In this passage at the beginning of the novel, the author employs personification and foreshadowing as she describes the warren-like interior of the house Audley Court:
A noble place; inside as well as out, a noble place—a house in which you incontinently lost yourself if ever you were so rash as to attempt to penetrate its mysteries alone; a house in which no one room had any sympathy with another, every chamber running off at a tangent into an inner chamber [...]
Audley Court is an enormous and imposing English country house. This mansion, in its ability to confuse and bewilder visitors, almost seems to have human characteristics. Because of all its “mysteries,” it seems as though it deliberately seeks to mislead people who don't know it well. Even the rooms seems to disagree with one another: they have “no sympathy” between them and break off abruptly.
By attributing human-like intentions to the house, the author creates an eerie atmosphere where its rooms and corridors seem alive and unwelcoming. This liveliness ascribed to the mansion not only enhances the reader’s sense of anticipation, but also mirrors the deceptions that are being conducted by the people who inhabit the house. The house’s charming appearances are deceptive, just as Lucy's own beauty is.
Describing rooms that lack "sympathy" with one another also infers discord and emotional detachment in the house's structure. Audley Court's aura of disengagement and its enigmatic character foreshadow the Lady of Audley Court’s own convoluted story. This early introduction to the mansion's peculiar architecture points to many aspects of the drama to come.
In this passage describing Audley Court’s gardens, the narrator foreshadows the many secrets and covert rendezvous to come in Lady Audley’s Secret:
[...] there was an avenue called the lime-tree walk; an avenue so shaded from the sun and sky, so screened from observation by the thick shelter of the over-arching trees that it seemed a chosen place for secret meetings or for stolen interviews; a place in which a conspiracy might have been planned, or a lover's vow registered with equal safety; [...]
This description of the "screened" and "shaded" lime-tree walk foreshadows the mysteries that are approaching without much subtlety. All of the diction in this passage is related to concealment and secrecy. Conversations are “stolen,” there’s “conspiracy,” and there’s “safety” in the shelter of the lime avenue. The structure of the passage also supports this reading. Braddon’s sentences are all packed in together, as if even the words are huddling close to protect their information. The word "screened" in particular suggests that things in this novel are concealed from view or hidden from immediate understanding, hinting at the layers of secrets buried in the plot. The "thick shelter of the over-arching trees" also points to this notion of things being obscured from plain sight.
Furthermore, the specificity with which the narrator describes the lime-walk as a place for "secret meetings" and "stolen interviews" offers readers an indication of the interpersonal dynamics that will follow. The mention of the potential for "conspiracy" being planned or a "lover's vow" being given suggests a combination of intrigue and romance. The lime-tree walk, as the novel later confirms, is a location where love and scheming collide.
After telling a saddened Sir Michael that she doesn’t really love him and waiting for him to walk away into the house, Lucy reaches into her dress to reveal a previously hidden object she wears on a black ribbon. In this excerpt, the author uses foreshadowing to pointedly hint that Lucy has an enigmatic past. Here, the specific discussion of Lucy's hidden necklace suggests important later revelations in the novel:
She had never taken her left hand from the black ribbon at her throat. She drew it from her bosom, as she spoke, and looked at the object attached to it. It was neither a locket, a miniature, nor a cross; it was a ring wrapped in an oblong piece of paper—the paper partly written, partly printed, yellow with age, and crumpled with much folding.
The secretive way in which Lucy reveals the ring is a clear instance of foreshadowing. Instead of a commonplace pendant like a locket or a cross, the object the reader knows she has “always kept hidden in her dress” is a ring wrapped in old paper. The description of the paper as "yellow with age" and "crumpled with much folding" suggests it has been with Lucy for a long time. The care she takes to hide this object—which she apparently never removes—hints strongly at a history or backstory yet to be uncovered.
There’s a literary principle known as “Chekhov’s gun” that refers to moments of foreshadowing like this one. The writer Anton Chekhov famously said that everything a story introduces has to be relevant. If a gun is mentioned, according to him, “it has to go off” at some later point. Because the author mentions the ring several times, and it is revealed in this climactic scene, it feels important even at this early stage of the book. Readers are not yet aware of the significance of this ring or why Lucy would want to hide it. This setup not only stirs their curiosity, but also serves as a signal that this hidden, secret talisman will be important later.
In this passage from the first Chapter of Volume 1, Braddon portrays Sir Michael Audley's intense love for Lucy in metaphorical language. The narrator presents his adoration of her as a serious, all-consuming fever, foreshadowing the troubles to come with Lucy’s relationships:
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 [...] wakeful nights and melancholy days, so gloriously brightened if he chanced to catch a glimpse of her sweet face behind the window curtains [...] told only too plainly that, at the sober age of fifty-five, Sir Michael Audley had fallen ill of the terrible fever called love.
