Princeton University Library

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NOVUM MENTVM
ETSVB-NYMINE-VILO
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UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY








EAST LYNNE.





EAST L Y N N E
Гү
MRS. HENRY WOOD,
AUTHOR or
“TIE CHANNINGS," 6 ROLAND YORKE," “ JOIINNY LUDLOW," ETC
Five Hundred and fortieih Thousand.
L ໑ 11 ນ ໐ 11 .
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1901


PR 5842
,W8xE2.
1901
LONDON :
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.


CONTENTS.
PART THE FIRST.
CHAPTER
PAGE
I. THE LADY ISABEL
II. THE BROKEN CROSS ...
III. BARBARA HARE ...
IV. THE MOONLIGHT INTERVIEW ...
V. MR. CARLYLE'S OFFICE ...
VI. RICHARD Hare, The Younger
VII. Miss CARLYLE AT HOME ...
VIII. MR. Kane's CoNcERT ... ...
IX. THE BATS AT THE WINDOW
X. THE KEEPERS OF THE DEAD ...
XI. The New Peer, AND THE BANK-NOTE
XII. LIFE AT CASTLE MARLING ...
XIII. MR. Dill's SHAKING ...
XIV. THE Earl's ASTONISHMENT ...
XV. COMING HOME ... ...
XVI. BARBARA HARE's RevelaTION ...
XVII. DEATH OR Life ... ...
XVIII. Wilson's Gossip
XIX. CAPTAIN THORN AT West LYNNE ...
82
90
100
104
113
...
124
130
ISOV
...
PART THE SECOND.
I. GOING FROM Ilome
II. FRANCIS Levison
III. QUITTING THE DANGER
IV. THE FRACTURED ANKLE
V. MRS. Ilare's DREAM
VI. CAPTAIN THORN IN TROUBLE ...


CONTENTS.
PAGE
188
195
212
3
CHAPTER
VII. The Secret SCRAP OF PAPER
VIII. RICHARD HARE AT Mr. Dill's WINDOW
IX. Never TO BE REDEEMED ...
X. CHARMING RESULTS ...
XI. MUTUAL COMPLIMENTS
XII. ALONE For Evermore
XIII. BARBARA'S MISDOINGS
XIV. AN ACCIDENT
XV. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AT EAST LYNNE
XVI. A NIGHT INVASION OF East LYNNE ...
XVII. BARBARA'S HEART AT REST ...
XVIII. FROZEN TO DEATH IN THE SNOW
XIX. MR. DILL IN AN EMBROIDERED SHIRT-FRONT
233
240
245
254
266
vow
...
284
PART THE THIRD.
365
:
I. STALKENBERG ...
II. CHANGE AND CHANGE...
III. THE YEARNING OF A BREAKING I!EART ...
IV. "THEN YOU'LL REMEMBER ME"
V. AN M.P. FOR WEST LYNNE
VI. SIR FRANCIS LEVISON AT HOME
VII. A MISHAP TO THE BLUE SPECTACLES
VIII. A TreAT IN A GREEN POND ...
IX. APPEARANCE OF A RUSSIAN BEAR AT WEST LYNNE
X. A FADING CHILD ... ...
XI. MR. CARLYLE INVITED TO SOME PÂTÉ de Foie Gras 374
XII. AN APPLICATION TO THE BENCH
XIII. THE WORLD TURXED UPSIDE DOWN
XIV. Miss CARLYLE IN FULL DRESS. AFY ALSO
XV. Mr. JIFFIN ... ...
399
XVI. THE JUSTICE-ROOM ...
404
XVII. FIRE! ... ...
415
XVIII. Turee Months Longer
XIX. THE TRIAL ...
XX. The Death CHAMBER :
434
XXI. LORD VANE DATING FORWARD
• 444
XXII. IT WON'T DO, AFY ...
453
XXIII. UNTIL ETERNITY ... ...
XXIV. I. M. V.
:
:
:
421
426
:
:





Repr
“Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths of corruption
Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of passion ;
Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions of Satan.
2.0
This is the cross I must bear ; the sin and the swift retribution.”
LONGFELLOW.
B te 95555NB Bapegysse


EAST LYNNE.
CHAPTER 1.
THE LADY ISABEL.
IN an easy chair of the spacious and handsome library of his town-
house sat William, Earl of Mount Severn. His hair was grey, the
smoothness of his expansive brow was defaced by premature wrinkles,
and his once attractive face bore the pale, unmistakable look of dissi-
pation. One of his feet was cased in folds of linen, as it rested on a
soft velvet ottoman, speaking of gout as plainly as any foot ever spoke
yet. It would seem-to look at the man as he sat there—that he had
grown old before his time. And so he had. His years were barely
nine-and-forty ; yet in all, save years, he was an aged man.
A noted character had been the Earl of Mount Severn. Not that
he had been a renowned politician, or a great general, or an eminent
statesman, or even an active member of the Upper House : not for
any of these had the earl's name been in the mouths of men. But for
the most reckless among the reckless, for the spendthrift among spend-
thrifts, for the gamester above all gamesters, and for a gay man out-
stripping the gay ; by these characteristics did the world know Lord
Mount Severn. It was said his faults were those of the head ; that a
better heart or more generous spirit never beat in human form ; and
there was much truth in this. It had been well for him had he lived
and died plain William Vane. Up to his five-and-twentieth year he
had been industrious and steady, had kept his terms in the Temple,
and studied late and early. The sober application of William Vane
had been a byword with the embryo barristers around ; Judge Vane,
they ironically called him, and they strove ineffectually to allure him
away to idleness and pleasure. But young Vane was ambitious, and
he knew that on his own talents and exertions must depend his rising
in the world. He was poor, of excellent family, but counting a relative
in the old Earl of Mount Severn. The possibility of his succeeding
to the earldom never occurred to him, for three healthy lives, two of
them young, stood between him and the title. Yet those lives died off ;
one of apoplexy, one of fever in Africa, the third boating at Oxford ;
and the young Temple student, William Vane, suddenly found himself
Earl of Mount Severn, and the lawful possessor of sixty thousand a
year.
His first idea was, that he should never know how to spend his
money : that such a sum, year by year, could not be spent. It was a
Last Lyone.


EAST LYNNE.
wonder his head was not turned by adulation at the outset ; he was
courted, flattered, and caressed by all classes. He became the most
attractive man of his day; for, independently of his newly-acquired
wealth and title, he was of distinguished appearance and fascinating
manners. Unfortunately, the prudence which had sustained William
Vane, the poor law student, in his solitary Temple chambers, utterly
forsook William Vane, the young Earl of Mount Severn, and he com-
menced his career at a speed so great, that all staid people said he
was going to ruin and the deuce headlong.
But a peer of the realm, and one whose rent-roll is sixty thousand
per annum, does not go to ruin in a day. There sat the earl in his
library now, in his nine-and-fortieth year, and ruin had not come yet-
that is, it had not overwhelmed him. But the embarrassments which
had clung to him and been the destruction of his tranquillity, the bane
of his existence, who shall describe them ? The public knew them
pretty well, his private friends better, his creditors best ; but none,
except himself, knew, or could ever know, the torment that was his
portion; well-nigh driving him to distraction. Years ago, by dint of
looking things steadily in the face, and by economizing, he might have
retrieved his position ; but he had done what most people will do in
such cases -put off the evil day sine die, and gone on increasing his
enormous list of debts. The hour of exposure and ruin was now fast
advancing.
Perhaps the earl himself was thinking so, as he sat there before an
ominous mass of papers which strewed the library table. His thoughts
were back in the past. That was a foolish marriage of his, that
Gretna Green match for love, foolish so far as prudence went ; but
the countess had been an affectionate wife to him, had borne with his
follies and his neglect, and had been an admirable mother to their only
child. One child alone had been theirs, and in her thirteenth year
the countess had died. If they had only been blessed with a son-the
earl groaned over the long-continued disappointment still-he might
then have seen a way out of his difficulties. The boy, as soon as he
was of age, would have joined with him in cutting off the entail, and--
“My lord," said a servant, entering the room and interrupting the
earl's castles in the air, “ a gentleman is asking to see you."
“Who is it?” cried the earl, sharply, not perceiving the card the
man was bringing. No unknown person, although wearing the externa
of a foreign ambassador, was ever admitted unceremoniously to the
presence of Lord Mount Severn. Years of duns had taught his
servants caution.
“ His card is here, my lord. It is Mr. Carlyle, of West Lynne.”
“Mr. Carlyle, of West Lynne," groaned the earl, whose foot just
then gave an awful twinge ; " what does he want? Show him up."
The servant did as he was bid, and introduced Mr. Carlyle. He
was a very tall man of seven-and-twenty, of remarkably noble presence.
He was somewhat given to stooping his head when he spoke to any
one shorter than himself; it was a peculiar habit, almost to be called
a bowing habit, and his father had possessed it before him ; when told
of it, he would laugh, and say he was unconscious of doing it. His
features were good, his complexion was pale and clear, his hair dark,


THE LADY ISABEL.
and his full eyelids drooped over his deep grey eyes. Altogether it
was a countenance that both men and women liked to look upon, the
index of an honourable, sincere nature; not that it would have been
called a handsome face so much as a pleasing and distinguished one.
Though only the son of a country lawyer, and destined to be a lawyer
himself, he had received the training of a gentleman, had been educated
at Rugby, and taken his degree at Oxford. He advanced at once to
the earl in the straightforward way of a man who l. is come on business.
“ Mr. Carlyle," said the latter, holding out his hand-he was always
deemed the most affable peer of the age—“ I am happy to see you.
You perceive I cannot rise ; at least without great pain and incon-
venience : my enemy, the gout, has possession of me again. Take a
seat. Are you staying in town ?"
“I have just arrived from West Lynne. The chief object of my
journey was to see your lordship.”
“What can I do for you?" asked the earl, uneasily, for a suspicion
now crossed his mind that Mr. Carlyle might be acting for some one of
his many troublesome creditors.
Mr. Carlyle drew his chair nearer to the earl and spoke in a low tone.
“A rumour has reached my ears, my lord, that East Lynne is in the
market.”
“A moment, sir," exclaimed the earl, reserve, not to say hauteur, in
his tone, for his suspicions were gaining ground : “are we to converse
confidentially together, as men of honour, or is there something con-
cealed behind your question ? "
“I do not understand you," said Mr. Carlyle.
“In a word---excuse my speaking plainly, but I must feel my ground
-are you here on the part of some of my rascally creditors, to pump
information out of me that otherwise they would not obtain ?”.
“ My lord,” said the visitor, “ I know that a lawyer gains credit for
possessing lax notions on the score of honour, but you can scarcely
suspect that I should be guilty of underhand work towards you. I never
was guilty of a mean trick in my life, to my recollection, and I do not
think I ever shall be."
“Pardon me, Mr. Carlyle. If you knew half the tricks and ruses
played upon me, you would not wonder at my suspecting the whole
world. Proceed with your business.”
“I heard that East Lynne was privately for sale : your agent dropped
half a word to me in confidence. If so, I should wish to be the pur-
chaser."
“For whom?” inquired the earl.
“ Myself.”
“You !” laughed the earl. “Egad ! lawyering can't be such bad
work, Carlyle."
“Nor is it,” rejoined Mr. Carlyle, “with an extensive first-class con-
nexion, such as ours. But you must remember that a good fortune
was left me by my uncle, and a large one by my father.”
“I know. The proceeds of lawyering also.”
“Not altogether. My mother brought a fortune on her marriage,
and it enabled my father to speculate successfully. I have been looking
out for an eligible property to invest some money upon, and East Lynne


EAST LYNNE.
will suit me well, provided I can have the refusal of it, and we agree
about terms."
Lord Mount Severn mused for a few moments before he spoke.
“Mr. Carlyle," he began, “my affairs are in a very bad state, and
ready money I must find somewhere. Now, East Lynne is not entailed ;
neither is it mortgaged to anything like its value, though the latter fact,
as you may imagine is not patent to the world. When I bought it a
bargain, eighteen years ago, you were the lawyer on the other side, I
remember."
“My father," smiled Mr. Carlyle. “ I was a child at the time.”
“Of course : I ought to have said your father. By selling East
Lynne, a few thousands will come into my hands, after all claims on it
are settled ; I have no other means of raising the wind, and that is why
I have resolved to part with it. But now, understand : if it were
known abroad that East Lynne is going from me, I should have a
hornet's nest about my ears : so that it must be disposed of, as you
have just remarked, privately. Do you comprehend?"
“Perfectly,” replied Mr. Carlyle.
“I would as soon you bought it as any one else, if, as you say, we
can agree about terms.”
“What does your lordship expect for it—at a rough estimate ?"
“For particulars I must refer you to my men of business, Warburton
and Ware. Not less than seventy thousand pounds."
“Too much, my lord,” cried Mr. Carlyle, decisively.
“ And that's not its value," returned the earl.
“ These forced sales never do fetch their value," answered the plain-
speaking lawyer. “I had thought, until this hint was given me by
Beauchamp, that East Lynne was settled on your lordship's daughter.”
“There's nothing settled on her,” rejoined the earl, the contraction
on his brow standing out more plainly. “That comes of your thought-
less, runaway marriages. I fell in love with General Conway's daughter,
and she ran away with me, like a fool : that is, we were fools together
for our pains. The general objected to me; and said I must sow my
wild oats before he would give me Mary : so I took her to Gretna
Green, and she became Countess of Mount Severn, without a settlement.
It was an unfortunate affair, taking one thing with another. When her
elopement was made known to the general, it killed him.”
" Killed him!” interrupted Mr. Carlyle.
“ It did. He had disease of the heart, and the excitement brought
on the crisis. My poor wife never was happy from that hour : she
blamed herself for her father's death; and I believe it led to her own.
She was ill for years : the doctors called it consumption ; but it was
more like a wasting insensibly away, and consumption had never been
in her family. No luck ever attends runaway marriages: I have noticed
it since, in many, many instances : something bad is sure to turn up
from it."
“There might have been a settlement executed after the marriage,”
observed Mr. Carlyle, for the earl had stopped, and seemed lost in
thought.
“I know there might : but there was not. My wife had possessed
no fortune; I was already deep in my career of extravagance; and


THE LADY ISABEL.
5
:
neither of us thought of making provision for our future children : or,
if we thought of it, we did not do it. There is an old saying, Mr.
Carlyle, that what may be done at any time, is never done at all."
Mr. Carlyle bowed.
“So my child is portionless," resumed the earl, with a suppressed
sigh. “The thought that it may be an embarrassing thing for her,
were I to die before she is settled in life, crosses my mind when I am
in a serious mood. That she will marry well there is little doubt, for
she possesses beauty in a rare degree, and has been reared as an
English girl should be, not to frivolity and foppery. She was trained
by her mother, who (except for the mad act which she was persuaded
into by me) was all goodness and refinement, for the first twelve years
of her life, and, since then, by an admirable governess. No fear that
she will be decamping to Gretna Green"
“She was a very lovely child,” observed the lawyer. “I remember
that.”
“Ay; you have seen her at East Lynne, in her mother's lifetime.
But, to return to business. If you become the purchaser of the East
Lynne estate, Mr. Carlyle, it must be under the rose. The money
that it brings, after paying off the mortgage, I must have, as I tell
you, for my private use; and you know I should not be able to touch
a farthing of it, if the confounded public got an inkling of the transfer.
In the eyes of the world, the proprietor of East Lynne must still be
Lord Mount Severn-at least for some little time afterwards. Perhaps
you will not object to that?”
Mr. Carlyle considered before replying : and then the conversation
was resumed, when it was decided that he should see Warburton and
Ware the first thing in the morning, and confer with them. It was
growing late when he rose to leave.
“Stay and dine with me," said the earl.
Mr. Carlyle hesitated, and looked down at his dress : plain, gentle-
manly morning attire, but certainly not dinner costume for a peer's
table.
“Oh, that's nothing,” said the earl ; “we shall be quite alone, except
my daughter. Mrs. Vane, of Castle Marling, is staying with us ; she
came up to present my child at the last Drawing-room, but I think I
heard something about her dining out to-day. If not, we will have it
by ourselves here. Oblige me by touching the bell, Mr. Carlyle, and
set the trouble down to the score of my unfortunate foot.”
The servant entered.
" Inquire whether Mrs. Vane dines at home," said the earl.
“Mrs. Vane dines out, my lord," was the man's immediate reply.
The carriage is at the door now, waiting to take her."
“Very well. Mr. Carlyle remains.”
At seven o'clock dinner was announced, and the earl was wheeled
into the adjoining room. As he and Mr. Carlyle entered it at one
door, some one else came in by the opposite one. Who-what-was
it? Mr. Carlyle looked, not quite sure whether it was a human being :
he almost thought it more like an angel.
,,A light, graceful, girlish form, a face of surpassing beauty, beauty
at is rarely seen, save from the imagination of a painter, dark shining


EAST LYNNE.
curls falling on her neck and shoulders smooth as a child's, fair
delicate arms decorated with pearls, and a flowing dress of costly white
lace. Altogether the vision did indeed look to the lawyer as one from
a fairer world than this.
“My daughter, Mr. Carlyle ; the Lady Isabel.”
They took their seats at the table. Lord Mount Severn at its head,
in spite of his gout and his footstool, and the young lady and Mr.
Carlyle opposite each other. Mr. Carlyle had not deemed himself an
especial admirer of woman's beauty, but the extraordinary loveliness of
the young girl before him almost took away his senses and his self-
possession. It was not so much the perfect contour of the exquisite
features that struck him, or the rich damask of the delicate cheek, or
the luxuriant falling hair ; no, it was the sweet expression of the soft
dark eyes. Never in his life had he seen eyes so pleasing. He could
not withhold his gaze from her, and he became conscious, as he grew
more familiar with her face, that there was in its character a sad,
sorrowful look. Only at times was it to be noticed, when the features
were in repose, and it lay chiefly in the very eyes he was admiring.
Never does this unconsciously mournful expression exist, but it is a
sure index of sorrow and suffering ; but Mr. Carlyle understood it not.
And who could connect sorrow with the anticipated brilliant future of
Isabel Vane?
“ Isabel,” observed the earl, “ you are dressed.”
“Yes, papa. Not to keep old Mrs. Levison waiting tea. She likes
to take it early, and I know Mrs. Vane must have kept her waiting
dinner. It was past six when she drove from here."
“I hope you will not be late to-night, Isabel.”
“ It depends upon Mrs. Vane."
“Then I am sure you will be. When young ladies, in this fashion-
able world of our: curn night into day, it is a bad thing for their roses.
What say you, Mr. Carlyle ?”
Mr. Carlyle glanced at the roses on the cheeks opposite to him ;
they looked too esh and bright to fade lightly..
At the conclusion (f dinner, a maid entered the room with a white
cashmere mantle, placing it over the shoulders of her young lady, as
she said the carriage was waiting.
Lady Isabel advanced to the earl. “Good-bye, papa.”
“Good-night, my love,” he answered, drawing her towards him, and
kissing her sweet face. “Tell Mrs. Vane I will not have you kept out
until morning hours; you are only a child yet. Mr. Carlyle, will you
ring? I am debarred from seeing my daughter to the carriage."
"If your lordship will allow me-if Lady Isabel will pardon the
attendance of one little used to wait upon young ladies, I shall be
proud to see her to her carriage," was the somewhat confused answer
of Mr. Carlyle, as he touched the bell.
The earl thanked him, the young lady smiled, and Mr. Carlyle con-
ducted her down the broad lighted staircase, stood bareheaded by
the door of the luxurious chariot, and handed her in. She put out her
hand in her frank, pleasant manner, as she wished him good-night.
The carriage rolled on its way, and Mr. Carlyle returned to the earl.
“Well, is she not a handsome girl ? ” he demanded.


THE BROKEN CROSS.
“ Handsome is not the word for beauty such as hers," was Mr.
Carlyle's reply, in a low warm tone. “ I never saw a face half se
beautiful.”
“She caused quite a sensation at the Drawing-room last week--as I
hear. This everlasting gout kept me in-doors all day. And she is as
good as she is beautiful.”
The earl was not partial. Lady Isabel was wondrously gifted by
nature, not only in mind and person, but in heart. She was as little
like a fashionable young lady as it was well possible to be, partly
because she had hitherto been secluded from the great world, partly
from the care bestowed upon her training. During the lifetime of her
mother, she had lived occasionally at East Lynne, but chiefly at a
larger seat of the earl's in Wales, Mount Severn: since her mother's
death, she had remained entirely at Mount Severn, under the charge of
a judicious governess, a very small establishment being kept up for
them, and the earl paying them impromptu and flying visits. Generous
and benevolent was she ; timid and sensitive to a degree ; gentle and
considerate to all. Do not cavil at her being thus praised : admire
and love her whilst you may ; she is worthy of it now, in her innocent
girlhood ; the time will come when such praise would be misplaced.
Could the fate, that was to overtake his child, have been foreseen by
the earl, he would have struck her down to death, in his love, as she
stood before him, rather than suffer her to enter upon it.
CHAPTER II
THE BROKEN CROSS.
LADY ISABEL'S carriage continued its way, and deposited her at the
residence of Mrs. Levison. Mrs. Levison was nearly eighty years of
age, and very severe in speech and manner; or, as Mrs. Vane expressed
it, “crabbed.” She looked the image of impatience when Isabel
entered, with her cap pushed awry as she pulled at her black satin
gown, for Mrs. Vane had kept her waiting dinner, and Isabel was
keeping her from her tea: and that does not agree with the aged,
with their health or their temper.
“I fear I am late," exclaimed Lady Isabel, as she advanced to Mrs.
Levison ; “but a gentleman dined with papa to-day, and it made us
rather longer at table.”
“ You are twenty-five minutes behind your time,” cried the old lady,
sharply, “and I want my tea. Emma, order it in."
Mrs. Vane rang the bell, and did as she was bid. She was a little
woman of six-and-twenty, very plain in face, but elegant in figure,
vastly accomplished, and vain to her ingers' ends. Her mother, who
was dead, had been Mrs. Levison's daughter, and her husband, Raymond
Vane, was heir presumptive to the earldom of Mount Severn.
“Won't you take off that tippet, child ?” asked Mrs. Levison, who
knew nothing of the new-fashioned names for such articles ; mantle,
bernous, and the whole string of them. Isabel threw it off, and sat
down by her.


EAST LYNNE.
“The tea is not made, grandmamma!” exclaimed Mrs. Vane, in an
accent of astonishment, as the servants appeared with the tray and
the silver urn. “You surely do not have it made in the room!”
“Where should I have it made ? " inquired Mrs. Levison.
“ It is much more convenient to have it brought in ready made,"
said Mrs. Vane. “ I dislike the embarras of making it.”
“ Indeed !" was the reply of the old lady; "and get it slopped over
in the saucers, and as cold as milk! You always were lazy, Emma-
and always given to those French words. I'd rather stick a printed
label on my forehead, for my part, “I speak French,' and let the world
know it that way."
“ Who makes tea for you in general ?" asked Mrs. Vane, telegraphing
a contemptuous grimace to Isabel behind her grandmother.
But the eyes of Lady Isabel fell timidly, and a blush rose to her
cheeks. She did not like to appear to differ from Mrs. Vane, her
senior, and her father's guest; but her mind revolted at the bare idea
of ingratitude or ridicule cast to an aged parent.
“ Harriet comes in and makes it for me," replied Mrs. Levison : “ay,
and sits down and takes it with me when I am alone, which is pretty
often. What do you say to that, Madame Emma ; you, with your fine
notions ?”
“ Just as you please, of course, grandmamma.”
“And there's the tea caddy at your elbow, and the urn's fizzing away,
and if we are to have any tea to-night, it had better be made at once."
“I don't know how much to put in,” grumbled Mrs. Vane, who had
the greatest horror of soiling her hands or her gloves : who, in short,
had a particular antipathy to doing anything useful.
“Shall I make it, dear Mrs. Levison ? " said Isabel, rising with
alacrity. “I used to make it at Mount Severn, and I make it for papa."
“Do, child,” replied the old lady. “You are worth ten of her.'
Isabel laughed merrily, drew off her gloves, and sat down to the
table : and at that moment a young and elegant man lounged into the
room. He was considered handsome, with his clearly-cut features,
his dark eyes, his raven hair, and his white teeth ; but, to a keen
observer, those features had not an attractive expression, and the dark
eyes had a habit of looking away while he spoke to you. It was
Francis, Captain Levison.
He was grandson to the old lady, and first cousin to Mrs. Vane.
Few men were so fascinating in manners (at times and seasons), in face,
and in form ; few men won so completely upon their hearers' ears, and
few were so heartless in their heart of hearts. The world courted him,
and society honoured him : for, though he was a graceless spendthrift,
and it was known that he was so, he was heir presumptive to the old
and rich Sir Peter Levison.
The ancient lady spoke up. “Captain Levison ; Lady Isabel Vane."
They both acknowledged the introduction : and Isabel, a child yet in
the ways of the world, blushed crimson at the admiring looks cast upon
her by the young Guardsman. Strange-strange that she should make
the acquaintance of those two men in the same day, almost in the same
hour : the two, of all the human race, who were to exercise so powerful
an influence over her future life !


THE BROKEN CROSS.
“That's a pretty cross, child,” cried Mrs. Levison, as Isabel stood by
her when tea was over, and she and Mrs. Vane were about to depart
on their evening visit.
She alluded to a golden cross, set with seven emeralds, which Isabel
wore round her neck. It was of light, delicate texture, and was sus-
pended from a thin, short gold chain.
“Is it not pretty?" answered Isabel. “ It was given me by my dear
mamma just before she died. Stay, I will take it off for you. I only
wear it upon great occasions."
This, her first grand party at a duke's, seemed a very great occasion
to the simply reared, inexperienced girl. She unclasped the chain, and
placed it with the cross in the hands of Mrs. Levison.
“Why, I declare you have nothing on but that cross and some rub-
bishing pearl bracelets ! ”uttered Mrs. Vane to Isabel. “I did not look
at you before.”
“Mamma gave me both. The bracelets are those she used frequently
to wear.”
“ You old-fashioned child! Because your mamma wore those brace-
lets years ago, is that a reason for your doing so now?” retorted Mrs.
Vane. “Why did you not put on your diamonds ?”
"1-did-put on my diamonds, but I took them off again,” stam-
mered Isabel.
“What on earth for ? "
“I did not like to be too fine," answered Isabel, with a laugh and a
blush. “They glittered so ! I feared it might be thought I had put
them on to look fine."
“Ah! I see you mean to set up amongst that class of people who
pretend to despise ornaments,” scornfully remarked Mrs. Vane.“ It is
the refinement of affectation, Lady Isabel.”
The sneer fell harmlessly on Isabel's ear. She only believed some-
thing had put Mrs. Vane out of temper. It certainly had : and that
something, though Isabel little suspected it, was the evident admira-
tion Captain Levison showed for her fresh young beauty. It quite
absorbed him, and rendered him neglectful even of Mrs. Vane.
“Here, child, take your cross,” said the old lady. “It is very pretty ;
prettier on your neck than diamonds would be. You don't want
embellishing : never mind what Emma says.”
Francis Levison took the cross and chain from her hand to pass
them to Lady Isabel. Whether he was awkward, or whether her
hands were full, for she held her gloves, her handkerchief, and had
just taken up her mantle, certain it is that it fell ; and the gentleman,
in his too quick effort to regain it, managed to set his foot upon it,
and the cross was broken in two.
“There! Now whose fault was that ? ” cried Mrs. Levison.
Isabel did not answer : her heart was very full. She took the broken
cross, and tears dropped from her eyes : she could not help it.
“Why! you are never crying over a stupid bauble of a cross !”
uttered Mrs. Vane, interrupting Captain Levison's expressions of regret
at his awkwardness.
“You can have it mended, dear,” interposed Mrs. Levison.
Lady Isabel chased away the tears, and turned to Captain Levison


ΙΟ
EAST LYNNE.
with a cheerful look. - Pray do not blame yourself,” she good-naturedly
said ; “the fault was as much mine as yours : and, as Mrs. Levison
says, it can be mended."
She disengaged the upper part of the cross from the chain as she
spoke, and clasped the latter round her neck.
*“ You will not go with that thin string of gold on, and nothing else !"
uttered Mrs. Vane.
“Why not ?" returned Isabel. “ If people say an hing, I can tell
them an accident happened to the cross.”
Mrs. Vane burst into a mocking laugh of ridicule. "If people say
anything !!" she repeated, in a tone according with the laugh. " They
are not likely to say anything,' but they will deem Lord Mount
Severn's daughter unfortunately short of jewellery."
Isabel smiled and shook her head. “They saw my diamonds at the
Drawing-room.”
“If you had done such an awkward thing for me, Francis Levison,"
burst forth the old lady, “my doors should have been closed against you
for a month. There ! if you are to go, Emma, you had better go:
dancing off to begin an evening at ten o'clock at night! In my time we
used to go at seven : but it's the custom now to turn night into day.”
“When George the Third dined at one o'clock upon boiled mutton
and turnips," put in the graceless captain, who certainly held his grand-
mother in no greater reverence than did Mrs. Vane.
He turned to Isabel as he spoke, to hand her downstairs. Thus she
was conducted to her carriage the second time that night by a stranger.
Mrs. Vane went down by herself, as she best could, and her temper
was not improved by the process.
“ Good-night,” said she to the captain.
“ I shall not say good-night. You will find me there almost as soon
as you."
“You told me you were not coming. Some bachelors' party in the
way.”
“Yes, but I have changed my mind. Farewell for the present, Lady
Isabel.”
“What an object you will look, with nothing on your neck but a
school-girl's chain !” began Mrs. Vane, returning to the grievance as
the carriage drove on.
“Oh, Mrs. Vane, what does it signify? I can only think of my
broken cross. I am sure it must be an evil omen.'
“An evil-what?”
“An evil omen. Mamma gave me that cross when she was dying.
She told me to let it be to me as a talisman, always to keep it safely ;
and when I was in any distress, or in need of counsel, to look at it,
and strive to recall what her advice would be, and to act accordingly.
And now it is broken-broken ! ”
A gaslight flashed into the carriage upon the face of Isabel. “I
declare," uttered Mrs. Vane, "you are crying again! I tell you what,
Isabel : I am not going to chaperon red eyes to the Duchess of Dart-
ford's, so if you can't put a stop to this, I shall order the carriage home,
and go on alone.”.
Isabel meekly dried her eyes, sighing deeply as she did so. “I can


THE BROKEN CROSS.
II
have the picces joined, I dare say ; but it will never be the same cross
to me again."
“What have you done with the pieces ?” irascibly asked Mrs. Vane.
“I folded them in the thin paper Mrs. Levison gave me, and put it
inside my frock. Here it is," touching the body. “I have no pocket
on."
Mrs. Vane gave vent to a groan. She never had been a girl herself ;
she had been a woman at ten ; and she complimented Isabel upon
being little better than an imbecile. “Put it inside my frock !"" she
uttered, in a tone of scorn. “And you eighteen years of age! I fan,
cied you left off 'frocks' when you left the nursery."
“I meant to say my dress," corrected Isabel.
“Meant to say you are a baby idiot !” was the inward comment of
Mrs. Vane.
A few minutes, and Isabel forgot her grievance. The brilliant rooms
were to her as an enchanting scene of dreamland, for her heart was in
its springtide freshness, and the satiety of experience had not come.
How could she remember even the broken cross, as she bent to the
homage offered her, and drank in the honeyed words poured forth into
her ear?
“Halloa ! ” cried an Oxford student, with a long rent-roll in prospec-
tive, who was screwing himself against the wall, out of the way of the
waltzers : “ I thought you had given up coming to these places.”
“So I had,” replied the fast nobleman addressed ; “but I am on the
look-out, so am forced into them again. I think a ball-room the greatest
bore in life.”
“On the look-out for what?”
“For a wife. My governor has stopped supplies; and has vowed,
by his beard, not to advance another shilling, or pay a debt, until I
reform. As a preliminary step towards it, he insists upon a wife, and
I am trying to choose one, for I am deeper in than you can imagine.”
"Take the new beauty, then.”
“Who is she?”
“ Lady Isabel Vane."
“Much obliged for the suggestion," replied the earl. “But one likes
a respectable father-in-law. Mount Severn and I are too much in the
same line, and might clash in the long run."
“One can't have everything: the girl's beauty is beyond common.
I saw that rake, Levison, making up to her. He fancies he can carry
all before him, where women are concerned.”
“ So he does, often," was the quiet reply.
“I hate the fellow! He thinks so much of himself, with his curled
hair and his shining teeth and his white hands. He's as heartless as an
owl. - What was that hushed-up business about Miss Charteris ?”.
“Who's to know? Levison slipped out of the escapade like an eel,
and the women protested that he was more sinned against than sinning.
Three-fourths of the world believed them. Here he comes ! And
Mount Severn's daughter with him.”
They were approaching at that moment, Francis Levison and Lady
Isabel. He was expressing his regret at the untoward accident of the
cross, for the tenth time that night. “I feel that it can never be


12
EAST LYNNE.
atoned for," whispered he ; "that the heartfelt homage of my whole
life would not be sufficient compensation.”
He spoke in a tone of thrilling gentleness, gratifying to the ear, but
dangerous to the heart. Lady Isabel glanced up, and caught his eyes
fixed upon her with the deepest tenderness, a language hers had never
yet encountered. A vivid blush again rose to her cheek, her eyelids
fell, and her timid words died away in silence.
“Take care, take care, my young Lady Isabel," murmured the
Oxonian under his breath as they passed him ; “that man is as false as
he is high."
“I think he's a rascal,” remarked the earl.
“I know he is : I know a thing or two about him. He would ruin
her heart for the renown of the exploit, because she's a beauty, and
then fling it away broken. He had none to offer in return for the gift."
“Just as much as my race-horse has,” concluded the earl. “She is
very beautiful.”
CHAPTER III.
BARBARA HARE.
WEST LYNNE was a town of some importance, particularly in its own
eyes, though being neither a manufacturing town nor a cathedral town,
nor even the chief town of the county, it was somewhat primitive in its
manners and customs. It sent two members to parliament, and it
boasted a good market-place, covered over, and a large room above
that, which was called the “town-hall,” where the justices met and
transacted their business—for the county magistrates still retained
there that nearly obsolete name. Passing eastward out of the town,
you came upon several detached gentlemen's houses, in the neighbour-
hood of which stood the church of St. Jude, which was more aristo-
cratic (in the matter of its congregation) than the other churches of
West Lynne. For about a mile these houses were scattered, the
church being situated at their commencement close to the busy part
of the place; and about a mile farther on you came upon the beautiful
estate which was called East Lynne. As you drove along the road
you might admire its green, undulating park; not as you walked, for
an envious wall, unconscionably high, obstructed your view. Large,
beautiful trees, affording a shelter, alike for human beings and for the
deer, on a day of summer's heat, rose in that park, and a great gate
between two lodges to the right of the road, gave you entrance to it,
and conducted you to the house. It was not a very large house, com-
pared with some country seats, but it was built in the villa style, was
white and remarkably cheerful : altogether a charming place to look
upon.
Between the houses mentioned, and East Lynne, the mile of road was
very solitary, much overshadowed by trees. One house alone stood
there, and that was about three-quarters of a mile before you came to
East Lynne, and full a quarter of a mile after you had passed the
houses. It was on the left, a square ugly red brick house with a
mind a mile house alb-road was


BARBARA HARE.
weathercock above, standing some little distance from the road. A
flat lawn extended before it, and close to the palings dividing it from
the road, was a grove of trees, some yards in depth. The lawn
was separated by a narrow gravel path, to which you gained access
from the road by an equally narrow iron gate, which took you to the
rustic portico of the house. You entered upon a large flagged hall with
a reception room on either hand, and a wide staircase facing you ; by
the side of the staircase you passed on to the servants' apartments and
offices. This place was called the Grove, and was the property and
residence of Richard Hare, Esquire, commonly called Mr. Justice Hare.
The room to the left, as you went in, was the general sitting-room,
the other was very much kept boxed up in lavender and brown holland,
to be opened on state occasions. Justice and Mrs. Hare had three
children, a son and two daughters. Anne the elder of the girls, had
married young ; Barbara, the younger, was now nineteen; and Richard,
the eldest-But we shall come to him hereafter.
In this sitting-room, on a chilly evening early in May, a few days
after that which had witnessed the visit of Mr. Carlyle to the Earl of
Mount Severn, sat Mrs. Hare, a pale, delicate woman, buried in shawls
and cushions : her arm-chair was drawn to the hearth, though there
was no fire in it : but the day had been warm. At the window sat a
pretty girl, very fair, with blue eyes, light hair, a bright complexion,
and small aquiline features. She was listlessly turning over the leaves
of a book.
“ Barbara, I am sure it must be tea-time, now."
“ Time seems to move slowly with you, mamma. It is scarcely a
quarter of an hour since I told you it was only ten minutes past six."
"I am so thirsty,” murmured the poor invalid. “Do go and look at
the clock again, Barbara.”
Barbara Hare rose with a gesture of impatience, opened the door,
and glanced at the large clock in the hall. “It wants nine-and-twenty
minutes to seven, mamma. I wish you would put your watch on of a
day : four times have you sent me to look at that clock since dinner.”
“I am so thirsty," repeated Mrs. Hare, with a sort of sob. “If seven
o'clock would only strike ! I am dying for my tea.”
It may occur to the reader that a lady in her own house, “ dying for
her tea,” might surely order it to be brought in, although the usual
hour had not struck. Not so Mrs. Hare. Since her husband had first
brought her home to that house, four-and-twenty years ago, she had
never dared to express a will in it ; scarcely, on her own responsibility,
to give an order. Justice Hare was stern, imperative, obstinate, and
self-conceited ; she, timid, gentle, and submissive. She had loved him
with all her heart, and her life had been one long yielding of her will
to his : in fact, she had no will ; his, was all in all. Far was she from
feeling the servitude a yoke : some natures do not do so : and, to do
Mr. Hare justice, his powerful will, that must bear down all before it,
was in fault ; not his kindness : he never meant to be unkind to his
wife. Of his three children, Barbara alone had inherited this will, but
in her it was very much softened.
“Barbara," began Mrs. Hare again, when she thought another
quarter of an hour at least must have elapsed.


