Lady Audleys Secret | Page 4

looking over the surgeon's high pew every Sunday morning;
however it was, it was certain that Sir Michael Audley suddenly
experienced a strong desire to be better acquainted with Mr. Dawson's
governess.
He had only to hint his wish to the worthy doctor for a little party to be
got up, to which the vicar and his wife, and the baronet and his

daughter, were invited.
That one quiet evening sealed Sir Michael's fate. He could no more
resist the tender fascination of those soft and melting blue eyes; the
graceful beauty of that slender throat and drooping head, with its
wealth of showering flaxen curls; the low music of that gentle voice;
the perfect harmony which pervaded every charm, and made all doubly
charming in this woman; than he could resist his destiny! Destiny! Why,
she was his destiny! He had never loved before. What had been his
marriage with Alicia's mother but a dull, jog-trot bargain made to keep
some estate in the family that would have been just as well out of it?
What had been his love for his first wife but a poor, pitiful, smoldering
spark, too dull to be extinguished, too feeble to burn? But this was
love--this fever, this longing, this restless, uncertain, miserable
hesitation; these cruel fears that his age was an insurmountable barrier
to his happiness; this sick hatred of his white beard; this frenzied wish
to be young again, with glistening raven hair, and a slim waist, such as
he had twenty years before; these, wakeful nights and melancholy days,
so gloriously brightened if he chanced to catch a glimpse of her sweet
face behind the window curtains, as he drove past the surgeon's house;
all these signs gave token of the truth, and told only too plainly that, at
the sober age of fifty-five, Sir Michael Audley had fallen ill of the
terrible fever called love.
I do not think that, throughout his courtship, the baronet once
calculated upon his wealth or his position as reasons for his success. If
he ever remembered these things, he dismissed the thought of them
with a shudder. It pained him too much to believe for a moment that
any one so lovely and innocent could value herself against a splendid
house or a good old title. No; his hope was that, as her life had been
most likely one of toil and dependence, and as she was very young
nobody exactly knew her age, but she looked little more than twenty,
she might never have formed any attachment, and that he, being the
first to woo her, might, by tender attentions, by generous watchfulness,
by a love which should recall to her the father she had lost, and by a
protecting care that should make him necessary to her, win her young
heart, and obtain from her fresh and earliest love, the promise or her

hand. It was a very romantic day-dream, no doubt; but, for all that, it
seemed in a very fair way to be realized. Lucy Graham appeared by no
means to dislike the baronet's attentions. There was nothing whatever
in her manner that betrayed the shallow artifices employed by a woman
who wishes to captivate a rich man. She was so accustomed to
admiration from every one, high and low, that Sir Michael's conduct
made very little impression upon her. Again, he had been so many
years a widower that people had given up the idea of his ever marrying
again. At last, however, Mrs. Dawson spoke to the governess on the
subject. The surgeon's wife was sitting in the school-room busy at work,
while Lucy was putting the finishing touches on some water-color
sketches done by her pupils.
"Do you know, my dear Miss Graham," said Mrs. Dawson, "I think you
ought to consider yourself a remarkably lucky girl?"
The governess lifted her head from its stooping attitude, and stared
wonderingly at her employer, shaking back a shower of curls. They
were the most wonderful curls in the world--soft and feathery, always
floating away from her face, and making a pale halo round her head
when the sunlight shone through them.
"What do you mean, my dear Mrs. Dawson?" she asked, dipping her
camel's-hair brush into the wet aquamarine upon the palette, and
poising it carefully before putting in the delicate streak of purple which
was to brighten the horizon in her pupil's sketch.
"Why, I mean, my dear, that it only rests with yourself to become Lady
Audley, and the mistress of Audley Court."
Lucy Graham dropped the brush upon the picture, and flushed scarlet to
the roots of her fair hair; and then grew pale again, far paler than Mrs.
Dawson had ever seen her before.
"My dear, don't agitate yourself," said the surgeon's wife, soothingly;
"you