There are technically two metaphors in this passage, but they are related by a common theme of heat. Sir Michael’s first marriage, he feels, was not passionate compared to his craving for Lucy. His first wife made him feel a “pitiful, smoldering spark,” which he found barely worthy of his attention. Lucy, by contrast, consumes him utterly. He is so in love with her that he can't sleep, suffering “wakeful nights and melancholy days.”
By describing his love as a fever, Braddon makes the consuming and passionate nature of his emotions clear. It suggests that his love for Lucy is unhealthily all-encompassing, to the point where it becomes a feverish obsession. The passage also hints at the idea that Lucy may not be entirely good for him, creating suspense and intrigue for the reader. This metaphor of feverish love foreshadows the potential consequences of his infatuation with Lucy.
Toward the end of the third chapter of Lady Audley's Secret, the author employs visual imagery and foreshadowing to tint a scene of late summer beauty with a sense of unease:
The same August sun which had gone down behind the waste of waters glimmered redly upon the broad face of the old clock over that ivy-covered archway which leads into the gardens of Audley Court. A fierce and crimson sunset. The mullioned windows and twinkling lattices are all ablaze with the red glory; [...] even into those dim recesses of brier and brushwood, amidst which the old well is hidden, the crimson brightness penetrates in fitful flashes till the dank weeds and the rusty iron wheel and broken woodwork seem as if they were flecked with blood.
The colorful, uniformly red visual imagery that Braddon uses here bathes Audley Court in scarlet. This at first seems pleasant but quickly begins to feel macabre. The passage starts by describing the beauty of the "August sun" and its "glimmering" light on the house. Like many of the descriptions of the mansion in the novel’s early chapters, the tone shifts gradually from describing lush, rich beauty to suggesting that something uncanny is also present. The sensory language transitions from depicting a peaceful sunset to introducing a more menacing atmosphere. The narrator almost seems to change their mind about the scene midway through the passage, as they abruptly interject that it was, in fact, “A fierce and crimson sunset.” This gradual descent into creepiness continues, as the reader learns that everything at Audley Court is so reddened by the light on it that it seems "flecked with blood."
The use of "blood" here directly foreshadows the underlying dangers and secret crimes that are soon to be discovered. The passage begins to describe hidden spaces and "dim recesses" where it might seem unlikely that any light would penetrate. At Audley Court, though, even these are pierced with “fearful flashes” of sunlight. The choice to associate these hidden spaces full of “dank weeds” and “broken woodwork” with this sensory language of redness, violence, and revelation hints at the importance of the novel’s hidden places. The well, after all, is later discovered to be the site of more than one vital “secret.” Through this imagery, the narrative foreshadows the darker events that will gradually unfold.
At the beginning of Chapter 3, the narrator uses a simile that compares the unsettling stillness of Audley Court to the stillness of death:
The very repose of the place grew painful from its intensity, and you felt as if a corpse must be lying somewhere within that gray and ivy-covered pile of building—so deathlike was the tranquillity of all around.
In the passage just before this, the countryside around Audley Court is silent and expectant. This passage continues that work, but moves into a distinctly creepy and uneasy mode of describing the pastoral scene. The narrator describes the "very repose" of the twilight countryside as not just quiet, but eerily silent. It's so quiet in this place, so intensely still, that it feels as if "a corpse must be lying somewhere." By comparing the tranquility of the setting to the stillness associated with death, the passage suggests that there’s more to the scene than the reader is aware of. There’s an unsettling, creeping undercurrent at play here.
Terms such as "painful repose" further compound this sense of unease, and contribute to the foreshadowing this passage sets up. The word “repose” would typically suggest a peaceful state of rest, but in this context, it's reframed as "painful." This choice by the author suggests that the "rest" itself is confining, unpleasant, and akin to the sleep of death. The scene is full of breathless expectation, as the reader is led to believe that the silence is building toward a break. On the whole, the reader feels that the surrounding environment is just waiting for a disturbance to shatter its silence.
In an anguished letter to Henry Maldon, Lucy reveals her desire to escape her current life, causing confusion and concern for Robert Audley when he finds it. This letter also foreshadows the later revelations of the true source of her misery. She writes:
I am weary of my life here, and wish, if I can, to find a new one. I go out into the world, dissevered from every link which binds me to the hateful past, to seek another home and another fortune. Forgive me if I have been fretful, capricious, changeable. You should forgive me, for you know why I have been so. You know the secret which is the key to my life.
The use of foreshadowing in this passage is evident in Lucy's reference to the "secret which is the key to [her] life." This cryptic statement, incomprehensible to Robert as he reads, hints at forthcoming revelations within the story. It suggests a significant plot development associated with Lucy's desire to escape her present circumstances. The language of the letter is conflicted. On one hand, Lucy knows she has behaved badly and has been “fretful” and “changeable.” On the other, she can’t bear to remain where she is, expressing her weariness and her desire to be “dissevered” from her “hateful past.”