14
EAST LYNNE.
“ Well, mamma."
“Ring, and tell them to be getting it in readiness, so that when seven
strikes there may be no delay.'
“ Goodness, mamma ! you know they always do have it ready. And
there's no such hurry, for papa may not be home.” But she rose, and
rang the bell with a petulant motion, and when the man answered it,
told him to have tea in to its time.
“If you knew, dear, how dry my throat is, how parched my mouth,
you would have more patience with me."
Barbara closed her book, kissed her mamma with a repentant air,
and turned listlessly to the window. She seemed tired, not with
fatigue, but with what the French express by the word ennui. “Here
comes papa,” she presently said.
“Oh, I am so glad !” cried poor Mrs. Hare. “ Perhaps he will not
mind having tea in at once, if I tell him how much I want it.”
The justice came in. A middle-sized man, with pompous features,
a pompous walk, and a flaxen wig. In his aquiline nose, compressed
lips, and pointed chin, might be traced a resemblance to his daughter ;
though he never could have been half so good-looking as was pretty
Barbara.
“ Richard," said Mrs. Hare from between her shawls, the instant he
opened the door.
*“ Well ? "
“ Would you please let me have tea in now? Would you very much
mind taking it a little earlier this evening ? I am feverish again, and
my tongue is so parched, I hardly know how to speak.”
“Oh, it's near seven : you won't have long to wait.”
With this exceedingly gracious answer to an invalid's request, Mr.
Hare quitted the room again, and banged the door. He had not
spoken unkindly or roughly, simply with indifference. But, ere Mrs.
Hare's meek sigh of disappointment was over, the door was re-opened,
and the flaxen wig was thrust in again.
“I don't mind if I do have it now. It will be a fine moonlight
night, and I am going with Pinner as far as Beauchamp's, to smoke a
pipe. Order it in, Barbara.”
The tea was made, and taken, and the justice departed for Mr.
Beauchamp's, Squire Pinner calling for him at the gate. Mr. Beauchamp
was a gentleman who farmed a great deal of land, and was also Lord
Mount Severn's agent, or steward, for East Lynne. He lived higher
up the road, some little distance beyond East Lynne.
“I am so cold, Barbara,” shivered Mrs. Hare, as she watched the
justice down the gravel path. “I wonder if your papa would say it
was foolish of me, if I told them to light a fire ?"
“ Have it lighted, if you like,” responded Barbara, ringing the bell.
“ Papa will know nothing about it, one way or the other, for he won't
be home till after bed-time. Jasper, mamma is cold, and would like a
fire.”
“ Plenty of sticks, Jasper, that it may burn up quickly," said Mrs.
Hare, in a pleading voice ; as if the sticks were Jasper's, and not hers.
Mrs. Hare had her fire, drew her chair in front of it, and put her
feet on the fender, to catch its warmth. Barbara, listless still, went


BARBARA HARE..
15
into the hall, took up a woollen shawl from the stand, threw it over her
shoulders, and went out. She strolled down the straight, formal path,
and stood at the iron gate, looking over it into the public road. Not
very public in that spot, and at that hour, but as lonely as one could
wish. The night was calm and pleasant, though somewhat chilly for
the beginning of May, and the moon was getting high in the sky.
“When will he come home?” she murmured, as she leaned her head
upon the gate. “Oh, what would life be without him? How miserable
these few days have been! I wonder what took him there! I wonder
what is detaining him ! Cornelia said he had only gone for a day.”
The faint echo of footsteps in the distance stole upon her ear, and
Barbara drew back a little, and hid herself under the shelter of the
trees, not choosing to be seen by any stray passer-by. But, as they
neared, a sudden change came over her ; her eyes lighted up, her
cheeks were dyed with crimson, and her veins tingled with excess of
rapture—for she knew those footsteps, and loved them, only too well.
Cautiously peeping over the gate again, she looked down the road.
A tall form, whose very height and strength bore a grace of which its
owner was unconscious, was advancing rapidly towards her from the
direction of West Lynne. Again she shrank away : true love is ever
timid : and whatever may have been Barbara Hare's other qualities,
her love at least was true and deep. But, instead of the gate opening,
with the firm, quick motion peculiar to the hand which guided it, the
footsteps seemed to pass onwards, and not to have turned at all towards
it. Barbara's heart sank, and she stole to the gate again, and looked
out with a yearning gaze.
Yes, surely enough, he was striding on, not thinking of her, not
coming to her; and she, in the disappointment and impulse of the
moment, called to him.
“ Archibald !”
Mr. Carlyle—it was no other-turned on his heel, and approached
the gate.
“Is it you, Barbara ? Watching for thieves and poachers? How
are you ? "
“How are you?" she returned, holding the gate open for him to
enter, as he shook hands, and striving to calm down her agitation.
“When did you return?”
“Only now : by the eight o'clock train, which came in beyond its
time, having dawdled unpardonably at the stations. They little thought
they had me in it, as their looks betrayed, when I got out. I have not
been home yet.”
“No! What will Cornelia say?"
“I went into the office for five minutes. But I have a few words to
say to Beauchamp, and am going up at once. Thank you, I cannot
come in now : I intend to do so on my return.”
“ Papa has gone up to Mr. Beauchamp's.”
“ Mr. Hare! Has he?”.
“He and Squire Pinner,” continued Barbara. “They are gone to
have a smoking bout. And if you wait there with papa, it will be too
late to come in, for he is sure not to be home before eleven or twelve.”
Mr. Carlyle bent his head in deliberation. “ Then I think it is of


16
EAST LYNNE.
little use my continuing," said he, "for my business with Beauchamp
is private. I must defer it until to-morrow."
He took the gate out of her hand, closed it, and placed the hand
within his own arm, to walk with her to the house. It was done in a
matter-of-fact, realistic sort of a way, with nothing of romance or
sentiment about it; but Barbara Hare felt that she was in Eden.
“And how have you all been, Barbara, these few days ?”
“ Oh, very well. What made you start off so suddenly? You
never said you were going, or came to wish us good-bye.”
“ You have just expressed it, Barbara-suddenly. A matter of
business suddenly arose, and I suddenly went up upon it.”
“ Cornelia said you were gone only for a day.”
“ Did she ? When in London I find many things to do. Is Mrs.
Hare better ? "
“ Just the same. I think mamma's ailments are fancies, half of
them : if she would only rouse herself, she would be better. What is
in that parcel ?”
“You are not to inquire, Miss Barbara. It does not concern you.
It only concerns Mrs. Hare.”
“ It is something you have brought for mamma, Archibald ! ”
“Of course. A countryman's visit to London entails presents for
his friends : at least, it used to do so in the old-fashioned days.”
“When people made their wills before starting, and were a fortnight
doing the journey in the waggon," laughed Barbara. “Grandpapa
used to tell us tales of that, when we were children. But is it really
something for mamma?”
“Don't I tell you so? I have brought something for you also.”
“Oh! What is it?" she uttered, her colour rising, and wondering
whether he was in jest or earnest.
“There's an impatient girl. What is it?' Wait a moment, and you
shall see what it is.”
He put the parcel, or roll, he was carrying upon a garden chair, and
proceeded to search his pockets. Every pocket was visited, apparently
in vain.
“Barbara, I think it is gone. I must have lost it somehow."
Her heart beat as she stood there silently, looking up at him in the
moonlight. Was it lost? What had it been ?
But, upon a second search, he came upon something in the pocket
of his coat-tail. “Here it is, I believe : what brought it in there?”
He opened a small box, and taking out a long gold chain, threw it
round her neck. A locket was attached to it.
Her cheeks' crimson went and came, her heart beat more rapidly.
She could not speak a word of thanks; and Mr. Carlyle took up the
roll, and walked on into the presence of Mrs. Hare.
Barbara followed in a few minutes. Her mother was standing up,
watching with pleased expectation the movements of Mr. Carlyle. No
candles were in the room, but it was bright with firelight.
“Now, don't you laugh at me," quoth he, undoing the string of the
parcel. “ It is not a roll of velvet for a dress, and it is not a roll of
parchment, conferring twenty thousand a year upon you. But it is-
an air-cushion.”


BARBARA HARE.
It was what poor Mrs. Hare, so worn with sitting and lying, had
often longed for; she had heard that such a luxury was to be bought
in London, but never remembered to have seen one. She took it
almost with a greedy hand, casting a grateful look at Mr. Carlyle.
“How am I to thank you for it?" she murmured through her
tears.
"If you thank me at all, I will never bring you anything again,"
cried he, gaily, pleased to see her so pleased ; for, whatever the justice
and Barbara may have done, he felt lively pity for Mrs. Hare, and
sympathised with her sufferings. “I have heard you wish for the
comfort of an air-cushion, and happening to see some displayed in a
window in the Strand, it occurred to me to bring you one."
“How thin it is !” exclaimed Mrs. Hare.
“Thin! Oh yes, thin at present, because it is not 'fixed,' as our
friends across the Atlantic say. See : this is the way to fill it with air.
There; it is not thin now.”
“ It was so truly kind of you to think of me, Archibald.”
“I have been telling Barbara that a visit to London entails gifts for
friends," returned Mr. Carlyle. “Do you see how smart I have made
· Barbara ?”
Barbara hastily took off the chain, and laid it before her mother.
“How beautiful !” uttered Mrs. Hare, in surprise. “ Archibald, you
are too good, too generous ! This must have cost a great deal ; this is
beyond a trifle.”
“Nonsense ! ” laughed Mr. Carlyle. “I'll tell you both how I came
to buy it. I went into a jeweller's about my watch, which has taken to
lose lately in a most unceremonious fashion, and there I saw a whole
display of chains, hanging up; some ponderous enough for a sheriff,
some light and elegant enough for Barbara. I dislike to see a thick
chain on a lady's neck. They reminded me of the chain she lost the
day she and Cornelia went with me to Lynneborough; a loss Barbara
persisted in declaring was my fault, for dragging her through the town,
sight-seeing, whilst Cornelia went shopping.”
“But I was only joking when I said so," was Barbara's interruption.
“Of course it would have happened had you not been with me; the
links were always snapping."
“Well; these chains in the London shop put me in mind of Barbara's
misfortune, and I chose one. Then the shopman brought forth some
lockets, and enlarged upon their suitability for holding deceased
relatives' hair, not to speak of sweethearts', until I told him he might
attach one to the chain. I thought it might hold that piece of hair
you prize, Barbara,” he concluded, dropping his voice.
“What piece ?” asked Mrs. Hare.
Mr. Carlyle glanced round the room, as if fearful the very walls
might hear his whisper. “ Richard's. Barbara showed it to me one
day when she was turning out her desk, and said it was a curl cut off
in that illness."
Mrs. Hare sank back in her chair, and hid her face in her hands,
shivering visibly. The words evidently awoke some source of deep
sorrow. “Oh, my boy ! my boy!" she wailed : “my boy! my unhappy
boy! Mr. Hare wonders at my ill-health, Archibald; Barbara ridicules
East Lynno.


18
EAST LYNNE.
it; but there lies the source of all my misery, mental and bodily. Oh,
Richard ! Richard !”
There was a distressing pause : for the topic admitted of neither
hope nor consolation. “Put your chain on again, Barbara," Mr. Car-
lyle said, after a while, “and I wish you health to wear it out. Health
and reformation, young lady."
Barbara smiled, and glanced at him with her pretty blue eyes, so full
of love. “What have you brought for Cornelia ?" she resumed.
“Something splendid,” he answered, with a mock-serious face;
“only, I hope I have not been taken in. I bought her a shawl. The
vendors vowed it was true Parisian cashmere : I hope it won't turn out
to be common Manchester.”
“If it does, Cornelia will not know the difference.”
“I can't answer for that. But, for my part, I don't see why foreign
goods should bear the palm over British," observed Mr. Carlyle, becom-
ing national. “If I wore shawls, I would discard the best French
one ever made, for a good honest shawl from our own manufactories of
Norwich or Paisley.”
“Wait until you do wear them ; you would soon tell a different tale,"
said Barbara, significantly.
Mrs. Hare took her hands from her pale face. “What was the price
of the shawl ?" she inquired.
“If I tell you, you must promise not to betray it to Cornelia. She
would rail at me for my extravagance, and lay it up between folds of tissue
paper, and never bring it out again. I gave eighteen guineas for it."
* That is a great deal,” observed Mrs. Hare. “It ought to be a very
good one. I never gave more than six guineas for a shawl in my life.”
“And Cornelia, I dare say, never more than half six," laughed Mr.
Carlyle. “Well, I shall wish you good evening and go to her ; for if
she knows I am back again, all this while, I shall be lectured.”
He shook hands with them. Barbara, however, accompanied him to
the front door, and stepped outside with him.
“ You will catch cold, Barbara. You have left your shawl in-doors."
“Oh no, I shall not. How very soon you are leaving ; you have
scarcely stayed ten minutes."
“But you forget that I have not yet been home.”
“ You were on your road to Beauchamp's, and would not have been
home for an hour or two in that case," spoke Barbara in a tone that
savoured of resentment.
“ That was different ; that was upon business; and no one allows for
business more readily than Cornelia. But I shall not hear the last of it,
if I suffer anything but business to keep me away from her. She has five
hundred inquiries, about London, at her tongue's end, this instant, be
you very sure. Barbara, I think your mamma looks unusually ill."
“You know how she suffers a little thing to upset her, and last night
she had what she calls one of her dreams," answered Barbara. “She
says it is a warning that something bad is going to happen, and she has
been in the most unhappy, feverish state possible all day. Papa has
been quite angry about her being so weak and nervous, declaring that
she ought to rouse herself out of her 'nerves.' Of course we dare not
tell him about the dream."


BARBARA HARE.
19
“ It related to-the- "
Mr. Carlyle stopped, and Barbara glanced round with a shudder,
and drew close to him as she whispered. He had not given her his
arm this time.
“Yes ; to the murder. You know mamma has always declared that
Bethel had something to do with it ; she says her dreams would have
convinced her of it, if nothing else did, and she dreamt she saw him
with-with-you know."
“Hallijohn?” whispered Mr. Carlyle.
“ With Hallijohn," assented Barbara with a shiver. “He appeared
to be standing over him, as he lay on the floor ; just as he did lie on
it. And that wretched Afy was standing at the end of the kitchen,
looking on.”
“ But Mrs. Hare ought not to suffer dreams to disturb her peace by
day,” remonstrated Mr. Carlyle. “ It is not surprising that she dreams
of the murder, because she is always dwelling upon it, but she should
strive to throw the feeling from her with the night."
“ You know what mamma is. Of course she ought to do so, but she
cannot. Papa wonders what makes her get up so ill and trembling in
a morning, and mamma has to make all sorts of excuses; for not a hint,
as you are aware, must be breathed to him about the murder.”
Mr. Carlyle gravely nodded.
“Mamma does so harp upon Bethel. And I know that this dream
arose from nothing in the world but because she saw him pass the gate
yesterday. Not that she thinks it was he who did it ; unfortunately,
there is no room for that ; but she will persist that he had a hand in
it in some way ; and he haunts her dreams."
Mr. Carlyle walked on in silence ; indeed, there was no reply that he
could make. A cloud had fallen upon the house of Mr. Hare, and it
was an unhappy subject. Barbara continued :
“ But, for mamma to have taken it into her head that some evil is
going to happen' because she has had this dream, and to make herself
miserable over it, is so very absurd, that I have felt quite cross with
her all day. Such nonsense, you know, Archibald, to believe that
dreams give signs of what is going to happen! So far behind these
enlightened days !”
“ Your mamma's trouble is great, Barbara ; and she is not strong."
“I think all our troubles have been great since-since that dark
evening,” responded Barbara.
“Have you heard from Anne ?” inquired Mr. Carlyle, willing to
change the subject.
“Yes, she is very well. What do you think they are going to name
the baby? Anne : after her and mamma. So very ugly a name!”
“I do not think so,” said Mr. Carlyle. “ It is simple and unpretend-
ing; I like it much. Look at the long, pretentious names in our
family-Archibald ! Cornelia ! And yours, too-Barbara! What a
mouthful they all are ! ”
Barbara contracted her eyebrows. This was equivalent to saying
that he did not like her name.
“Had the magistrates a busy day yesterday, do you know?” he
resumed.


20
EAST LYNNE.
“Very much so, I believe. But you have not remained long enough
for me to tell you any news.”
They reached the gate, and Mr. Carlyle was about to pass out of it,
when Barbara laid her hand on his arm to detain him, and spoke in a
timid voice. “ Archibald.”
" What is it?"
“I have not said a word of thanks to you for this,” she said, touching
the chain and locket. “Do not deem me ungrateful."
“You foolish girl !—it is not worth thanks. There ! now I am paid.
Good night, Barbara.”
He had bent down and kissed her cheek ; swung through the gate,
laughing, and strode away. “Don't say I never give you anything,” he
turned his head round to say. “Good night.”
All her veins were tingling, all her pulses beating ; her heart was
throbbing with its sense of bliss. He had never kissed her, that she
could remember, since she was a child. And when she returned in-
doors her spirits were so extravagantly high, that Mrs. Hare wondered.
“Ring for the lamp, Barbara, and you can get to your work. But
don't have the shutters closed : I like to look out on these light nights."
Barbara, however, did not take up her work; she also perhaps liked
“ looking out on a light night,” for she sat down at the window. She
was living the last half hour over again. “Don't say I never give you
anything,” she murmured : “ did he allude to the chain, or to the-
the kiss? Oh, Archibald ! why don't you say that you love me?"
Mr. Carlyle had been all his life upon intimate terms with the
Hares. His father's first wife--for the late lawyer Carlyle had been
twice married-had been a cousin of Justice Hare's, and this had
caused the families to be much together. Archibald, the child of the
second Mrs. Carlyle, had alternately teased and petted Anne and
Barbara Hare, boy fashion. Sometimes he quarrelled with the pretty
little girls, sometimes he caressed them, as he would have done had
they been his sisters ; and he made no scruple of declaring publicly to
the pair, that Anne was his favourite. A gentle, yielding girl was she,
like her mother; whereas Barbara displayed her own will, and it
sometimes clashed with young Carlyle's.
The clock struck ten. Mrs. Hare took her customary dose of
brandy-and-water, a small tumbler three parts full. Without it, she
believed she could never sleep; it deadened unhappy thought, she said.
Barbara, after making it, had turned again to the window, but did not
resume her seat. She stood in front of it, her forehead bent forward
against the middle pane. The lamp, casting a bright light, was behind
her, so that her figure might be distinctly observed from the lawn, had
any one been there to look upon it.
She stood in the midst of dreamland, giving way to all its enchanting
and most delusive fascinations. She saw herself, in anticipation, the
wife of Mr. Carlyle, the envied, thrice envied of all West Lynne ;
for, even as he was the dearest on earth to her heart, so was he
the greatest match in the neighbourhood around. Not a mother but
coveted him for her child ; not a daughter but would have said “ Yes,
and thank you,” to an offer from the attractive Archibald Carlyle. “I
never was sure, quite sure, of it till to-night," murmured Barbara,


THE MOONLIGHT INTERVIEW.
21
caressing the locket, and holding it to her cheek : “ I always thought
he might mean something, or he might mean nothing ; but to give me
this—to kiss me-oh, Archibald !”
A pause. Barbara's eyes were fixed upon the moonlight.
“If he would only say he loved me! if he would only ease my aching
heart! But it must come; I know it will ; and if that cantankerous
old Corny "
Barbara Hare stopped. What was that, at the far end of the lawn,
just in advance of the shade of the dense trees? Their leaves were
not causing the movement, for it was a still night. It had been there
some minutes and was evidently a human form. What was it ? Surely
it was making signs to her!
Or else it looked as though it were. That was certainly its arm
moving, and now it advanced a pace nearer, and raised something
which it wore on its head-a battered hat with a broad brim, a “wide-
awake," encircled with a wisp of straw.
Barbara Hare's heart leaped, as the saying runs, into her mouth,
and her face became deadly white in the moonlight. Her first thought
was to alarm the servants ; her second, to be still ; for she remembered
the fear and mystery that attached to the house. She went into the
hall, shutting her mother into the parlour, and stood in the shade of the
portico, gazing still. But the figure evidently followed her movements,
and the hat was again taken off, and waved violently.
Barbara Hare turned sick with utter terror ; she must fathom it ;
she must see who and what it was ; for the servants she dared not call,
and those movements were imperative, and might not be disregarded ;
but she possessed more innate courage than falls to the lot of many
young ladies.
“Mamma,” she said, returning to the parlour and catching up her
shawl, while striving to speak without emotion, “I shall just walk down
the path, and see if papa is coming."
Mrs. Hare did not reply. She was musing upon other things, in
that quiescent, happy mood which a small portion of spirits will
impart to one weak in body; and Barbara softly closed the door and
stole out again to the portico. She stood a moment to rally her
courage, and again the hat was waved impatiently.
Barbara Hare commenced her walk towards it ; an undefined sense
of evil filling her sinking heart. Mingling with it came, with a rush of
terror, a fear of that other undefined evil—the evil Mrs. Hare had
declared was foreshadowed in her dream.
CHAPTER IV.
THE MOONLIGHT INTERVIEW.
COLD and still looked the old house in the moonbeams. Never was
the moon brighter : it lighted the far-stretching garden, illumined even
the weathercock, shone upon the portico, and upon Barbara as she had
appeared in it. Stealing from the portico, walked Barbara, her eyes
strained in dread affright on that grove of trees, at the foot of the


22
EAST LYNNE.
garden. What was it that had stepped out of the trees, and mysteriously
beckoned to her as she stood at the window, turning her heart to sick-
ness as she gazed ? Was it a human being, one to bring more evil on
the house, where so much evil had already fallen ; was it a supernatural
visitant ; or was it but a delusion of her own eyesight ? Not the latter,
certainly, for the figure was now emerging again, motioning to her as
before ; and, with a white face and shaking limbs, Barbara clutched
her shawl round her and went down the path in the moonlight. The
beckoning form retreated within the dark trees as she neared it, and
Barbara halted.
“Who and what are you ?” she asked under her breath. “What do
you want ?"
“ Barbara," was the whispered, eager answer," don't you recognize
me ? »
Too surely she did ; the voice at any rate; and a cry escaped her,
telling more of terror than of joy, though betraying both. She pene-
trated the trees, and burst into tears as one in the dress of a farm
labourer caught her in his arms. In spite of his smock-frock, his
straw-wisped hat and his false whiskers, black as Erebus, she knew
him for her brother.
“Oh, Richard ! where have you come from? What brings you
here?""
“ Did you know me, Barbara ?” was his rejoinder.
“How was it likely–in this disguise ? A thought crossed my mind
that it might be some one from you, and even that turned me sick with
terror. How could you be so hazardous as to come here ? " she added,
wringing her hands. “If you are discovered, it is certain death; death
-upon-you know !”
“Upon the gallows,” returned Richard Hare. “I do know it,
Barbara."
“Then why risk it? Should mamma see you, it will kill her out-
right.”
* I can't live on as I am living now," he answered, gloomily. “I
have been working in London ever since-
“In London !” interrupted Barbara.
“ In London; and have never stirred out of it. But it is hard work
for me, and now I have an opportunity of doing better, if I can obtain
a little money. Perhaps my mother can let me have it. It is this that
I have come to ask for.”
“How are you working ? What at?"
“In a stable-yard."
“ A stable-yard ! ” she uttered, in a deeply-shocked tone. “Richard !”
“ Did you expect it would be as a merchant ; or a banker ; or per-
haps as secretary to one of her Majesty's ministers—or that I was a
gentleman at large, living on my fortune ? " retorted Richard Hare, in
a tone of chafed anguish, painful to hear. “ I earn twelve shillings a
week, Barbara, and that has to find me in everything."
“Poor Richard ! poor Richard !” she wailed, caressing his hand, and
weeping over it. “Oh, what a miserable night's work that was! Our
only comfort is, Richard, that you must have committed the deed in
madness.”


THE MOONLIGHT INTERVIEW.
“I did not commit it at all,” he replied.
“ What ? ” she exclaimed.
“ Barbara, I swear that I am innocent; I swear I was not present
when the man was murdered; I swear that, from my own positive
knowledge, my eyesight, I know no more who did it than you know.
To guess at it is enough for me ; and my guess is as sure and true a
one as that that moon is in the heavens above us.”
Barbara shivered as she drew closer to him. It was a shivering
subject. “You surely do not mean to throw the guilt on Bethel ? "
“Bethel ?" slightly returned Richard Hare. “He had nothing to do
with it. He was after his gins and his snares that night, though,
poacher that he is !”
“Bethel is no poacher, Richard.”
“ Is he not?” rejoined Richard Hare, significantly. “The truth, as
to what he is, may come out some time. Not that I wish it to come
out; the man has done no harm to me, and he may go on poaching
with impunity till doomsday, for all I care. He and Locksley- "
“Richard," interrupted his sister, in a hushed voice, “mamma enter-
tains one fixed idea, which she cannot put from her. She says she is
certain Bethel had something to do with the murder.”
“Then she is wrong. Why should she think so ?”
“How the conviction at first arose, I cannot tell you ; I do not think
she knows herself. But you remember how weak and fanciful she is,
and since that dreadful night she is always having what she calls
'dreams,' meaning that she dreams of the murder. In all these
dreams Bethel is a prominent object; and she says she feels an
absolute certainty that he was, in some way, mixed up in it.”
“Barbara, he was no more mixed up in it than you were.”
“And you say that you were not ?”
“I was not even at the cottage at the time; I swear it to you. The
man who did the deed was Thorn."
“Thorn ! " echoed Barbara, lifting her head. “Who is Thorn ?"
“I don't know. I wish I did · I wish I could unearth him. He was
a friend of Afy's."
Barbara threw back her neck with a haughty gesture. “Richard ! "
“What?”
“You forget yourself, when you mention that name to me."
“Well,” returned Richard, “it was not to discuss these things that I
have put myself in jeopardy And to assert my innocence can do no
good : it cannot set aside the coroner's verdict of Wilful Murder
against Richard Hare, the younger,' Is my father as bitter against me
as ever ?”
“Quite. He never mentions your name, or suffers it to be men-
tioned. He gave his orders to the servants that it never was to be
spoken in the house again. Eliza could not, or would not, remember,
and she persisted in still calling your room Mr. Richard's.' I think
the woman did it heedlessly ; not mischievously, to provoke papa : she
was a good servant, and had been with us three years, you know. The
first time she transgressed, papa warned her ; the second, he thundered
at her, as I believe no one else in the world can thunder; and the third
time he turned her then and there from the doors. One of the other


24
EAST LYNNE.
servants carried her bonnet and shawl out to the gate, and her boxes
were sent away the same day. Papa took an oath that- Did you
hear of it?"
“What oath ? He takes many."
“This was a solemn one, Richard. After the delivery of the verdict,
· he took an oath in the justice-room, in the presence of his brother
magistrates, that if he could find you he would deliver you up to
justice, and that he would do so, though you might not turn up for ten
years to come. You know his disposition, Richard, and therefore may
be sure that he will keep it. Indeed, it is most dangerous for you to
be here.”
“I know that he never treated me as he ought,” cried Richard,
bitterly. “If my health was delicate, causing my poor mother to
indulge me, ought that to have been a reason for his ridiculing me on
every possible occasion, public and private ? Had my home been made
happier, I should not have sought the society I did elsewhere. Bar-
bara, I must be allowed an interview with my mother."
Barbara Hare reflected before she spoke." I do not see how it could
be managed.”
“Why can't she come out to me, as you have done? Is she up or in
bed?"
" It is impossible to think of it to-night," returned Barbara, in an
alarmed tone. “ Papa may be in at any moment ; he is spending the
evening at Beauchamp's.”
“ It is hard to have been separated from her for eighteen months, and
to go back without seeing her," returned Richard. “And about the
money? It is a hundred pounds that I want."
.“ You must be here again to-morrow night, Richard. The money, no
doubt, can be yours, but I am not so sure about your seeing mamma.
I am terrified for your safety. But if it is as you say, that you are inno-
cent,” she added, after a pause, “ could it not be proved ?"
“Who is to prove it? The evidence is strong against me ; and Thorn,
did I mention him, would be as a myth to other people : no one knew
anything of him.”
• Is he a myth?” asked Barbara, in a low tone.
“ Are you and I myths?" retorted Richard. “So! even you doubt me."
“Richard,” she suddenly exclaimed, “why not tell the whole circum-
stances to Archibald Carlyle ? If any one can help you, or take means
to establish your innocence, he can. And you know that he is true as
steel.”
“ There's no other man living should be trusted with the secret
that I am here, except Carlyle. Where am I supposed to be, Barbara ? "
“Some think you are dead, some that you are in Australia : the
very uncertainty has nearly killed mamma. A report arose that you
had been seen at Liverpool, in an Australian-bound ship, but we could
not trace it to any foundation.”
“ It had none. I dodged my way to London, and there I have been
ever since."
“Working in a stable-yard."
“I could not do better. I was not brought up to anything; and I
did understand horses. Besides, a man that the police-runners were


MR. CARLYLE'S OFFICE.
25
arter could be safer in obscurity, considering he was a gentleman,
than,"
Barbara turned suddenly and placed her hand upon her brother's
mouth. “Be silent for your life,” she whispered ; "here's papa.”
Voices were heard approaching the gate, that of Justice Hare and
of Squire Pinner. The latter walked on, the former came in. The
brother and sister cowered together, scarcely daring to breathe : you
might have heard Barbara's heart beating. Mr. Hare closed the gate,
and walked on up the path.
“I must go, Richard," she hastily said ; “1 dare not stay another
minute. Be here again to-morrow night, and meanwhile I will see
what can be done."
She was speeding away, but Richard held her back.
“You did not seem to believe my assertion of innocence. Barbara,
we are here alone in the still night, with God above us : as truly as
that you and I must some time meet Him face to face, I have told you
truth. It was Thorn murdered Hallijohn, and I had nothing whatever
to do with it.”
Barbara came out of the trees and flew along, but Mr. Hare was
already in, locking and barring the door. “Let me in, papa,” she
called out.
The justice opened the door again, and his flaxen wig, his aquiline
nose, and his amazed eyes gazed at Barbara. “Halloa ! what brings
you out at this time of night, young lady?”
"I went down to the gate to look for you," she panted, " and had-
had-strolled over to the side path. Did you not see me?"
Barbara was truthful by nature and habit ; but, in such a cause,
how could she avoid dissimulation ? “Thank you, papa,” she said, as
she went in.
“You ought to have been in bed an hour ago," angrily responded
Mr. Justice Hare.
CHAPTER V.
MR. CARLYLE'S OFFICE.
In the centre of West Lynne stood two houses adjoining each other,
one large, the other much smaller. The large one was the Carlyle
residence, and the small one was devoted to the Carlyle offices. The
name of Carlyle bore a lofty standing in the county ; Carlyle and
Davidson were known as first-class practitioners; no pettifogging
lawyers were they. It was Carlyle and Davidson in the days gone
by; now it was Archibald Carlyle. The old firm were brothers-in-
law, the first Mrs. Carlyle having been Mr. Davidson's sister. She
had died and left one child, Cornelia, who was grown up when her
father married again. The second Mrs. Carlyle died when her son,
Archibald, was born, and his half-sister reared him, loved him, and
ruled him. She bore for him all the authority of a mother ; the boy
had known no other, and when a little child, he had called her
Mamma Corny. Mamma Corny had done her duty by him, that was


26.
EAST LYNNE.
not to be doubted; but Mamma Corny had never relaxed her rule ;
with an iron hand she liked to rule him now, in great things as in small,
just as she had ruled in the days of his babyhood. And Archibald
generally submitted, for the force of habit is strong. She was a woman
of strong sense, but, in some things, of weak judgment : and the ruling
passions of her life were love of Archibald, and love of saving money.
Mr. Davidson had died earlier than Mr. Carlyle, and his fortune-he
had never married—was left equally divided between Cornelia' and
Archibald. Archibald was not related to him, but he loved the open-
hearted boy better than he did his niece Cornelia. Of Mr. Carlyle's
property, a small portion only was bequeathed to his daughter, the rest
to his son : and in this perhaps there was justice, since the £20,000
brought to Mr. Carlyle by his second wife had been chiefly instrumental
in the accumulation of his large fortune.
Miss Carlyle, or, as she was called in the town, Miss Corny, had
never married ; it was pretty certain she never would ; people thought
that her intense love of her young brother kept her single, for it was
not likely that the daughter of the rich Mr. Carlyle had wanted for
offers. Other maidens confess to soft and tender impressions ; to a
hope of being, some time or other, solicited to abandon their father's
name, and become somebody's better half. Not so Miss Carlyle : all
who had approached her with the love-lorn tale, she sent quickly to the
right-about. The last venture was from the new curate, and it occurred
when she was in her fortieth year. He made his appearance at her
house one morning betimes, in his white Sunday necktie, and a pair of
new lavender gloves drawn on for the occasion. Miss Corny, who was
an exceedingly active housekeeper in her own home, a great deal more
so than her servants liked, had just been giving her orders for dinner.
They comprised, amongst other things, a treacle-pudding for the kitchen,
and she went herself to the store-closet with a basin to ladle out the
necessary treacle. The closet opened from the dining-room, and it
was while she was in it that the curate was ushered in. Miss Carlyle,
who completely ignored ceremony, and had never stood upon it in her
life, came out, basin of treacle in hand, which she deposited on the
table while she disposed herself to listen to the reverend gentleman,
who was twelve years her junior, and very diffident, so that he was
some time getting his business out. Miss Corny wished him and his
stammering somewhere, for she knew the pudding was waiting for the
treacle, and helped him out as much as she could, putting in words
when he seemed at fault for them. She supposed he wanted her name
to some subscription, and she stood looking down at him with im-
patience, for he was at least a foot shorter than she. When the startling
truth at length disclosed itself, that he had come begging for her, and not
for money, Miss Carlyle for once lost her temper. She screamed out
that he ought to be ashamed of himself for a raw boy as he was, and
she flung the contents of the basin over his spotless shirt-front. How
the crest-fallen divine escaped from the house and down West Lynne
to his lodgings, he never cared to recall. The story got wind, and
Miss Corny was not troubled with any more offers.
Mr. Carlyle was seated in his own private room in his office the morn-
ing after his return from town. His confidential clerk and manager


MR. CARLYLES OFFICE.
27
stood near him, one who had far more to do with the management of
affairs than Mr. Carlyle himself. It was Mr. Dill, a little, meek-looking
man, with a bald head. He was on the rolls, had been admitted years
and years ago, but had never set up for himself. Perhaps he thought
the post of head manager in the office of Carlyle and Davidson, with
its substantial salary, sufficient for his ambition; and manager he had
been to them when the present Mr. Carlyle was in long clothes. He
was a single man, and occupied handsome apartments near at hand. A
shrewd surmise obtained weight in West Lynne that he was a devoted
admirer of Miss Carlyle, humbly worshipping her at a distance.
Whether this was so or not, certain it is that he was very fond of his
present master, Mr. Archibald, as he generally styled him. He was
now giving an account of what had transpired during the few days of
absence.
“ Jones and Rushworth have come to an outbreak at last,” cried he,
when he had pretty nearly arrived at the end of his catalogue, “and
the upshot will be an action at the summer assizes. They were both
here yesterday, one after the other, each wanting you to act for him,
and will be here to-day for an answer.”
“I will not act for either,” said Mr. Carlyle ; “I will have nothing to
do with them. They are a bad lot, and it was an iniquitous piece of
business their obtaining the money in the first instance. When rogues
fall out, honest men get their own. I riccline it altogether ; let them
carry themselves to some one else."
“ Very good,” replied Mr. Dill.
“ Colonel Bethel's here, sir,” said a. clerk, opening the door, and
addressing Mr. Carlyle. “Can you see him ?
Mr. Dill turned round to the clerk. “ Ask the colonel to wait. I
think that's about all,” he added to his liigsier, as the man withdrew.
“ Very well. Dill, certain papers will be down in a few days, relating
to mortgages and claims on the East Lynne estate ; they are coming
with the title deeds. I want them carefully looked over by you, and
nothing said.”
Mr. Dill gave a quiet nod.
“East Lynne is about to change hands. And, in purchasing property
from an embarrassed man like Mount Severn, it is necessary to be keen
and cautious,” continued Mr. Carlyle.
“ It is. Has he come to the end of his tether?"
“Not far short of it, I fancy ; but East Lynne will be disposed of
sub rosa. Not a syllable abroad, you understand.”
“All right, Mr. Archibald. Who is the purchaser? It is a fine
property."
Mr. Carlyle smiled. “You will know who, long before the world
does. Examine the deeds with a Jew's eye. And now send in
Bethel."
Between Mr. Carlyle's room and that of the clerks' was a small
•square space, or hall, having entrance also from the house passage;
another room opened from it, a narrow one which was Mr. Dill's own
peculiar sanctum ; here he saw clients when Mr. Carlyle was out or
engaged, and here he issued private orders. A little window, not
larger than a pane of glass, looked out from it on to the clerks' office;


28
EAST LYNNE.
they called it Old Dill's peep-hole, and wished it anywhere else, for
his spectacles might be discerned at it more often than was agreeable.
The old gentleman had a desk also in their office, and there he fre-
quently sat. He was sitting there in state, this same morning, keeping
a sharp look out around him, when the door timidly opened, and the
pretty face of Barbara Hare appeared, rosy with blushes.
“Can I see Mr. Carlyle ?"
Mr. Dill rose from his seat and shook hands with her. She drew
him into the passage, and he closed the door. Perhaps he felt sur-
prised, for it was not the custom for ladies, young and single, to come
there after Mr. Carlyle.
“Presently, Miss Barbara ; he is engaged just now. The justices are
with him.”
“ The justices !” uttered Barbara, in alarm, "and papa one of them ?
What shall I do?. He must not see me; I would not have him see me
here for the world.”
An ominous sound of talking : the justices were evidently coming
forth. Mr. Dill seized upon Barbara, drew her through the clerks'
room, not daring to take her the other way lest he should encounter
them, and shut her into his own. “What brought papa here at this
moment ?” thought Barbara, whose face was crimson.
A few minutes and Mr. Dill opened the door again. “ They are gone
now, and the coast's clear, Miss Barbara.”
“I don't know what opinion you must form of me, Mr. Dill," she
whispered, “but I will tell you in confidence that I am here on business
for mamma, who was not well enough to come herself. It is a little
private matter that she does not wish papa to know of.”
“ Child," answered the manager, "a lawyer receives visits from many
people ; and it is not the place of those about him to think.'"
He opened the door as he spoke, ushered her into the presence of
Mr. Carlyle, and left her. The latter rose in astonishment.
“You must regard me as a client, and pardon the intrusion," said
Barbara, with a forced laugh to hide her agitation. “I am here on
the part of mamma : and I nearly met papa in your passage, which
terrified me out of my senses. Mr. Dill shut me into his room.”
Mr. Carlyle motioned to Barbara to seat herself, and then resumed
his own seat, beside his table. Barbara could not avoid noticing how
different his manners were in his office, from his evening manners when
he was “ off duty.” Here he was the staid, calm man of business.
“I have a strange thing to tell you,” she began, in a whisper, “but-
is it possible that any one can hear us?” she broke off, with a look of
dread. “It would be—it might be death.”
“ It is quite impossible,” calmly replied Mr. Carlyle. “The doors
are double doors : did you not notice that they were so ?”
Nevertheless, she left her chair, and stood close to Mr. Carlyle,
resting her hand upon the table. He rose, of course.
“Richard is here."
“ Richard !” repeated Mr. Carlyle. “At West Lynne !"
“He appeared at the house last night in disguise, and made signs
to me from the grove of trees. You may imagine my alarm. He has
been in London all this time, half starving, working-I feel ashamed


MR. CARLYLE'S OFFICE.
29
dulity.
to mention it to you—in a stable-yard ! And oh, Archibald ! he says
he is innocent."
Mr. Carlyle made no reply to this : he probably put no faith in the
assertion. “Sit down, Barbara," he said, drawing her chair closer.
Barbara sat down again, but her manner was hurried and nervous.
“ Is it quite sure that no stranger will come in? It would look so
peculiar to see me here. But mamma was too unwell to come herself
-or rather, she feared papa's questioning, if he found out that she
came.”
“Be at ease," replied Mr. Carlyle ; “this room is sacred from the
intrusion of strangers. What of Richard ?"
“He says that he was not in the cottage at the time the murder was
committed. That the person who really did it was a man of the name
of Thorn."
“What Thorn ?” asked Mr. Carlyle, suppressing all sign of incre-
“I don't know : a friend of Afy's, he said. Archibald, he swore to
it in the most solemn manner : and I believe, as truly as that I am now
repeating it to you, that he was speaking truth. I want you to see
Richard, if possible : he is coming to the same place to-night. If he
can tell his own tale to you, perhaps you might find out a way by which
his innocence may be made manifest. You are so clever ; you can do
anything.”
Mr. Carlyle smiled. “Not quite anything, Barbara. Was this the
purport of Richard's visit-to say this?”.
“Oh no: he thinks it is of no use to say it, for no one would believe
him against the evidence. He came to ask for a hundred pounds; he
says he has an opportunity of doing better if he can have that sum.
Mamma has sent me to you : she has not the money by her, and she
dare not ask papa for it, as it is for Richard. She bade me say that if
you will kindly oblige her with the money to-day, she will arrange with
you about its repayment."
“Do you want it now?” asked Mr. Carlyle. “If so I must send to the
bank. Dill never keeps much money in the house when I am away.".
“Not until evening. Can you manage to see Richard ?”.
“ It is hazardous," mused Mr. Carlyle : “ for him, I mean. Still, if
he is to be in the grove to-night, I may as well be there also. What
disguise is he in?"
“A farm labourer's—the best he could adopt about here—with large
black whiskers. He is stopping about three miles off, he said, in
some obscure hiding-place. And now," continued Barbara, “ I want
you to advise me : had I better inform mamma that Richard is here
or not?”
Mr. Carlyle did not understand : and said so.
“I declare that I am bewildered,” she exclaimed. “I should have
premised that I have not yet told mamma it is Richard himself who is
here : but that he had sent a messenger to beg for this money. Would
it be advisable to acquaint her with the truth?”
“Why should you not? I think you ought to do so.”
“Then I will. I feared the hazard, for she is sure to insist upon
seeing him. Richard also wishes for an interview.”


