The Greatest Murder Mysteries of Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Mary Elizabeth BraddonЧитать онлайн книгу.
was silent for some minutes.
“I cannot express how much you have astonished and alarmed me, Mr. Audley.” he said. “I can tell you so little about Lady Audley’s antecedents, that it would be mere obstinacy to withhold the small amount of information I possess. I have always considered your uncle’s wife one of the most amiable of women. I cannot bring myself to think her otherwise. It would be an uprooting of one of the strongest convictions of my life were I compelled to think her otherwise. You wish to follow her life backward from the present hour to the year fifty-three?”
“I do.”
“She was married to your uncle last June twelvemonth, in the midsummer of fifty-seven. She had lived in my house a little more than thirteen months. She became a member of my household upon the fourteenth of May, in the year fifty-six.”
“And she came to you —”
“From a school at Brompton, a school kept by a lady of the name of Vincent. It was Mrs. Vincent’s strong recommendation that induced me to receive Miss Graham into my family without any more special knowledge of her antecedents.”
“Did you see this Mrs. Vincent?”
“I did not. I advertised for a governess, and Miss Graham answered my advertisement. In her letter she referred me to Mrs. Vincent, the proprietress of a school in which she was then residing as junior teacher. My time is always so fully occupied, that I was glad to escape the necessity of a day’s loss in going from Audley to London to inquire about the young lady’s qualifications. I looked for Mrs. Vincent’s name in the directory, found it, and concluded that she was a responsible person, and wrote to her. Her reply was perfectly satisfactory; — Miss Lucy Graham was assiduous and conscientious; as well as fully qualified for the situation I offered. I accepted this reference, and I had no cause to regret what may have been an indiscretion. And now, Mr. Audley, I have told you all that I have the power to tell.”
“Will you be so kind as to give me the address of this Mrs. Vincent?” asked Robert, taking out his pocketbook.
“Certainly; she was then living at No. 9 Crescent Villas, Brompton.”
“Ah, to be sure,” muttered Mr. Audley, a recollection of last September flashing suddenly back upon him as the surgeon spoke.
“Crescent Villas — yes, I have heard the address before from Lady Audley herself. This Mrs. Vincent telegraphed to my uncle’s wife early in last September. She was ill — dying, I believe — and sent for my lady; but had removed from her old house and was not to be found.”
“Indeed! I never heard Lady Audley mention the circumstance.”
“Perhaps not. It occurred while I was down here. Thank you, Mr. Dawson, for the information you have so kindly and honestly given me. It takes me back two and a-half years in the history of my lady’s life; but I have still a blank of three years to fill up before I can exonerate her from my terrible suspicion. Good evening.”
Robert shook hands with the surgeon and returned to his uncle’s room. He had been away about a quarter of an hour. Sir Michael had fallen asleep once more, and my lady’s loving hands had lowered the heavy curtains and shaded the lamp by the bedside. Alicia and her father’s wife were taking tea in Lady Audley’s boudoir, the room next to the antechamber in which Robert and Mr. Dawson had been seated.
Lucy Audley looked up from her occupation among the fragile china cups and watched Robert rather anxiously as he walked softly to his uncle’s room and back again to the boudoir. She looked very pretty and innocent, seated behind the graceful group of delicate opal china and glittering silver. Surely a pretty woman never looks prettier than when making tea. The most feminine and most domestic of all occupations imparts a magic harmony to her every movement, a witchery to her every glance. The floating mists from the boiling liquid in which she infuses the soothing herbs; whose secrets are known to her alone, envelope her in a cloud of scented vapor, through which she seems a social fairy, weaving potent spells with Gunpowder and Bohea. At the tea-table she reigns omnipotent, unapproachable. What do men know of the mysterious beverage? Read how poor Hazlitt made his tea, and shudder at the dreadful barbarism. How clumsily the wretched creatures attempt to assist the witch president of the tea-tray; how hopelessly they hold the kettle, how continually they imperil the frail cups and saucers, or the taper hands of the priestess. To do away with the tea-table is to rob woman of her legitimate empire. To send a couple of hulking men about among your visitors, distributing a mixture made in the housekeeper’s room, is to reduce the most social and friendly of ceremonies to a formal giving out of rations. Better the pretty influence of the tea cups and saucers gracefully wielded in a woman’s hand than all the inappropriate power snatched at the point of the pen from the unwilling sterner sex. Imagine all the women of England elevated to the high level of masculine intellectuality, superior to crinoline; above pearl powder and Mrs. Rachael Levison; above taking the pains to be pretty; above tea-tables and that cruelly scandalous and rather satirical gossip which even strong men delight in; and what a drear, utilitarian, ugly life the sterner sex must lead.
My lady was by no means strong-minded. The starry diamonds upon her white fingers flashed hither and thither among the tea-things, and she bent her pretty head over the marvelous Indian tea-caddy of sandal-wood and silver, with as much earnestness as if life held no higher purpose than the infusion of Bohea.
“You’ll take a cup of tea with us, Mr. Audley?” she asked, pausing with the teapot in her hand to look up at Robert, who was standing near the door.
“If you please.”
“But you have not dined, perhaps? Shall I ring and tell them to bring you something a little more substantial than biscuits and transparent bread and butter?”
“No, thank you, Lady Audley. I took some lunch before I left town. I’ll trouble you for nothing but a cup of tea.”
He seated himself at the little table and looked across it at his Cousin Alicia, who sat with a book in her lap, and had the air of being very much absorbed by its pages. The bright brunette complexion had lost its glowing crimson, and the animation of the young lady’s manner was suppressed — on account of her father’s illness, no doubt, Robert thought.
“Alicia, my dear,” the barrister said, after a very leisurely contemplation of his cousin, “you’re not looking well.”
Miss Audley shrugged her shoulders, but did not condescend to lift her eyes from her book.
“Perhaps not,” she answered, contemptuously. “What does it matter? I’m growing a philosopher of your school, Robert Audley. What does it matter? Who cares whether I am well or ill?”
“What a spitfire she is,” thought the barrister. He always knew his cousin was angry with him when she addressed him as “Robert Audley.”
“You needn’t pitch into a fellow because he asks you a civil question, Alicia,” he said, reproachfully. “As to nobody caring about your health, that’s nonsense. I care.” Miss Audley looked up with a bright smile. “Sir Harry Towers cares.” Miss Audley returned to her book with a frown.
“What are you reading there, Alicia?” Robert asked, after a pause, during which he had sat thoughtfully stirring his tea.
“Changes and Chances.”
“A novel?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it by?”
“The author of Follies and Faults,” answered Alicia, still pursuing her study of the romance upon her lap.
“Is it interesting?”
Miss Audley pursed up her mouth and shrugged her shoulders.
“Not particularly,” she said.
“Then I think you might have better manners than to read it while your first cousin is sitting opposite you,” observed Mr. Audley, with some gravity, “especially as he has only come to pay you a flying visit, and will be off to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow