewitching graces had done their work of enchantment, and Sir Michael had grown to loo
k upon his daughter as a somewhat wilful and capricious young person who had behaved with determined unkindness to the wife he loved.
Poor Alicia saw all this, and bore her burden as well as she could. It seemed very hard to be a handsome grey-eyed heiress, with dogs and horses and servants at her command, and yet to be so much alone in the world as to know of not one friendly ear into which she might pour her sorrows.
‘If Bob was good for anything, I could have told him how unhappy I am,’ thought Miss Audley; ‘but I may just as well tell Cæsar my troubles, for any consolation I should get from my cousin Robert.’
Sir Michael Audley obeyed his pretty nurse, and went to bed at a little after nine o’clock upon this bleak March evening. Perhaps the baronet’s bed-room was about the pleasantest retreat that an invalid could have chosen in such cold and cheerless weather. The dark-green velvet curtains were drawn before the windows and about the ponderous bed. The wood fire burned redly upon the broad hearth. The reading-lamp was lighted upon a delicious little table close to Sir Michael’s pillow, and a heap of magazines and newspapers had been arranged by my lady’s own fair hands for the pleasure of the invalid.
Lady Audley sat by the bedside for about ten minutes talking to her husband, talking very seriously, about this strange and awful question—Robert Audley’s lunacy; but at the end of that time she rose and bade him good-night. She lowered the green silk shade before the reading-lamp, adjusting it carefully for the repose of the baronet’s eyes.
‘I shall leave you, dear,’ she said. ‘If you can sleep, so much the better. If you wish to read, the books and papers are close to you. I will leave the doors between the rooms open, and I shall hear your voice if you call me.’
Lady Audley went through her dressing-room into the boudoir, where she had sat with her husband since dinner.
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