30
EAST LYNNE.
“ It is only natural. Mrs. Hare must be thankful to hear, so far,
that he is safe.”
“I never saw anything like it,” returned Barbara. “The change is
akin to magic. She says it has put new life into her. And now for the
last thing : how can we secure papa's absence from home to-night? It
must be accomplished in some way. You know his temper : were I or
mamma to suggest to him to go and see any friend, or to go to the
club, he would immediately stop at home. Can you devise any plan?
You see I appeal to you in all my troubles,” she added, “as I and
Anne used to do, when we were children.”
It may be questioned if Mr. Carlyle heard the last remark. He
drooped his eyelids in thought. “Have you told me all ?” he asked
presently, lifting them.
“ I think so."
“ Then I will think it over, and "
“I shall not like to come here again,” interrupted Barbara. “It-
it-might excite suspicion ; some one might see me, too, and mention
it to papa. Neither ought you to send to our house."
“Well-contrive to be in the street at four this afternoon. Stay,
that's your dinner-hour ; be walking up the street at three ; three pre-
cisely ; I will meet you."
He rose, shook hands, and escorted Barbara through the small hall,
along the passage to the house door : a courtesy probably not yet
shown to any client by Mr. Carlyle. The door closed upon her, and
Barbara had taken one step from it when something large loomed
down upon her, like a ship in full sail.
She must have been the tallest lady in the world-out of a caravan.
A fine woman in her day, but angular and bony now. Still, in spite of
the angles, there was majesty in the appearance of Miss Carlyle.
“Why—what on earth !” began she—“ Have you been with Archi-
bald ? "
Barbara Hare stammered out the excuse she had given to Mr. Dill.
“Your mamma sent you on business! I never heard of such a
thing. Twice have I been in to see Archibald, and twice did Dill
answer that he was engaged and must not be interrupted. I shall
make old Dill explain his meaning for observing a mystery to me.”
“There is no mystery,” answered Barbara, feeling quite sick lest
Miss Carlyle should proclaim that there was, before the clerks, or to
her father. “Mamma wanted Mr. Carlyle's opinion upon a little
private business, and, not feeling well enough to come herself, she
sent me.”
Miss Carlyle did not believe a word of this. “What business?"
asked she, unceremoniously.
“It is nothing that could interest you. A trifling matter, relating to
a little money. It's nothing, indeed.”.
“Then, if it's nothing, why were you closeted so long with Archi-
bald ?"
“He was asking the particulars," replied Barbara, recovering her
equanimity.
Miss Cárlyle sniffed : as she invariably did when dissenting from a
problem. She was sure there was some mystery astir. She turned,


MR. CARLYLE'S OFFICE.
31
and walked down the street with Barbara, but she was none the more
likely to get anything out of her.
Mr. Carlyle returned to his room, deliberated a few moments, and
then rang his bell. A clerk answered it.
“Go to the Buck's Head. If Mr. Hare and the other magistrates
are there, ask them to step over to me."
The young man did as he was bid, and came back with the noted
justices at his heels. They obeyed the summons with alacrity : for
they believed they had brought themselves into a judicial scrape, and
that Mr. Carlyle alone could get them out of it.
“ I will not request you to sit down," began Mr. Carlyle, “ for it is
barely a moment I shall detain you. The more I think about this
man's having been put in prison, the less I like it ; and I have been
considering that you had better, all five, come and smoke your pipes
at my house this evening, when we shall have time to discuss what
must be done. Come at seven, not later; and you will find my father's
old jar replenished with the best broadcut, and half a dozen church-
warden pipes. Shall it be so ?”
The whole five accepted the invitation eagerly. And they were
filing out, when Mr. Carlyle laid his finger on the arm of Justice
Hare.
“ You will be sure to come, Mr. Hare,” he whispered. “We could
not get on without you. All heads," with a slight inclination towards
those going out, “ are not gifted with the clear good sense of yours.”
“Sure and certain,” responded the gratified justice : "fire and water
shouldn't keep me away.”
Soon after Mr. Carlyle was left alone, another clerk entered. “Miss
Carlyle is asking to see you, sir, and Colonel Bethel's come again.”
“Send in Miss Carlyle first,” was the answer. “What is it, Cor-
nelia ?”
“Ah! You may well ask me what! Saying this morning that you
could not dine at six, as usual, and then marching off, and never fixing
the hour. How can I give my orders ?”
“I thought business would have called me out, but I am not going
now. We will dine a little earlier, Cornelia : say a quarter before six.
I have invit--"
“What's up, Archibald ?” interrupted Miss Carlyle.
“Up! Nothing, that I know of. I am very busy, Cornelia, and
Colonel Bethel is waiting ; I will talk to you at dinner-time.”
In reply to this plain hint, Miss Carlyle deliberately seated herself in
the client's chair, and crossed her legs, her shoes and her white stock-
ings in full view : for Miss Corny disdained long dresses as much as
she disdained crinoline ; or, as the inflated machines were then called,
corded petticoats, for crinoline had not come in. “I mean, what's up
at the Hares, that Barbara should come here and be closeted with you?
Business for her mother, she said.”
“Why, you know the mess that Hare and the other justices have
got into ; committing that poor fellow to prison, because he was seen
to pull up a weed in his garden on a Sunday,” returned Mr.Carlyle, after
an almost imperceptible pause. “Mrs. Hare-
“A set of bumber-headed old donkeys !” was the complimentary in-


32
EAST LYNNE.
terruption of Miss Carlyle. “The whole bench have not an ounce of
sense between them.'
“Mrs. Hare is naturally anxious for my opinion, for there may be
some trouble over it, the man having appealed to the Home Secretary.
She was too ill, Barbara said, to come to me herself. Cornelia, I have
invited a party for to-night.”
“A party ! " echoed Miss Carlyle.
“Four or five of the justices; they are coming in to smoke their
pipes. You must put out my father's leaden tobacco box, and "
They shan't come,” screamed Miss Carlyle. “Do you think I'll be
poisoned with tobacco-smoke from a dozen pipes ? "
“ You need not sit in the room."
“ Nor they either. Clean curtains are just put up throughout the
house, and I'll have no horrid pipes to blacken them."
“ Cornelia," returned Mr. Carlyle, in a grave, firm tone, which,
opinionated as she was, never failed in its effect upon her, “my having
them is a matter of business ; of business, you understand ; and come
they must. If you object to their being in the sitting-rooms, they
must be in my bedroom.”
The word “business” always bore for Miss Carlyle one meaning,
that of money-making. Mr. Carlyle knew her weak point, and some-
times played upon it, when he could gain his end by no other means.
Her love for money amounted almost to a passion; to acquire it, or to
hear that he was acquiring it, was very dear to her. The same could
not be said of him ; many and many a dispute, that would have brought
him in large sums, had it gone on to an action, did he labour to soothe
down; and had reconciled his litigants by his plain sincere advice.
“I'll buy you some new curtains, Cornelia, if their pipes spoil these,"
he quietly resumed. “And I really must beg you to leave me."
“When I have come to the bottom of this affair with Barbara Hare,"
resolutely returned Miss Corny, dropping the point of contest as to the
pipes. “You are very clever, Archie, but you can't deceive me. I
asked Barbara what she came here for : business for her mamma,
touching money matters, was her reply. I ask you : to hear your
opinion about the scrape the bench have got into, is yours. Now, it's
neither one nor the other, and I tell you, Archibald, I'll hear what it
is. I should like to know what you and Barbara do with a secret
between you.”
She sat bold upright in her chair and stared at him, her lofty figure
drawn to its full height. Not in features were they alike ; some resem-
blance, perhaps, there might be in the expanse of the forehead and the
way in which the hair grew, arched from the temples : Miss Carlyle's
hair was going grey now, and she wore it in curls which were rarely
smooth, fastened back by combs which were as rarely in their places.
Her face was pale, well-shaped, and remarkable for nothing but a hard,
decisive expression; her eyes, wide open and penetrating, were of a
shade called " green.” But though she could not boast her brother's
good looks, there were many plainer women in West Lynne than
Cornelia Carlyle.
Mr. Carlyle knew her and her resolute expression well, and he decided
to tell her the truth. She was, to borrow the words Barbara had used


RICHARD HARE, THE YOUNGER.
33
to her brother with regard to him, true as steel. Confide to Miss
Carlyle a secret, and she was trustworthy and impervious as he could
be :) but, let her once suspect that there was a secret which was being
kept from her, and she would set to work like a ferret, and never stop
until it was unearthed.
Mr. Carlyle bent forward and spoke in a whisper. " I will tell you
if you wish, Cornelia, but it is not a pleasant thing to hear. Richard
Hare has returned.”
Miss Carlyle looked perfectly aghast. “Richard Hare! Is he mad ? "
“ It is not a very sane proceeding. He wants money from his
mother, and Mrs. Hare sent Barbara to ask me to manage it for her.
No wonder poor Barbara was flurried and nervous, for there's danger
on all sides.“
• Is he at their house?”
“How could he be there, and his father within it ? He is in hiding
two or three miles off, disguised as a labourer, and will be at the Grove
to-night to receive this money. I have invited the justices here, to get
Mr. Hare safe away from his own house. If he saw Richard, he would
undoubtedly give him up to justice, and putting graver considerations
aside—that would be pleasant neither for you nor for me. To have a
connection hanged for wilful murder would be an ugly blot on the
Carlyle escutcheon, Cornelia."
Miss Carlyle sat in silence, revolving the news, a contraction on her
ample brow.
“And now you know all, Cornelia, and I do beg you to leave me, for
I am overwhelmed with work to-day.”
She rose without a word, passed out, and left her brother in peace.
He snatched up a note, the first apparently that lay to hand, put it in
an envelope, sealed and addressed it to himself. Then he called in
Mr. Dill, and gave it to him. The latter looked in surprise at the
superscription.
“At eight o'clock to-night, Dill, bring this to my house. Don't send
it in; ask for me. You understand.”
The old gentleman replied by a nod, and put the note in his pocket.
Mr. Carlyle was walking down the street at three o'clock that after-
noon, when he met Barbara Hare. “It is all arranged,” he said to her
in passing. “I entertain the bench of justices to-night, Barbara, to
pipes and ale. Mr. Hare will make one of them."
She looked up in doubt. “Then if you entertain them, you will
not be able to come and meet Richard ?”
“Trust to me," was all his answer, as he hurried on.
CHAPTER VI.
RICHARD HARE, THE YOUNGER.
THE bench of justices did not fail to keep their appointment : at seven
o'clock they arrived at Miss Carlyle's, one following closely upon the
heels of another. The reader may dissent from the expression “Miss
Carlyle's,” but it is the correct one, for the house was hers, not her
Last Lynno.


34
EAST LYNNE.
brother's. Though it remained his home, as it had been in his
father's time, the house was amongst the property bequeathed to Miss
Carlyle.
Miss Carlyle chose to be present, in spite of the pipes and the smoke,
and she was soon as deep in the discussion as the justices were. It
was said in the town that she was as good a lawyer as her father had
been : she undoubtedly possessed sound judgment in legal matters,
and quick penetration. At eight o'clock a servant entered the room
and addressed his master.
“Mr. Dill is asking to see you, sir.”
Mr. Carlyle rose, and came back with an open note in his hand.
“I am sorry to find that I must leave you for half an hour. Some
important business has arisen, but I will be back as soon as possible.”
“Who has sent for you ?” immediately demanded Miss Corny.
He gave her a quiet look, which she interpreted into a warning not
to question. “Mr. Dill is here, and will join you to talk the affair
over," he said to his guests. “He knows the law better than I do : but
I shall not be long absent.”
He quitted his house, and walked with a rapid step towards the
Grove. The moon was bright, as on the previous evening. After he
had left the town behind him, and was passing the scattered villas
already mentioned, he cast an involuntary glance at the Wood, which
rose behind them on his left hand. It was called Abbey Wood, from
the circumstance that in old days an abbey had stood in its vicinity,
all trace of which, save in tradition, had long passed away. There was
one small house, or cottage, just within the wood, and in that cottage
had occurred the murder for which Richard Hare's life was in jeopardy.
It was no longer occupied, for no one would rent it or live in it.
Mr. Carlyle opened the gate of the Grove, and glanced at the trees
on either side, but he neither saw nor heard any sign of Richard's being
concealed there. Barbara was at the window, looking out, and she
came herself and opened the door to Mr. Carlyle.
“Mamma is in a most excited state," she whispered to him as he
entered. · “I knew how it would be."
“Has he come yet?”
“I have no doubt of it, but he has made no signal.”
Mrs. Hare, feverish and agitated, with a burning spot on her delicate
cheeks, stood by her chair, not occupying it. Mr. Carlyle placed a
pocket-book in her hands. “I have brought it chiefly in notes," he
said : “they will be easier for him to carry than gold.”
Mrs. Hare answered only by a look of gratitude, and clasped Mr.
Carlyle's hand in both hers. “ Archibald, I must see my boy; how
can it be managed ? Must I go into the garden to him, or may he
come in here?"
“I think he might come in ; you know how very bad the night air is
for you. Are the servants astir much this evening ?”
“ Things seem to have turned out luckily,” said Barbara. “ It
happens to be Anne's birthday, so mamma sent me just now into the
kitchen with a cake and a bottle of wine, desiring them to drink her
health. I shut the door, and told them to make themselves comfort-
able; if we wanted anything, we would ring.'


RICHARD HARE, THE YOUNGER.
35
“Then they are safe,” observed Mr. Carlyle, “and Richard may
come in."
“I will ascertain whether he is there,” said Barbara.
“ Stay where you are, Barbara ; I will go myself,” interposed Mr.
Carlyle. “Have the door open when you see us coming up the path."
Barbara gave a faint cry, and, trembling, clutched the arm of Mr.
Carlyle. “There he is! See : standing out from the trees, just oppo-
site this window."
Mr. Carlyle turned to Mrs. Hare. “ I shall not bring him in imme-
diately. For, if I am to have an interview with hin, it must be got
over first, that I may go back to the justices, and keep Mr. Hare all safe.”
He proceeded on his way, gained the trees, and plunged into them.
Leaning against one, stood Richard Hare. Apart from his disguise,
and the false and fierce black whiskers, he was a blue-eyed, fair, plea-
sant-looking young man, slight, and of middle height, and quite as
yielding and gentle as his mother. In her, this mildness of disposition
was rather a graceful quality ; in Richard it was regarded as a con-
temptible misfortune. In his boyhood he had been nicknamed Leafy
Dick, and when a stranger inquired wherefore, the answer was, that
as a leaf is swayed by the wind, so he was swayed by every one about
him, never possessing a will of his own. In short, Richard Hare,
though of an amiable, loving nature, was not overburdened with what
the world calls brains. Brains he certainly had, but they were not
sharp ones.
“Is my mother coming out to me?” asked Richard, after a few inter-
changed sentences with Mr. Carlyle.
- "No. You are to go indoors. Your father is away, and the
servants are shut up in the kitchen and will not see you. Though if
they did, they could never recognize you in that trim. A fine pair of
whiskers, Richard."
“Let us go in, then. I am all in a twitter till I get away. Am I to
have the money?”
“Yes, yes. But, Richard, your sister says you wish to disclose to
me the true history of that lamentable night. You had better speak
while we are here.”
" It was Barbara who wanted you to hear it; I think it of little
moment. If the whole place heard the truth from me, it would do no
good, for I should obtain no belief: not even from you."
“Try me, Richard : in as few words as possible."
“Well—there was a row at home about my going so much to Halli-
john's. The governor and my mother thought I went after Afy;
perhaps I did, perhaps I didn't. Hallijohn had asked me to lend him
my gun, and that evening, when I went to see Af—when I went to see
some one-never mind-
“Richard,” interrupted Mr. Carlyle, “there's an old saying, and it is
sound advice : ‘Tell the whole truth to your lawyer and your doctor.'
If I am to judge whether anything can be attempted for you, you
must tell it to me ; otherwise I would rather hear nothing. It shall
be sacred trust.”
“Then, if I must, I must,” returned the yielding Richard. " I did
love the girl ; I would have waited till I was my own master to make


36
EAST LYNNE.
her my wife, though it had been for years and years. I could not do
it, you know, in the face of my father's opposition."
“Your wife?” rejoined Mr. Carlyle, with some emphasis.
Richard looked surprised. “Why, you don't suppose I meant any.
thing else! I wouldn't have been such a blackguard."
« Well, go on, Richard. Did she return your love ?"
“I can't be certain. Sometimes I thought she did, sometimes not ;
she used to play and shuffle, and she liked too much to be with-him.
I thought her capricious-telling me I must not come this evening,
and I must not come the other ; but I found out they were the
evenings she expected him. We were never there together."
“You forget that you have not indicated 'him' by any name,
Richard. I am at fault.”
Richard Hare bent forward till his black whiskers brushed Mr.
Carlyle's shoulder. “ It was that cursed Thorn."
Mr. Carlyle remembered the name Barbara had mentioned. “Who
was Thorn? I never heard of him."
“Neither did any one else, I expect, in West Lynne. He took
precious good care of that. He lived some miles away, and used to
come over in secret."
“ Courting Afy?".
“ Yes, he did come courting her,” returned Richard, in a savage tone.
“ Distance was no barrier to him. He would come galloping over at
dusk, tie his horse to a tree in the wood, and pass an hour or two with
Afy, in the house, when her father was not at home; roaming about
the wood with her, when he was.”
“ Come to the point, Richard : to the evening."
“Hallijohn's gun was out of order, and he requested the loan of
mine. I had made an appointment with Afy to be at her house that
evening, and I went down after dinner, carrying the gun with me.
My father called after me to know where I was going : I said, out
with young Beauchamp, not caring to meet his opposition; and the lie
told against me at the inquest. When I reached Hallijohn's : going
the back way along the fields and through the wood path as I generally
did go : Afy came out all reserve, as she could be at times, and said she
was unable to receive me then, and I must go back home. We had a
few words about it, and as we were speaking, Locksley passed, and saw
me with the gun in my hand. I gave way to her ; she could do just
what she liked with me, for I loved the very ground she trod on. I
gave her the gun, telling her it was loaded, and she took it in-doors,
shutting me out. I did not go away ; I had a suspicion that she had
Thorn there, though she denied it to me; and I hid myself in some
trees near the house. Again Locksley came into view, saw me there,
and called out to know why I was hiding. I went farther off, and did
not answer him-what were my private movements to him ?-and that
also told against me at the inquest. Not long afterwards, twenty
minutes, perhaps, I heard a shot, which seemed to be in the direction
of the cottage. “Somebody having a late pop at the partridges,'
thought I : for the sun was then setting, and at that moment I saw
Bethel emerge from the trees and run in the direction of the cottage.
That vas the shot that killed Hallijohn.”


RICHARD HARE, THE YOUNGER. 37
There was a pause. Mr. Carlyle looked keenly at Richard Hare in
the moonlight.
“Very soon, almost in the same minute, as it seemed, one came
panting and tearing along the path leading from the cottage. It was
Thorn. His appearance startled me: I had never seen a man show
more utter terror. His face was livid, his eyes seemed starting, and
his lips were drawn back from his teeth. Had I been a strong man, I
should surely have attacked him ; I was mad with jealousy ; for I then
saw that Afy had sent me away that she might entertain him.”
“I thought you said this Thorn never came except at dusk ?”
observed Mr. Carlyle.
“I never knew him to do so until that evening. All I can say is, he
was there then. He flew along swiftly, and I afterwards heard the
sound of his horse's hoofs, galloping away. I wondered what was up,
that he should look so scared; I wondered whether he had quarrelled
with Afy. I ran to the house, leaped up the two steps, and-Carlyle
-I fell over the prostrate body of Hallijohn! He was lying just
within, on the kitchen floor, dead. Blood was round about him, and
my gun, just discharged, was thrown near him : he had been shot in
the side.”
Richard stopped for breath. Mr. Carlyle did not speak.
“I called to Afy. No one answered. No one was in the lower
rooms; and it seemed that no one was in the upper. A sort of panic
came over me; a fear : you know they always said at home I was a
coward : I could not have remained another minute with that dead
man, had it been to save my own life. I caught up the gun, and was
making off, when "
“Why did you catch up the gun?” interrupted Mr. Carlyle.
“Ideas pass through our minds more quickly than we can speak
them, especially in these sort of moments," was the reply of Richard
Hare. “Some vague notion flashed on my brain that my gun ought
not to be found near the murdered body of Hallijohn. I was flying
from the door, I say, when Locksley emerged from the wood, in full
view, and what possessed me I can't tell, but I did the worst thing
I could do-Aung the gun indoors again, and got away, although
Locksley called after me to stop.”
“Nothing told so much against you as that,” observed Mr. Carlyle.
"Locksley deposed that he had seen you leave the cottage, gun in
hand, apparently in great commotion ; that the moment you saw him,
you hesitated, as from fear, Aung back the gun, and escaped.”
Richard stamped his foot. “Ay; and all owing to my cursed
cowardice. They had better have made a woman of me, and brought
me up in petticoats. But let me go on. I came upon Bethel : he was
standing in that half-circle where the trees have been cut down. Now
I knew that Bethel, if he had gone straight in the direction of the
cottage, must have met Thorn quitting it. 'Did you encounter that
hound ?' I asked him. What hound?' returned Bethel. “That
fine fellow, that Thorn, who comes after Afy,' I answered, for I did
not mind mentioning her name in my passion. 'I don't know any
Thorn,' returned Bethel, and I did not know any one was after Afy,
but yourself.' 'Did you hear a shot?' I went on. Yes,' he replied ;


EAST LYNNE.
* I suppose it was Locksley, for he's about this evening. And I saw
you,' I continued, 'just in the moment the shot was fired, turn round
the corner in the direction of Hallijohn's.' 'So I did,' he said, “but
only to strike into the wood, a few paces up. What's your drift?'
'Did you not encounter Thorn, running from the cottage?' I persisted.
I have encountered no one,' he said, and I don't believe any one is
about but ourselves and Locksley. I quitted him and came off,"
concluded Richard Hare ; "he evidently had not seen Thorn, and
knew nothing.”
“And you decamped the same night, Richard ? It was a fatal step.”
“ Yes, I was a fool. I thought I'd wait quietly, and see how things
turned out ; but you don't know all. Three or four hours later, I went
to the cottage again, and managed to get a minute's speech with Afy.
I never shall forget it. Before I could say a syllable she flew out at
me, accusing me of being the murderer of her father, and fell into
hysterics out there on the grass. The noise brought people from the
house – plenty were in it then-and I retreated. If she can think me
guilty, the world will think me guilty,' was my argument, and that
night I went right off, to remain in hiding for a day or two, until I saw
my way clear. It never came clear : the coroner's inquest sat, and the
verdict floored me for ever. And Afy—but I won't curse her-fanned
the flame against me, by denying that any one had been there that
night. She had been at home alone, she said, and had strolled out at
the back door, to the path that leads from West Lynne, and was linger-
ing there when she heard a shot. Five minutes afterwards she returned
to the house, and found Locksley standing over her dead father.”
Mr. Carlyle remained silent, rapidly running over in his mind the
chief points of Richard Hare's communication. “Four of you, as I
understand it, were in the neighbourhood of the cottage that night,
and from one or other the shot no doubt proceeded. You were at a
distance, you say, Richard ; Bethel also could not have been "
“ It was not Bethel who did it,” interrupted Richard ; “it is an in-
possibility. I saw him, as I tell you, in the same moment that the gun
was fired.”
“ But now, where was Locksley ?”
“ It is equally impossible that it could have been Locksley. He was
within my view at the time, at right angles from me, deep in the wood,
away from the paths altogether. It was Thorn did the deed, beyond
all doubt, and the verdict ought to have been wilful murder against
him. Carlyle, I see you don't believe my story."
“What you say has startled me, and I must take time to consider
whether I believe it or not,” replied Mr. Carlyle, in his straightforward
manner. “The most singular thing, if you witnessed Thorn's running
away from the cottage in the manner you describe, is, that you did not
come forward, and denounce him.”
“I didn't do it because I was a fool, a coward, as I have been all
my life,” rejoined Richard. “I can't help it : it was born with me,
and will go with me to my grave. What would have been my word,
that it was Thorn, when there was no one to corroborate it? And the
discharged gun, mine, was a damnatory proof against me.”
“ Another thing strikes me as curious,” cried Mr. Carlyle. “If this


RICHARD HARE, THE YOUNGER.
man, Thorn, was in the habit of coming to West Lynne, evening after
evening, how was it that he was never observed ? This is the first time
I have heard any stranger's name mentioned in connection with the
affair, or with Afy."
“Thorn chose by-roads, and he never came, except that once, but at
dusk or dark. It was evident to me at the time that he was courting
her in secret. I told Afy so ; and that it argued no good for her. You
are not attaching credit to what I say, and it is only what I expected ;
nevertheless, I swear that I have related facts to you. As surely as
that we-1, Thorn, Afy, and Hallijohn-must one day meet together
before our Maker, I have told you the truth.”
The words were solemn, their tone earnest, and Mr. Carlyle re-
mained silent, his thoughts full.
“To what other end should I say this?” went on Richard. “ It
can do me no service : all the assertions I could put forth would not
go a jot towards clearing me."
“No, it would not,” assented Mr. Carlyle. “If ever you are cleared,
it must be by proofs. But-I will keep my thoughts on the matter,
and should anything arise— What sort of a man was this Thorn?”
“In age he might have been three or four and twenty, tall and
slender ; an out-and-out aristocrat.”
" And bis connections ? Where did he live ? "
“I never knew. Afy, in her boasting way, would say he had to come
from Swainsona ten-mile ride!”
“From Swainson ! ” quickly interrupted Mr. Carlyle. “ Could it be
one of the Thorns of Swainson ?".
“None of the Thorns there that I know. He was a totally different
man, with his perfumed hands, and his rings, and his dainty gloves.
That he was an aristocrat I believe, but of bad taste and style, dis-
playing a profusion of jewellery."
A half smile fitted over Mr. Carlyle's face. “Was it real, Richard ?”
“It was. He would wear diamond shirt-studs, diamond rings, dia-
mond pins ; brilliants, all of the first water. My impression was, that
he put them on to dazzle Afy. She told me once that she could be a
grander lady, if she chose, than I could ever make her. A lady on the
cross, I answered her, but never on the square. Thorn was not a man
to entertain honest intentions towards one in the station of Afy Halli-
john; but girls are as simple as geese.”
“By your description it could not have been one of the Thorns of
Swainson. Wealthy tradesmen, fathers of young families, short, stout,
and heavy as Dutchmen, staid and respectable. Very unlikely men,
they, to run into an expedition of the sort.”
“What expedition ?" questioned Richard. “The murder ?”
“ The riding after Afy.' Richard, where is Afy ?”
Richard Hare lifted his face in surprise. “How should I know? I
was just going to ask you."
Mr. Carlyle paused. He thought Richard's answer an evasive one.
“She disappeared immediately after the funeral ; and it was thought--
in short, Richard, the neighbourhood gave her credit for having gone
after and joined you.”
“No! did they? what a pack of idiots! I have never seen or heard


40
EAST LYNNE.
of her, Carlyle, since that unfortunate night. If she went after any one,
it was after Thorn."
“Was the man good-looking ?"
“I suppose the world would call him so. Afy thought such an
Adonis had never been coined, out of fable. He had shining black
hair and whiskers, dark eyes and handsome features. But his vain
dandyism spoilt him.”
Mr. Carlyle could ascertain no more particulars, and it was time
Richard went in. They proceeded up the path. “What a blessing it
is the servants' windows don't look this way,” shivered Richard, tread-
ing on Mr. Carlyle's heels. “ If they should be looking out upstairs ! "
His apprehensions were groundless, and he entered unseen. Mr.
Carlyle's part was over. He left the poor banned exile to his short
interview with his hysterical and tearful mother, Richard nearly as
hysterical as she, and made the best of his way home again, pondering
over what he had heard.
Not a shadow of doubt had hitherto existed in his mind that George
Hallijohn had met his death at the hands of Richard Hare. But, in
defiance of the coroner's jury, and the universal opinion, he had never
believed it to be wilful murder. Richard was mild, kind, inoffensive,
the last man to be guilty of cruelty, or to commit a deliberate crime;
and Mr. Carlyle had always thought that, could the truth be brought
to light, the fatal shot would be found to have been the result of an
accident, or, at worst, a scuffle, in which the gun might have gone off.
It was rumoured that Hallijohn had objected to Richard's visits to his
daughter, and it might have come, that night, to an outbreak.
Who was this Thorn? He certainly could not be a creation of
Richard's inventive faculties. Still, it was strange that his name had
never been mentioned ; that he and his visits were unknown to the
neighbourhood. Was the fellow an aristocrat, as Richard had called
him, shallow-pated and contemptible, with his shining hair and his
bejewelled fingers, or was he a member of the swell mob? And was
he in truth the real author of the murder ? Be it as it would, sufficient
food had been supplied to call forth all Mr. Carlyle's acumen-and he
possessed no slight share of it.
The magistrates made a good evening of it, Mr. Carlyle entertaining
them to supper. They took up their pipes for another whiff when the
meal was over, but Miss Carlyle retired to bed : the smoke, to which
she had not been accustomed since her father's death, had made her
head ache and her eyes smart. About eleven they wished Mr. Carlyle
good night, and departed, but Mr. Dill, in obedience to a nod from his
superior, remained.
“ Sit down again a moment, Dill ; I want to ask you a question.
"You are intimate with the Thorns of Swainson : do they happen to have
any relative, a nephew, or cousin perhaps, a dandy young fellow ?”
“I went over last Sunday fortnight to spend the day with young
Jacob," was the answer of Mr. Dill, one wider from the point than he
generally gave. Mr. Carlyle smiled.
“ Young Jacob! He must be forty, I suppose."
“ About that. But you and I estimate age differently, Mr. Archi.
bald. They have no nephew : the old man never had but those two


RICHARD HARE, THE YOUNGER.
41
children, Jacob and Edward. Neither have they any cousin. Rich
men they are growing now : Jacob has set up his carriage.”.
Mr. Carlyle mused, but he expected the answer, for neither had he
heard of the brothers Thorn, tanners, curriers, and leather-dressers,
possessing a relative of the name. “Dill,” said he, “ something has
arisen which, in my mind, casts a doubt upon Richard Hare's guilt.
I question whether he had anything to do with the murder."
Mr. Dill opened his eyes. “But his flight, Mr. Archibald ? And
his remaining away?”
“ Suspicious circumstances, I grant : still, I have good cause to
doubt. At the time it happened, some dandy fellow used to come
courting Afy Hallijohn in secret : a tall, slender man, as he is described
to me, bearing the name of Thorn, and living at Swainson. Could it
have been one of the Thorn family ? "
“ Mr. Archibald !” remonstrated the old clerk : “as if those two
respectable gentlemen, with wives and babies, would come sneaking
after that fly-away Afy?”
“No reflection on them," returned Mr. Carlyle. “This was a young
man, three or four and twenty, a head taller than either. I thought it
might be a relative.”
I have repeatedly heard them say that they are alone in the world ;
the two last of the name. Depend upon it, it was no one connected
with them. Who says any one came over after Afy, Mr. Archibald ? I
never knew but of one doing so, and that was Richard Hare."
Mr. Carlyle could not say, “ Richard himself told me," so he left the
question unanswered. “Sufficient grounds have been furnished me to
cast a doubt upon Richard Hare's guilt, and to lay it upon this Thorn,"
he observed. “And I intend to institute a little private investigation,
under the rose, and see if any fact can be brought to light. You must
help me.”
"With all my heart,” responded Mr. Dill. “Not that I believe it
could have been any one buč Richard.”
“The next time you go to Swainson, try and discover whether a
young fellow named Thorn (whether connected with the Thorns or
not) was living there at the time. Good-lookin“. black hair, whiskers,
and eyes, and given to deck himself out in diamond pins, studs,
and rings. He has been called an aristocrat to me, but I think it
equally likely that he was a member of the swell mob, doing the fine
gentleman-which they always overdo. See if you can ferret out
anything."
"I will,” said Mr. Dill. And he wished Mr. Carlyle good night.
The servant came in to remove the glasses and the obnoxious
pipes, which latter Miss Carlyle had ordered to be consigned to the
open air the instant they were done with. Mr. Carlyle sat in a brown
study : presently he looked round at the man.
“Is Joyce gone to bed ?"
“ No, sir. She's just going.”
“Send her here when you have taken away those things.”
Joyce came in, the upper servant at Miss Carlyle's. She was of
middle height, and would never see five and thirty again ; her fore.
head was broad, her grey eyes were deeply set, and her face was pale.


42
EAST LYNNE.
Altogether she was plain, but sensible-looking. She was the half-
sister to Afy Hallijohn.
“Shut the door, Joyce.”
Joyce did as she was bid, came forward and stood by the table.
“ Have you ever heard from your sister, Joyce?” began Mr. Carlyle,
somewhat abruptly.
- “No, sir," was the reply. “I think it would be a wonder if I did
hear."
“Why so ?”
“If she could go off after Richard Hare, who had sent her father
into his grave, she would be more likely to hide herself and her
doings, than to proclaim them to me, sir."
“Who was that other, that fine gentleman, who came after her?”
The colour:mantled in Joyce's cheeks, and she dropped her voice.
“Sir ! did you hear of him?"
“Not at the time. Since. He came from Swainson, did he not ?"
“I believe so, sir. Afy never would say much about him. We did
not agree upon the point ; I said a person of his rank would do her no
good ; and Afy flew out when I spoke against him.”
Mr. Carlyle caught her up. “His rank! what was his rank?"
“ Afy bragged of his being next door to a lord ; and he looked like
it. I only saw him once; I had gone home early, and there he sat
with Afy. His white hands were glittering with rings, and his shirt
was finished off with shining stones, where the buttons ought to be."
“Have you seen him since?'
“Never since, never but that once, and I don't think I should know
him if I did see him. He got up, sir, as soon as I went into the
parlour, shook hands with Afy, and left. A fine upright man he was,
nearly as tall as you, sir, but very thin; those soldiers always do carry
themselves well."
“How do you know he was a soldier ? ” quickly rejoined Mr.
Carlyle.
“ Afy told me so. “The captain,' she had used to call him ; but she
said he was not a captain yet awhile the next grade below it. A-
a- -"
“ Lieutenant ? " suggested Mr. Carlyle.
“Yes, sir, that was it; Lieutenant Thorn. As he was going through
the kitchen that evening he dropped his handkerchief, such a beauty,
it was. I picked it up, but Afy snatched it from me, and running to
the door, called after him, Captain Thorn, you have dropped your
handkerchief,' and he turned, and took it from her. And when he
was fairly off she began upon me for coming home and spoiling sport,
and we had a quarrel. I had seen young Hare also the same evening
in the wood, dodging about as if waiting for the other to go. She'll
come to no good between the two,' was my thought, and I said it to
her, and a fine passion it put her into. It was but a week afterwards
that-the evil happened to poor father.”
“ Joyce," said Mr. Carlyle, “has it never struck you that Afy is
more likely to have followed this Lieutenant Thorn than Richard
Hare ?"
“No, sir,” answered Joyce. “I have felt certain always that she is


MISS CARLYLE AT HOME.
43
with Richard Hare, and nothing can turn me from the belief. All
West Lynne is convinced of it."
Mr. Carlyle did not attempt to “turn her from the belief.” He dis-
missed her, and sat on still revolving the case in all its bearings.
Richard Hare's short interview with his mother had soon terminated.
It lasted only a quarter of an hour, both dreading interruption from
the servants. And, with the hundred pounds in his pocket and desola-
tion at his heart, the ill-fated young man once more quitted his child-
hood's home. Mrs. Hare and Barbara watched him steal down the
path in the tell-tale moonlight, and gain the road, both feeling that
those farewell kisses they had pressed upon his lips would not be
renewed for years, and might be never.
CHAPTER VII.
MISS CARLYLE AT HOME.
The church clocks of West Lynne struck eight one lovely morning in
July, and then the bells chimed out, in token that it was Sunday.
Simultaneously with the bells, Miss Carlyle burst out of her bedroom
in one of her ordinary morning costumes, but not the one in which she
was wont to be seen on a Sunday. She wore a buff gingham gown,
reaching nearly to her ankles, and a lavender print "bedgown," which
was tied round the waist with a cord and tassels, and ornamented
below with a frill. It had been the morning costume of her mother in
the old-fashioned days, and Miss Carlyle despised new fashions too
much to discard it. Modern ladies might cavil at the style, but they
could not do so at the quality and freshness of the materials, for in
that Miss Carlyle was scrupulously particular. On Sunday mornings
it was her custom to appear attired for the day, and her not doing so
now proved that she must have some domestic work in prospect. Her
head-dress cannot be described ; it was like nothing in the fashion-
book or out of it: some might have called it a turban, some a night-
cap, and some might have thought it was taken from a model of the
dunce's cap and bells in the parish school ; at any rate, it was some-
thing very high, and expansive, and white, and stern and imposing.
Miss Carlyle stepped across the corridor to a door opposite her own,
and gave a thump at it, sufficiently loud to awaken the seven sleepers.
Get up, Archibald.”
"Up!” cried a drowsy voice within. “What for? It's only eight
o'clock.”
“If it's only six, you must get up,” repeated Miss Carlyle, in her
authoritative manner. “The breakfast is waiting, and I must have it
over, for we are all at sixes and sevens.”
Miss Carlyle descended the stairs, and entered the breakfast-room,
where all appeared in readiness for the meal. She had a sharp tongue
on occasions, and a sharp eye always, which saw everything. The
room looked on to the street, and the windows were up, their hand-
some white curtains, spotless as Miss Carlyle's head-dress, waving
gently in the summer breeze. Miss Carlyle's eyes peered round the


EAST LYNNE.
room, and caught sight of some dust. She strode into the kitchen to
salute Joyce with the information. Joyce stood at the kitchen fire
superintending the toasting of some bacon.
" How dare you be so negligent, Joyce? You have never dusted the
breakfast-parlour.”
“Never dusted it !” returned Joyce; "where could your eyes have
been, ma'am, to see that?"
“On the dust,” replied Miss Carlyle. “Go and put yours on it, and
take the duster with you. I cannot sit down in an untidy room. Just
because you have a little extra work to do this morning, you are turning
lazy."
“No, ma'am,” retorted Joyce with spirit, for she felt the charge was
unfounded : “ I have exerted myself to the utmost this morning. I was
up at five o'clock to get the double work comfortably over, that you
might have no occasion to find fault, and I was as particular over the
breakfast-parlour as I always am. You insist upon having the windows
thrown up, and of course the dust will fly in.”
Joyce retreated with her duster just as a bell was heard to ring, and
a respectable-looking serving-man, of middle height and portly form,
entered the kitchen.
“Do you want anything, Peter ?" inquired Miss Carlyle.
“ Master's shaving water, ma'am. He has rung for it.”
“Master can' have it, then," was the retort of Miss Carlyle. “Go
and say so. Tell him that the breakfast is waiting, and he must shave
afterwards."
Peter retired with the message, most probably softening it in the
delivery, and Miss Carlyle presently returned to the breakfast-room
and seated herself at the table to wait for her brother.
Miss Carlyle the previous evening had embroiled herself in a dispute
with her cook. The latter, who was of a fiery temper, retorted inso-
lently, and her mistress gave her warning, for insolence from a servant
she never put up with, and rarely indeed was it offered her. The girl,
in her passion, said she did not want to wait for warning, she'd go at
once : and off she went. Miss Carlyle pronounced the house well rid
of her. Miss Carlyle was rigid upon one point-that of having as little
work done upon a Sunday as possible, and when the Sunday's dinner
was of a nature that could be advanced on the Saturday, it had to be
done : upon this rock had Miss Carlyle and the cook split. To add to
the inconvenience, the housemaid was from home enjoying a holiday.
Mr. Carlyle came into the breakfast-room completely dressed : he
had an invincible dislike to appear otherwise, and he had shaved in
cold water. “Why are we breakfasting at eight this morning ?” he
inquired.
“Because I have so much to do. And if I cannot get breakfast over
early I shall never finish in time for church,” was the reply of Miss
Carlyle. “The cook's gone."
“The cook gone ! ”repeated Mr. Carlyle.
" It all happened after you went out to spend the evening, and I did
not sit up to tell you. We are to have ducks for dinner to-day, and she
knew they had to be stuffed and prepared yesterday, the gravy made,
and the giblet-pię made and baked : in short, everything done, except


