he would be refused; he was so used to the adulation of mothers who had daughters to marry, and of even the daughters themselves; he had been so accustomed to feel himself the leading personage in an assembly, although half the wits of the age had been there, and he could only say “Haw, to be sure!” and “By Jove — hum!” he had been so spoiled by the flatteries of bright eyes that looked, or seemed to look, the brighter when he drew near, that without being possessed of one shadow of personal vanity, he had yet come to think that he had only to make an offer to the prettiest girl in Essex to behold himself immediately accepted.
“Yes,” he would say complacently to some admiring satellite, “I know I’m a good match, and I know what makes the gals so civil. They’re very pretty, and they’re very friendly to a fellow; but I don’t care about ’em. They’re all alike — they can only drop their eyes and say, ‘Lor’, Sir Harry, why do you call that curly black dog a retriever?’ or ‘Oh Sir Harry, and did the poor mare really sprain her pastern shoulder-blade?’ I haven’t got much brains myself, I know,” the baronet would add deprecatingly; “and I don’t want a strong-minded woman, who writes books and wears green spectacles; but, hang it! I like a gal who knows what she’s talking about.”
So when Alicia said “No,” or rather made that pretty speech about esteem and respect, which well-bred young ladies substitute for the obnoxious monosyllable, Sir Harry Towers felt that the whole fabric of the future he had built so complacently was shivered into a heap of dingy ruins.
Sir Michael grasped him warmly by the hand just before the young man mounted his horse in the court-yard.
“I’m very sorry, Towers,” he said. “You’re as good a fellow as ever breathed, and would have made my girl an excellent husband; but you know there’s a cousin, and I think that —”
“Don’t say that, Sir Michael,” interrupted the fox-hunter, energetically. “I can get over anything but that. A fellow whose hand upon the curb weighs half a ton (why, he pulled the Cavalier’s mouth to pieces, sir, the day you let him ride the horse); a fellow who turns his collars down, and eats bread and marmalade! No, no, Sir Michael; it’s a queer world, but I can’t think that of Miss Audley. There must be some one in the background, sir; it can’t be the cousin.”
Sir Michael shook his head as the rejected suitor rode away.
“I don’t know about that,” he muttered. “Bob’s a good lad, and the girl might do worse; but he hangs back as if he didn’t care for her. There’s some mystery — there’s some mystery!”
The old baronet said this in that semi-thoughtful tone with which we speak of other people’s affairs. The shadows of the early winter twilight, gathering thickest under the low oak ceiling of the hall, and the quaint curve of the arched doorway, fell darkly round his handsome head; but the light of his declining life, his beautiful and beloved young wife, was near him, and he could see no shadows when she was by.
She came skipping through the hall to meet him, and, shaking her golden ringlets, buried her bright head on her husband’s breast.
“So the last of our visitors is gone, dear, and we’re all alone,” she said. “Isn’t that nice?”
“Yes, darling,” he answered fondly, stroking her bright hair.
“Except Mr. Robert 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.
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
