Essential Novelists - Mary Elizabeth Braddon. Мэри Элизабет Брэддон

or less, but not more just now than usual."

      "He sails to-night from Liverpool. He came here at one o'clock this morning to have a look at the boy, he said, before he left England, perhaps never to return. He told me he was sick of the world, and that the rough life out there was the only thing to suit him. He stayed an hour, kissed the boy without awaking him, and left Southampton by the mail that starts at a quarter-past two."

      "What can be the meaning of all this?" said Robert. "What could be his motive for leaving England in this manner, without a word to me, his most intimate friend—without even a change of clothes; for he has left everything at my chambers? It is the most extraordinary proceeding!"

      The old man looked very grave. "Do you know, Mr. Audley," he said, tapping his forehead significantly, "I sometimes fancy that Helen's death had a strange effect upon poor George."

      "Pshaw!" cried Robert, contemptuously; "he felt the blow most cruelly, but his brain was as sound as yours or mine."

      "Perhaps he will write to you from Liverpool," said George's father-in-law. He seemed anxious to smooth over any indignation that Robert might feel at his friend's conduct.

      "He ought," said Robert, gravely, "for we've been good friends from the days when we were together at Eton. It isn't kind of George Talboys to treat me like this."

      But even at the moment that he uttered the reproach a strange thrill of remorse shot through his heart.

      "It isn't like him," he said, "it isn't like George Talboys."

      Little Georgey caught at the sound. "That's my name," he said, "and my papa's name—the big gentleman's name."

      "Yes, little Georgey, and your papa came last night and kissed you in your sleep. Do you remember?"

      "No," said the boy, shaking his curly little head.

      "You must have been very fast asleep, little Georgey, not to see poor papa."

      The child did not answer, but presently, fixing his eyes upon Robert's face, he said abruptly:

      "Where's the pretty lady?"

      "What pretty lady?"

      "The pretty lady that used to come a long while ago."

      "He means his poor mamma," said the old man.

      "No," cried the boy resolutely, "not mamma. Mamma was always crying. I didn't like mamma—"

      "Hush, little Georgey!"

      "But I didn't, and she didn't like me. She was always crying. I mean the pretty lady; the lady that was dressed so fine, and that gave me my gold watch."

      "He means the wife of my old captain—an excellent creature, who took a great fancy to Georgey, and gave him some handsome presents."

      "Where's my gold watch? Let me show the gentleman my gold watch," cried Georgey.

      "It's gone to be cleaned, Georgey," answered his grandfather.

      "It's always going to be cleaned," said the boy.

      "The watch is perfectly safe, I assure you, Mr. Audley," murmured the old man, apologetically; and taking out a pawnbroker's duplicate, he handed it to Robert.

      It was made out in the name of Captain Mortimer: "Watch, set with diamonds, £11."

      "I'm often hard pressed for a few shillings, Mr. Audley," said the old man. "My son-in-law has been very liberal to me; but there are others, there are others, Mr. Audley—and—and—I've not been treated well." He wiped away some genuine tears as he said this in a pitiful, crying voice. "Come, Georgey, it's time the brave little man was in bed. Come along with grandpa. Excuse me for a quarter of an hour, Mr. Audley."

      The boy went very willingly. At the door of the room the old man looked back at his visitor, and said in the same peevish voice, "This is a poor place for me to pass my declining years in, Mr. Audley. I've made many sacrifices, and I make them still, but I've not been treated well."

      Left alone in the dusky little sitting-room, Robert Audley folded his arms, and sat absently staring at the floor.

      George was gone, then; he might receive some letter of explanation perhaps, when he returned to London; but the chances were that he would never see his old friend again.

      "And to think that I should care so much for the fellow!" he said, lifting his eyebrows to the center of his forehead.

      "The place smells of stale tobacco like a tap-room," he muttered presently; "there can be no harm in my smoking a cigar here."

      He took one from the case in his pocket: there was a spark of fire in the little grate, and he looked about for something to light his cigar with.

      A twisted piece of paper lay half burned upon the hearthrug; he picked it up, and unfolded it, in order to get a better pipe-light by folding it the other way of the paper. As he did so, absently glancing at the penciled writing upon the fragment of thin paper, a portion of a name caught his eye—a portion of the name that was most in his thoughts. He took the scrap of paper to the window, and examined it by the declining light.

      It was part of a telegraphic dispatch. The upper portion had been burnt away, but the more important part, the greater part of the message itself, remained.

      "—alboys came to —— last night, and left by the mail for London, on his way to Liverpool, whence he was to sail for Sydney."

      The date and the name and address of the sender of the message had been burnt with the heading. Robert Audley's face blanched to a deathly whiteness. He carefully folded the scrap of paper, and placed it between the leaves of his pocket-book.

      "My God!" he said, "what is the meaning of this? I shall go to Liverpool to-night, and make inquiries there!"

      CHAPTER XIII.

      TROUBLED DREAMS.

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      ROBERT AUDLEY LEFT Southampton by the mail, and let himself into his chambers just as the dawn was creeping cold and gray into the solitary rooms, and the canaries were beginning to rustle their feathers feebly in the early morning.

      There were several letters in the box behind the door, but there was none from George Talboys.

      The young barrister was worn out by a long day spent in hurrying from place to place. The usual lazy monotony of his life had been broken as it had never been broken before in eight-and-twenty tranquil, easy-going years. His mind was beginning to grow confused upon the point of time. It seemed to him months since he had lost sight of George Talboys. It was so difficult to believe that it was less than forty-eight hours ago that the young man had left him asleep under the willows by the trout stream.

      His eyes were painfully weary for want of sleep. He searched about the room for some time, looking in all sorts of impossible places for a letter from George Talboys, and then threw himself dressed upon his friend's bed, in the room with the canaries and geraniums.

      "I shall wait for to-morrow morning's post," he said; "and if that brings no letter from George, I shall start for Liverpool without a moment's delay."

      He was thoroughly exhausted, and fell into a heavy sleep—a sleep which was profound without being in any way refreshing, for he was tormented all the time by disagreeable dreams—dreams which were painful, not from any horror in themselves, but from a vague and wearying sense of their confusion and absurdity.

      At one time he was pursuing strange people and entering strange houses in the endeavor to unravel the mystery of the telegraphic dispatch; at another time he was in the church-yard at Ventnor, gazing at the headstone George had ordered for the grave of his dead wife. Once in the long, rambling mystery of these dreams he went to the grave, and found this headstone gone, and on remonstrating