MISS CARLYLE AT HOME.
the absolute roasting. I asked her last night if it was done. 'Oh yes,
it was all done,' she said; and I told her to bring me the giblet-pie to
look at, knowing she has a knack of burning the crust of her pies.
Well, she could not do so; she had told me a falsehood, Archibald,
and had no pie to bring, for the ducks were just as they came into the
house; she had idly put it all off until to-day, thinking I should never
find her out; but my asking for the pie floored her. She was insolent,
and what with that and the lie, I gave her warning, but she chose to
leave last night. I have it all to do myself this morning."
“Can't Joyce do it?” returned Mr. Carlyle.
" Joyce ! Much she knows about cooking ; Joyce's cooking won't
do for my table. Barbara Hare is going to spend the day here."
“ Indeed.”
“ Barbara called last evening, full of trouble. She and the justice
had been having a dispute, and she said she wished I would invite her
for to-day. Barbara has been laying in a stock of finery; the justice
caught sight of it as it came home, and Barbara suffered. Serve her
right, vain little minx. Just hark at the bells clashing out!”
Mr. Carlyle lifted his head. The bells of St. Jude's Church were
ringing a merry peal as for a wedding, or any other festivity. “What
can that be for ?" he exclaimed.
“ Archibald, you are not half as sharp as I was at your age. What
should they be ringing for, but out of compliment to the arrival of Lord
Mount Severn?”
“Ay; no doubt. The East Lynne pew is in St. Jude's Church."
East Lynne had changed owners, and was now the property of Mr.
Carlyle. He had bought it as it stood, furniture and all ; but the
transfer had been conducted with secrecy, and was suspected by none.
Whether Lord Mount Severn thought it might prevent any one from
getting scent of the matter, or whether he wished to take farewell of a
place he had formerly been fond of, certain it is that he desired to
visit it for a week or two. Mr. Carlyle most readily and graciously
acquiesced ; and the earl, his daughter, and retinue had arrived the
previous day.
West Lynne was in ecstasies. It called itself an aristocratic place,
and indulged hopes that the earl might be intending to confer upon it
permanently the light of his presence, by taking up his residence again
at East Lynne. The toilets prepared to greet his admiring eyes were
prodigious, and pretty Barbara Hare was not the only young lady who
had thereby to encounter the paternal storm.
Miss Carlyle completed her dinner preparations, all she did not
choose to trust to Joyce, and was ready for church at the usual time,
plainly but well dressed. As she and Archibald were leaving their
house, they saw something looming up the streets, flashing and gleam-
ing in the sun. A pink parasol came first, a pink bonnet and feather
came behind it, a grey brocaded dress, and white gloves.
“The little vain idiot !” ejaculated Miss Carlyle. But Barbara sailed
up the street towards them, unconscious of the apostrophe.
“ Well done, Barbara !” was the salutation of Miss Carlyle. “The
justice might well exclaim! You are finer than a sunbeam."
“Not half so fine as many another in church will be to-day,” re-


MISS CARLYLE AT HOME.
47
Ay, those brown eyes, so full of sweetness and melancholy : few,
who had once seen, could mistake or forget them, and Barbara Hare,
forgetting where she was, looked at them much that day. “She is
very lovely," thought Barbara, “and her dress is certainly that of a
lady. I wish I had not had this streaming pink feather. What fine
jackdaws she must think us all !”
The earl's carriage, an open barouche, was waiting at the gate at
the conclusion of the service. He handed his daughter in, and was
putting his gouty foot upon the step to follow her, when he observed
Mr. Carlyle. The earl turned and held out his hand. A man who
could purchase East Lynne was worthy of being received as an equal,
though he was but a country lawyer.
Mr. Carlyle shook hands with the earl, approached the carriage, and
raised his hat to Lady Isabel. She bent forward with her pleasant
smile, and put her hand into his.
“I have many things to say to you,” said the earl. “I wish you
would go home with us. If you have nothing better to do, be East
Lynne's guest for the remainder of the day.”
He smiled peculiarly as he spoke, and Mr. Carlyle echoed it. East
Lynne's guest ! that was what the earl was, at present. Mr. Carlyle
turned aside to tell his sister.
“ Cornelia, I shall not be home to dinner ; I am going with Lord
Mount Severn. Good day, Barbara.”
Mr. Carlyle stepped into the carriage, was followed by the earl, and it
drove away. The sun shone still, but the day's brightness had gone
out for Barbara Hare.
“How does he know the earl so well? How does he know Lady
Isabel ?" she reiterated in her astonishment.
“ Archibald knows something of most people," replied Miss Corny.
“He saw the earl frequently when he was in town in the spring, and
Lady Isabel once or twice. What a lovely face she has !"
Barbara made no reply. She returned with Miss Carlyle to the
attraction of the ducks and the giblet-pie, but her manner was as
absent as her heart, and that had run away to East Lynne.
“Oh, the refinement of courtly life, the unnecessary profusion of
splendour !” thought Mr. Carlyle, as he sat down to the earl's dinner-
table that day. The display of silver, of glittering glass, of costly
china; the various wines and the rich viands, too varied and rich for
the earl's gout; the numerous servants in their handsome livery ; the
table's pleasant master, and its refined young mistress ! In spite of
the earl's terrible embarrassments, he had never yet curtailed the pomp
of home expenditure : how he had maintained it was a marvel ; how
long he would succeed in maintaining it was another. Very unneces-
sary and unjustifiable was the splendour under the circumstances,
but it had its attractions. Exceedingly great were the attractions that
day, all things combined. Take care of your senses, Mr. Carlyle.
Isabel left them after dinner, and sat alone, her thoughts running
on many things. On her dear mother, with whom she was last at
East Lynne, on the troublesome gout that would not quite leave her
father, and on the scenes she had lately mixed in in London. She
had met ore there so constantly that he had almost become dangerous


EAST LYNNE.
to her peace, or would have done so, had she remained much longer.
Even now, as she thought of him, a thrill quickened her veins. It was
Francis Levison. Mrs. Vane had been guilty of worse than thought-
lessness, in throwing them so frequently together. Mrs. Vane was a
cold, selfish, and a bad woman; bad, inasmuch as, except her own
heartless self, she cared for no human being on the face of the wide
earth.
With a sigh, Isabel rose, and scattered her reflections to the winds.
Her father and his guest did not appear to be in haste to come into
tea, and she sat down to the piano.
The earl was certainly not in haste; he never was in haste to quit
his wine ; every glass was little less than poison to him in his state
of health, but he would not forego it. They were deep in conversation,
when Mr. Carlyle, who was speaking, broke off in the middle of a
sentence and listened.
A strain of the sweetest music had arisen ; it seemed almost close
to his ear, but he knew not whence it came; a voice, low and clear
and sweet, was accompanying it, and Mr. Carlyle held his breath. It
was the Benedictus, sung to Mornington's chant.
“Blessed be the Lord God of Israel : for he hath visited and re-
deemed his people. And hath raised up a mighty salvation for us :
in the house of his servant David."
The conversation of the earl and Mr. Carlyle had been of the eager
bustling world, of money getting and money spending, money owing
and money paying, and that sacred chant broke in upon them with
strange contrast, soothing the ear, but reproving the heart.
" It is Isabel,” explained the earl. “Her singing carries a singular
charm with it'; and I think that charm lies in her subdued, quiet
style : I hate squalling display. Her playing is the same. Are you
fond of music ?"
“I have been reproached by scientific performers with having neither
ear nor taste for what they call good music," smiled Mr. Carlyle ; " but
I like that.”
“ The instrument is placed against the wall, and the partition is
thin,” remarked the earl. “ Isabel little thinks she is entertaining us,
as well as herself.”
Indeed she did not. She sang chant after chant, now one psalm
to them, now another. Then she sang the collect for the seventh
Sunday after Trinity, and then she went back again to the chants.
And Mr. Carlyle sat on, drinking in that delightful music, and never
heeding how the evening was running on into night.
CHAPTER VIII.
MR. KANE'S CONCERT.
BEFORE Lord Mount Severn had completed the fortnight of his
proposed stay, the gout came back seriously. It was impossible for
him to move away from East Lynne. Mr. Carlyle assured him he
was only too pleased that he should remain as long as might be con-


MR. KANE'S CONCERT.
49
venient to him, and the earl expressed his acknowledgments; he
hoped soon to be re-established on his legs.
But he was not. The gout came and the gout went ; not positively
laying him up in bed, but rendering him unable to leave his rooms :
and this continued until October, when he grew much better. The
county families had been neighbourly, calling on the invalid earl, and
occasionally carrying off Lady Isabel, but his chief and constant visitor
had been Mr. Carlyle. The earl had grown to like him in no common
degree, and was disappointed if Mr. Carlyle spent an evening away
from him, so that he had become, as it were, quite domesticated with
the earl and Isabel. “I am not equal to general society," he observed
to his daughter, “ and it is considerate and kind of Carlyle to come
here and cheer my loneliness.”
“ Extremely kind,” said Isabel. “I like him very much, papa."
“I don't know any one whom I like half as well,” was the rejoinder
of the earl.
Mr. Carlyle went up as usual the same evening, and in the course of
it the earl asked Isabel to sing.
“I will if you wish, papa," was the reply, “but the piano is so much
out of tune that it is not pleasant to sing to it. Is there no one in
West Lynne who could come here and tune my piano, Mr. Carlyle?”
she added, turning to him.
“ Certainly there is. Kane would do it. Shall I send him to-morrow?"
“ I should be glad ; if it would not be giving you too much trouble.
Not that tuning will very much improve it, old thing that it is. Were
we to be much at East Lynne, I should ask papa to exchange it for
a new one.”
Little thought Lady Isabel that that very piano was Mr. Carlyle's,
and not hers. The earl coughed, and exchanged a smile and a glance
with his guest.
Mr. Kane was the organist of St. Jude's Church, a man of embarrass-
ment and sorrow, who had long had a sore fight with the world.
When he arrived at East Lynne the following day, Lady Isabel hap-
pened to be playing, and she stood by and watched him begin his
work. She was courteous and affable ; she was so to every one ; and
the poor music-master took courage to speak of his own affairs, and to
prefer an humble request—that she and Lord Mount Severn would
patronize and personally attend a concert he was about to give the
following week. A scarlet blush came into his thin cheeks as he con-
fessed that he was very poor, could scarcely live, and that he was
getting up this concert in his desperate need. If it succeeded-well :
he could then go on again ; if not, he should be turned out of his home,
and his furniture sold for the two years' rent he owed—and he had
seven children.
Isabel, all her sympathies awakened, sought the earl. “Oh, papa !
I have to ask you the greatest favour! Will you grant it?”
“Ay, child, you don't ask them often. What is it?'
“I want you to take me to a concert at West Lynne.”
The earl fell back in surprise and stared at Isabel.
“A concert at West Lynne !” he laughed. “To hear rustics scraping
the fiddle! My dear Isabel I”
Last Lynne


EAST LYNNE.
She poured cut what she had just heard, with her own comments
and additions. “Seven children, papa ! and if the concert does not
succeed he must give up his home, and turn out into the streets with
them—it is, you see, almost as a matter of life or death to him. He is
very poor."
“I am poor myself,” said the earl.
“I was so sorry for him when he was speaking. He kept turning
red and white, and catching his breath in agitation ; it was painful to
him to tell of his embarrassments. I am sure he is a gentleman.”
“Well, you may take a pound's worth of tickets, Isabel, and give
them to the upper servants. A village concert ! ”.
“Oh, papa, it is not that ; can't you see it is not? If you and I
promise to be present, all the families round West Lynne will attend,
and he will have the room full. They will go because we do ; he said
so; it they thought it was our servants who were going, they would
keep away. Just think, papa, how you would like this furniture to be
taken away from you ! and his having a full concert would stop it.
Make a sacrifice for once, dearest papa, and go, if it be only for an
hour. I shall enjoy it, if it's nothing but a fiddle and a tambourine."
“ You gipsv ! you are as bad as a professional beggar There, go
and tell the fellow we will look in for half an hour.”
She flew back to Mr. Kane, her eyes dancing. She spoke quietly,
as she always did, but her own satisfaction gladdened her voice.
“I am happy to tell you that papa has consented. He will take four
tickets, and we will attend the concert.”.
The tears rushed into Mr. Kane's eyes. Isabel was not sure they
were not in her own. He was a tall, thin, delicate-looking man, with
long white fingers and a long neck. He faltered forth his thanks, and
an inquiry whether he might be allowed to state openly that they would
be present.
“ Tell every one," said she, eagerly-"every one you meet, if you
think it will be the means of inducing people to attend. I shall tell all
friends who call upon me, and ask them to go.”
When Mr. Carlyle came up in the evening, the earl was temporarily
absent from the room. Isabel began to speak of the concert.
“It is a hazardous venture for Kane, observed Mr. Carlyle. “I
fear he will. only lose money, and add to his embarrassments.”
“Why do yo'ı fear that?" she asked.
“Because, Lady Isabel, nothing gets patronized at West Lynne ;
nothing native; and people have heard so long of poor Kane's neces-
sities, that they think little of them. If some foreign artist, with an
unpronounceab e nane, came flashing down to give a concert, West
Lynne would flock to it.”
“Is he so poor, so very poor ? "
“Very. He is half starved.”.
“ Starved !” repeated Isabel, an expression of perplexity arising to
her face, as she looked at Mr. Carlyle, for she scarcely understood him.
“Do you mean that he does not have enough to eat ?"
“ Of bread he may have, but not of much better nourishment. His
salary, as organist, is thirty pounds, and he gets i little stray teaching.
But he has his wife and children to keep, and no doubt serves them


MR. KANE'S CONCERT.
51
before himself. I dare say he scarcely knows what it is to taste
meat.”
The words brought a bitter pang to Lady Isabel. Not enough to
eat! And she, in her carelessness, her ignorance, her indifference-
she scarcely knew what term to give it-had not thought to order him
a meal in their house of abundance! He had walked from West
Lynne, occupied himself an hour with her piano, and set off to walk
back again, battling with his hunger. A word from her, and a repast
had been set before him, out of their superfluities, such as he never now
sat down to ; and that word she had not spoken.
“You are looking grave, Lady Isabel."
“I am taking contrition to myself. Never mind ; it cannot now be
helped ; but it will always be a dark spot on my memory.”
“What is it?”
She lifted her repentant face to his, and smiled. “Never mind, I
say, Mr. Carlyle ; what is past cannot be recalled. He looks like a
gentleman.”
“Who? Kane? A gentleman bred : his father was a clergyman.
Kane's ruin was his love of music ; it prevented his setting to any
better-paid profession ; his early marriage also was a drawback, and
kept him down. He is young still.”
* Mr. Carlyle, I would not be one of your West Lynne people for the
world. Here is a poor gentleman struggling with adversity, and you
won't put your hands out to help him!”
He smiled at her warmth. “Some of us will take tickets, I for one,
but I don't know about attending the concert. I fear few will do that.”
“Because that's just the thing that would serve him! If one went,
another would go. Well, I shall try and show West Lynne that I don't
take a lesson from their book; I shall be there before it begins, and
never come out till the last song is over. I am not too grand to go, if
West Lynne is.”
“ You surely do not think of going !"
“I surely do think of it. And papa goes with me; I persuaded him.
And I have given Mr. Kane our promise to do so.”
Mr. Carlyle paused. “I am glad to hear it ; it will be a perfect
boon to Kane. If it once goes abroad that Lord Mount Severn and
Lady Isabel intend to honour the concert, there won't be standing room
in the place.”
She danced round with a little gleeful step. “What high and
mighty personages Lord Mount Severn and Lady Isabel seem to be !
If you had any goodness of heart, Mr. Carlyle, you would enlist your-
self in the cause also.”
“I think I will,” he smiled.
“Papa says you hold sway at West Lynne. If you proclaim that
you mean to go, you will induce others to go also.”
“I will proclaim that you do,” he answered. “That will be suffi-
cient. But, Lady Isabel, you must not expect much gratification from
the performances."
"A tambourine will be quite enough for me; I told papa so. I
shan't think of the music; I shall think of poor Mr. Kane. Mr.
Carlyle, I know you can be kind if you like ; I know you would rather


EAST LYNNE.
be kind than otherwise ; it is to be read in your face; try and do what
you can for him.”
“I will,” he warmly answered.
Mr. Carlyle sold many tickets the following day; or rather, caused
them to be sold. He praised the concert far and wide, and proclaimed
that Lord Mount Severn and his daughter would not think of missing
it. Mr. Kane's house was besieged for tickets, and when Mr. Carlyle
went home to luncheon at midday, which he did not often do, he laid
down two at Miss Corny's elbow.
“What's this ? Concert tickets! Archibald, you have never gone
and bought these!”
What would she have said had she known that the two were not the
extent of his investment ?
“Ten shillings to throw away upon two paltry bits of cardboard !”
chafed Miss Carlyle. “You always were a noodle in money matters,
Archibald, and always will be. I wish I had the keeping of your
purse !"
“What I have given will not hurt me, Cornelia, and Kane is badly
off. Think of his troop of children.”
“Oh dear,” said Miss Corny ; “I imagine he should think of them!
That's always it : poor folks get a heap of children about them, and
then ask for pity. I should say it would be more just if they asked for
blame.”
“Well, there the tickets are, bought and paid for, so they may as
well be used. You will go with me, Cornelia.”
“And stick ourselves there upon empty benches, like two geese, and
sit staring and counting the candles! A pleasant evening !"
“ You need not fear empty benches. The Mount Severns are going,
and West Lynne is racing after tickets. I suppose you have a-a-
cap," looking at the nondescript article decorating his sister's head,
“that will do to go in, Cornelia : if not, you had better order one."
This suggestion put up Miss Carlyle. “Hadn't you better have your
hair curled, and your coat-tails lined with white satin ?” retorted she.
“My gracious! a fine new cap to go to their mess of a concert in,
after paying ten shillings for the tickets! The world's coming to
something."
Mr. Carlyle left her and her grumbling to return to the office. Lord
Mount Severn's carriage was passing at the moment, and Isabel Vane
was within it. She caused it to stop when she saw Mr. Carlyle, and he
advanced to her.
“I have been to Mr. Kane's myself for the tickets," said she, with a
beaming look; “I came into West Lynne on purpose. I told the
coachman to find out where he lived, and he did so. I thought if the
people saw me and the carriage there, they would guess what I wanted.
I do hope he will have a full concert."
“I am sure he will,” replied Mr. Carlyle, as he released her hand.
And Lady Isabel signed the carriage to drive on.
As Mr. Carlyle turned away, he met Otway Bethel, a nephew of
Colonel Bethel's, who was tolerated in the colonel's house because he
had no other home, and appeared incapable of making himself one.
Some persons persisted in calling him a gentleman-as he was by


MR. KANE'S CONCERT.
53
birth-others called him a mauvais sujet. The two are united some.
times. He was dressed in a velveteen suit, and had a gun in his hand;
indeed, he was rarely seen without a gun, being inordinately fond of
sport. But, if all tales whispered were true, he supplied himself with
game in other ways than by shooting, which had the credit of going up
to London dealers. For the last six months, or near it, he had been
away from West Lynne.
“Why, where have you been hiding yourself?” exclaimed Mr.
Carlyle. “The colonel has been inconsolable."
“Come, no gammon, Carlyle. I have been on the tramp through
France and Germany. Man likes a change sometimes. As to the
revered colonel, he would not be inconsolable if he saw me nailed up
in a six-foot box, and carried out feet foremost."
“Bethel, I have a question to ask you,” continued Mr. Carlyle,
dropping his light manner and his voice together. “Take your
thoughts back to the night of Hallijohn's murder."
"I wish you may get it!” cried "Mr. Bethel. “The reminiscence is
not attractive.”
“You'll do it," quietly said Mr. Carlyle. “ It has been told to me,
though it did not appear at the inquest, that Richard Hare held a con-
versation with you in the wood, a few minutes after the deed was done.
Now—"
“Who told you that?" interrupted Bethel.
“That is not the question. My authority is indisputable."
“ It is quite true. I said nothing about it, for I did not want to make
the case worse against Dick Hare than it already was. He certainly
did accost me, as a man flurried out of his life.”
“Asking if you had seen a certain lover of Afy's fly from the cottage.
One Thorn."
“ That was the purport. Thorn? Thorn ?-I think Thorn was the
name he mentioned. My opinion was, that Dick was either wild, or
acting a part."
“Now, Bethel, I want you to answer me truly. The question cannot
affect you either way, but I must know whether you did see this Thorn
leave the cottage."
Bethel shook his head. “I know nothing whatever about any Thorn,
and I saw no one but Dick Hare. Not but that a dozen Thorns might
have run from the cottage without my seeing them."
“ You heard this shot fired ?"
“Yes ; but I never gave a thought to mischief. I knew Locksley
was in the wood, and supposed it came from him. I ran across the
path, bearing towards the cottage, and struck into the wood on the
other side. By-and-by, Dick Hare pitched upon me, as one startled
out of his senses, and asked if I had seen Thorn leave the cottage.
Thorn—that was the name.”
“And you had not ?"
“ I had seen no one but Dick, excepting Locksley. My impression
was that no one else was about; I think so still."
“But Richard "
“Now look you here, Carlyle, I won't do Dick Hare an injury, even by
a single word, if I can help it. And it is of no use setting me on to it.”


EAST LYNNE.
“I should be the last to set you on to injure any one, especially
Richard Hare,” rejoined Mr. Carlyle, “and my motive is to do Richard
good, not harm. I hold a suspicion, no matter whence gathered, that
it was not Richard Hare who committed the murder, but another.
Can you throw any light upon the subject ? ”
“ No, I can't. I have always thought poor wavering Dick was no
one's enemy but his own : but as to throwing any light upon that
night's work, I can't do it. Cords should not have dragged me to the
inquest to give evidence against Dick, and for that reason I was glad
Locksley never let out that I was on the spot. How the deuce it got
about afterwards, I can't tell ; but that was no matter ; my evidence
did not help on the verdict. And, talking of that, Carlyle, how has it
come to your knowledge that Richard Hare accosted me? I have not
opened my lips upon it to mortal man.” .
*" It is of no consequence how," repeated Mr. Carlyle ; “I do know
it, and that is sufficient. I was in hopes you had really seen this Thorn
leave the cottage.”
Otway Bethel shook his head. “I should not lay too much stress
upon any • Thorns' having been there, were I you, Carlyle. Dick
Hare was as one crazy that night, and might see shapes and forms
where none existed.”.
CHAPTER IX.
THE BATS AT THE WINDOW.
The concert was to take place on a Thursday, and on the following
Saturday Lord Mount Severn intended finally to quit East Lynne.
Preparations for departure were in progress, but when Thursday
morning dawned, it appeared a question whether they would not once
more be rendered nugatory. The house was roused betimes, and Mr.
Wainwright, the surgeon from West Lynne, was summoned to the
earl's bedside : he had experienced another and a violent attack. The
peer was exceedingly annoyed and vexed, and very irritable.
“I may be kept here a week—a fortnight-a month longer now !"
he uttered fretfully to Isabel.
“I am very sorry, papa. I dare say you do find East Lynne dull.”
“ Dull! that's not it : I have other reasons for wishing East Lynne
to be quit of us. And now you can't go to this fine concert."
Isabel's face flushed. “Not go, papa ?”
4 Why, who is to take you? I can't get out of bed.
“Oh, papa, I must be there. Otherwise it would look almost as
though-as though we had announced what we did not mean to per-
form. You know it was arranged that we should join the Ducies : the
carriage can still take me to the concert-room, and I can go in with
them."
“ Just as you please. I thought you would have jumped at any plea
for staying away.”
“Not at all," laughed Isabel. “ I should like West Lynne to see that
I don't despise Mr. Kane and his concert."


THE BATS AT THE WINDOW.
Later in the day, the earl grew alarmingly worse : his paroxysms of
pain were awful. Isabel, who was kept from the room, knew nothing
of the danger, and the earl's groans did not penetrate to her ears. She
dressed in a happy mood, full of laughing wilfulness, Marvel, her
maid, superintending in stiff displeasure, for the attire chosen did not
meet with her approbation. When ready, she went into the earl's
room.
“ Shall I do, papa?”
Lord Mount Severn raised his swollen eyelids and drew the clothes
from his flushed face. A vision was standing before him, a beauteous
queen, a gleaming fairy; he hardly knew what she looked like. She
had put on a white lace dress and her diamonds; the dress was rich,
and the jewels flashed from her hair, from her pretty neck, from her
delicate arms; and her cheeks were flushed and her curls were flowing.
The earl stared at her in amazement. “How could you dress your-
self like that for a concert? You are out of your senses, Isabel.”
“Marvel thinks so too,” was the gay answer ; " she has had a cross
face since I told her what to put out. But I did it on purpose, papa;
I thought I would show those West Lynne people that I think the
poor man's concert worth going to, and worth dressing for."
“ You will have the whole room staring at you.”
“I don't mind. I'll bring you word all about it. Let them stare."
“You vain child ! You have dressed yourself to please your vanity.
But, Isabel, you-000oooh!”
Isabel started as she stood : the earl's groan was terrible.
“An awful twinge, child. There, go along : talking makes me
worse."
“Papa, shall I stay at home with you ?” she gravely asked. “Every
consideration should give way to illness. If you would like me to
remain, or if I can do any good, pray let me.”
“Quite the contrary ; I had rather you were away. You can do no
earthly good, for I could not have you in the room. Good-bye,
darling. If you see Carlyle, tell him I shall hope to see him to-
morrow."
Marvel threw a man's over her shoulders, and she went down to
the carriage, which waited.
The concert was held in the noted justice-room, over the market-
place, called by courtesy the town-hall. It was large, and excellent for
sound ; many a town of far greater importance cannot boast so good
a music-room. In the way of performers, Mr. Kane had done his
poor best ; a lady, quite fourth rate, had been engaged from London,
and the rest were local artistes.
Barbara Hare would not have missed the concert for the world, but
Mrs. Hare had neither health nor spirits for it. It was arranged that
the justice and Barbara should accompany the Carlyles, and they pro-
ceeded to Miss Carlyle's in time for coffee. Something was said about
a fly, but Miss Carlyle negatived it, asking what had come to their
legs : it was a fine night, and the distance was very short. Barbara
had no objection to the walk with Mr. Carlyle.
“How is it that we see so little of you now?" she began, as they
went along, Mr. Justice Hare and Miss Carlyle preceding them.


EAST LYNNE.
“I have been so much engaged at East Lynne : the earl finds his
evenings dull. They go on Saturday, and my time will be my own
again."
“ You were expected at the parsonage last night ; we were looking
out for you all the evening."
“Not expected by Mr. and Mrs. Little, I think. I told them I was
engaged to dine at East Lynne."
“They were saying--some of them—that you might as well take up
your abode at East Lynne, and wondered what your attraction could
be. They said "_Barbara compelled her voice to calmness," that if
Isabel Vane were not the Lady Isabel, they should think you went
there for her sake.”
“I am much obliged at their interesting themselves so much about
me,” equably returned Mr. Carlyle. “More so than Lady Isabel Vane
would probably be. I am surprised that you should retail such non-
sense, Barbara.”
“They said it ; I did not,” answered Barbara, with a swelling heart.
“Is it true that Lady Isabel sings so well? They were making out
that her singing is divine.”
“You had better not let Cornelia hear you say that, or you will have
a reproof,” laughed Mr. Carlyle. “As I did, when I said she had an
angel's face.”
Barbara turned her own face full upon him : it looked pale in the
gaslight. “ Did you say she had an angel's face? Do you think it
one?"
“I really believe I did say so, but I can't be quite sure; Cornelia
snapped me up so quickly," he answered, laughing. “Barbara," he
added, dropping his voice, we have still not heard from Richard."
“No. You and mamma both think we shall hear; I say not, for I
feel sure he will be afraid to write. I know he promised, but I have
never thought he would perform."
“There would be no risk in sending the letters under cover to me,
and it would be a relief and a comfort to Mrs. Hare."
“ You know how timorous Richard is. :)tway Bethel is home
again," she continued. “You said you should question him when he
returned, Archibald.”
“ I have done so, but he appears to know nothing. He seems well
disposed towards Richard, but casts doubt on the assertion that Thorn,
or any stranger, was in the wood that night.”
“It is very strange what Thorn it could have been.”
“Very," assented Mr. Carlyle. “I can make out nothing from
Swainson. No person whatever, answering the description and named
Thorn, was living there at the time, so far as I am able to ascertain.
All we can do is to wait, and hope that time may bring elucidation
with it."
They reached the town-hall as he spoke. A busy crowd was
gathered round the entrance ; people going in to attend the concert,
and the mob watching them. Drawn up at a short distance, so as not
to obstruct other vehicles, was the aristocratic carriage of Lord Mount
Severn; the coachman sat on his hammercloth, and two powdered
lootmen waited with it.


THE BATS AT THE WINDOW.
57
" Lady Isabel Vane is sitting there,” exclaimed Barbara as she
passed.
Mr. Carlyle felt surprised. What could she be waiting for? where
could the earl be? A doubt came over him, he could not define why,
that something was wrong.
“Will you pardon me if I quit you for one moment, Barbara, whilst
I speak to Lady Isabel ?”
He waited for neither acquiescence nor dissent, but left Barbara
standing where she was, and accosted Isabel. The diamonds gleamed
in her hair, as she bent towards him.
“I am waiting for Mrs. Ducie, Mr. Carlyle. I did not like to remain
all alone in the ante-room, so I stayed here. When Mrs. Ducie's
carriage comes up, I shall get out. I am going in with her, you
know."
“And the earl ? "
"Oh, have you not heard? Papa is ill again.”
“Ill again ? " repeated Mr. Carlyle.
“Very ill indeed. Mr. Wainwright was sent for at five o'clock this
morning, and has been with him a good deal of the day. Papa bade
me say that he hoped to see you to-morrow."
Mr. Carlyle rejoined Barbara : they entered the hall and began to
ascend the stairs, just as another aristocratic equipage dashed up, to
scatter and gratify the mob. Barbara turned her head to look : it was
that of the Honourable Mrs. Ducie.
The room was pretty full then, and Mrs. Ducie, her two daughters,
and Isabel were conducted to seats by Mr. Kane—seats he had reserved
for them at the upper end, near the orchestra. The same dazzling
vision which had burst on the sight of Lord Mount Severn fell on that
of the audience, in Isabel, with her rich white dress, her glittering
diamonds, her flowing curls, and her wondrous beauty. The Miss
Ducies, plain girls, in brown silks, turned up their noses more than
nature had done it for them, and Mrs. Ducie heaved an audible sigh.
"The poor motherless girl is to be pitied, my dears," she whispered ;
"she has no one to point out to her suitable attire : this ridiculous
decking out must have been Marvel's idea.”
But she looked as a lily amidst poppies and sun-flowers, whether the
“decking out” was ridiculous or not. Was Lord Mount Severn right,
when he accused her of so dressing in self-gratification ? Very likely :
for, has not the great preacher said, that childhood and youth are
vanity?
Miss Carlyle, the justice, and Barbara also had seats near the
orchestra, for Miss Carlyle in West Lynne was a person to be con-
sidered, and not to be hidden behind others. Mr. Carlyle, however,
preferred to join the gentlemen who congregated and stood round
about the door, inside and out. There was scarcely standing room in
the place : Mr. Kane had, as was anticipated, a bumper, and the poor
man could have worshipped Lady Isabel, for he knew he owed it to her.
It was very long : country concerts generally are so : and was about
three parts over when a powdered head, larger than any cauliflower
ever grown, was discerned ascending the stairs behind the group of
gentlemen : which head, when it brought its body into full view, was


58
EAST LYNNE.
discovered to belong to one of the footmen of Lord Mount Severn.
The calves alone, cased in their silk stockings, were a sight to be seen;
and these calves betook themselves inside the concert-room, with a
deprecatory bow for permission to the gentlemen they had to steer
through, and there they came to a standstill, the cauliflower turning
itself about from right to left.
“Well, I'll be jiffied ! ” cried an astonished old foxhunter, who had
been elbowed by the footman. “The cheek these fellows have!”
The fellow in question did not appear, however, to be enjoying any
great amount of cheek just then, for he looked perplexed, humbled, and
uneasy. Suddenly his eye fell on Mr. Carlyle, and it lighted up.
“Beg pardon, sir : could you happen to inform me whereabouts my
young lady is sitting ?”
“At the other end of the room, near the orchestra."
“I am sure I don't know how ever I am to get to her, then," returned
the man, more in self-soliloquy, than to Mr. Carlyle. “The room's
full, and I don't like crushing by. My lord is taken alarmingly worse,
sir,” he explained in an awe-struck tone ; “it is feared he is dying."
Mr. Carlyle was painfully startled.
“ His screams are awful, sir. Mr. Wainwright and another doctor
from West Lynne are with him, and an express has gone to Lynne-
borough for physicians. Mrs. Mason said we were to fetch my young
lady home, and not lose a moment; and we brought the carriage, sir,
Wells galloping his horses all the way.”
“I will bring Lady Isabel,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“I'm sure, sir, I should be under everlasting obligation if you would,”
returned the man.
Mr. Carlyle worked his way through the crowded room. He was tall
and slender. Many looked daggers at him, for a pathetic song was just
then being given by a London lady. He disregarded all, and stood
before Isabel.
“I thought you were not coming to speak to me to-night. Is it not
a famous room? I am so pleased."
“More than famous, Lady Isabel. But,” continued he gravely,
“ Lord Mount Severn does not find himself so well, and he has sent
the carriage for you.”
" Papa not so well ! " she quickly exclaimed.
“Not quite. At any rate, he wishes you to go home. Will you
allow me to pilot you through the room ?”
“Oh, my dear, considerate papa !” she laughed. “He fears I shall
be wearied, and would emancipate me before the time. Thank you,
Mr. Carlyle, but I will wait until the end."
“No, no, Lady Isabel, it is not that. Lord Mount Severn is indeed
worse.”
Her countenance changed to seriousness; but she was not alarmed.
“ Very well. When this song is over : not to disturb the room.”
“I think you had better lose no time,” he urged. “Never mind the
song and the room."
She rose instantly, and put her arm within Mr. Carlyle's. A hasty
word of explanation to Mrs. Ducie, and he led her away, the room, in
its surprise, making for them what space it might. Many an eye fol-


THE BATS AT THE WINDOW.
59
lowed them, but none more curiously and eagerly than Barbara Hare's.
“Where is he going to take her?" involuntarily uttered Barbara.
“How should I know?” retorted Miss Corny. “ Barbara, you have
done nothing but fidget all the evening : what's the matter with you?
Folks come to a concert to listen, not to talk and fidget.”
- Isabel's mantle was procured from the ante-room, where it had been
left, and she descended the stairs with Mr. Carlyle. The carriage
was drawn up close to the entrance, and the coachman had his reins
gathered ready to start. The footman, not the one who had gone
upstairs, threw open the chariot door as soon as he saw her. He was
new in the service; a simple country native, just engaged. She with-
drew her arm from Mr. Carlyle's, and stood a moment before stepping
in, looking at the man.
“Is papa much worse?”
“Oh yes, my lady: he was screaming shocking. But they think
he'll live till morning.”
With a sharp cry, she seized the arm of Mr. Carlyle, seized it for
support in her shock of agony. Mr. Carlyle rudely thrust the man
away: he could willingly have flung him at full length on to the
pavement.
“Oh, Mr. Carlyle, why did you not tell me?" she shivered.
“My dear Lady Isabel, I am grieved that you are told now. But,
take comfort : you know how ill he frequently is, and this may be only
an ordinary attack. Step in. I trust we shall find it nothing more.”
“ Are you going home with me?”
“ Certainly. I shall not leave you to go alone.”
She moved to the other side of the chariot, making room for him.
“ Thank you : I will sit outside."
“But the night is cold.”
“Oh no." He closed the door, and took his seat by the coachman :
the footmen got up behind, and the carriage sped away. Isabel
gathered herself into her corner, and moaned aloud in her suspense
and helplessness.
“Do not spare your horses," said Mr. Carlyle to Wells. “ Lady
Isabel will be ill with anxiety.”
“She'll be worse before morning, poor child,” returned the coach-
man. “I have lived in the service fifteen year, sir, and have watched
her grow up from a little thing," he hastened to add, as if in apology
for his familiarity.
“Is the earl really in danger ? "
“Ay, sir, that he is. I have seen two cases in my life of gout in
the stomach, and a few hours closed both. I heard a word dropped,
as I came out, that Mr. Wainwright thought it was going on to the
heart."
“The earl's former attacks have been alarming and painful,” re-
marked Mr. Carlyle, clinging to hope.
“ Yes, sir, I know ; but this bout is different. Besides,” resumed
Wells, in a confidential tone, “those bats didn't come for nothing."
“ Báts!” uttered Mr. Carlyle.
“And it's a sure sign, sir, that death is on its road to the house, safe
and speedy."


60
EAST LYNNE.
“Wells, what are you talking about ?"
“ The bats have been round the house this evening, sir. Nasty
things! I hate 'em at all times."
" Bats are fond of flying about at night-time," remarked Mr. Carlyle,
glancing aside at the steady old coachman, with a half suspicion that
he might not have been keeping himself quite so steady as usual. “ It
is their nature to do so.”
“But they don't come in shoals, sir, round about you, and in at the
windows. To-night, when we got back, after leaving my young lady
at the concert, I told Joe just to take out the horses and leave the
carriage outside, as it would be required again. I went indoors, and
there they told me that Mrs. Mason wanted me, and I was to go up to
the library to her. She was sitting there, sir, you see, to be close at
hand, if anything was needed in my lord's room. So I wiped my shoes,
and up to the library I went, and knocked at the door. Come in,'
she called out, and in I walked, and there she was by herself, standing
at the open window. You are airy to-night, ma'am,' says I ; 'it's
hardly weather for open windows :' for, as you see, sir, it's quite a
frost.»
Mr. Carlyle glanced down at the road and the hedges.
“Come in, Wells,' Mrs. Mason called out, sharply, 'come and
look here. I went and stood by her side, sir, and I never saw such a
sight in my life. The bats were flying about in scores, in hundreds,
a cloud of them, diving down at the window, and flapping their wings.
Right inside they came, and would have touched our faces, only we
drew back. Where on earth they had come from I can't think, for I
had not been indoors a minute, and there was not one about outside,
that I had seen. What does all this mean, Wells ?' cried Mrs.
Mason, the bats must have turned wild to-night. I opened the
window to look at them, for they quite startled me. Did you ever see
them so thick?' 'No, ma'am, nor so near,' I answered her. And
I don't like to see them, for it betokens no good : it's a sign.' Well,
sir, with that she burst out laughing," continued Wells, “ for she's one
of those who ridicule signs and dreams, and the like. She is an
educated woman, perhaps you know, sir, and, years ago, was nursery
governess to Lady Isabel ; and those educated people are mighty hard
of belief.”
Mr. Carlyle nodded.
“What is it a sign of, Wells ?' Mrs. Mason went on to me, in a
jesting sort of way. Mrs. Mason, ma'am,' said I, 'I can't say that
I ever saw the bats clanned together and making their visit, like this ;
but I have heard, times out of number, that they have been known to
do it, and that it is a sure sign death is at the very door of the house.'
'I hope death is not at the door of this house,' sighed Mrs. Mason,
thinking, no doubt, of my lord, and she closed the window as she
spoke, and the nasty things beat against it with their wings. Mrs.
Mason then spoke to me of the business she had wanted me upon; she
was talking to me three minutes, perhaps, and when she had finished,
I turned to look at the window again. But there was not a single bat
there ; they had all gone, all disappeared in that little space of time.
•What has become of them?' cried Mrs. Mason; and I opened the


THE BATS AT THE WINDOW.
61
window, and looked up and down, but they were clean gone, and the
air and the sky were as clear as they are at this moment."
“Gone to flap at somebody else's window, perhaps,” remarked Mr.
Carlyle, with a very disbelieving smile.
“Not long after that, sir, the house was in commotion. My lord was
in mortal agony, and Mr. Wainwright said (so the word ran in the
servants’-hall) that the gout had reached the stomach, and might be
rushing on to the heart. Denis went galloping off to Lynneborough
for physicians, and we put to the horses and came tearing off for my
young lady."
“Well," observed Mr. Carlyle, “I hope he will recover the attack,
Wells, in spite of the gout and the bats."
The coachman shook his head, and turning his horses sharply round,
whipped them up through the lodge gates.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Mason, waited at the hall door to receive
Lady Isabel. Mr. Carlyle helped her out of the carriage, and gave her
his arm up the steps. She scarcely dared to inquire.
“Is he better? May I go to his room?" she panted.
Yes, the earl was better ; better, in so far as that he was quiet and
senseless. She moved hastily towards the chamber. Mr. Carlyle drew
the housekeeper aside.
“Is there any hope ?”
“Not the slightest, sir. He is dying."
The earl knew no one: pain had gone for the present, and he lay on
his bed, calm ; but his face, which had death in it all too plainly,
startled Isabel. She did not scream or cry; she was perfectly quiet,
save that she had a fit of shivering. “Will he soon be better?" she
whispered to Mr. Wainwright, who stood there.
The surgeon coughed. “Well, he-he-we must hope it, my lady."
“But why does his face look like that? It is pale-grey : I never
saw any one else look so.”
“He has been in great pain, my lady ; and pain leaves its traces on
the countenance.”
Mr. Carlyle, who had come in, and was standing by the surgeon,
touched his arm to draw him from the room. He noticed the look on
the earl's face, and did not like it; he wished to question the surgeon.
Lady Isabel saw that Mr. Carlyle was about to quit the room, and
beckoned to him.
“Do not leave the house, Mr. Carlyle. When he wakes up, it may
cheer him to see you here ; he liked you very much."
“I will not leave it, Lady Isabel. I did not think of doing so.”
In time it seemed an age-the medical men arrived from Lynne-
borough ; three of them ; the groom had thought he could not summon
too many. It was a strange scene they entered upon : the ghastly
peer, growing restless again now, battling with his departing spirit ;
and the gala robes, the sparkling gems adorning the young girl watch-
ing at his side. They comprehended the case without difficulty : she
had been suddenly called from some scene of gaiety.
They stooped to look at the earl, and felt his pulse, and touched his
heart, and exchanged a few murmured words with Mr. Wainwright.
Isabel hąd stood back to give them place, but her anxious eyes


62
EAST LYNNE.
followed their every movement. They did not seem to notice her, and
she stepped forward.
“ Can you do anything for him ? Will he recover?”
They all turned at the address, and looked at her. One spoke : it
was an evasive answer.
“ Tell me the truth,” she implored, with feverish impatience; “you
must not trifle with me. Do you not know me? I am his only child,
and I am here alone.”
The first thing was to get her away from the room, for the great
change was approaching, and the parting struggle between the body
and the spirit might be one of warfare; no sight for her. But, in
answer to their suggestions that she should go, she only leaned her
head upon the pillow by her father, and moaned in despair.
“She must be got out of the room,” cried one of the physicians,
almost angrily. “Ma'am”-turning suddenly upon Mrs. Mason—"are
there no relatives in the house, no one who can exert influence over
the young lady ? "
“She has scarcely any relatives in the world,” replied the house-
keeper ; “no near ones. And we happen to be, just now, quite alone.”
But Mr. Carlyle, seeing the urgency of the case, for the earl with
every minute grew more excited, approached and whispered to her.
“ You are as anxious as we can be for your father's recovery."
“ As anxious!” she uttered reproachfully.
“ You know what I would imply. Of course our anxiety can be as
nothing to yours.”
“As nothing; as nothing. I think my heart will break.”
“ Then-forgive me--you should not oppose the wishes of his medi-
.cal attendants. They wish to be alone with him ; and time is being
lost."
She rose up; she placed her hands on her brow as if to collect the
sense of the words; and then she addressed the doctors."
“Is it really necessary that I should leave the room ; necessary for
him?"
“ It is necessary, my lady ; absolutely essential.”
She quitted the room without another word, and turned into the
library, an apartment in the same wing, where the bats had paid their
visits earlier in the evening. A large fire burnt in the grate, and she
walked up to it, and leaned her hand and forehead on the mantelpiece.
“Mr. Carlyle,” she said, without raising it.
“I am here,” he answered, for he had followed her in. “What can
I do for you?"
“I have come away, you see. Until I may go in again will you
bring me word how he is---continually ? "
“ Inuced I will."
As he quirted the room, Marvel sailed into it, a very fine lady's-
maid. “Would ny lady change her dress ?”
No, my lady would not. “They might be calling me to papa at the
moment the dress was off.”
"But so very unsuitable, my lady—that rich dress for a night-scene
such as this.”
“Unsuitable! What does it signify? Who thinks of my dress ?”


THE BATS AT THE WINDOW.
But, by-and-by, Mrs. Mason quietly took off the diamonds, and
threw a warm shawl over her neck and arms, for she was shivering still.
Some of the medical men left ; Mr. Wainwright remained. Nothing
more could be done for Lord Mount Severn in this world, and the
death scene was prolonged and terrible. He was awake to pain again
of some sort ; whether of mind or body they could not say. Pain !
mortal, shrieking, writhing agony. Is it, or is it not the case, that a
badly-spent life entails one of these awful death-beds?
Very rebellious, very excited grew Isabel towards morning. Mr.
Carlyle had brought her perpetual tidings from the sick-room, soften-
ing down the actual facts. She could not understand that she need be
kept away from it, and she almost had a battle with Mr. Carlyle.
" It is cruel so to treat me,” she exclaimed, pride alone enabling her
to suppress her sobs. “Pent up here, the night has seemed to me as
long as ten. When your father was dying, were you kept away from
him?"
“My dear young lady-a hardy, callous man may go where you
may not.”
“ You are not hardy and callous."
“ I spoke of man's general nature.”
“I shall act upon my own responsibility. I am obliged by all your
kindness, Mr. Carlyle,” she hastily added, “but you really have no
right to keep me from my father. And I shall go to him.”
Mr. Carlyle placed himself before her, his back against the door.
His grave, kind face looked into hers with the deepest sympathy and
tenderness. “Forgive me, dear Lady Isabel ; I cannot let you go."
She broke into a passion of tears and sobs as he led her back to the
fire, and stood there with her.
“He is my dear father, I have only him in the wide world.”
“I know ; I know ; I feel for you all that you are feeling. Twenty
times this night I have wished, forgive me the thought, that you were
my sister, so that I might express my sympathy more freely, and
comfort you."
“Tell me, then, why I am kept away. If you can show me a sufficient
cause, I will be reasonable, and obey; but do not say again I should be
disturbing him, for it is not true.”
“He is too ill for you to see him, his symptoms are too painful ;
were you to go in, in defiance of advice, you would regret it all your
after-life.”
“Is he dying ? "
Mr. Carlyle hesitated. . Ought he to dissemble with her as the
doctors had done? A strong feeling was upon him that he ought not.
“I trust to you not to deceive me," she simply said.
“I fear he is. I believe he is.”
She rose up; she grasped his arm in the sudden fear that flashed
over her. “You are deceiving me, and he is dead !”
"I am not deceiving you, Lady Isabel. He is not dead : but-it
may be very near.'
She laid her face down upon the sofa pillow. “Going for ever from
me! going for ever. Oh, Mr. Carlyle, let me see him for a minute !
just one farewell ! will you not try for me?"


EAST LYNNE
He knew how hopeless it was, but he turned to leave the room. “I
will go and see. But you will remain here quietly : you will not come.”
She bowed her head in acquiescence, and he closed the door. Had
she indeed been his sister, he would probably have turned the key
upon her. He entered the earl's chamber, but not many seconds did
he remain in it.
“It is over,” he whispered to Mrs. Mason, whom he met in the
corridor. “And Mr. Wainwright is asking for you."
“You are soon back," cried Isabel, lifting her head. “May I go?”
He sat down and took her hand, shrinking from his task. “I wish
I could comfort you," he exclaimed in a tone of deep emotion.
Her face turned of a ghastly whiteness, as white as another's not far
away. “Tell me the worst,” she breathed.
“I have nothing to tell you but the worst. May God support you,
dear Lady Isabel."
She turned to hide her face and its misery from him, and a low wail
of anguish escaped from her, betraying its own tale of despair.
The grey dawn of morning was breaking over the world, advent of
another bustling day in life's history ; but the spirit of William Vane,
Earl of Mount Severn, had soared away from it for ever.
CHAPTER X.
THE KEEPERS OF THE DEAD.
EVENTS, between the death of Lord Mount Severn and his interment,
occurred quickly ; to one of them the reader may feel inclined to
demur, as believing that it could have no foundation in fact, in the
actions of real life. He would be wrong. The circumstances really
occurred.
The earl died on Friday morning, at daylight. The news spread
rapidly ; it generally does on the death of a peer, if he have been of
note (whether good or bad) in the world. It was known in London
before the day was over; the consequence of which was, that by
Saturday morning early, a shoal of what the late earl would have called
harpies had arrived to surround East Lynne. There were creditors
for small sums and for great, for five or ten pounds, up to five or ten
thousand. Some were civil ; some impatient; some loud and rough
and angry ; some came in to put executions on the effects, and some-
to arrest the body!
This last act was accomplished cleverly. Two men, each with a
remarkably hooked nose, stole away from the hubbub of the clamourers,
and peering cunningly about, made their way to the side, or trades.
.man's entrance. A kitchen maid answered their general appeal at the
bell.
“Has the coffin come yet?” said they.
“ Coffin? no !” was the girl's reply. “The shell ain't here yet. Mr.
Jones didn't promise that till nine o'clock, and it haven't gone eight.”
" It won't be long," quoth they, “it's on its road. We'll go up to his
lordship's room, and be getting ready for it.”


THE KEEPERS OF THE DEAD.
65
The girl called the butler. “Two men from Jones's, the undertaker's,
sir,” announced she. “The shell's coming on, and they want to go
up and make ready for it.”
The butler marshalled them upstairs himself, and introduced them
to the room. “That will do," said they, as he was about to enter with
them ;“we won't trouble you to wait.” And, closing the door upon the
unsuspicious butler, they took up their station on either side the dead,
like a couple of ill-omened mutes. They had placed an arrest upon
the corpse; it was theirs, until their claim was satisfied, and they sat
down to thus watch and secure it. Pleasant occupation !
It may have been an hour later that Lady Isabel, leaving her own
chamber, opened noiselessly that of the dead. She had been in it
several times the previous day; at first with the housekeeper ; after-
wards, when the nameless dread was somewhat effaced, alone. But
she felt nervous again this morning, and had gained the bed before she
ventured to lift her eyes from the carpet and encounter the sight. Then
she started, for there sat two strange-looking men—and not attractive
men, either.
It darted through her mind that they must be people from the
neighbourhood, come to gratify an idle and unpardonable curiosity :
her first impulse was to summon the butler : her second, to speak to
them herself.
“Do you want anything here?” she quietly said.
"Much obleeged for the inquiry, miss. We are all right."
The words and tone struck her as being singular in the extreme :
and they kept their seats, too, as though they had a right to be there.
“Why are you here?” she repeated. “What are you doing?”.
“Well, miss, I don't mind telling you, for I suppose you are his
daughter ”-pointing his left thumb over his shoulder at the late peer
—“and we hear he have got no other relative anigh him. We have
been obleeged, miss, to perform a unpleasant dooty, and secure him."
The words were as Greek to her : and the men saw that they were.
“He unfort'nately owed a sight of money, miss—as you perhaps be
aware on, and our employers is in, deep. So, as soon as they heard
what had happened, they sent us down to arrest the dead corpse : and
we have done it."
Amazement, horror, fear, struggled together in the shocked mind of
Lady Isabel. Arrest the dead! She had never heard of a like calamity ;
nor could she have believed in it. Arrest it for what purpose? What
to do? With a panting heart and ashy lips she turned from the room.
Mrs. Mason happened to be passing near the stairs, and Isabel flew to
her, seizing her with both hands in her terror, as she burst into a fit of
nervous tears.
“Those men--in there!” she gasped.
“What men, my lady ?" returned Mrs. Mason in surprise.
"I don't know ; I don't know. I think they are going to stop there :
they say they have taken papa.”
After a pause of bewildered astonishment, the housekeeper left her
standing where she was, and went to the earl's chamber, to see if she
could fathom the mystery of the words. Isabel leaned against
the balustrades ; partly for support, partly that she seemed afraid to
. hest byude.


66
EAST LYNNE.
stir from them; and the ominous disturbance, downstairs, reached her
ears. Strangers, interlopers, appeared to be in the hall, talking vehe-
mently, and complaining in bitter tones. More and more terrified, she
held her breath to listen.
“Where's the good of your seeing the young lady?"cried the butler,
in a tone of remonstrance. “She knows nothing about the earl's affairs ;
she is in grief enough, just now, without any other worry.”
“I will see her,” retorted a dogged voice. “If she's too upstart and
mighty to come down and answer a question or two, why, I'll find my
way to her. Here we are, a shameful crowd of us, swindled out of
our own, told there's nobody we can speak to ; nobody here but the
young lady, and she must not be troubled ! She didn't find it trouble
to help to spend our money! She has no honour and not the feelings
of a lady, if she don't come and speak to us."
Repressing her rebellious emotion, Lady Isabel glided partly down
the staircase, and softly called to the butler.
“What is all this?" she asked. “I must know."
“Oh, my lady, don't go amongst those rough men! You cannot do
any good ; pray go back before they see you. I have sent for Mr.
Carlyle, and expect him here every moment.”
“ Did papa owe them all money ? ” she shivered.
“I am afraid he did, my lady."
She went swiftly on; and, passing through the few stragglers in the
hall, entered the dining-room, where the greater number had congre-
gated, and the hubbub was loudest. All anger, at least all external
anger, was hushed at her sight. She looked so young, so innocent,
so childlike in her pretty morning dress, her fair face shaded by
falling curls, so little fitted to combat with, or understand their
business, that instead of pouring forth complaints, they hushed them
into silence.
“I heard some one saying that I ought to see you,” she began,
agitation causing the words to come forth brokenly. “What did you
want with me?"
Then they poured out their complaints, but not angrily, and she
listened until she grew sick. There were many and formidable claims;
promissory notes and I O U's, overdue bills and underdue bills : heavy
outstanding debts of all sorts, and trifles (comparatively speaking) for
housekeeping, servants' liveries, and out-door servants' wages.
What was Isabel Vane to answer? what excuse to offer? what
hope or promise to give? She stood in bewilderment, unable to
speak, turning from one to the other, her sweet eyes full of pity and
contrition.
“The fact is, young lady,” said one who bore the exterior of a
gentleman,“ we should not have come down to trouble you-at least,
I can answer for myself--but his lordship's men of business, Warburton
and Ware, to whom many of us hastened last evening, told us there
would not be a shilling for anybody, unless it could be had from the
furniture. When it comes to that, it is, 'first come, first served,' and
I got down by morning light, and levied an execution.”
“Which was levied before you came," put in a man, who might be
brother to the two upstairs, to judge by his nose. “But what's such


THE KEEPERS OF THE DEAD.
furniture as this, to our claims—if you come to compare 'em ? no more
than a bucket of water is to the Thames."
“What can I do?" shivered Lady Isabel. “What is it you wish me
to do? I have no money to give you. I--
“No, miss,” broke in a pale, quiet man ; “if report tells true, you are
more wronged than we are, for you won't have a roof to put your head
under, or a guinea to call your own.”
“He has been a scoundrel to everybody,” interrupted an intemperate
voice ; "he has ruined thousands."
The speech was hissed down : even they were not men gratuitously
to insult a delicate young lady.
"Perhaps you'll just answer us a question, miss, persisted the voice,
in spite of the hisses. “Is there any ready money that can--"
But another person had entered the room-Mr. Carlyle. He caught
sight of the white face and trembling hands of Isabel, and interrupted
the last speaker with little ceremony.
“What is the meaning of this ?” he demanded, in a tone of authority.
“What do you want?”.
“If you are a friend of the late peer's, you ought to know what we
want,” was the response. “We want our debts paid.”
“But this is not the place to come to," returned Mr. Carlyle : “your
flocking here, in this extraordinary manner, will do no good. You must
go to Warburton and Ware.”
“We have been to them and received their answer. A cool assur-
ance that there'll be nothing for anybody.”
“At any rate, you will get nothing here," observed Mr. Carlyle, to
the collected assembly. “Allow me to request you to leave the house
at once."
It was not likely that they would do so at his bidding. And they said it.
“Then I warn you of the consequences of a refusal,” quietly said
Mr. Carlyle : "you are trespassing upon a stranger's property. This
house was not Lord Mount Severn's : he sold it some time ago.”
They knew better. Some laughed, and said these tricks were stale.
“Listen, gentlemen,” rejoined Mr. Carlyle, in the plain, straight-
forward manner that carried its own truth with it. “To assert what
could be disproved when the earl's affairs came to be investigated,
would be simply foolish. I give you my word of honour as a man-
that this estate, with the house and all that it contains, passed legally,
months ago, from the hands of Lord Mount Severn : and, during his
recent sojourn here, he was only a visitor in it. Go and ask his men of
business whether it is so or not.”
“Who purchased it ? ” was the inquiry.
“Mr. Carlyle, of West Lynne. Some of you may possibly know him
by reputation.”
Some of them did. “A cute young lawyer,” observed a voice ; “as
his father was before him.”
“I am he," proceeded Mr. Carlyle. “And being a' cute lawyer,' as
you do me the honour to decide, you cannot suppose I should risk my
money upon any sale not perfectly safe and legal. I was not an agent
in the affair ; I employed agents : for it was my own money that I
invested, and East Lynne is mine.”


· 68
EAST LYNNE.
“Is the purchase-money paid over?” inquired more than one.
“ It was paid over at the time : last June."
“What did Lord Mount Severn do with the money?"
“I do not know," replied Mr. Carlyle. “I am not cognizant of
Lord Mount Severn's private affairs."
Significant murmurs arose : “Strange that the earl should stop two
or three months at a place that wasn't his !”
“It may appear so to you, but allow me to explain," returned Mr.
Carlyle. “The earl expressed a wish to pay East Lynne a few days'
visit, by way of farewell, and I acceded to the request. Before the few
days were over, he was taken ill, and remained, from that time, too ill
to quit it. This day, this very day, gentlemen, was at length fixed for
his departure.”
“And you tell us you bought the furniture ?"
“Everything as it stands. You need not doubt my word, for proofs
will be forthcoming. East Lynne was in the market for sale : I heard
of it, and became the purchaser-just as I might have bought an
estate from any of you. And now, as this is my house, and you have
no claim upon me, I should be obliged to you to withdraw.”
“Perhaps you will claim the horses and carriages next, sir,” cried
the man with the hooked nose.
Mr. Carlyle lifted his head haughtily. “What is mine, is mine ;
legally purchased and paid for ; a just price. The carriages and
horses I have nothing to do with : Lord Mount Severn brought them
down with him."
“And I have a safe watcher over them in the out premises, to see
that they don't run away," nodded the man, complacently. “And, if
I don't mistake, there is a safe watcher over something else upstairs.”
“What a cursed scoundrel Mount Severn was !”
“Whatever he may have been, it does not give you the right to
outrage the feelings of his daughter," warmly interrupted Mr. Carlyle :
“and I should have thought that men, calling themselves Englishmen,
would have disdained the shame. Allow me, Lady Isabel,” he added,
imperatively taking her hand to lead her from the room. “I will re-
main and deal with this business.”
But she hesitated. The injury her father had done these men was
telling painfully on her sense of right, and she essayed to speak a
word of apology, of sorrow : she thought she ought to do so ; she did
not like them to think her quite heartless. But it was a painful task,
and the colour went and came in her pale face, and her breath was
laboured from excess of tribulation.
“I am very sorry,” she stammered ; and, with the effort of
speaking, emotion overcame her, and she burst into tears. “I did
not know anything of all this : my father's affairs were not spoken of
before me. I believe I have not anything : if I had, I would divide
it amongst you as equally as I could. But should it ever be in
my power, should money ever be mine, I will thankfully pay all your
claims."
All your claims! Lady Isabel little thought what that “all” would
include. However, such promises, made at such a moment, fall
heedlessly on the ear. Scarcely one present who did not feel sympathy


THE KEEPERS OF THE DEAD.
69
and sorrow for her, and Mr. Carlyle led her from the room. He closed
the door upon the noisy crew, and then her sobs came forth hysterically.
“I am so grieved, Lady Isabel! Had I foreseen this annoyance, you
should have been spared it. Can you go upstairs alone ?-or shall I
call Mrs. Mason ?”
“Oh yes, I can go alone: I am not ill, only frightened and sick.
This is not the worst,” she shivered. “There are two men up--up-
with—with papa.”
Up with papa! Mr. Carlyle was puzzled. He saw that she was
shaking from head to foot as she stood before him.
"I cannot understand it, and it terrifies me,” she continued, attempt-
ing an explanation. “They are sitting in the room close to him ; they
have taken him, they say."
A blank, thunderstruck pause. Mr. Carlyle looked at her; he did
not speak; and then he turned and looked at the butler, who was
standing near them. But the man only responded by giving his head
a half shake, and Mr. Carlyle saw that it was an ominous one.
"I will clear the house of these,” he said to Lady Isabel, pointing
to the dining-room," and then join you upstairs.”
“Two ruffians, sir, and they have possession of the body," whis-
pered the butler into Mr. Carlyle's ear, as Lady Isabel departed.
“ They obtained entrance to the chamber by a sly, deceitful trick,
saying they were the undertaker's men, and that he can't be buried,
unless their claims are paid, if it's for a month to come. It has upset
us all, sir ; Mrs. Mason, while telling me-for she was the first to know
it-was as ill as she could be.”
At present Mr. Carlyle returned to the dining-room, and bore the
brunt of the anger of those savage, and it may be said-ill-used men.
Not that it was vented upon him ; quite the contrary ; but on the
memory of the unhappy peer, who was lying overhead. A few had
taken the precaution to insure the earl's life, and they were the best
off. They left the house after a short time, for Mr. Carlyle's statement
was indisputable, and they knew the law better than to remain tres-
passers on his property.
But the custodians of the dead could not be so dismissed. Mr.
Carlyle proceeded to the death-chamber, and examined their authority.
A similar case had never occurred under his own observation : though
it had under his father's, and Mr. Carlyle remembered hearing of it.
The body of a church dignitary, who had died deeply in debt, was
arrested as it was being carried through the cloisters to its grave in the
cathedral. These men, sitting over Lord Mount Severn, enforced
heavy claims, and there they must sit, until the arrival of Mr. Vane
from Castle Marling—now the Earl of Mount Severn.
On the following morning, Sunday, Mr. Carlyle proceeded again
to East Lynne, and found, to his surprise, that there was no arrival.
Isabel was in the breakfast-room alone, the meal on the table untouched,
and she shivering—on a low ottoman before the fire. She looked so
ill, that Mr. Carlyle could not forbear remarking upon it.
"I have not slept, and I am very cold,” she answered. “I did not
close my eyes all night; I was too terrified to do so."
“Terrified at what ?” he asked.


70
EAST LYNNE.
“At those men,” she whispered. “It is strange that Mr. Vane has
not arrived."
“Is the post in ?"
“I don't know,' she apathetically replied. “I have received no-
thing."
She had scarcely spoken when the butler entered with his salver
full of letters, most of them bearing condolence to Lady Isabel. She
singled out one and hastened to open it, for it bore the Castle Marling
postmark. “ It is Mrs. Vane's handwriting,” she remarked to Mr.
Carlyle.
“Castle Marling, Saturday.
“MY DEAR ISABEL,-I am dreadfully grieved and shocked at the
news conveyed in Mr. Carlyle's letter to my husband, for he has gone
cruising in his yacht, and I opened it. Goodness knows where he may
be : round the coast somewhere; but he said he should be home by
Sunday, and as he is generally pretty punctual in keepirg his word,
I expect him. Be assured he will not lose a moment in hastening to
East Lynne.
“I cannot express what I feel for you, and am too bouleversée to
write more. Try and keep up your spirits, and believe me, dear Isabel,
with sincere sympathy and regret, faithfully yours,
“ÉMMA MOUNT SEVERN."
The colour came into Isabel's pale cheek as she read the signature.
She thought, had she been the writer, she should, in that first letter,
have still signed herself Emma Vane. Isabel handed the note to Mr.
Carlyle. “ It is very unfortunate,” she sighed.
Mr. Carlyle glanced over it, as quickly as Mrs. Vane's illegible
writing would allow him, and drew in his lips in a peculiar way when
he came to the signature. Perhaps at the same thought which had
struck Isabel.
“Had Mrs. Vane been worth a rush, she would have come herself,
knowing your lonely situation,” he uttered impulsively.
Isabel leaned her head upon her hand. "All the difficulties and
embarrassments of her position came crowding upon her mind. No
orders had been given in preparation for the funeral, and she felt that
she had no right to give any. The Earls of Mount Severn were buried
at Mount Severn, but to take her father thither would involve great
expense : would the present earl sanction that? Since the previous
morning, she seemed to have grown old in the world's experiences ;
her ideas were changed, the bent of her thoughts had been violently
turned from its course. Instead of being a young lady of position, of
wealth and rank, she appeared to herself more in the light of an un-
fortunate pauper ; an interloper in the house she was inhabiting. It
has been the custom in romance to represent young ladies, especially
if they are handsome and interesting, as being altogether oblivious of
every-day cares and necessities, supremely indifferent to the future
prospects of poverty-poverty that brings hunger and thirst and cold
and nakedness in its train; but, be assured, this apathy never exists
in real life. Isabel Vane's grief for her father-whom, whatever may
have been the aspect he wore for others, she had deeply loved and


THE KEEPERS OF THE DEAD.
reverenced-was sharply poignant : but in the midst of that grief, and
of the singular troubles his death had brought forth, she could not
close her eyes to her own future. Its uncertainty, its foreshadowed
embarrassments did obtrude themselves, and the words of that plain-
speaking creditor kept ringing in her ears--"You won't have a roof to
put your head under, or a guinea to call your own." Where was she
to go ?-with whom to live? she was in Mr. Carlyle's house, now.
And how was she to pay the servants ? Money was owing to them all.
“Mr. Carlyle, how long has this house been yours?" she asked,
breaking the silence.
“ The purchase was completed in June. Did Lord Mount Severn
never tell you he had sold it to me?”
“No; never. All these things are yours? " glancing round the room.
“The furniture was sold with the house. Not these sort of things,"
he added, his eye falling on the silver of the breakfast-table : "not
plate and linen.”
“Not plate and linen! Then those poor men, who were here
yesterday, have a right to them,” she quickly cried.
“I scarcely know. I believe the plate goes with the entail-and the
jewels go also. The linen cannot be of much consequence, either way.”
“ Are my clothes my own ?”
He smiled at her simplicity; and assured her that they were no one
else's.
“I did not know," she sighed; “I did not understand. So many
strange things have happened in the last day or two, that I seem to
understand nothing.”
Indeed she could not understand. She had no definite ideas on the
subject of this transfer of East Lynne to Mr. Carlyle : plenty of inde-
finite ones, and they were haunting her. Fears of debt to him, and of
the house and its contents being handed over to him in liquidation,
were working in her brain.
“Does my father owe you any money?" she breathed in a timid
tone.
“Not any," he replied. “Lord Mount Severn was never indebted to
me in his life.”
“Yet you purchased East Lynne ! ”
“As any one else might have done,” he answered, discerning the
drift of her thoughts. “I was in search of an estate for investment,
and East Lynne suited me."
“I feel my position, Mr. Carlyle,” she resumed, the rebellious tears
forcing themselves to her eyes, “thus to be intruding upon you for a
shelter. And I cannot help myself.”
“You can help grieving me," he gently answered, “which you do
when you talk of obligation. The obligation is on my side, Lady
Isabel; and when I express a hope that you will continue at East
Lynne while it can be of service to you, however prolonged that period
may be, I assure you I say it in all sincerity.”
"You are truly kind,” she faltered; "and for a few days—until I can
think-until - Oh, Mr. Carlyle, are papa's affairs really so bad as
they said yesterday?" she broke off, her perplexities recurring to her
with vehement force. “Is there nothing left ?”


72
EAST LYNNE.
Now, Mr. Carlyle might have given the evasive assurance that there
would be plenty left, just to tranquillize her. But to use deceit with
her would have pricked against every feeling of his nature ; and he saw
how implicitly she relied upon his truth.
“I fear things are not very bright,” he answered. “That is, so far
as we can see at present. But there may be some settlement effected
for you that you do not know of. Warburton and Ware-
"No," she interrupted ; “I never heard of a settlement, and I am
sure there is none. I see the worst plainly : I have no home; no home,
and no money. This house is yours; the town-house and Mount Severn
go to Mr. Vane. And I have nothing."
« But surely Mr. Vane will be delighted to welcome you to your old
home. The houses pass to him—but it almost seems as though you
had a greater right to them than he or Mrs. Vane."
“My home with them !” she retorted, as if the words had stung her.
" What are you saying, Mr. Carlyle ?”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Isabel. I should not have presumed to
touch upon these points myself, but-- "
“Nay, I think I ought to beg yours," she interrupted, more calmly.
“I am only grateful for the interest you take in them ; the kindness
you have shown. But I could never make my home with Mrs. Vane."
Mr. Carlyle rose. He could do no good by remaining, and did not
think well to intrude longer. He suggested that it might be more
pleasant if Isabel had a friend with her : Mrs. Ducie would, no doubt,
be willing to come, and she was a kind and motherly woman.
Isabel shook her head with a passing shudder. “Have strangers
here, with-all-that-in papa's chamber !" she uttered. “Mrs. Ducie
drove over yesterday ; perhaps to remain ; I don't know ; but I was
afraid of questions, and would not see her. When I think of-that-
I feel thankful that I am alone.”
The housekeeper stopped Mr. Carlyle as he was going out. “ Sir,
what is the news from Castle Marling ? Pound said there was a letter.
Is Mr. Vane coming ?”
“ He was out yachting. Mrs. Vane expected him home yesterday,
so it is to be hoped that he will be here to-dav."
“What will be done if he does not come ?" she breathed. “The
leaden coffin ought to be soldered down-for you know, sir, the state
he was in when he died.”
“ It can be soldered down without Mr. Vane."
“ Of course--without Mr. Vane. It's not that, sir. Will those men
allow it to be done? The undertakers were here this morning at day-
break, and those men intimated that they were not going to lose sight
of the dead. The words sounded significant to us, but we asked them
no questions. Have they a right to prevent it, sir ? "
“Upon my word I cannot tell,” replied Mr. Carlyle. “The pro-
ceeding is so rare a one that I know little what legal right they have,
or have not. Do not mention this fear to Lady Isabel. And when
Mr. Var when Lord Mount Severn arrives, send down to inform
me of it."


( 73 )
CHAPTER XI.
THE NEW PEER, AND THE BANK-NOTE.
A POST-CHAISE was driven furiously up the avenue that Sunday after-
noon. It contained the new peer, Lord Mount Severn. The more
direct line of rail from Castle Marling brought him within five miles
of West Lynne, and thence he had traveiled in a hired chaise. Mr.
Carlyle soon joined him, and almost at the same time Mr. Warburton
arrived from London. Absence from town at the period of the earl's
death had prevented Mr. Warburton's earlier attendance. Business
was entered upon immediately.
The present earl knew that his predecessor had been an embarrassed
man, but he had no conception of the extent of the evil. They had not
been intimate, and rarely came into contact with each other. As the
various items of news were now detailed to him--wasteful expenditure,
disastrous ruin, a total absence of provision for Isabel-he stood
petrified and aghast. He was a tall, stout man of three and forty
years, his nature honourable, his manners cold, and his countenance
severe.
“It is the most iniquitous piece of business I ever heard of," he
exclaimed to the two lawyers. “Of all reckless fools, Mount Severn
must have been the worst !”.
“Unpardonably improvident, as regards his daughter," was the
assenting remark.
“Improvident I it must have been rank madness," retorted the earl.
“No man in his senses could leave a child to the mercy of the world,
as he has left her. She has not a shilling ; literally not a shilling in
her possession. I put the question to her—what money was in the
house when the earl died. Twenty or twenty-five pounds, she answered,
which she had since given to Mason, who required it for housekeeping
purposes. If the girl wants a ribbon for herself, she has not the
money to pay for it! Can you realize such a case ?” continued the
excited peer. “I will stake my veracity that such a one never yet
occurred.”
“No money for her own personal wants !” exclaimed Mr. Carlyle.
“Not a halfpenny in the world. And there are no funds, and will
be none, that I can see, for her to draw upon."
“Quite correct, my lord,” nodded Mr. Warburton. “The entailed
estates go to you, and what trifling matters of personal property may
be left, the creditors will take care of.”
“I understand that East Lynne is yours," cried the earl, turning
sharply upon Mr. Carlyle. “Isabel has just said so."
“It is," was the reply. “It became mine last June. I believe his
lordship kept the fact a close secret."
“He was obliged to keep it secret," interposed Mr. Warburton, ad-
dressing Lord Mount Severn, “ for not a stiver of the purchase-money
could he have fingered, had it got wind. Beyond ourselves and Mr.
Carlyle's agents, the fact was known to none."
“It is strange, sir, that you could not urge the claims of his child


EAST LYNNE.
upon the earl," rejoined the new peer to Mr. Warburton, his tone one
of harsh reproof. “ You were in his confidence ; you knew the state
of his affairs; it was in your line of duty to do it."
“And, knowing the state of his affairs, my lord, we knew how use-
less the urging it would be,” returned Mr. Warburton. “He had
allowed the time to slip by when he could have made a provision
for her : the power to do so had passed, years ago. Once or twice
I have brought it under his notice, but it was a sore point with him,
and he would not pursue it. I do not think he was uneasy about her:
he depended upon her making a good marriage Curing his lifetime ;
not expecting to die so young.”
“ Out of his power !” repeated the earl, stopping in his impatient
pacings of the room and facing Mr. Warburton.“ Don't tell me, sir !
he should have done something. He might have insured his life for a
few thousands, if nothing else. The child is without anything ; with-
out even pocket-money! Do you understand ?”
“Unfortunately I understand only too well," returned the lawyer.
“But your lordship has only a faint idea of the burdens Lord Mount
Severn had upon him. The interest alone on his debts was frightful
—and the deuce's own work there used to be to get it. Not to speak
of the kites he let loose : he would fly them, and nothing could stop
him ; and they had to be provided for."
“Oh, I know,” replied the earl, with a gesture of contempt. “ Draw-
'ing one bill to cover another : that was his system.”
“ Draw !” echoed Mr. Warburton : "he would have drawn a bill
upon Aldgate pump. It was a downright mania with him."
“Urged to it by his necessities, I conclude," put in Mr. Carlyle.
“He had no business to have such necessities, sir,” cried the earl,
wrathfully. “But let us proceed to business. What money is there
lying at his bankers, Mr. Warburton ? Do you know ?”
“None," was the blank reply. “We overdrew the account our-
selves a fortnight ago, to meet one of his pressing liabilities. We hold
a little ; and, had he lived a week or two longer, the autumn rents
would have been paid in—though they must have been as quickly paid
out again."
" I'm glad there's something. What is the amount ?”
“My lord," answered Mr. Warburton, shaking his head in a self-
pitying manner, “I am sorry to tell you that what we hold will not
half satisfy our own claims : money actually paid out of our pockets."
“ Then where on earth is the money to come from, sir ? For the
funeral ; for servants' wages ; for everything, in short ? ”
“ There is none to come from anywhere," was the reply of Mr. War-
burton.
Lord Mount Severn strode the carpet more fiercely. “Wicked
improvidence ! shameful profligacy! callous-hearted man! To live a
rogue, and die a beggar, leaving his daughter to the charity of
strangers !”
“Her case presents the worst feature of the whole,” remarked Mr.
Carlyle. “What will she do for a home?"
“She must, of course, find it with me," replied his lordship. “And
I should hope, a better one than this. With all these debts and duns


THE NEW PEER, AND THE BANK-NOTE. 75
at his elbow, Mount Severn's house could not have been a bower of
roses."
“I fancy she knew nothing of the state of affairs ; had seen little, if
anything, of the embarrassments,” returned Mr. Carlyle.
“Nonsense!” said the peer.
“Mr. Carlyle is right, my lord,” observed Mr. Warburton, looking
over his spectacles. “Lady Isabel was in safety at Mount Severn
until the spring, and the purchase-money from East Lynne was a stop-
gap for many things, and made matters easy for the moment. However,
his im prudences are at an end now.”
“No, they are not at an end,” returned Lord Mount Severn : “they
leave their effects behind them. I hear there was a fine scene yester-
day morning : some of the unfortunate wretches he has taken in made
their appearances here, all the way from town."
“Oh, they are Jews, half of them,” slightingly spoke Mr. Warburton.
“If they do lose a little, it will be an agreeable novelty to them."
“ Jews have as much right to their own as we have, Mr. Warburton,"
was the peer's angry reprimand. “And if they were Turks and infidels,
it would not excuse Mount Severn's practices. Isabel says it was you,
Mr. Carlyle, who contrived to get rid of them.”
“By convincing them that East Lynne and its furniture belonged to
me. But there are those two men upstairs, in possession of-of him :
I could not get rid of them.”
The earl looked at him. “I do not understand you."
“Did you not know that they have seized the corpse ?” asked Mr.
Carlyle, dropping his voice. · “Two men have been posted over it, like
sentinels, since yesterday morning. And there's a third in the house,
I hear, who relieves each by turn, that they may go down to the hall
and take their meals.”
The earl had halted in his walk and drawn near to Mr. Carlyle, his
mouth open, his face a marvel of consternation. “By George!” was
all Mr. Warburton uttered, and snatched off his glasses.
“Mr. Carlyle, do I understand you aright--that the body of the late
earl has been seized for debt ?" demanded the peer solemnly. “ Seize
a dead body! Am I awake or dreaming ?”
" It is what they have done. They got into the room by stratagem."
“Is it possible that transactions so infamous are permitted by our
law ?” ejaculated the earl. “Arrest a dead man! I never heard of
such a thing. I am shocked beyond expression. Isabel said something
about two men, I remember : but she was so full of grief and agitation,
that I only half comprehended what she said upon any subject. Why,
what will be done? Cannot we bury him ?”
“I fancy not. The housekeeper told me this morning she feared
they would not even suffer the coffins to be closed. And that ought to
be done with all speed.”
“ It is perfectly horrible,” uttered the earl.
“Who has done it? do you know ?" inquired Mr. Warburton.
“Some one of the name of Anstey,” replied Mr. Carlyle. “In the
absence of any member of the family, I took upon myself to pay the
chamber a visit, and examine into the men's authority. The claim is
about three thousand pounds."


76
EAST LYNNE.
“If it's Anstey who has done it, it is a personal debt of the earl's,
really owing, every pound of it," observed Mr. Warburton. “A sharp
man, though, that Anstey, to hit upon such a scheme."
“ And a shameless and a scandalous man,” added Lord Mount
Severn. “Well, this is a pretty thing! What's to be done?”
While they consult let us look for a moment at Lady Isabel. She
sat alone, in great perplexity, indulging the deepest grief. Lord
Mount Severn had intimated to her, kindly and affectionately, that
henceforth she must find her home with him and his wife. Isabel
returned a faint “thank you,” and, as soon as he left her, burst into a
paroxysm of rebellious tears. “Have her home with Mrs. Vane!" she
uttered to her own heart. “No, never : rather would she die, rather
would she work for her living, rather would she eat a crust and drink
water !” And so on, and so on. Young demoiselles are somewhat
prone to indulge in these flights of fancy: but they are in most cases
impracticable and foolish ; exceedingly so were they in that of Lady
Isabel Vane. Work for their living! It may appear very feasible in
theory; but theory and practice are as opposite as light and darkness.
The plain fact was, that Isabel had no alternative whatever : she must
accept a home with Lady Mount Severn: and the conviction that it
must be so stole over her spirit, even while her hasty lips were pro-
testing that she would not. Lord Mount Severn wished to despatch
her to Castle Marling at once, but this she successfully resisted, and it
was decided that she should travel the day after the funeral.
Mr. Warburton, authorized by the earl, relieved the death-chamber
of its two intruders : though-very much to the surprise of the house-
hold-the obnoxious men still remained in the house. Mr. Warburton
no doubt had his reasons ; he was a cautious practitioner : and the men
continued ostensibly in charge, until the earl was buried. Some said
that if the lawyer released them, another arrest might be expected.
On Friday morning the interment took place—in St. Jude's church-
yard, at West Lynne. Isabel's heart again rebelled bitterly : she
thought it would have been at Mount Severn. The earl remarked,
but not in her hearing, that he should have too much expense upon
him, to go to unnecessary outlay over the funeral. Certainly he per-
formed honourably all that could be required from him. He paid all
tradesmen's debts, and those owing to the servants, gave them each a
month's wages and a month's board wages in lieu of the customary
warning of dismissal, and paid for their mourning. Pound, the butler,
he retained in his own service. With regard to Isabel's mourning, he
had desired her to have everything suited to her station and degree.
The carriages and horses, on which a detainer had been placed, he
bought in for his own use : they were in excellent condition.
Two mourners only attended the funeral, the earl and Mr. Carlyle :
the latter was no relative of the deceased, and only a recent friend :
but the earl had invited him, probably not liking to parade alone his
trappings of woe. Some of the county aristocracy were pall-bearers,
and many private carriages followed.
All was bustle on the following morning. The earl was to depart,
and Isabel was to depart; but not together. In the course of the day
the domestics would disperse. The earl was speeding to London, and


THE NEW PEER, AND THE BANK-NOTE.
77
the chaise to convey him to the railway station at West Lynne was
already at the door when Mr. Carlyle arrived.
“I was beginning to fear you would not be here; I have barely five
minutes to spare," observed the earl, as he shook hands. “You are
sure you fully understood about the tombstone ?"
“Perfectly,” replied Mr. Carlyle. “How is Lady Isabel ? ”.
“Very down-hearted, I fear, poor child, for she did not breakfast
with me,” returned the earl. “Mason told me that she was in a con-
vulsion of grief. A bad man, a bad man was Mount Severn,” he em-
phatically added, as he rose and rang the bell.
“Let Lady Isabel be informed that I am ready to depart, and that
I wait to see her," he said to the servant who answered it. “And
while she is coming, Mr. Carlyle,” he added, " allow me to express my
obligation to you. How I should have got through this worrying
business without you, I cannot divine. You have promised, mind, to
pay me a visit, and I shall expect it speedily.”
"Promised conditionally--that I find myself in your neighbourhood,”
smiled Mr. Carlyle. “Should "
Isabel entered, dressed also, and ready, for she was to depart
immediately after the earl. Her crape veil was over her face, but she
threw it back.
“My time is up, Isabel, and I must go. Is there anything you wish
to say to me?"
She opened her lips to speak, but glanced at Mr. Carlyle, and hesi.
tated. He was standing at the window, with his back towards them.
“ I suppose not,” said the earl, answering himself, for he was in a
hurry to be off, as many others are when starting on a journey.
“You will have no trouble whatever, my dear; Pound will see to
everything. Only mind you have some refreshment in the middle of
the day, for you won't be at Castle Marling before dinner-time. Tell
Mrs. Va- tell Lady Mount Severn that I had no time to write, and
will do so from town.”
But Isabel stood before him in an attitude of uncertainty—of ex-
pectancy, it may be said, her colour varying.
“What is it? You wish to say something."
She certainly did wish to say something, but she did not know how.
It was a moment of embarrassment to her, intensely painful ; and the
presence of Mr. Carlyle did not tend to lessen it. The latter had no
idea his absence was wished for.
"1-1-do not like to ask you, but I-have--no money,” she stam-
mered, her delicate features flushing crimson.
“Bless me, Isabel ! I declare I forgot all about it,” cried the earl,
in a tone of vexation. “Not being accustomed to this aspect
of affairs is so new " He broke off his disjointed sentences,
unbuttoned his coat, drew out his purse, and paused over its contents.
“ Isabel, I have run myself very short, and have little beyond what
will take me to town. You must make three pounds do for the present,
my dear. Pound has the funds for the journey. Once at Castle
Marling, Lady Mount Severn will supply you : but you must tell her,
or she will not know.”
He shot some gold out of his purse as he spoke, and left two


78
EAST LYNNE.
sovereigns, and two half-sovereigns on the table. “Farewell, my
dear; make yourself happy at Castle Marling ; I shall be home soon."
Passing from the room with Mr. Carlyle, he stood talking with that
gentleman for a minute, his foot on the step of the chaise ; and, the
next, he was being whirled away. Mr. Carlyle returned to the break-
fast-room, where Isabel, an ashy whiteness having replaced the crimson
of her cheeks, was taking up the gold.
“ Will you do me a favour, Mr. Carlyle ?"
“I will do anything I can for you."
She pushed a sovereign and a half towards him. “ It is for Mr.
Kane. I told Marvel to send and pay him, but it seems she forgot it,
or put it off, and he is not paid. The tickets were a sovereign : the
rest is for tuning the piano. Will you kindly give it to him? If I
trust one of the servants, it may be forgotten again in the hurry of their
departure.”
« Kane's charge for tuning a piano is five shillings,” remarked Mr.
Carlyle.”
“But he was a long time occupied with it, and he did something to
the leathers. It is not too much : besides, I never ordered him any-
thing to eat. He wants money even more than I do,” she added
with a poor attempt at a smile." But for thinking of him, I should
not have mustered courage to beg of Lord Mount Severn-as you
have just heard me do. In that case, do you know what I should
have done?”
“What should you have done?” he smiled.
“I should have asked you to pay him for me, and I would have
repaid you as soon as I had any money of my own. I had a great
mind to ask you, do you know ;, it would have seemed less painful
than being obliged to beg of Lord Mount Severn.”
“I hope it would,” he answered, in a low, earnest tone. " What
else can I do for you?”
She was about to answer “Nothing ; that he had done enough :"
but at that moment their attention was attracted by a bustle outside,
and they moved to the window.
It was the carriage coming round for Lady Isabel. The late earl's
chariot, which was to convey her to the railway station six or seven
miles off. It had four post-horses to it, the number having been
designated by Lord Mount Severn, who appeared to wish Isabel to
leave the neighbourhood in as much state as she had entered it. The
carriage was packed, and Marvel was perched outside.
“ All is ready,” she said, “and the time has come for me to go. Mr.
Carlyle, I am about to leave you a legacy-those pretty gold and silver
fish, that I bought a few weeks back.”
“But why do you not take them ? "
“ Take them to Lady Mount Severn's! No, I would rather leave
them with you. Throw a few crumbs into the globe now and then.”
Her face was wet with tears, and he knew she was talking hurriedly
to cover her emotion.
“ Sit down a few minutes," he said.
“No-no. I had better go at once."
He took her hand to conduct her to the carriage. The servants


THE NEW PEER, AND THE BANK-NOTE.
79
were gathered in the hall, waiting for her ; some had grown grey in
her father's service. She put out her hand, she strove to say a word
of thanks and of farewell, and she thought she should choke at the
effort to keep down her sobs. At length it was over ; a kind look
around, a yearning wave of the hand, and she passed on with Mr.
Carlyle.
Pound had ascended to his place by Marvel, and the post-boys were
waiting the signal to start, but Mr. Carlyle had the carriage door open
again, and was bending in, holding her hand.
“I have not said a word of thanks to you for all your kindness, Mr.
Carlyle,” she cried, her breath laboured. “I am sure you have seen
that I could not.”
“I wish I could have done more ; I wish I could have shielded you
from the annoyances you have been obliged to endure !” he answered.
“Should we never meet again--
“Oh, but we shall meet again,” she interrupted. “You promised
Lord Mount Severn."
“True : we may so meet ; casually ; once in a way : but our ordinary
paths in life lie far and wide apart. God for ever bless you, dear Lady
Isabel ! ”
The post-boys touched their horses, and the carriage sped on. She
drew down the blinds, and leaned back in an agony of tears : tears for
the home she was leaving, for the father she had lost. Her last
thoughts had been of gratitude to Mr. Carlyle ; but she had more cause
to be grateful to him than she yet knew of. Emotion soon spends
itself, and as her eyes cleared, she saw a bit of crumpled paper lying
on her lap, which appeared to have fallen from her hand. Mecha-
nically she took it up and opened it : it was a bank-note for a hundred
pounds.
Ah! reader, you will say this is a romance, and a far-fetched one,
but it is verily and indeed true. Mr. Carlyle had taken it with him to
East Lynne, that morning, with its destined purpose.
Lady Isabel strained her eyes and gazed at the note : gazed, and
gazed again. Where could it come from? What brought it there?
Suddenly the undoubted truth flashed upon her : Mr. Carlyle had left
it in her hand.
Her cheeks burnt, her fingers trembled, her angry spirit was up in
arms. In that first moment of discovery, she was ready to resent it as
an insult ; but when she came to remember the sober facts of the last
few days, her anger subsided into admiration of his wondrous kindness.
Did he not know that she was without a home to call her own, without
money-absolutely without money, except what would be given her in
charity ?
Well, now, what should she do? Of course she could not use the
note ; that was out of the question ; and to re-enclose it to him would
pain him ; she felt that a nature, capable of generosity so delicate,
would be deeply wounded at having its generosity thrown back upon
itself. Should she so pain him ?. Did he deserve it at her hands ? No.
She would keep the note until she had an opportunity of personally
returning it to him.
Leaning over the entrance-gate of their house, between the grove of


THE NEW PEER, AND THE BANK-NOTE.
81
there was nothing left for Lady Isabel; that she had actually no
money to pay for her mourning. The Smiths told the Herberts, and
the Herberts told me. Do you fancy it is true, Archibald ?”
Mr. Carlyle appeared much amused. “I wonder they did not say
Lady Isabel had no mourning, as well as no money: it would have
been only a little stretch further. What would East Lynne do without
its marvels ?”
“Ah, what indeed?” cried Justice Hare. “I met her carriage,
spanking along with four horses, her maid and man outside. A young
lady, travelling in that state, would not be at a loss for mourning and
money, Miss Barbara."
“People must gossip, you know, sir,” said Mr. Carlyle. “My East
Lynne purchase will be magnified into the purchase of West Lynne
also, before the day is over. Good morning ; good morning, Barbara."
When Lord Mount Severn reached London, and the hotel which the
Vanes were in the habit of using, the first object his eyes lighted on was
his own wife, whom he believed to be safe at Castle Marling. He
inquired the cause.
Lady Mount Severn gave herself little trouble to explain. She had
been up a day or two—could order her mourning so much better in
person-and William did not seem well, so she brought him up for a
change.
“I am sorry you came to town, Emma,” remarked the earl, after
listening. “Isabel has gone to-day to Castle Marling."
Lady Mount Severn quickly lifted her head. “What's she gone
there for ?"
" It is the most disgraceful piece of business altogether," returned the
earl, without replying to the immediate question. “Mount Severn has
died worse than a beggar, and there's not a shilling left for Isabel.”
“It was not expected that there would be much."
“But there's nothing ; not a penny; nothing even for her own personal
expenses. I gave her a pound or two to-day, for she was completely
without funds."
The countess opened her eyes. “Where will she live? What will
become of her ?”
“She must live with us. She- "
“With us !” interrupted Lady Mount Severn, her voice almost
reaching a scream. “That she never shall.”
“She must, Emma. There is nowhere else for her to live. I have
been obliged to decide it so; and she has gone, as I tell you, to Castle
Marling to-day."
Lady Mount Severn grew pale with anger. She rose from her seat,
and confronted her husband, the table being between them. “Listen,
Raymond, I will not have Isabel Vane under my roof. 'I hate her.
How could you be cajoled into sanctioning such a thing?"
“I was not cajoled into it, and my sanction was not asked,” he
coldly replied. “ I proposed it. Where else is she to live?”.
“I don't care where," was the obstinate retort. “Never with us."
“Consider the thing dispassionately," returned his lordship. “She
has no other relatives, no claim on any one else. I, the succeeding peer
(who might not have come into the estates for twenty years hence had
Fast Lunda.


82
EAST LYNNE.
Mount Severn's been a good life), am bound in courtesy, in good feeling,
to afford her a home. Do you not see it ?”
“No, I do not,” returned the countess. “And I will not have her.”
“She is at Castle Marling now ; has gone to it as her home,” resumed
the earl ; " and even you, when you return, will scarcely venture to turn
her out again, into the road, or send her to the workhouse, or solicit her
Majesty's ministers for a grant for her from the pension fund, and draw
down upon yourself the censure of the world. I think you might show
better feeling, Emma.”
Lady Mount Severn did not retort openly. She possessed her share
of common sense, and the argument of the earl was certainly difficult
to answer"Where was Isabel to go if not to them?” But she mut-
tered angry words, and her face looked ready to spit fire.
“She will not trouble you long,” carelessly remarked the earl. “One
so lovely as Isabel will be sure to marry early ; and she appears as
gentle and sweet-tempered a girl as I ever saw, so whence can arise
your dislike to her, I don't pretend to guess. Many a man will be too
ready to forget her want of fortune for the sake of her face.”
“She shall marry the first who asks her,” snapped the angry lady.
“ I'll take care of that."
CHAPTER XII.
LIFE AT CASTLE MARLING.
ISABEL had been in her new home about ten days when Lord and
Lady Mount Severn arrived at Castle Marling : which was not a castle,
you may as well be told, but only the name of a town, very near to
which was their residence, a small estate. Lord Mount Severn wel-
comed Isabel ; Lady Mount Severn, also, after a fashion ; but her
manner was so repellent, so insolently patronizing, that it brought the
indignant crimson to the cheeks of Isabel. And, if this was the case at
the first meeting, what do you suppose it must have been as time went
on? Galling slights, petty vexations, chilling annoyances were put upon
her, trying her powers of endurance to their very utmost : she would
wring her hands when alone, and passionately wish that she could find
another refuge.
Lady Mount Severn lived only in admiration, and she gathered
around her those who would offer her its incense. She carried her
flirtations to the very verge of propriety; no further : there existed not
a woman less likely to forget herself, or peril her fair fame, than Emma,
Countess of Mount Severn; and no woman was more scornfully unfor-
giving to those who did forget themselves. She was the very essence
of envy, of selfishness : she had never been known to invite a young
and attractive woman to her house ; she would as soon have invited a
leper. And now you can understand her wrath, when she heard that
Isabel Vane was to be her permanent inmate; Isabel, with her many
charms, her youth, and her unusual beauty. At Christmas some
visitors were down there ; chiefly young men, and they were not wary
enough to dissemble the fact that the young beauty was a far greater


LIFE AT CASTLE MARLING.
83
attraction than the exacting countess. Then broke forth, beyond
bounds, her passion ; and in a certain private scene, when she forgot
all but passion, and lost sight of the proprieties of life, Isabel was told
that she was a hated intruder, her presence only suffered because there
was no help for it.
The earl and countess had two children, both boys, and in February
the younger one, always a delicate child, died. This somewhat altered
their plans. Instead of proceeding to London after Easter, as had
been decided upon, they would not go until May. The earl had passed
part of the winter at Mount Severn, looking after the repairs and reno-
vations that were being made there. In March he went to Paris, full
of grief for the loss of his boy ; far greater grief than was experienced
by Lady Mount Severn.
April approached ; and, with it, Easter. To the unconcealed dismay
of Lady Mount Severn, her grandmother, Mrs. Levison, wrote her word
that she required change, and should pass Easter with her at Castle
Marling. Lady Mount Severn would have given her diamonds to have
got out of it, but there was no escape : diamonds that were once
Isabel's ; at least, which Isabel had worn. On the Monday in Passion
Week the old lady arrived : and, with her, Francis Levison. They had
no other guests.
Things went on pretty smoothly until Good Friday, but it was a
deceitful calm : my lady's jealousy was kindling, for Captain Levison's
attentions to Isabel were driving her wild. At Christmas his admira-
tion had been open enough, but it was more so now. Better from any
one else could Lady Mount Severn have borne this than from Francis
Levison. She had suffered the young Guardsman, cousin though he
was, to grow rather dear to her ; dangerously dear it might have become
had she been a less cautious woman. More welcome to her that all the
world, rather than he, had given admiration to Isabel. Why did she
have him there, throwing him into Isabel's companionship, as she had
done the previous year in London, asks the reader. It is more than
I can tell ; why do people do foolish things ?
On Good Friday afternoon, Isabel strolled out with little William
Vane : Captain Levison joined they, and they never came in until
nearly dinner-time, when the three entered together, Lady Mount
Severn doing penance all the time, and nursing her rage against Isabel,
for Mrs. Levison kept her indoors. There was barely time to dress
for dinner, and Isabel went straight to her room. Her dress was off, her
dressing-gown on, Marvel was busy with her hair, and William chatter-
ing at her knee, when the door was flung open, and my lady entered.
“Where have you been ?" demanded she, shaking with passion.
Isabel knew the signs.
“Strolling about in the shrubberies and grounds," answered Isabel.
“How dare you disgrace yourself?”
"I do not understand you,” said Isabel, her heart beginning to beat
unpleasantly. “Marvel, you are pulling my hair.”
When women, liable to intemperate fits of passion, give the reins to
them, they neither know nor care what they say. Lady Mount Severn
broke into a torrent of reproach and abuse, most degrading and un-
justifiable.


EAST LYNNE.
* Is it not sufficient that you are allowed an asylum in my house,
but you must also disgrace it? Three hours have you been hiding
yourself with Francis Levison! You have done nothing but flirt with
him from the moment he arrived ; you did nothing else at Christmas."
The attack was longer and broader, but that was the substance of
it, and Isabel was goaded to resistance, to anger little less great than
that of the countess. This !-and before her attendant ! She, an earl's
daughter, so much better born than Emma Mount Severn, to be thus
insultingly accused in the other's mad jealousy. Isabel tossed her hair
from the hands of Marvel, rose up, and confronted the countess, con-
straining her voice to calmness.
“I do not flirt,” she said; “I have never flirted. I leave that ”-and
she could not wholly suppress in tone the scorn she felt-" to married
women : though it seems to me that it is a fault less venial in them
than in single ones. There is but one inmate of this house who flirts,
so far as I have seen since I have lived in it: it is you, not I, Lady
Mount Severn.”
The home truth told on her ladyship. She turned white with rage,
forgot herself, and, raising her right hand, struck Isabel a stinging
blow upon the left cheek. Confused and terrified, Isabel stood in
pain, and before she could speak or act, my lady's left hand was raised
to the other cheek, and a blow left on that. Lady Isabel shivered as
with a sudden chill, and cried out, a sharp, quick cry ; covered her
outraged face and sank down upon the dressing-chair. Marvel threw
up her hands in dismay, and William Vane could not have burst into
a louder roar had he been beaten himself. The boy was of a sensitive
nature—and he was frightened.
Lady Mount Severn finished up the scene by boxing William for his
noise, jerked him out of the room, and told him he was a monkey.
Isabel Vane lay through the livelong night, weeping tears of anguish
and indignation. She could not remain at Castle Marling : who would
do so, after so great an outrage ?-Yet, where was she to go? Fifty
times in the course of the night did she wish that she was laid beside
her father ; for her feelings obtained the mastery of her reason : in her
calm moments she would have shrunk from the idea of death, as the
young and healthy must do. Various schemes crossed her brain : that
she would take flight to France, and lay her case before Mount Severn;
that she would beg an asylum with old Mrs. Levison ; that she would
find out Mason, and live with her. Daylight rejected them all. She
had not flirted with Captain Levison, but she had received his atten-
tion, and suffered his admiration : a woman never flirts where she
loves; and it had come to love, or something very near it, in Isabel's
heart.
She rose on the Saturday morning, weak and languid, the effects of
the night of grief, and Marvel brought her breakfast up. William
Vane stole into her room afterwards : he was attached to her in a
remarkable degree.
“Mamma's going out,” he exclaimed in the course of the morning.
“ Look, Isabel."
Isabel went to the window. Lady Mount Severn was in the pony
carriage, Francis Levison driving.


LIFE AT CASTLE MARLING.
85
“We can go down now, Isabel. No one will be there.”
She assented, and went down with William. But scarcely were they
in the drawing-room when a servant entered with a card on a salver.
“A gentleman, my lady, wishes to see you."
“To see me?" returned Isabel, in surprise. “ Or Lady Mount
Severn?”
“He asked for you, my lady.”
She took up the card. “Mr. Carlyle.” “Oh!” she uttered, in a
tone of joyful surprise, “show him in.”
It is curious, nay, appalling, to trace the thread of a human life :
how the most trivial occurrences lead to the great events of existence,
bringing forth happiness or misery, weal or woe. A client of Mr.
Carlyle's, travelling from one part of England to the other, was
arrested by illness at Castle Marling : grave illness it appeared to be,
inducing fears of death. He had not, as the phrase goes, settled his
affairs, and Mr. Carlyle was telegraphed for in haste, to make his will,
and for other private matters. This journey appeared to Mr. Carlyle
a very simple occurrence, and yet it was destined to lead to events that
would end only with his own life.
Mr. Carlyle entered, unaffected and gentlemanly as ever, with his
noble form, his attractive face, and his drooping eyelids. She
advanced to meet him, holding out her hand, her countenance betray-
ing her pleasure. “This is indeed unexpected,” she exclaimed. “How
very glad I am to see you!”
“Business brought me yesterday to Castle Marling. I could not
leave it again without calling on you. I hear that Lord Mount Severn
is absent.”
“He is in France," she rejoined. “I said we should be sure to meet
again : do you remember, Mr. Carlyle? You— ".
Isabel suddenly stopped, for with the word “remember ;” she also
remembered something—the hundred-pound note; and what she was
saying faltered on her tongue. She grew confused, indeed, for alas !
she had changed and partly spent it. How was it possible to ask
Lady Mount Severn for money ? and the earl was nearly always
away. Mr. Carlyle saw her embarrassment, though he did not detect
its cause.
“What a fine boy ?” exclaimed he, looking at the child.
“ It is Lord Vane," said Isabel.
“A truthful, earnest spirit, I am sure," he continued, gazing at his
open countenance. “How old are you, my little man ?”
“ I am six, sir; and my brother was four.”
Isabel bent over the child ; an excuse to cover her embarrassment.
“You do not know this gentleman, William. It is Mr. Carlyle, and he
has been very kind to me.”
The little lord turned his thoughtful eyes on Mr. Carlyle, apparently
studying his countenance. “I shall like you, sir, if you are kind to
Isabel. Are you kind to her ?”
“Very, very kind,” murmured Isabel, leaving William and turning
to Mr. Carlyle, but not looking at him. “ I don't know what to say ;
I ought to thank you : I did not intend to use the--to use it--
but 1-1- "


86
EAST LYNNE.
“ Hush!” he interrupted, laughing at her confusion; “I do not know
what you are talking of. I have a great misfortune to break to you,
Lady Isabel.”
She lifted her eyes and her glowing cheeks, somewhat aroused from
her own thoughts.
“Two of your fish are dead. The gold ones.”
“Are they?”
“I believe the frost killed them ; I don't know what else it could
have been. You may remember those bitter days we had in January :
they died then.”
“You are very good to take care of them, all this time. How is East
Lynne looking ? Dear East Lynne! Is it occupied ?”
“Not yet. I have spent some money upon it, and it repays the
outlay.”
The excitement of his arrival had worn off, and she was looking
herself again, pale and sad : he could not help observing that she was
changed.
“I cannot expect to look so well at Castle Marling as I did at East
Lynne,” she answered.
"" I trust it is a happy home to you ?” said Mr. Carlyle, speaking
upon impulse.
"She glanced up at him, a look that he would never forget : it
certainly told of despair. “No," she said, shaking her head, “it is a
miserable home, and I cannot remain in it. I have been awake all
night, thinking where I can go, but I cannot tell. I have not a friend
in the wide world."
Never let people talk secrets before children, for be assured that
they understand a great deal more than is imagined : the saying that
“Little pitchers have great ears ” is wonderfully true. Lord Vane held
up his head to Mr. Carlyle.
“ Isabel told me this morning that she should go away from us.
Shall I tell you why ? Mamma beat her yesterday when she was
angry."
i Be quiet, William !” interrupted Lady Isabel, her face flaming.
“ Two great slaps upon her cheeks,” continued the young viscount ;
“and Isabel cried so, and I screamed, and then mamma hit me. But
boys are made to be hit; nurse says they are. Marvel came into the
nursery when we were at tea, and told nurse about it. She says
Isabel's too good-looking, and that's why mamma-
Isabel stopped the child's tongue, rang a peal at the bell, and
marshalled him to the door ; despatching him to the nursery by the
servant who answered it.
Mr. Carlyle's eyes were full of indignant sympathy. “ Can this be
true?” he asked, in a low tone, when she returned to him. “You do
indeed want a friend."
“I must bear my lot,” she replied, obeying the impulse which
prompted her to confide in Mr. Carlyle. “At least till Lord Mount
Severn returns."
« And then ?"
“I really do not know," she said, the rebellious tears rising faster
than she could choke them down. “He has no other home to offer


· LIFE AT CASTLE MARLING.
87
me; but with Lady Mount Severn I cannot and will not remain.
She would break my heart, as she has already well-nigh broken my
spirit. I have not deserved it of her, Mr. Carlyle.”
“No, I am sure you have not,” he warmly answered. “I wish I
could help you! What can I do?"
“You can do nothing,” she said. “What can any one do ?”
“I wish, I wish I could help you ! ” he repeated. “East Lynne was
not, take it for all in all, a pleasant home to you, but it seems you
changed for the worse when you left it."
“Not a pleasant home !" she echoed, its reminiscences appearing
delightful in that moment, for it must be remembered that all things
are estimated by comparison. “ Indeed it was ; I may never have so
pleasant a one again. Oh, Mr. Carlyle, do not disparage East Lynne
to me! Would I could awake, and find the last few months but a
hideous dream !-that I could find my dear father alive again that
we were still living peacefully at East Lynne! It would be a very
Eden to me now.”
What was Mr. Carlyle about to say ? What emotion was it that
agitated his countenance, impeded his breath, and dyed his face
blood-red ? His better genius was surely not watching over him, or
those words had never been spoken.
“There is but one way,” he began, taking her hand and nervously
playing with it, probably unconscious that he did so ; " only one way
in which you could return to East Lynne. And that way-I may not
presume, perhaps, to point it out."
She looked at him, and waited for an explanation.
“ If my words offend you, Lady Isabel, check them, as their pre-
sumption deserves, and pardon me. May 1-dare 1-offer you to
return to East Lynne as its mistress?"
She did not comprehend him in the slightest degree ; the drift of
his meaning never dawned upon her. “Return to East Lynne as its
mistress ?” she repeated, in bewilderment.
“And as my wife.”
No possibility of misunderstanding him now, and the shock and
surprise were great. She had stood there by Mr. Carlyle's side, con-
versing confidentially with him, esteeming him greatly, feeling as if he
were her truest friend on earth, clinging to him in her heart, as to a
haven of refuge, loving him almost as she would love a brother,
suffering her hand to remain in his. But to be his wife!—The idea
had never presented itself to her in any shape until this moment,
and her first emotion was one of entire opposition, her first movement
to express it, as she essayed to withdraw herself and her hand away
from him.
But Mr. Carlyle did not suffer it. He not only retained that hand,
but took the other also, and spoke, now the ice was broken, eloquent
words of love. Not unmeaning phrases of rhapsody, about hearts and
darts and dying for her, as some one else might have spoken ; but
earnest-hearted words of deep tenderness, calculated to win upon the
mind's good sense, as well as upon the ear and heart. And, it may be,
that had her imagination not been filled up with that “some one else,”
she would have said “Yes” there and then.


EAST LYNNE.
They were suddenly interrupted. Lady Mount Severn entered, and
took in the scene at a glance: Mr. Carlyle's bent attitude of devotion,
his imprisonment of the hands, and Isabel's perplexed and blushing
countenance. She threw up her head and her little inquisitive nose,
and stopped short on the carpet ; her freezing looks demanding an
explanation, as plainly as looks can do so. Mr. Carlyle turned to her,
and, by way of sparing Isabel, proceeded to introduce himself. Isabel
had just presence of mind left to name her : “ Lady Mount Severn."
“ I am sorry that Lord Mount Severn should be absent, to whom I
have the honour of being known,” he said. “I am Mr. Carlyle."
“I have heard of you,” replied her ladyship, scanning his good looks,
and feeling cross that his homage should be given where she saw it
was given : “ but I had not heard that you and Lady Isabel Vane were
on the extraordinary terms of intimacy that-that- "
“Madam," he interrupted, as he handed a chair to her ladyship and
took another himself, “ we have never yet been on terms of extraordi-
nary intimacy. I was begging the Lady Isabel to grant that we might
become so : I was asking her to become my wife.”
The avowal was as a shower of incense to the countess, and her ill-
humour melted into sunshine. It was a solution to her great difficulty,
a loophole by which she might get rid of her bête noire, the hated
Isabel. A flush of gratification lighted her face, and she became full
of graciousness to Mr. Carlyle.
“How very grateful Isabel must feel to you," quoth she. “I speak
openly, Mr. Carlyle, because I know that you were cognizant of the
unprotected state in which she was left by the earl's improvidence,
placing marriage for her, at any rate a high marriage, almost out of
the question. East Lynne is a beautiful place, I have heard."
“For its size ; it is not large,” replied Mr. Carlyle, as he rose ; for
Isabel had also risen and was coming forward.
“And pray what is Lady Isabel's answer ? ” quickly asked the coun-
tess, turning to her.
Not to her did Isabel condescend to give an answer, but she
approached Mr. Carlyle, and spoke in a low tone.
“Will you give me a few hours for consideration ?”.
“I am only too happy that you should accord it consideration, for it
speaks to me of hope," was his reply, as he opened the door for her to
pass out. “I will be here again this afternoon."
It was a perplexing debate that Lady Isabel held with herself in
the solitude of her chamber, whilst Mr. Carlyle touched upon ways
and means to Lady Mount Severn. Isabel was little more than a
child, and as a child she reasoned, looking neither far nor deep : the
shallow, palpable aspect of affairs alone presenting itself to her view.
That Mr. Carlyle was not of rank equal to her own, she scarcely re-
membered : East Lynne seemed a very fair settlement in life, and in
point of size, beauty, and importance, it was superior to the home she
was now in. She forgot that her position at East Lynne as Mr.
Carlyle's wife would not be what it had been as Lord Mount Severn's
daughter ; she forgot that she should be tied to a quiet home, shut
out from the great world, from the pomps and vanities to which she
was born. She liked Mr. Carlyle much, she liked to be with him, she


LIFE AT CASTLE MARLING.
89
experienced pleasure in conversing with him ; in short, but for that
other ill-omened fancy which had crept over her, there would have
been a danger of her falling in love with Mr. Carlyle. And oh! to be
removed for ever from the bitter dependence on Lady Mount Severn
-East Lynne would, after that, seem what she had called it, Eden.
“So far it appears favourable,” mentally exclaimed poor Isabel,“ but
there is the other side of the question. It is not only that I do not
love Mr. Carlyle, but I fear I do love, or very nearly love, Francis
Levison. I wish he would ask me to be his wife !-or that I had
never seen him.”
Isabel's soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Levison
and the countess. What the latter had said to the old lady to win
her over to the cause, was best known to herself, but she was eloquent in
it. They both used every possible argument to induce her to accept
Mr. Carlyle : the old lady declaring that he was worth a dozen empty-
headed men of the great world.
Isabel listened, now swayed one way, now the other, and when the
afternoon came, her head was aching with perplexity. The stumbling-
block that she could not get over was Francis Levison. She saw Mr.
Carlyle's approach from her window, and went down to the drawing-
room, not in the least knowing what her reply was to be. A shadowy
idea was presenting itself that she would ask him for longer time, and
write her answer.
In the drawing-room, was Francis Levison, and her heart beat
wildly : which said beating might have convinced her that she ought
not to marry another.
“Where have you been hiding yourself?” cried he. “Did you hear
of our mishap with the pony carriage ? ”.
“No," was her answer.
“I was driving Emma into town. The pony took fright, kicked,
plunged, and went down upon his knees; she took fright in her turn,
got out, and walked back. I gave the brute some chastisement and
a race, and brought him to the stables, getting home in time to be
introduced to Mr. Carlyle. He seems an out-and-out good fellow,
Isabel, and I congratulate you."
She looked up at him.
“Don't start. We are all in the family, and my lady told me; I
won't betray it abroad. She says East Lynne is a place to be coveted.
I wish you happiness, Isabel.”
“Thank you,” she returned, in a sarcastic tone, though her throat
beat and her lips quivered. “You are premature in your congratula-
tions, Captain Levison."
“Am I? Keep my good wishes, then, till the right man comes. I
am beyond the pale myself, and dare not think of entering the happy
state," he added, in a pointed tone. “I have indulged dreams of it,
like others, but I cannot afford to indulge them seriously : a poor
man, with uncertain prospects, can only play the butterfly, perhaps
to his life's end."
He quitted the room as he spoke. It was impossible for Isabel to
misunderstand him, but a feeling shot across her mind, for the first
time, that he was false and heartless. One of the servants appeared,


go
EAST LYNNE.
showing in Mr. Carlyle : nothing false or heartless about him. He
closed the door, and approached her. She did not speak, and her lips
were white and trembling. Mr. Carlyle waited.
“Well ?” he said at length, in a gentle tone. “Have you decided to
grant my prayer ?”
“ Yes. But--" She could not go on. What with one agitation and
another, she had difficulty in conquering her emotion. “But-I was
going to tell you "
“Presently," he whispered, leading her to a sofa ; "we can both
afford to wait now. Isabel, you have made me very happy !*
“I ought to tell you, I must tell you," she began again, in the midst
of hysterical tears. “Though I have said 'Yes' to your proposal, I do
not-yet- It has come upon me by surprise,” she stammered. “I like
you very much ; I esteem and respect you : but I do not yet love you."
“I should wonder if you did. But you will let me earn your love,
Isabel ? "
“Oh yes,” she earnestly answered. “I hope so."
He drew her closer to him, bent his face, and took from her lips his
first kiss. Isabel was passive; she supposed he had gained the right
to do so. “My dearest! it is all I ask ! "
Mr. Carlyle stayed over the following day, and before he departed,
in the evening, arrangements had been discussed. The marriage was
to take place immediately : all concerned had a motive for hurrying it
on. Mr. Carlyle was anxious that the fair flower should be his;
Isabel was sick of Castle Marling, sick of some of the people in it;
my lady was sick of Isabel. In less than a month it was to be, and
Francis Levison sneered over the “indecent haste.” Mr. Carlyle wrote
to the earl. Lady Mount Severn announced that she should present
Isabel with her trousseau, and wrote to London to order it. It is a
positive fact that when he was taking leave of Isabel she clung to him.
“I wish I could take you now, my darling,” he uttered. “I cannot
bear to leave you here.”
“I wish you could !” she sighed. “You have seen only the sunny
side of Lady Mount Severn."
CHAPTER XIII.
MR. DILL'S SHAKING.
The sensations of Mr. Carlyle when he returned to West Lynne were
very much like those of an Eton boy, who knows he has been in mis-
chief, and dreads detection. Always open as to his own affairs, for
he had nothing to conceal, he yet deemed it expedient to dissemble
now. He felt that his sister would be bitter at the prospect of his
marrying ; instinct had taught him that, years ago ; and he believed
that, of all women, the most objectionable to her would be Lady
Isabel, for Miss Carlyle looked to the useful, and had neither sym-
pathy nor admiration for the beautiful. He was not sure but she
might be capable of endeavouring to frustrate the marriage, should
news of it reach her ears, and her indomitable will had carried many


MR. DILL'S SHAKING.
91
strange things in her life : therefore you will not blame Mr. Carlyle
for observing entire reticence as to his future plans.
A family of the name of Carew had been about to take East Lynne :
they wished to rent it, furnished, for three years. Upon some of the
minor arrangements they and Mr. Carlyle were opposed, but the latter
declined to give way. During his absence at Castle Marling, news
had arrived from them: they acceded to all his terms, and would enter
upon East Lynne as soon as was convenient. Miss Carlyle was full of
congratulation; it was off their hands, she said : but the first letter
Mr. Carlyle wrote was—to decline them. He did not tell this to Miss
Carlyle. The final touches of the house were given, preparatory to
the reception of its inhabitants, and three maid and two men-servants
hired and sent there, upon board wages, until the family should arrive.
One evening, three weeks after Mr. Carlyle's visit to Castle
Marling, Barbara Hare called at Miss Carlyle's, and found them going
to tea, much earlier than usual.
“We dined earlier,” said Miss Corny, “and I ordered tea in as soon
as dinner went away. Otherwise Archibald would have taken none."
“I am as well without tea,” said he. “I have still a mass of business
to get through.”
“You are not so well without it,” cried Miss Corny," and I don't
choose that you should go without it. Take off your bonnet, Barbara.
He does things like no one else; he is off to Castle Marling to-morrow,
and could never open his lips until just now to say so."
“Is that invalid Brewster, or whatever his name is--laid up at
Castle Marling still ?” asked Barbara.
“He is there still,” said Mr. Carlyle.
Barbara sat down to the tea-table, though protesting that she ought
not to remain, for she had told her mamma she should be home to
make tea. Miss Carlyle interrupted what she was saying, by telling
her brother that she should go presently and pack his things.
"Oh no," returned he, with alarming quickness, “I will pack them
myself, thank you. Peter, you can put the portmanteau in my room.
The large one.”
“The large one !” echoed Miss Corny, who could never let anything
pass without her interference; “why, it's as big as a house. What in
the world can you want dragging that with you ?"
“I have papers and things to take, besides clothes."
"I am sure I could pack all your things in the small one,” persisted
Miss Corny. “I'll try. You only tell me what you want put in. Take
the small portmanteau to your master's room, Peter."
Mr. Carlyle glanced at Peter, and Peter glanced back again with an
imperceptible nod. “I prefer to pack my things myself, Cornelia.
What have you done now?”.
“A stupid trick,” she answered-for, in fidgeting with a knife,
Miss Corny had cut her finger. “Have you any sticking-plaster,
Archibald ?”
He opened his pocket-book, and laid it on the table while he took
from it some black plaster. Miss Carlyle's inquisitive eyes caught
sight of a letter lying there. Sans cérémonie, she stretched out her hand,
caught it up, and opened it.


92
EAST LYNNE.
“Who is this from? It is a lady's writing."
Mr. Carlyle laid his hand flat upon it, as if to hide it from her view.
“Excuse me, Cornelia ; that is a private letter."
“Private nonsense!” retorted Miss Corny. “I am sure you receive
no letters that I may not read. It bears yesterday's postmark.”
“Oblige me with the letter,” he returned ; and Miss Carlyle, in her
astonishment at the calmly authoritative tone, yielded it to him.
“Archibald, what is the matter with you ?"
“Nothing," answered he, returning the letter to the pocket-book, and
putting it into his pocket, leaving out the sticking-plaster for Miss
Corny's benefit. “It's not fair to look into a man's private letters, is
it, Barbara ?”
He laughed good-humouredly as he looked at Barbara. But she
had seen with surprise that a deep flush of emotion had risen to his
face-he, so calm a man! Miss Carlyle was not one to be put down
easily, and she returned to the charge.
“Archibald, if ever I saw the Vane crest, it is on the seal of that
letter."
“Whether the Vane crest is on the letter, or not, the contents of it
were written for my eye alone,” he rejoined. And somehow, Miss
Carlyle did not like the firm tone. Barbara broke the silence.
“Shall you call on the Mount Severns this time ?”
“ Yes,” he answered.
“Do they talk yet of Lady Isabel's marrying ?” pursued Barbara.
“ Did you hear anything of it ?”.
“I cannot charge my memory with all I heard or did not hear, Bar-
bara. Your tea wants more sugar, does it not?”
“A little,” she answered, and Mr. Carlyle drew the sugar-basin
towards her cup, and dropped four or five large lumps into it, before
any one could stop him.
“What's that for?” asked Miss Corny.
He burst into laughter. “I forgot what I was doing. Really,
Barbara, I beg your tea's pardon. Cornelia will give you another
cup.”
* But it's a cup of tea and so much good sugar wasted,” tartly
responded Miss Corny.
Barbara sprang up the moment tea was over. “ I don't know what
mamma will say to me. And it is beginning to grow dusk! She will
think it is late for me to be out alone."
“ Archibald can walk with you,” said Miss Carlyle.
“I don't know that,” cried he, in his plain, open way. “ Dill is
waiting for me in the office, and I have some hours' work before me.
However, I suppose you won't care to put up with Peter's attendance ;
so make haste with your bonnet, Barbara.”
No need to tell Barbara that, when the choice between him and
Peter depended on the speed she could exert. She wished good
evening to Miss Carlyle, and went out with him, he taking her parasol
from her hand. It was a calm, lovely night, very light still, and they
went by the field way.
Barbara could not forget Isabel Vane. She never had forgotten her,
or the jealous feeling that arose in her heart at Mr. Carlyle's constant


• MR. DILL'S SHAKING.
93
visits to East Lynne when she inhabited it. She returned to the
subject now.
"I asked you, Archibald, whether you had heard that Lady Isabel
was likely to marry.”
“And I answered you, Barbara, that my memory could not carry
all I may have heard."
“But did you?” persisted Barbara.
“You are persevering,” he smiled. “I believe Lady Isabel is likely
to marry.”
Barbara drew a relieved sigh. “To whom ? "
The same amused smile played on his lips. “Do you suppose I
could put premature questions? I may be able to tell you more about
it after my next return from Castle Marling."
“Do try and find out,” said she. “Perhaps it is to Lord Vane.
Who is it says that more marriages arise from habitual association
than-
She stopped, for Mr. Carlyle had turned his eyes upon her, and was
laughing.
"You are a clever guesser, Barbara. Lord Vane is a little fellow,
five or six years old.”
“Oh,” returned Barbara, considerably discomfited.
“And the nicest child in the world," he warmly continued : “open
tempered, generous hearted, earnest spirited. Should I have children
of my own,” he added, switching the hedge with the parasol, and
speaking in an abstracted manner, as if forgetful of his companion,
“I could wish them to be like William Vane."
"A very important confession,” gaily returned Barbara, “after con-
triving to impress West Lynne with the conviction that you would be
an old bachelor.”
“I don't know that I ever promised West Lynne anything of the
sort,” cried Mr. Carlyle.
Barbara laughed now. “I suppose West Lynne judges by appear-
ances. When a man owns to thirty years-
“Which I don't do,” interrupted Mr. Carlyle, considerably damaging
the hedge and the parasol. “I may be an old married man before I
am thirty; the chances are, that I shall be."
“Then you must have chosen your wife,” she quickly cried.
“I do not say I have not, Barbara. All in good time to proclaim it,
though.”
Barbara withdrew her arm from Mr. Carlyle's, under pretence of
repinning her shawl. Her heart was beating, her whole frame tremb-
ling, and she feared he might detect her emotion. She never thought
he could allude to any one but herself. Poor Barbara !
“How flushed you look, Barbara !” he exclaimed. “Have I walked
too fast?"
She seemed not to hear, intent upon her shawl. Then she took his
arm again, and they walked on, Mr. Carlyle striking the hedge and
the grass more industriously than ever. Another minute, and-the
handle was in two.
“I thought you would do it,” said Barbara, while he was regarding
the parasol with ludicrous dismay. “Never mind; it is an old one.”


EAST LYNNE.
“ I will bring you another to replace it. What is the colour ? Brown.
I won't forget. Hold the relics a minute, Barbara.”
He put the pieces into her hand, and taking out a note-case, made a
note in pencil.
“What's that for ? ” she inquired.
He held it close to her eyes that she might discern what he had
written : “Brown parasol. B. H.” “A reminder for me, Barbara, in
case I forget."
Barbara's eye detected another item or two, already entered in the
case. “ Piano.” “ Plate.” “I jot down the things, as they occur to me,
that I must get in London,” he explained. “Otherwise I should forget
half of them.”
“ In London! I thought you were going in an opposite direction :
to Castle Marling.”
It was a slip of the tongue, but Mr. Carlyle repaired it, “I may
probably have to visit London as well as Castle Marling. How bright
the moon looks rising there, Barbara !”
“ So bright—that, or the sky—that I saw your secrets,” answered
she. “Piano! Plate! What can you want with either, Archibald ?"
“ They are for East Lynne,” he quietly replied.
“Oh, for the Carews.” And Barbara's interest in the items was
gone.
They turned into the road just below the Grove, and reached it.
Mr. Carlyle held the gate open for Barbara.
“You will come in and say good night to mamma. She was saying
to-day what a stranger you have made of yourself lately."
“I have been busy. And I really have not the time to-night. You
must remember me to her instead.”
He closed the gate again. But Barbara leaned over it, unwilling to
let him go.
“ Shall you be away a week?"
“I dare say I may. Here, take the wreck of the parasol, Barbara :
I was about to carry it off with me. I can buy you a new one without
stealing the old one."
“Archibald, I have long wished to ask you something," said she in
a tone of suppressed agitation, as she took the pieces and flung them
upon the path by the dense trees. “You will not think me foolish ?”
'“What is it?"
“When you gave me the gold chain and locket a year ago -you
remember?”
“ Yes. Well ?”
“I put some of that hair of Richard's into it, and a bit of Anne's, and
of mamma's : a tiny little bit of each. And there is room for more,
you see.”
She held it to him as she spoke, for she always wore it round her
neck, attached to the chain.
“I cannot see well by this light, Barbara. If there is room for more,
what of that?”
“I like to think that I possess a memento of my best friends, or of
those who were dear to me. I wish you to give me a bit of your hair
to put with the rest-as it was you who gave me the locket.”


MR. DILL'S SHAKING.
“My hair !" replied Mr. Carlyle, in a tone of as much astonishment
as if she had asked for his head. “What good would that do you,
Barbara, or the locket either ?”
Her face fushed painfully : her heart beat. “I like to have a
remembrance of the friends 1-I care for,” she stammered. “ Nothing
more, Archibald.”
He detected neither the emotion nor the depth of feeling, the sort of
feeling that had prompted the request, and he met it with good-natured
ridicule.
“What a pity you did not tell me yesterday, Barbara! I had my
hair cut, and might have sent you the snippings. Don't be a goose,
child, and exalt me into a Wellington, to bestow hair and autographs.
I can't stop a minute longer. Good night.”
He hastened away with quick strides, and Barbara covered her face
with her hands. “What have I done? what have I done?” she re-
iterated aloud. “Is it in his nature to be thus indifferent—thus matter
of fact? Has he no sentiment ? But it will come. Oh, the bliss
this night has brought forth! There was truth in his tone beneath its
vein of mockery, when he spoke of his chosen wife. I need not go far
to guess who it is—he has told no one else, and he pays attention to
none but me. Archibald, when once I am your wife you shall know
how fondly I love you; you cannot know till then.”
She lifted her fair young face, beautiful in its radiance, and gazed
at the deepening moonlight ; then turned away and pursued her path
up the garden walk, unconscious that something, wearing a bonnet,
pushed its head beyond the trees to steal a look after her. Barbara
would have said less, had she divined there was a third party at the
interview.
It was three mornings after the departure of Mr. Carlyle that Mr.
Dill appeared before Miss Carlyle, bearing a letter. She was busy
contemplating the effect of some new muslin curtains, just put up, and
did not pay attention to him.
“Will you please take the letter, Miss Cornelia. The postman left
it in the office with ours. It is from Mr. Archibald."
“Why, what has he to write to me about?” retorted Miss Corny.
“Does he say when he is coming home?”
“ You had better see, Miss Cornelia. He does not say anything
about his return in mine."
She opened the letter, glanced at it, and sank into a chair : more
overcome, more stupefied than she had felt in her whole life.
Castle Marling, May ist.
“MY DEAR CORNELIA,--I was married this morning to Lady Isabel
Vane, and hasten briefly to acquaint you with the fact. I will write
you more fully to-morrow or the next day, and explain all things.
“Ever your affectionate brother,
“ARCHIBALD. CARLYLE.”.
“It is a hoax," were the first guttural sounds that escaped from Miss
Carlyle's throat, when speech returned to her.
Mr. Dill only stood like a stone image.


EAST LYNNE.
“ It is a hoax, I say,” raved Miss Carlyle. “What are you standing
there for, like a gander on one leg ? ” she reiterated, venting her anger
upon the unoffending man. “Is it a hoax, or is it not ?"
"I am overdone with amazement, Miss Corny. It is not a hoax : I
have had a letter, too."
“ It can't be true ; it can't be true. He had no more thought of
being married when he left here, three days ago, than I have.”
“How can we tell that, Miss Corny? How are we to know that he
did not go to be married ? I fancy he did.”
“ Go to be married !” shrieked Miss Corny, in a passion ; “he would
not be such a fool. And to that fine lady-child! No, no."
“He has sent this to be inserted in the county journals," said Mr. Dill,
holding forth a scrap of paper. “They are married, sure enough.”
Miss Carlyle took it and held it before her ; her hand was cold as
ice, and shook as with palsy.
“Married. - On the ist inst., at Castle Marling, by the Chaplain to
the Earl of Mount Severn, Archibald Carlyle, Esquire, of East Lynne,
to the Lady Isabel Mary Vane, only child of William, late Earl of
Mount Severn."
Miss Carlyle tore the paper to atoms and scattered it. Mr. Dill
afterwards made copies from memory, and sent them to the journal
offices. But let that pass.
“I will never forgive him," she deliberately uttered; "and I will
never forgive or tolerate her. The senseless idiot' to go and marry
Mount Severn's expensive daughter! a thing who goes to court in
feathers and a train-streaming out three yards behind her ! "
“ He is not an idiot, Miss Cornelia.”
“He is worse ; he is a wicked madman,” she retorted, in a state
midway between rage and tears. “He must have been stark staring
mad to go and do it; and had I gathered an inkling of the project I
would have taken out a commission of lunacy against him. Ay, you
may stare, old Dill, but I would, as truly as I hope to have my sins
forgiven. Where are they to live?”
“ I expect they will live at East Lynne."
“What?” screamed Miss Corny. “Live at East Lynne with the
Carews! You are going mad too, I think."
“The negotiation with the Carews is at an end, Miss Cornelia.
When Mr. Archibald returned from Castle Marling at Easter, he wrote
to decline them. I saw the copy of the letter in the copying-book.
I expect he had settled matters then with Lady Isabel, and had decided
to keep East Lynne for himself.”
Miss Carlyle's mouth had opened with consternation. Recovering
partially, she rose from her seat, and drawing herself to her full and
majestic height, she advanced behind the astounded gentleman, seized
the collar of his coat with both hands, and shook him for several
minutes. Poor old Dill, short and slight, was as a puppet in her
hands, and thought his breath had gone for ever.
“I would have taken out a lunacy commission for you also, you sly
villain! You are in the plot : you have been aiding and abetting
him : you knew as much of it as he did.”
“I declare solemnly, to the Goodness that made me, I did not,"


MR. DILL'S SHAKING.
gasped the ill-treated man, when he could recover speech. “I am as
innocent as a baby, Miss Corny. When I had the letter just now in
the office, you might have knocked me down with a feather.”
“What has he gone and done it for ? an expensive girl without a
shilling! And how dared you be privy to the refusal of East Lynne
to the Carews? You have abetted him. But he never can be fool
enough to think of living there!”.
"I was not privy to it, Miss Corny, before it was done. And, had I
been-I am only Mr. Archibald's servant. Had he not intended to
take East Lynne for his residence, he would not announce himself as
Archibald Carlyle, of East Lynne. And he can well afford it, Miss
Corny ; you know he can; and he only takes up his proper position in
going to it,” added the faithful clerk, soothingly. “And she is a sweet,
pretty, lovable creature, though she is a noble lady."
"I hope his folly will come home to him ! " was the wrathful re.
joinder.
“ Heaven forbid 1 * cried old Dill.
“ Idiot I idiot ! WHAT possessed him ?” cried the exasperated Miss
Corny.
“Well, Miss Corny, I must hasten back to the office," concluded
Mr. Dill, by way of terminating the conference. “And I am truly
vexed, ma'am, that you should have fancied there was cause to fall
out upon me.”
“I shall do it again before the day's over, if you come in my way,"
hotly responded Miss Corny.
She sat down as soon as she was alone, and her face assumed a
stony, rigid look. Her hands fell upon her knees, and Mr. Carlyle's
letter dropped to the ground. After a while her features began to
work, and she nodded her head, and lifted, now one hand, now the
other, apparently debating various points in her own mind. By-and-
by she rose, attired herself in her bonnet and shawl, and took the way
to Justice Hare's. She felt that the news which would be poured out
to West Lynne before the day was over, did reflect a slight upon her-
self. Her much-loved brother had forsaken her, to take to himself one
nearer and dearer, and had done it in dissimulation : therefore she
herself would be the first to proclaim it, far and wide.
Barbara was at the window in the usual sitting-room, as Miss Corny
entered the Grove A grim smile, in spite of her outraged feelings,
crossed that lady's lips, when she thought of the blow about to be
dealt out to Barbara. Very clearly had she penetrated to the love of
that young lady for Archibald ; to her hopes of becoming his wife.
“What brings Cornelia here?” thought Barbara, who was looking
very pretty in her summer attire, for the weather was unusually warm,
and she had assumed it. “How are you !" she said, leaning from the
window. “Would you believe it? the warm day has actually tempted
mamma forth; papa is driving her to Lynneborough. Come in ; the
hall door is open."
Miss Carlyle came in, without answering ; and seating herself upon
a chair, emitted a few dismal groans, by way of preliminary.
Barbara turned to her quickly. “Are you ill? Has anything upset
youp"
Last Lyono.


98
EAST LYNNE.
“Upset me! you may say that,” ejaculated Miss Corny, in wrath.
“ It has turned my heart and my feelings inside out. What do you
say? A glass of wine ? Nonsense! don't talk of wine to me. A heavy
misfortune has befallen us, Barbara. Archibald— "
“ Upon Archibald !” interrupted Barbara, in her quick alarm. “Oh!
sonic accident has happened to him—to the railway train ! Perhaps
he-he-has got his legs broken !”.
"I wish to my heart he had !” warmly returned Miss Corny. “He
and his legs are all right, more's the pity! It is worse than that,
Barbara.”
Kalvara ran over various disasters in her mind ; and, knowing the
bent of Miss Carlyle's disposition, began to refer to some pecuniary
loss. “Perhaps it is about East Lynne,” hazarded she. “ The Carews
may not be coming to it.”
“No, they are not coming to it," was the tart retort. “Some one
else is, though ; my wise brother. Archibald has gone and made a
foul of himself, Barbara, and now he is coming home to live at East
Lynne.”
Though there was much that was unintelligible to Barbara in this,
she could not suppress the flush of gratification that rose to her cheek
and dyed it with blushes. “You are going to be taken down a notch
or two, my lady,” thought clear-sighted Miss Carlyle. “The news
fell upon me this morning like a thunderbolt,” she said aloud. “Old
Dill brought it to me. I shook him for his pains."
“Shook old Dill !” reiterated the wondering Barbara.
“I shook him till my arms ached : he won't forget it in a hurry.
He has been abetting Archibald in his wickedness; concealing things
from me that he ought to have come and declared ; and I am not sure
that I can't have the two indicted for conspiracy."
Barbara sat in amazement ; without the faintest idea of what Miss
Corny could be driving at.
“ You remember that child, Mount Severn's daughter ? I think I see
her now, coming into the concert-room, in her white robes, and her
jewels, and her flowing hair, looking like a young princess in a fairy-
tale—all very well for her, for what she is, but not for us."
“What of her ?" uttered Barbara.
“ Archibald has married her.”
In spite of Barbara's full consciousness that she was under the pene.
trating eyes of Miss Corny, and in spite of her own efforts for calmness,
every feature in her face turned to a ghastly whiteness. But, like Miss
Carlyle, she at first took refuge in disbelief.
“ It is not true, Cornelia.”
“ It is quite true. They were married yesterday at Castle Marling,
by Lord Mount Severn's chaplain. Had I known it then, and could I
have got there, I might have contrived to part them, though the Church
ceremony had passed : I should have tried. But,” added the plain-
speaking Miss Corny, “yesterday was one thing, and to day's another ;
and of course nothing can be done now.”
“Excuse me an instant,” gasped Barbara, in a low tone; " I forgot to
give an order mamma left for the servants.”
An order for the servants! She swiftly passed upstairs to her owl


MR. DILL'S SHAKING.
99
room, and flung herself down on iis floor în utter anguish. The past
had cleared itself of its mists; the scales that were before Barbara's
eyes had fallen from them. She saw now that while she had cherished
false and delusive hopes in her almost idolatrous passion for Archibald
Carlyle, she had never been cared for by him. Even the previous
night she had lain awake some of its hours, indulging dreams of the
sweetest phantasy—and that was the night of his wedding-day! With
a sharp wail of despair, Barbara flung her arms up and closed her aching
eyes : she knew that from that hour her life's sunshine had departed.
The cry had been louder than she heeded, and one of the maids,
who was outside the door, opened it gently and looked in. There lay
Barbara, and there was no mistaking that she lay in dire anguish ; not
of body, but of mind. The servant judged it an inopportune moment
to intrude, and quickly reclosed the door.
Barbara heard the click of the latch, and it recalled her to herself ;
recalled her to reality ; to the necessity of outwardly surmounting the
distress at the present moment. She rose up, drank a glass of water,
mechanically smoothed her hair and her brow, so contracted with pain,
and forced her manner to calmness.
“Married to another ! married to another !” she moaned, as she
went down the stairs, “and, that other, her! Oh, fortitude ! oh, dis-
simulation ! at least come to my aid before his sister !”.
There was actually a smile on her face as she entered the rooma
Miss Carlyle opened her grievance again without delay, as if to com-
pensate for the few minutes' imposed silence.
“As sure as we are living here, I would have tried for a commission
of lunacy against him, had I known this, and so I told Dill. Better
have confined him as a harmless lunatic for a couple of years, than
suffer him to go free and obtain his fling in this mad manner. I never
thought he would marry : I have warned him against it ever since he
was in leading-strings."
“ It is an unsuitable match,” said Barbara.
“It is just as suitable as Beauty and the Beast in the children's
story. She, a high-born beauty, brought up to revel in expense, in
jewels, in feasts, in show; and he, a-a-a-dull bear of a lawyer,
like the beast in the tale."
Had Barbara been less miserable she would have laughed outright.
Miss Carlyle continued :
“I have taken my resolution. I go to East Lynne to-morrow, and
discharge those five dandies of servants. I was up there on Saturday,
and there were all three of my damsels decked out in fine mousseline-
de-laine gowns, with peach bows in their caps, and the men in
striped jackets, playing at footmen. Had I known then that they
were Archibald's servants and not hired for the Carews !”
Barbara said nothing.
“ I shall go up and dismiss the lot, and remove myself and my servants
to East Lynne, and let my own house furnished. Expenses will be
great enough with her extravagant habits; too great to keep on two
households. And a fine sort of household Archibald would have of it
at East Lynne, with that ignorant baby, befrilled, and bejewelled, and
becurled, to direct it."


100
EAST LYNNE.
“ But will she like that?"
“If she does not like it, she can lump it,” replied Miss Carlyle.
“And now that I have told you the news, Barbara, I am going back
again; and I had almost as soon have had to tell you that he was in
his coffin.”
“Are you sure you are not jealous ?” asked Barbara, some uncon-
trollable impulse prompting her to say it.
“Perhaps I am," returned Miss Carlyle, with asperity. “ Perhaps,
had you brought up a lad as I have brought up Archibald, and loved
nothing else in the world, far or near, you would be jealous, when you
found him discarding you with contemptuous indifference, and taking
a young wife to his bosom, to be more to him than you had been."
CHAPTER XIV.
THE EARL'S ASTONISHMENT.
THE announcement of the marriage in the newspapers was the first
intimation of it Lord Mount Severn received. He was little less
thunderstruck than Miss Corny, and came steaming to England the
same day, thereby missing his wife's letter, which gave her version of
the affair. He met Mr. Carlyle and Lady Isabel in London, where
they were staying, at one of the West-end hotels, for a day or two : they
were going farther. Isabel was alone when the earl was announced.
“What is the meaning of this, Isabel ? ” began he, without circum-
locution or greeting. “You are married !"
“Yes,” she answered, with her pretty, innocent blush. “Some days
ago.”
" And to Carlyle the lawyer ! How did it come about ?"
Isabel began to think how it had come about; sufficiently to give a
clear answer. “He asked me," she said, “and I accepted him. He
came to Castle Marling at Easter, and asked me then. I was very
much surprised.”
The earl looked at her attentively. “Why was I kept in ignorance
of this, Isabel ?”
“I did not know you were kept in ignorance of it. Mr. Carlyle
wrote to you, as did Lady Mount Severn."
Lord Mount Severn was as a man in the dark, and looked like it.
“ I suppose this comes," soliloquized he aloud,“ of your father's having
allowed the gentleman to dance daily attendance at East Lynne. And
so you fell in love with him.”
“Indeed no," answered she, in an amused tone. “I never thought
of such a thing as falling in love with Mr. Carlyle.”
“Then don't you love him?" abruptly asked the earl.
“No!” she whispered, timidly. “But I like him much-oh, very
much. And he is so good to me!”
The earl stroked his chin, and mused. Isabel had destroyed the
only conclusion he had been able to come to, as to the motives for the
hasty marriage. “If you do not love Mr. Carlyle, how comes it that


THE EARL'S ASTONISHMENT.
101
you are so wise in the distinction between “liking” and “ love”? It
cannot be that you love any one else!”.
The question told home, and Isabel turned crimson. “I shall love
my husband in time,” was all she answered, as she bent her head, and
played nervously with her watch-chain.
“My poor child !” involuntarily exclaimed the earl. But he was
one who liked to fathom the depth of everything. “Who has been
staying at Castle Marling since I left ?” he asked sharply.
“Mrs. Levison came down.”
“I alluded to gentlemen-young men."
“ Only Francis Levison," she replied.
"Francis Levison! You have never been so foolish as to fall in
love him him!”
The question was so pointed, so abrupt, and Isabel's self-conscious.
ness moreover so great, that she betrayed lamentable confusion; and
the earl had no further need to ask. Pity stole into his hard eyes as
they fixed themselves on her downcast glowing face.
"Isabel,” he gravely began, “ Captain Levison is not a good man.
If ever you were inclined to think him one, dispossess your mind of
the idea, and hold him at arm's distance. Drop his acquaintance ;
encourage no intimacy with him.”
“I have already dropped it,” said Isabel, “ and I shall not take it up
again. But Lady Mount Severn must think well of him, or she would
not have him there."
“She thinks none too well of him ; none can do so of Francis
Levison," returned the earl, significantly. “He is her cousin, and is
one of those idle, vain, empty-headed flatterers whom it is her pleasure
to group about her. Do you be wiser, Isabel. But this does not solve
the enigma of your marriage with Carlyle ; on the contrary, it renders
it the more unaccountable. He must have cajoled you into it.”
Before Isabel could reply, Mr. Carlyle entered. He held out his
hand to the earl : the earl did not appear to see it.
“ Isabel,” said he, “ I am sorry to turn you out ; I suppose you have
only this one sitting-room. I wish to say a few words to Mr. Carlyle.”
She left them, and the earl wheeled round and faced Mr. Carlyle,
speaking in a stern, haughty tone.
“How came this marriage about, sir ? Do you possess so little
honour, that, taking advantage of my absence, you must intrude
yourself into my family, and clandestinely espouse Lady Isabel Vane?”
Mr. Carlyle stood confounded, not confused. He drew himself up
to his full height, looking every whit as fearless, and far more noble
than the peer. “My lord, I do not understand you."
“ Yet I speak plainly. What is it but a clandestine procedure, to
take advantage of a guardian's absence, and beguile a young girl into
a marriage beneath her ?”
“There has been nothing clandestine in my conduct towards Lady
Isabel Vane; there shall be nothing but honour in my conduct towards
Lady Isabel Carlyle. Your lordship has been misinformed.”
“ Í have not been informed at all," retorted the earl. “I was allowed
to learn this from the public papers; I, the only relative of Lady
Isabel."


102
EAST LYNNE.
“When I proposed for Lady Isabel "
“Only a month ago," sarcastically interrupted the earl.
“ Only a month ago," calmly repeated Mr. Carlyle, “ my first action,
after Isabel accepted me, was to write to you. But that I imagine
you may not have received the letter, by stating you first heard of our
marriage through the papers, I should say the want of courtesy lay on
your lordship's side, for having vouchsafed me no reply to it.”
“What were the contents of the letter?”
“I stated what had occurred, mentioning what I was able to do in
the way of settlements, also that both Isabel and myself wished that
the ceremony might take place as soon as possible."
“And pray where did you address the letter ?”
“ Lady Mount Severn could not give me the address. She said, if I
would intrust the letter to her she would forward it, for she expected
daily to hear from you. I did give her the letter, and I heard no more
of the matter, except that her ladyship sent me a message, when Isabel
was writing to me, that as you had returned no reply, you of course
approved."
Is this fact ?” cried the earl.
“My lord !” coldly replied Mr. Carlyle. “Whatever may be my
defects in your eyes, I am at least a man of truth. Until this moment,
the suspicion that you were in ignorance of the contemplated marriage
never occurred to me."
“So far, then, I beg your pardon, Mr. Carlyle. But how came the
marriage about at all ?--how came it to be hurried over in this un-
seemly fashion? You made the offer at Easter, Isabel tells me, and
you married her three weeks after it.”
“And I would have married her and brought her away the day I
did make it, had it been practicable," returned Mr. Carlyle. “I have
acted throughout for her comfort and happiness.”
“Oh, indeed!" returned the earl, returning to his disagreeable tone.
“Perhaps you will put me in possession of the facts, and of your
motives.”
“I warn you that the facts, to you, will not bear a pleasant sound,
Lord Mount Severn."
“Allow me to be the judge of that,” said the earl.
“Business took me to Castle Marling on Good Friday. On the
following day I called at your house : after your own and Isabel's
invitation, it was natural that I should call : in fact, it would have been
a breach of good feeling not to do so. I found Isabel ill-treated and
niiserable : far from enjoying a happy home in your house-
“What, şir ? ” interrupted the earl. “Ill-treated and miserable !"
“Ill-treated even to blows, my lord.”
The earl stood as one petrified, staring at Mr. Carlyle.
“I learned it, I must premise, through the chattering revelations of
your little son : Isabel of course would not have mentioned it to me;
but when the child had spoken, she did not deny it. In short, she
was too broken-hearted, too completely bowed in spirit, to deny it.
It aroused all my feelings of indignation : it excited in me an irre-
sistible desire to emancipate her from this cruel life, and take her
where she would find affection and I hope—happiness. There was


THE EARL'S ASTONISHMENT.
103
only one way in which I could do this, and I risked it. I asked her
to become my wife, and to return to her home at East I.ynne.”
The earl was slowly recovering from his petrifaction. “Then-am
I to understand that, when you called that day at my house, you
carried no intention with you of proposing to Isabel ? ”
“Not any. It was a sudden step, called forth by the circumstances
under which I found her.”
The earl paced the room, perplexed still, and evidently disturbed.
“May I inquire if you love her,” he abruptly said.
Mr. Carlyle paused ere he spoke, and a red flush dyed his face.
“Those are feelings man rarely acknowledges to man, Lord Mount
Severn, but I will answer you. I do love her passionately and
sincerely. I learnt to love her at East Lynne ; but I could have carried
my love silently within me to the end of my life, and never betrayed it,
but for that unexpected visit to Castle Marling. If the idea of making
her my wife had not previously occurred to me as practicable, it was
that I deemed her rank incompatible with my own."
“As it was,” said the earl.
“ Country solicitors have married peers' daughters before now,"
remarked Mr. Carlyle. “I only add another to the list.”
“But you cannot keep her as a peer's daughter, I presume ?"
“East Lynne will be her home. Our establishment will be small
and quiet, as compared with her father's. I explained to Isabel how
quiet at the first, and she might have retracted, had she wished : I
explained also in full to Lady Mount Severn. East Lynne will descend
to our eldest son, should we have children. My profession is most
lucrative, my income good : were I to die to-morrow, Isabel would
enjoy East Lynne, and about three thousand a year. I gave these
details in the letter which appears to have miscarried.”
The earl made no immediate reply : he was absorbed in thought.
“Your lordship perceives, I hope, that there has been nothing
clandestine » in my conduct to Lady Isabel.”
Lord Mount Severn held out his hand. “I refused your hand when
I came in, Mr. Carlyle, as you may have observed : perhaps you will
refuse yours now, though I should be proud to shake it. When I
find myself in the wrong, I am not above acknowledging the fact :
and I must state my opinion that you have behaved most kindly and
honourably.”
Mr. Carlyle smiled and put his hand into the earl's. The latter
retained it, while he spoke in a whisper.
“Of course I cannot be ignorant that, in speaking of Isabel's ill-
treatment, you alluded to my wife. Has it transpired beyond your-
selves ?”
“You may be sure that neither Isabel nor myself would mention it :
we shall dismiss it from amongst our reminiscences. Let it be as
though you never heard it : it is past and done with.”
“Isabel,” said the earl, as he was departing that evening, for he
remained to spend the day with them, “I came here this morning
almost prepared to strike your husband, and I go away honouring him.
Be a good and faithful wife to him, for he deserves it."
“Of course I shall be,” she answered, in surprise.


104
EAST LYNNE.
Lord Mount Severn went on to Castle Marling, and there he had
a stormy interview with his wife : so stormy that the sounds penetrated
to the ears of the domestics. He left again the same day, in anger,
and proceeded to Mount Severn.
“He will have time to cool down before we meet in London," was
the comment of my lady.
CHAPTER XV.
COMING HOME.
Miss CARLYLE was as good as her word. She quitted her own house,
and removed to East Lynne with Peter and two of her handmaidens.
In spite of Mr. Dill's grieved remonstrances, she discharged the servants
whom Mr. Carlyle had engaged ; all except one man : she might have
retained one of the maids also, but for the episode of the mousseline-
de-laine dresses and the caps with peach bows: for she had sense
to remember, in spite of her prejudices, that East Lynne would require
more hands in its service than her own home.
On a Friday night, about a month after the wedding, Mr. Carlyle
and his wife came home. They were expected, and Miss Carlyle went
through the hall to receive them, and stood on the upper steps, between
the pillars of the portico. An elegant chariot with four post-horses
was drawing up : Miss Carlyle compressed her lips as she scanned it.
She was attired in a handsome dark silk dress and a new cap: her
anger had had time to cool down in the last month, and her strong
common sense told her that the wiser plan would be to make the best
of it. Mr. Carlyle came up the steps with Isabel.
“ You here, Cornelia ! that was kind. How are you? Isabel, this is
my sister.”
Lady Isabel put forth her hand, and Miss Carlyle condescended to
touch the tips of her fingers. “I hope you are well, ma'am," she
jerked out.
Mr. Carlyle left them together, and went back to search for some
trifles which had been left in the carriage. Miss Carlyle led the way
to a sitting-room, where the supper-tray was laid. “You would like to
go upstairs and take your things off before supper, ma'am ?" she said,
in the same jerky tone, to Lady Isabel
“Thank you. I will go to my rooms, but I do not require supper.
We have dined.”
“? Then what would you like to take?” asked Miss Corny.
“Some tea, if you please. I am very thirsty."
“ Tea !" ejaculated Miss Corny. “So late as this! I don't know
that they have boiling water. You'd never sleep a wink all night,
ma'am, if you took tea at eleven o'clock." .
“Oh-then never mind,” replied Lady Isabel. “It is of no con-
sequence. Do not let me give trouble."
Miss Carlyle whisked out of the room ; upon what errand was best
known to herself : and in the hall she and Marvel came to an en-
counter. No words passed, but each eyed the other grimly. Marvel


COMING HOME.
105
was very stylish, with five flounces to her dress, a veil and a parasol.
Meanwhile, Lady Isabel sat down and burst into tears and sobs. A
chill had come over her : it did not seem like coming home to East
Lynne. Mr. Carlyle entered and witnessed the grief.
" Isabel !” he uttered in amazement, as he hastened up to her.
“My darling, what ails you?”
“I am tired, I think," she gently answered ; "and coming into the
house again made me think of papa. I should like to go to my rooms,
Archibald, but I don't know which they are."
Neither did Mr. Carlyle know, but Miss Carlyle came whisking in
again, and said, “The best rooms; those next the library. Should she
go up with my lady?”
Mr. Carlyle preferred to go himself, and he held out his arm to
Isabel. She drew her veil over her face as she passed Miss Carlyle.
The branches were not lighted, and the room looked cold and com-
fortless. “Things seem all at sixes and sevens in the house," remarked
Mr. Carlyle. "I fancy the servants must have misunderstood my
letter, and not have expected us unti? to-morrow night.”
“Archibald," she said, taking off her bonnet, “I do feel very tired,
and-and-low-spirited : may I undress at once, and not go down
again to-night?"
He looked at her and smiled. “May you not go down again! Have
you forgotten that you are at last in your own home? A happy home,
I trust, it will be to you, my darling : I will strive to render it so."
She leaned upon him and sobbed aloud. He tenderly bore with her
mood, soothing her to composure, now and then gently kissing the face
she held to him. Oh, his was a true heart; he fervently intended
to cherish this fair flower he had won : but, alas ! it was just possible
he might miss the way, unless he could emancipate himself from his
sister's thraldom. Isabel did not love him : of that she was conscious ;
but her deep and earnest hope by night and by day was that she might
learn to love him, for she knew that he deserved it.
They heard Marvel's voice, and Isabel turned, poured out some
water, and began dashing it over her face and eyes. She did not care
that Marvel, who was haughtily giving orders about some particular
trunk, should see her grief.
“What will you take, Isabel ? " asked Mr. Carlyle. “Some tea?”
“No, thank you," replied she, remembering Miss Carlyle's answer.
“But you must take something. You complained of thirst in the
carriage."
“Water will do—will be best for me, I mean. Marvel can get it for
me."
Mr. Carlyle left the room, and the lady’s-maid undressed her mistress
in swelling silence, her tongue quivering with its rage and wrongs.
Marvel thought herself niore hardly used than any lady's-maid ever
had been yet. From the very hour of the wedding her anger had been
gathering, for there had been no gentleman-valet to take care of her
during the wedding-journey. Bad enough! but she had come home to
find that there was no staff of upper servants at all : no housekeeper ;
no steward ; no, as she expressed it, anybody. Moreover, she and Miss
Carlyle had just come to a clash. Marvel was loftily calling about her


106
EAST LYNNE.
in the hall for somebody to carry up a small parcel, which contained,
in fact, her lady's dressing-case, and Miss Carlyle had desired her to
carry it up herself. But that she had learnt who the lady was, Marvel
in her indignation might have felt inclined to throw the dressing-case
at her head.
“ Anything else, my lady?”
“ No," replied Lady Isabel. “You may go."
Isabel, wrapped in her dressing-gown, her warm slippers on, sat with
a book; and Marvel, wishing her good night, retired. Mr. Carlyle,
meanwhile, had sought his sister, who, finding she was to be the only
one to take supper, was then helping herself to the wing of a fowl. She
had chosen that day to dine early.
“ Cornelia,” he began, “ I do not understand all this. I don't see my
servants, and I see yours. Where are mine?”
“ Gone away,” said Miss Carlyle, in her decisive, off-hand manner,
6 Gone away!” responded Mr. Carlyle. " What for? I believe they
were excellent servants.”
“ Very excellent! Decking themselves out in buff mousseline-de-
laine dresses on a Saturday morning, and fine caps garnished with
peach. Never attempt to dabble in domestic matters again, Archibald,
for you only get taken in. Cut me a slice of that tongue."
“But in what did they do wrong?” he repeated, as he obeyed her.
“ Archibald Carlyle, how could you go and make a fool of yourself?
If you must have married, were there not plenty of young ladies in
your own sphere of society-
“ Stay,” he interrupted. “I wrote you a full statement of my motives
and actions, Cornelia ; I concealed nothing that it was necessary you
should know : I am not disposed to enter upon a further discussion of
the subject, and you must pardon my saying so. Let us return to the
topic of the servants. Where are they?"
“I sent them away. Because they were superfluous encumbrances,"
she hastily added, as he would have interrupted her. “We have four
in the house, and my lady has brought a fine maid, I see, making five.
I have come up here to live.”
Mr. Carlyle felt checkmated. He had always bowed to the will of
Miss Corny, but he had an idea that he and his wife would be better
without her. “And your own house ?” he exclaimed.
“I have let it furnished : the people entered to-day. You cannot turn
me out of East Lynne, into the road, or to furnished lodgings, Archibald.
There will be enough expense, without our keeping on two houses : and
most people, in your place, would jump at the prospect of my living
here. Your wife will be mistress; I do not intend to take her honours
from her ; but I shall save her a world of trouble in management, and
be as useful to her as a housekeeper. She will be glad of that, in-
experienced as she is : I dare say she never gave a domestic order in
her life.”
This was a view of the case to Mr. Carlyle, so plausibly put, that he
began to think it might be all for the best. He had great reverence
for his sister's judgment : force of habit is strong upon all of us. Still
he did not know.
“There is certainly room for you at East Lynne, Cornelia, but--"


COMING HOME.
107
“A little too much," put in Miss Corny. “I think a house half its
size might content us all, and still have been grand enough for Lady
Isabel."
“ East Lynne is mine," said Mr. Carlyle.
“So is your folly,” rejoined Miss Cornelia.
“And with regard to servants,” proceeded Mr. Carlyle, passing over
the remark, “I shall certainly keep as many as I think necessary.
I cannot give my wife splendour, but I will give her comfort. The
horses and carriages will take one man's
Miss Corny turned faint all over, “What on earth are you
talking of ?”
“I bought a pretty open carriage in town, and a pair of ponies for
it. The carriage we came home in was Lord Mount Severn's present.
Post-horses will do for that at present, but "
“Oh, Archibald ! the sins that you are committing ! ”
“Sins ? " echoed Mr. Carlyle.
“Wilful waste makes woeful want. I taught that to you as a child.
To be thrifty is a virtue ; to squander is a sin.”
“It may be a sin where you cannot afford it. To spend wisely is
neither a squander nor a sin. Never fear, Cornelia, that I shall run
beyond my income."
“Say at once an empty pocket is better than a full one,” angrily
returned Miss Carlyle. “Did you buy that fine piano which has
arrived ?"
“It was my present to Isabel."
Miss Corny groaned. “What did it cost ?"
“ The cost is of no consequence. The old piano here was a bad one,
and I bought a better.”
“What did it cost ? ” repeated Miss Carlyle.
“A hundred and twenty guineas,” he answered. Obedience to her
will was yet powerful within him.
Miss Corny threw up her hands and eyes. At that moment Peter
entered with some hot water which his master had rung for Mr.
Carlyle rose, and looked on the sideboard.
“Where's the wine, Peter ?”
The servant put out some port and sherry Mr. Carlyle drank a
glass, and then proceeded to mix some wine and water. "Shall I mix
some for you, Cornelia ?” he asked.
“I'll mix for myself if I want any. Who is that for ?”
“ Isabel.”
He quitted the room, carrying the wine and water, and entered his
wife's. She was sitting half buried it seemed in the arm-chair, her
face muffled up. As she raised it he saw that it was flushed and
agitated, that her eyes were bright and her frame was trembling.
“What is the matter ?” he hastily asked.
“I grew nervous after Marvel went," she whispered, grasping him,
as if for protection from terror. “I could not find the bell, and that
made me worse ; so I came back to the chair and covered my head
over, hoping some one would come up ”
“ I have been talking to Cornelia. "But what made you nervous ?"
“Oh! I was very foolish. I kept thinking of frightful things; they


108
EAST LYNNE.
would come into my mind. Do not blame me, Archibald. This is the
room papa died in.”
“Blame you, my darling!” he uttered with deep feeling.
“ I thought of a dreadful story about the bats, that the servants told
- I dare say you never heard it; and I kept thinking, ‘Suppose they
were at the windows now, behind the blinds. And then I was afraid
to look at the bed : I fancied I might see You are laughing !"
Yes, he was smiling ; for he knew that these moments of nervous
fear are best met jestingly. He made her take the wine and water, and
then he showed her where the bell was, ringing it as he did so. Its
position had been moved in some late alterations to the house.
“ Your rooms shall be changed to-morrow, Isabel.”
“No, let us remain in these. I shall like to feel that papa was once
their occupant. I won't grow nervous again.”
But, even as she spoke, her actions belied her words. Mr. Carlyle
had gone to the door and opened it, and she flew to him, cowering
behind him.
“Shall you be very long, Archibald ?" she whispered.
“Not more than an hour,” he answered. But he hastily put back
one of his hands, and held her tightly in his protecting grasp. Marvel
was coming along the corridor in answer to the bell.
“Have the goodness to let Miss Carlyle know that I am not coming
down again to-night,” he said.
“ Yes, sir."
Mr. Carlyle shut the door, and then looked at his wife and laughed.
“He is very kind to me,” thought Isabel.
With the morning began the perplexities of Lady Isabel Carlyle.
But first of all, just fancy the group at breakfast. Miss Carlyle
descended in the startling costume the reader has seen; took her seat
at the breakfast-table, and there sat bolt upright. Mr. Carlyle came
down next; and then Lady Isabel entered in an elegant half-mourning
dress with flowing black ribbons.
“Good morning, ma'am. I hope you slept well ?" was Miss Carlyle's
salutation
“Quite well, thank you," she answered, as she took her seat opposite
Miss Carlyle. Miss Carlyle pointed to the top of the table.
“That is your place, ma'am. But I will pour out the coffee, and
save you the trouble, if you wish it."
“I should be glad if you would,” answered Lady Isabel.
So Miss Carlyle proceeded to her duties, very stern and grim. The
meal was nearly over, when Peter came in, and said the butcher had
come up for orders. Miss Carlyle looked at Lady Isabel, waiting, of
course, for her to give them. Isabel was silent with perplexity : she
had never given such an order in her life. Utterly ignorant was she
of the requirements of a household ; and she did not know whether to
suggest a few joints of meat or a whole cow. It was the presence of
that grim Miss Corny which put her out : alone with her husband, she
would have said, “What ought I to order, Archibald ? Tell me."
Peter waited.
“A—something to roast and boil, if you please,” stammered Lady
Isabel.


COMING HOME.
109
She spoke in a low tone ; embarrassment makes cowards of the best
of us; and Mr. Carlyle repeated it after her. He knew no more about
housekeeping than she did.
“Something to roast and boil, tell the man, Peter.”
Up started Miss Corny ; she could not stand that. “Are you aware,
Lady Isabel, that an order, such as that would only puzzle the
butcher ? Shall I give the necessary orders for to-day? The fish-
monger will be up presently."
"Oh! I wish you would'!” cried the relieved Lady Isabel. “I have
not been accustomed to it; but I must learn. I don't think I know
anything about housekeeping.”
Miss Corny's answer was to stalk out of the room. Isabel rose from
her chair, as a bird released from its cage, and stood by her husband's
side. “Have you finished, Archibald ? "
"I think I have, dear. Oh! here's my coffee. There; I have
finished now."
“Let us go round the grounds."
He rose, laid his hands playfully on her slender waist, and looked at
her. “You may as well ask me to take a journey to the moon. It is
past nine, and I have not been to the office for a month.”.
Tears rose in her eyes. “I wish you could stay with me! I wish
you could be always with me. East Lynne will not be East Lynne
without you.”
"I will be with you as much as ever I can, my dearest,” he whis-
pered. “Come and walk with me through the park."
She ran for her bonnet, gloves, and parasol. "Mr. Carlyle waited for
her in the hall, and they went out together.
He thought it a good opportunity to speak about his sister. “She
wishes to remain with us," he said. “I do not know what to decide.
On the one hand, I think she might save you the worry of household
management : on the other, I fancy we shall be happier by ourselves.”
Isabel's heart sank within her at the idea of that stern Miss Corny,
mounted over her as resident guard ; but, refined and sensitive, almost
painfully considerate for the feelings of others, she raised no word of
objection. As he and Miss Carlyle pleased, she answered.
“Isabel,” he said, with grave earnestness, “I wish it to be as you
please : that is, I wish matters to be arranged as may best please you ;
and I will have them so arranged. My chief object in life now is your
happiness.”
He spoke in all the sincerity of truth, and Isabel knew it; and the
thought came across her that with him by her side, her loving pro-
tector, Miss Carlyle could not mar her life's peace. “Let her stay,
Archibald : she will not incommode us."
“At any rate, it can be tried for a month or two, and we shall see
how it works,” he musingly observed.
They reached the park gates. “I wish I could go with you and be
your clerk,” she cried, unwilling to release his hand. “I should not
have all that long way to go back by myself.”
He laughed and shook his head, telling her that she wanted to bribe
him into taking her back, but it could not be. And away he went,
after saying farewell.


I10
EAST LYNNE.
Isabel wandered back, and then wandered though the rooms : they
looked lonely ; not as they had seemed to look in her father's time. In
her dressing-room knelt Marvel, unpacking. She rose when Lady
Isabel entered
“Can I speak to you a moment, if you please, my lady ? "
“What is it?"
Then Marvel poured forth her tale. That she feared so small an
establishment would not suit her, and if my lady pleased she would
like to leave at once : that day. Anticipating it, she had not unpacked
her things.
“There has been some mistake about the servants, Marvel, but it
will be remedied as soon as possible. And I told you, before I married,
that Mr. Carlyle's establishment would be a limited one."
“My lady, perhaps I could put up with that ; but I never could stop
in the house with "—that female Guy, had been on the tip of Marvel's
tongue ; but she remembered in time of whom she was speaking-
“ with Miss Carlyle. I fear, my lady, we have both tempers that would
clash, and might be flying at each other : I could not stop, my lady, for
untold gold. And if you please to make me forfeit my running quarter's
salary, why, I must do it. So, when I have set your ladyship's things
to rights, I hope you'll allow me to go."
Lady Isabel would not condescend to ask her to remain, but she
wondered how she should manage without a maid. She drew her desk
towards her. “What is the amount due to you?” she inquired, as she
unlocked it.
"Up to the end of the quarter, my lady?” cried Marvel, in a brisk
tone.
“No," coldly replied Lady Isabel. “Up to to-day.”
“I have not had time to reckon, my lady."
Lady Isabel took a pencil and paper, made out the account, and laid
it down in gold and silver on the table. “ It is more than you deserve,
Marvel," she remarked, “and more than you would receive in most
places. You ought to have given me proper notice.”
Marvel melted into tears, and began a string of excuses. “She
should never have wished to leave so kind a lady, but for attendant
ill-conveniences, and she hoped my lady would not object to testify to
her character.” Lady Isabel quitted the room in the midst of it : and
in the course of the day Marvel took her departure, Joyce telling her
that she ought to be ashamed of herself.
“I couldn't help myself,” retorted Marvel ; " and I'm sorry to leave
her, for she's a pleasant young lady to serve."
“Well, I know I'd have helped myself," was Joyce's remark. “I
would not go off in this unhandsome way from a good mistress.”
“ Perhaps you wouldn't," loftily returned Marvel, “but my feelings
are delicate, and can't bear to be trampled upon. The same house
is not going to hold me and that tall female image, who's more
fit to be carried about at a foreign carnival than some that they do
carry.”
Sń Marvel left. And when Lady Isabel went to her room to dress
for dinner, Joyce entered it.
"I am not much accustomed to a lady's-maid's duties," said she, “ but


COMING HOME.
111
Miss Carlyle has sent me, my lady, to do what I can for you, if you
will allow me.”
Isabel thought it was kind of Miss Carlyle.
“And if you please to trust me with the keys of your things, I will
take charge of them for you, my lady, until you are suited with a maid,"
Joyce resumed.
"I don't know anything about the keys," answered Isabel. “I never
keep them."
Joyce did her best, and Lady Isabel went down. It was nearly six
o'clock, the dinner hour, and she strolled to the park gates, hoping to
meet Mr. Carlyle. Taking a few steps out, she looked down the road,
but could not see him coming ; so she turned in again, and sat down
under a shady tree and out of view of the road. It was remarkably
warm weather for the closing days of May.
Half an hour, and then Mr. Carlyle came hurrying up, passed the
gates, and turned on to the grass. There was his wife. She had
fallen asleep, her head leaning against the trunk of the tree. Her
bonnet and parasol lay at her feet, her scarf had dropped, and she
looked like a lovely child, her lips partly open, her cheeks flushed,
and her beautiful hair falling around. It was an exquisite picture,
and his heart beat quicker within him as he felt it was his own. A
smile stole over his lips as he stood looking at her. She opened her
eyes, and for a moment could not remember where she was. Then
she started up.
“Oh, Archibald ! have I been asleep?"
“Ay; and might have been stolen and carried off. I could not
afford that, Isabel.”
“ I don't know how I came to fall asleep. I was listening for you."
“What have you been doing all day ?” he asked, as he drew her arm
within his, and they walked on.
“Oh, I hardly know," she sighed. “Trying the new piano, and
looking at my watch, wishing the time would go more quickly, that you
might come home. The ponies and carriage have arrived, Archibald.”
“I know they have, my dear. Have you been out-of-doors much?”
“No, I waited for you.” And then she told him about Marvel. He
felt vexed, saying she must replace her with all speed. Isabel said she
knew of one, a young woman who had left Lady Mount Severn while
she, Isabel, was at Castle Marling : her health was delicate, and Lady
Mount Severn's place was too hard for her.
“ Write to her," said Mr. Carlyle.
“You have kept dinner waiting more than half an hour," began Miss
Corny, in a loud tone of complaint, to her brother, meeting them in
the hall. “And I thought you must be lost, ma'am," she added, to
Isabel.
Why in the world did she add that objectionable “ma'am” to every
sentence? It was out of place in all respects to Isabel : more
especially considering her own age and Isabel's youth. Mr. Carlyle
knitted his brow whenever it came out, and Joyce felt sure that Miss
Corny did it “in her temper.” He hastily answered her that he could
not get away from the office earlier, and went up to his dressing-room.
Isabel hurried after him, probably dreading some outbreak of Miss


112
EAST LYNNE.
Carlyle's displeasure, but the door was shut, and, scarcely at home
yet as a wife, she did not like to open it. When he appeared, there
she was, leaning against the door-post.
“ Isabel! Are you there?”
“I am waiting for you. Are you ready?"
“Nearly.” He drew her inside, caught her to him, and held her
against his heart.
There was an explosion on the following morning. Mr. Carlyle
ordered the pony-carriage for church, but his sister interrupted him.
“ Archibald ! 'what are you thinking of? I will not permit it."
“ Permit what ?” asked Mr. Carlyle.
“The cattle to be taken out on a Sunday. I am a religious woman,
ma'am,” she added, turning sharply to Isabel, “and I cannot counte-
nance Sunday travelling. I was taught my catechism, Lady Isabel.”
Isabel did not feel comfortable. She knew that a walk to St. Jude's
Church and back in the present heat would knock her up for the day,
but she shrank from offending Miss Carlyle's prejudices. She was
standing at the window with her husband, Miss Carlyle being seated
at a distant table, with the Bible before her.
“Archibald, perhaps if we walk very slowly it will not hurt me," she
softly whispered.
He smiled and nodded and whispered in return : “Be quite ready
by half-past ten."
'“Well—is she going to walk ?" snapped Miss Corny, as Isabel left
the room.
“No. She could not bear the walk in this heat, and I shall certainly
not allow her to attempt it. We shall go in early. John will put up the
ponies and be at church before the service begins.'
“Is she made of sugar, and would melt ? ” retorted Miss Corny.
“ She is a gentle, tender plant ; one that I have taken to my bosom
and vowed before my Maker to love and to cherish : and, by His help,
I will do so."
He spoke in a firm tone, almost as sharp as Miss Corny's, and
quitted the room. Miss Carlyle raised her hand and pressed it to
her temples: as if something pained her there.
The carriage came round, a beautiful little equipage, and Isabel was
ready. As Mr. Carlyle drove slowly down the dusty road, they came
upon Miss Corny striding along in the sun, with a great umbrella over
her head. She would not turn to look at them.
Once more, as in the year gone by, St. Jude's Church was in a flutter
of expectation. It expected to see a whole paraphernalia of bridal
finery, and again it was doomed to disappointment, for Isabel had not
put off mourning for her father. She was in black, a thin gauze dress,
and her white bonnet had small black flowers inside and out. For the
first time in his life Mr. Carlyle took possession of the pew belonging
to East Lynne, filling the place where the poor earl used to sit. Not
so Miss Corny: she sat in her own.
Barbara was there with the justice and Mrs. Hare. Her face wore
a grey, dusky hue, of which she was only too conscious, but could not
subdue. Her covetous eyes would wander to that other face with its
singular loveliness, and its sweetly earnest eyes, sheltered under the


BARBARA HARE'S REVELATION,
113
protection of him, for whose sheltering protection she had so long
yearned. Poor Barbara did not benefit much by the services that day.
Afterwards, they went across the churchyard to the west corner,
where stood the tomb of Lord Mount Severn. Isabel looked at the
inscription, her veil shading her face.
“Not here, and now, my darling,” he whispered, pressing her arm to
his side, for he felt her silent sobs. “Strive for calmness.”
“ It seems but the other day he was at church with me, and now-
here!”
Mr. Carlyle suddenly changed their places, so that they stood with
their backs to the hedge, and to any curious stragglers who might be
lingering in the road.
“There ought to be railings round the tomb,” she presently said,
after a successful battle with her emotion.
“ I thought so, and I suggested it to Lord Mount Severn, but he
appeared to think differently. I will have it done.”
"I put you to great expense,” she said.
Mr. Carlyle glanced quickly at her, a dim fear penetrating his mind
that his sister might have been talking in her hearing. “An expense
I would not be without for the whole world. You know it, Isabel."
“And I have nothing to repay you with,” she sighed.
He looked excessively amused ; and, gazing into her face, the ex-
pression of his eyes made her smile. “Here is John with the carriage,"
she exclaimed. “Let us go, Archibald.”
Standing outside the gates, talking to the rector's family, were several
ladies, one of them Barbara Hare. She watched Mr. Carlyle place his
wife in the carriage, she watched him drive away. Barbara's very lips
were white as she bowed in return to his greeting.
“The heat is so great,” murmured Barbara, when those around
noticed her paleness.
“Ah! you ought to have gone home in the phaeton with Mr. and
Mrs. Hare-as they desired you."
“I wished to walk,” returned the unhappy Barbara.
“What a pretty girl !” said Lady Isabel to her husband. “What is
her name ?"
“ Barbara Hare."
CHAPTER XVI.
BARBARA HARE'S REVELATION.
THE county carriages began to arrive at East Lynne, to pay the
wedding visit to Mr. and Lady Isabel Carlyle. Some appeared with
all the pomp of coronets and hammercloths, and bedizened footmen
with calves and wigs and gold-headed canes ; some came with four
horses, and some even with outriders. It is the custom still in certain
localities to be preceded by outriders when paying visits of ceremony,
and there are people who like the dash it causes. Mr. Carlyle might
have taken up his abode at East Lynne without any such honours
Luas Lynna


114
EAST LYNNE.
being paid him, but his marriage with Lady Isabel had sent him up in
county estimation. Amongst the rest went Justice and Mrs. Hare and
Barbara. The old-fashioned, large yellow chariot was brought out,
and the fat, sleek, long-tailed coach-horses : only on state occasions
was that chariot awakened out of its repose.
Isabel happened to be in her dressing-room, talking to Joyce. She
had grown to like Joyce very much, and was asking her whether she
would continue to wait upon her-as the maid, for whom she had
written, was not well enough to come.
Joyce's face lighted up with pleasure at the proposal. “Oh, my
lady, you are very kind! I should so like it. I would serve you
fai:hfully, to the best of my ability : and I know I could do your hair
well, if you allowed me to try : I have been practising upon my own,
night and morning.”
Isabel laughed. “But Miss Carlyle may not be inclined to transfer
you to me.”
“I think she would, my lady. She said, a day or two ago, that I
appeared to suit you, and you might have me altogether if you wished,
provided I could still make her gowns, which I could very well do,
for yours is an easy service. I make them to please her, you see, my
lady."
“Do you make her caps also ?” demurely asked Lady Isabel."
Joyce smiled. “Yes, my lady : but I am allowed to make them
only according to her own pattern.'
"Joyce, if you become my maid, you must wear smarter caps your-
self."
“I know that, my lady—at least, different ones. But Miss Carlyle
is very particular, and only allows muslin caps to her servants. I
would wear plain white net, if you don't object, my lady: neat and
close, with a little quilled white ribbon."
“ They are the best that you can wear. I do not wish you to be
fine, like Marvel.”
“ Oh, my lady ! I shall never be fine,” shuddered Joyce. And Joyce
believed she had cause to shudder at finery. She was about to speak
further, when a knock came at the dressing-room door. Joyce went
to open it, and saw one of the housemaids, a girl who had recently
been engaged, a native of West Lynne. Isabel heard the colloquy.
“Is my lady there : "
“ Yes."
“Some visitors. Peter ordered me to come and tell you. I say
Joyce, it's the Hares. And she's with them. Her bonnet's got blue
convolvulums inside, and a white feather out, as long as Martha's
hearth-broom. I watched her out of the carriage."
“Who?" sharply returned Joyce.
“Why, Miss Barbara. Only fancy her coming to pay the wedding
visit here. My lady had better take care that she don't get a bowl of
poison mixed for her. Master's out, or else I'd have given a shilling
to see the interview between the three."
Joyce sent the girl away, closed the door, and turned to her mistress,
quite unconscious that the half-wbispered conversation had been
audible.


BARBARA HARE'S REVELATION.
115
"Some visitors in the drawing-room, my lady, Susan says. Mr.
Justice Hare and Mrs. Hare, and Miss Barbara.”
Isabel descended, her mind full of the mysterious words s; oken by
Susan. The justice was in a new flaxen wig, obstinate-looking and
pompous ; Mrs. Hare pale, delicate, and lady-like ; Barbara, beautiful :
such was the impression they made upon Isabel.
They paid rather a long visit. Isabel quite fell in love with the
gentle and suffering Mrs. Hare, who had risen to leave when Miss
Carlyle entered. Miss Carlyle wished them to remain longer ; had
something, she said, to show Barbara. The justice declined : he had
a brother-justice coming to dine with him at five; it was then half-
past four : Barbara might stay if she liked.
Barbara's face crimsoned : nevertheless she accepted the invitation,
proffered her by Miss Carlyle, to remain at East Lynne for the rest of
the day.
Dinner-time approached, and Isabel went up to dress for it. Joyce
was waiting, and entered upon the subject of the service.
“My lady, I have spoken to Miss Carlyle, and she is willing that I
should be transferred to you, but she says I ought first of all to
acquaint you with certain unpleasant facts in my history, and the
same thought had occurred to me. Miss Carlyle is not over-pleasant
in manner, my lady, but she is very upright and just.”
“What facts?” asked Lady Isabel, sitting down to have her hair
brushed.
“My lady, I'll tell you as shortly as I can. My father was a clerk
in Mr. Carlyle's office-of course I mean the late Mr. Carlyle. My
mother died when I was eight years old, and my father afterwards
married again, a sister of Mr. Kane's wife---"
“Mr. Kane, the music-master ?”
“Yes, my lady. She was a governess ; she and Mrs. Kane had
both been governesses, they were quite ladies, so far as education and
manners went, and West Lynne said that in stooping to marry my
father she lowered herself dreadfully. But he was a very handsome
man, and a clever man also, though self-taught. Well, they married,
and at the end of a year Afy was born--"
“Who?" interrupted Lady Isabel.
“My half-sister, Afy. In another year her mother died, and an
aunt of her mother sent for the child, and said she should bring her
up. I rentained at home with my father, going to school in the day,
and when I grew up, I went to learn millinery and dressmaking.
We lived in the prettiest cottage, my lady; it was in the wood, and it
was my father's own. After I was out of my time, I used to go round
to different ladies' houses to work, seeing to my father's comforts night
and morning, for the woman who did the housework only came in for
a few hours in the day. That went on for years, and then Afy came
home. Her aunt had died, and her monev died with her, so that
though she had brought up Afy well, she could leave her nothing. Afy
quite frightened us. Her notions were fine, and her dress was fine ;
she was gay and giddy and very pretty, and would do nothing all day
but read books, which she used to get at the West Lynne library. My
father did not like it : we were only plain, working people, and she


116
EAST LYNNE.
wanted to set up for a lady-the effect of bringing her up above her
station. Many a breeze had she and I together, chiefly about her
dress. The next thing, she got acquainted with young Richard Hare."
Lady Isabel looked up quickly.
“Mr. Justice Har 's only son ; own brother to Miss Barbara,” pro-
ceeded Joyce, dropping her voice, as though Barbara might hear her
in the drawing-room. “Oh, she was very flighty; she encouraged
Mr. Richard, and he soon grew to love her with quite a wild sort of
love ; he was rather simple, and Afy used to laugh at him behind his
back. She encouraged others too, and would have them there in an
evening, when the house was free. My father was secretary to the
literary institution, and had to be there two evenings in the week,
after office hours at Mr. Carlyle's; he was fond of shooting, too, and,
if home in time, would go out with his gun ; and as I scarcely ever
got home before nine o'clock, Afy was often alone, and she took the
opportunity of having one or other of her admirers there."
“Had she many admirers ?” asked Lady Isabel, who seemed in-
clined to treat the tale jokingly.
“ The chief one, my lady, was Richard Hare. She got acquainted
with somebody else, a stranger, who used to ride over from a distance
to see her ; but I fancy there was nothing in it ; Mr. Richard was the
one. And it went on and on, till-till-he killed her father."
“Who ? " uttered the startled Lady Isabel.
“Richard Hare, my lady. My father had told Afy that Mr. Richard
should not come there any longer, for when gentlemen go in secret
after poor girls, it is well known they have not marriage in their
thoughts : my father would have interfered more than he did, but
that he judged well of Mr. Richard, and did not think he was one to
do Afy real harm—but he did not know how fighty she was. How-
ever, one day he heard people talking about t in West Lynne, coupling
her name and Mr. Richard's offensively together, and at night he told
Afy, before me, that it should not go on any longer, and she must not
encourage him. My lady, the next night Richard Hare shot my
father."
“How very dreadful ! ”
“Whether it was done on purpose, or whether the gun went off in a
scuffle, I can't tell : people think it was wilful murder. I never shall
forget the scene, my lady, when I got home that night : it was at
Justice Hare's that I had been working. My father was lying on the
floor, dead; and the house was full of people. Afy could give no
particulars : she had gone out to the wood path at the back, and
never heard or saw anything amiss; but when she went in again,
there lay father. Mr. Locksley was leaning over him; he told Afy
that he had heard the shot, and came up in time to see Richard Hare
fling the gun away, and fly from the house with his shoes stained with
blood.”
“Oh, Joyce! I do not like to hear this. What was done to Richard
Hare ?"
“He escaped, my lady. He went off that same night, and has never
been heard of since. There's a judgment of murder out against him,
and his own father would be the first to deliver him up to justice. It is


BARBARA HARE'S REVELATION.
117
a dreadful thing to have befallen the Hare family, who are high and
respectable people : it is killing Mrs. Hare by inches. Afy-
“What is it, that name, Joyce?”
“My lady, she was christened by a very fine name-Aphrodite : so
I and my father never called her anything but Afy. But I have the
worst to tell you yet, my lady-the worst as regards her. As soon as
the inquest was over, she went off, after Richard Hare.”
Lady Isabel uttered an exclamation.
“She did indeed, my lady,” returned Joyce, turning away her wet
eyelashes and her flushed cheeks from the gaze of her mistress,
“Nothing has been heard of either of them : and it is hardly likely but
what they went out of England-perhaps to Australia ; perhaps to
America ; nobody knows. What with the shame of that, and the shock
of my poor father's murder, I had an attack of illness. It was a nervous
fever, and it lasted long : Miss Carlyle had me at her house, and she
and her servants nursed me through it. She's good at heart, my lady,
is Miss Carlyle, only her manners are against her, and she will think
herself better than other people. After that illness, I stayed with her
as upper maid, and never went out to work again.”
“How long is it since this happened ?"
“ It will be four years next September, my lady. The cottage has
stood empty ever since, for nobody will live in it ; they say it is tainted
with murder. And I can't sell it, because Afy has a right in it as well
as I. I go to it sometimes, and open the windows, and air it. And
this was what I had to tell you, my lady, before you decide to take me
into your service. It is not every lady would like to engage one whose
sister has turned out so badly.”
Lady Isabel did not see that it ought to make any difference. She
said so : and then leaned back in her chair, and mused.
“Which dress, my lady ?”
“ Joyce, what was that I heard you and Susan gossiping about at the
door? " Lady Isabel suddenly asked. “ About Miss Hare giving me a
bowl of poison. You should tell Susan not to whisper so loudly.”
Joyce smiled, though she was rather confused. “It was only a bit
of nonsense, of course, my lady. The fact is, that people think Miss
Barbara was much attached to Mr. Carlyle, regularly in love with him,
and many thought it would be a match. But I don't fancy she would
have been the one to make him happy, with all her love."
A hot flush passed over the brow of Lady Isabel ; a sensation very
like jealousy flew to her heart. No woman likes to hear that another
woman either is or has been attached to her husband : a doubt always
arises whether the feeling may not have been reciprocated.
Lady Isabel descended. She wore a costly black lace dress, its low
body and sleeves trimmed with white laçe as costly, and ornaments of
jet. She looked inexpressibly beautiful, and Barbara turned from her
with a feeling of sickening jealousy ; from her beauty, from her attire,
even from the fine, soft handkerchief, which displayed the badge of her
rank--the coronet of an earl's daughter. Barbara looked well too : she
was in a light-blue silk robe, and her pretty cheeks were damask with
her mind's excitement. On her neck she wore the gold chain given to
her by Mr. Carlyle--she had not discarded that.


BARBARA HARE'S REVELATION.
119
pushed open the door to tell her so. There was my lady's cambric
handkerchief, soaked in eau-de-Cologne, lying on his forehead ; and
there was my lady herself, kneeling down and looking at him, he with
his arm thrown round her to hold her there. Now I just ask you,
Barbara, whether there's any sense in fadding with a man like that?
If ever he had a headache before he was married, I used to mix him
up a good dose of salts and senna, and tell him to go to bed early and
sleep the pain off.”
Barbara made no reply : but she turned her face from Miss
Carlyle.
They came upon the gardener, and Miss Carlyle entered into a dis-
cussion with him, a somewhat warm one ; she insisted upon having
certain work done in a certain way; he asserting that Mr. Carlyle
had ordered it done another. Barbara grew tired, and returned to the
house.
Isabel and her husband were in the adjoining room, at the piano,
and Barbara had an opportunity of hearing that sweet voice. She did
as Miss Carlyle confessed to have done, pushed open the door between
the two rooms, and looked in. It was the twilight hour, almost too
dusk to see ; but she could distinguish Isabel seated at the piano, and
Mr. Carlyle standing behind her. She was singing one of the ballads
from the opera of the “ Bohenrian Girl : ” “When other lips.”
“Why do you like the song so much, Archibald ?" she asked when
she had finished it.
“I don't know. I never liked it so much until I heard it from you."
“I wonder if they have come in. Shall we go into the next room?"
“ Just this one first, this translation from the German. "'Twere vain
to tell thee all I feel. There's real music in that song.”
“Yes, there is. Do you know, Archibald, your taste is just like
papa's. He liked all these quiet, imaginative songs, and so do you.
And so do 1,” she laughingly added, “ if I must speak the truth. Mrs.
Vane used to stop her ears and make a face, when papa made me sing
them. Papa returned the compliment ; for he would walk out of the
room if she began her loud Italian airs. I speak of the time when she
was with us in London.”
She ceased, and began the song, singing it exquisitely, in a low,
sweet, earnest tone, the chords of the accompaniment, at its conclusion,
dying off gradually into silence.
“There, Archibald ! I am sure I have sung you ten songs at least,"
she said, leaning her head back against him, and looking at him from
her upturned face. “You ought to pay me for them.”
He did pay her ; holding the dear face to him, and taking from it
impassioned kisses. Barbara turned to the window, a low moan
escaping her, as she pressed her forehead on one of its panes,
and looked forth into the dusky night. Isabel came in on her
husband's arm.
“Are you here alone, Miss Hare? I really beg your pardon. I
supposed you were with Miss Carlyle ?”
“Where is Cornelia, Barbara ? "
"I have only just come in,” was Barbara's reply. “I dare say she is
following me.”


I 20
EAST LYNNE.
So she was, for she came upon them as they were speaking, her
voice raised in anger.
“ Archibald, what have you been telling Blair about that geranium
bed ? He says you have been ordering him to make it oval. We
decided that it should be square.”
“ Isabel would prefer it oval," was his reply.
“But it will be best square," repeated Miss Carlyle.
“ It is all right, Cornelia ; Blair has his orders. I wish it to be oval."
“He is a regular muff, is that Blair, and as obstinate as a mule,"
cried Miss Carlyle.
“ Indeed, Cornelia, I think him a very good servant."
“Oh, of course," snapped Miss Carlyle. “You never can see faults
in any one. You always were a simpleton in some things, Archibald."
Mr. Carlyle laughed good-humouredly; he was of an even, calm
temper : and he had, all his life, been subjected to the left-handed
compliments of his sister. Isabel resented these speeches in her heart;
she was growing more attached to her husband day by day.
“It is well everyone does not think so," cried he, with a glance at
his wife and Barbara, as they drew round the tea-table.
The evening went on to ten o'clock, and as the time-piece struck the
hour, Barbara rose from her chair in amazement. “I did not think it
was so late. Surely some one must have come for me."
“I will inquire," was Lady Isabel's answer ; and Mr. Carlyle rang
the bell. No one had come for Miss Hare.
“ Then I fear I must trouble Peter,” cried Barbara. “Mamma may
be gone to rest, tired, and papa must have forgotten me. It would
never do for me to be locked out,” she gaily added.
“ As you were one night before,” said Mr. Carlyle, significantly.
He alluded to the night when Barbara was in the grove of trees
with her unfortunate brother, and Mr. Hare was on the point, uncon-
sciously, of locking her out. She had given Mr. Carlyle the history;
but its recollection now called up a sharp pain, and a change passed
over her face.
“Oh, don't, Archibald !” she uttered, in the impulse of the moment;
“don't recall it.” Isabel wondered.
“ Can Peter take me?” continued Barbara
“I had better take you,” said Mr. Carlyle. “It is late.”
Barbara's heart beat at the words ; it beat as she put her things on;
as she said good night to Lady Isabel and Miss Carlyle ; it beat to
throbbing as she went out with him and took his arm. All just as
it used to be-only that he was now the husband of another. Only !
It was a warm, lovely June night, not moonlight, but bright with the
summer twilight. They went down the park into the road, which
they crossed, and soon came to a stile. From that stile led a path
through the fields which would pass the back of Justice Hare's.
Barbara stopped.
“Would you choose the field way to-night, Barbara ? The grass
will be damp. And this is the longest way."
“But we shall escape the dust of the road."
“Oh! very well, if you prefer it. It will not make three minutes'
difference."


BARBARA HARE'S REVELATION.
I 21
“He is very anxious to get home to her!” mentally exclaimed
Barbara. “I shall fly out upon him presently, or my heart will
burst."
Mr. Carlyle crossed the style, helped over Barbara, and then gave
her his arm again. He had taken her parasol ; he had taken it the
last night they had walked together; an elegant little parasol, this
of blue silk and white lace, and he did not switch the hedges with it.
That night was present to Barbara now, with all its words and its
delusive hopes ; terribly present to her was their bitter ending.
There are moments in a woman's life when she is betrayed into
forgetting the ordinary rules of conduct and propriety ; when she is
betrayed into making a scene. It may not often occur ; perhaps
never to a cold, secretive nature, where impulse, feeling, and above
all, temper, are under strict control. Barbara Hare's temper was not
under strict control. Her love, her jealousy, the never-dying pain
always preying on her heart-strings since the marriage took place,
her keen sense of the humiliation which had come home to her, were
all rising fiercely, bubbling up with fiery heat. The evening she had
just passed in their company, their evident happiness, the endearments
she had seen him lavish upon his wife, were working her up to that
state of nervous excitement when temper, tongue, and imagination fly
off at a mad tangent. She felt as one isolated for ever, shut out from
all that could make life dear ; they were the world, she was out of it :
what was her existence to him ? A little self-control and Barbara
would not have uttered words that must remain on her mind hereafter
as an incubus, dyeing her cheeks red whenever she recalled them. It
must be remembered too (if anything in the shape of excuse can be
admitted) that she was upon terms of close intimacy with Mr. Carlyle.
Independently of her own sentiments for him, they had been reared in
freedom one with the other, almost as brother and sister. Mr. Carlyle
walked on, utterly unconscious of the storm that was raging within
her ; more than that, he was unconscious of having given cause for
one : and he dashed into topics, indifferent and commonplace, in the
most provoking manner.
“When does the justice begin haymaking, Barbara ?”
There was no reply ; Barbara was trying to keep down her emotion.
Mr. Carlyle tried again :
“Barbara, I asked you which day your papa cuts his hay !"
Still no reply. Barbara was literally incapable of making one. Her
throat was working, the muscles of her mouth began to twitch, and a
convulsive sob, or what sounded like it, broke from her. Mr. Carlyle
turned his head hastily.
“Barbara ! are you ill? What is it ?”.
On it came, passion, temper, wrongs, and nervousness, all boiling
over together. She was in strong hysterics. Mr. Carlyle half carried,
half dragged her to the second stile, and placed her against it, his arm
supporting her ; and an old cow and two calves, wondering what the
disturbance could mean at that sober time of night, walked up and
stared at them.
Barbara struggled with her emotion, struggled bravely, and the sobs
and hysterical symptoms subsided ; not the excitement or the passion,


122
EAST LYNNE.
She put away his arm, and stood with her back to the stile, leaning
against it. Mr. Carlyle felt inclined to fly to the pond for water, only
he had nothing but his hat to bring it in.
“Are you better, Barbara ? What can have caused all this?"
“ What can have caused it ! ” she burst forth in passionate uncon-
trol. “You can ask me that?
Mr. Carlyle was dumbfounded : but, by some inexplicable law of
sympathy, a dim and very unpleasart consciousness of the truth began
to steal over him.
“I don't understand you, Barbara. If I have offended you in any
way, I am truly sorry.”
“Truly sorry, no doubt! What do you care for me? If I go under
the sod to-morrow,” stamping it with her foot, “you have your wife to
care for : what am I ?”
“ Hush !” he interposed, glancing round, more mindful for her than
she was for herself.
“Hush, yes ! what is my misery to you? I would rather be in my
grave, Archibald Carlyle, than endure the life I lead. My pain is
greater than I know how to bear.”
“I cannot affect to misunderstand you,” he said, feeling extremely
annoyed and vexed. “But, my dear Barbara, I never gave you cause
to think that I-that I-cared for you more than I did care."
“ Never gave me cause ! ” she gasped. “When you have been
coming to our house constantly, almost as my shadow; when you
gave me this ”_dashing open her mantle, and holding up the locket
to his view ; “when you have been more intimate with me than a
brother!”
“Stay, Barbara. There it is—a brother. I have been nothing else :
it never occurred to me to be anything else,” he added, in his straight-
forward truth.
“Ay, as a brother, nothing else!” and her voice rose once more with
her excitement; it seemed that she would not long control it. “What
cared you for my feelings? what recked you that you gained my
love?"
“ Barbara, hush !” he implored ; “ do be calm and reasonable. If I
ever gave you cause to think I regarded you with deeper feeling, I
can only express to you my deep regret, and assure you it was done
unconsciously.”
She was growing calmer. The passion was fading, leaving her face
still and white. She lifted it towards Mr. Carlyle.
“If she had not come between us, should you have loved me?"
“I don't know. How can I know? Do I not say to you, Barbara,
that I only thought of you as a friend, as a sister ? I cannot tell what
might have been.”
I could bear it better, but that it was known," she murmured.
“ All West Lynne had coupled us together in their prying gossip, and
they have only pity to cast to me now. I would far rather you had
killed me, Archibald."
"I can only express to you my deep regret,” he repeated. “I can
only hope you will soon forget it all. Let the remembrance of this
conversation pass away with to-night ; let us still be to each other as


BARBARA HARE'S REVELATION.
123
friends-as brother and sister. Believe me,” he concluded, in a deeper
tone, " the confession has not lessened you in my estimation.”
He made a movement as though he would get over the stile, but
Barbara did not stir : the tears were silently coursing down her pallid
face. At that moment there was an interruption.
“ Is that you, Miss Barbara ?”
Barbara started as though she had been shot. On the other side of
the stile stood Wilson, their upper maid. How long might she have
been there! She began to explain that Mr. Hare had sent Jasper out,
and Mrs. Hare had thought it better to wait no longer for the man's
return, so had despatched her, Wilson, for Miss Barbara. Mr. Carlyle
crossed the stile, and handed over Barbara.
“You need not come any further now,” she said to him, in a low
tone.
“ I shall see you home,” was his reply : and he held out his arm.
Barbara took it.
They walked on in silence. Arrived at the back gate of the Grove,
which gave entrance to the kitchen-garden, Wilson went forward. Mr.
Carlyle took both Barbara's hands in his.
“Good night, Barbara. God bless you."
She had had time for reflection ; and the excitement gone, she saw
her outbreak in all its shame and folly. Mr. Carlyle noticed how
subdued and white she looked.
“I think I have been mad,” she groaned. “I must have been mad
to say what I did. Forget that it was uttered."
“I told you I would do so.”
“You will not betray me to-to-your wife?" she panted.
“ Barbara !”
“Thank you. Good night.”
But he still retained her hands. "In a short time, Barbara, I trust
you will find one more worthy to receive your love than I have been.”
“Never," she impulsively answered. “I do not love and forget so
lightly. In the years to come, in my old age, I shall still be nothing
but Barbara Hare."
Mr. Carlyle walked away in a fit of musing. The revelation had
given him pain (and possibly a little flattery), for he was fond of
pretty Barbara. Fond in his way ; not in hers; not with the sort of
fondness he felt for his wife. He asked his conscience whether his
manner to her in past days had been a tinge warmer than we bestow
upon a sister, and he decided that it might have been, but that he most
certainly had never cast a suspicion to the mischief it was doing.
“I heartily hope she will soon find some one to her liking, and
forget me,” was his concluding thought. “As to living and dying
Barbara Hare, that is all moonshine; the sentimental rubbish that
girls like to "
“Archibald ! ”
He was passing the very last tree in the park, the nearest to his
house, and the interruption came from a dark form standing under it.
"Is it you, my dearest ? ”
“I came out to meet you. Have you not been very long ?”
“ I think I have,” he answered, as he drew his wife to his side, and


124
EAST LYNNE.
walked on with her. “We met one of the servants at the second stile
but I went all the way.”
“You have been intimate with the Hares ?”
" Quite so. Cornelia is related to them."
“Do you think Barbara pretty ?”
“ Very."
“Then-intimate as you were—I wonder you never fell in love with
her.”
Mr. Carlyle laughed ; a very conscious laugh, considering the recent
interview.
“Did you, Archibald ?”
The words were spoken in a low tone, almost, or he fancied it, a
tone of emotion, and he looked at her in amazement. “ Did I what,
Isabel?”
“ You never loved Barbara Hare?”
“Loved her! What is your head running on, Isabel ? I never
loved but one woman : and that one I made my wife.”
CHAPTER XVII.
DEATH OR LIFE.
ANOTHER year came in. Isabel would have been altogether happy
but for Miss Carlyle : that lady still inflicted her presence upon East
Lynne, and was the bane of its househould. She deferred outwardly
to Lady Isabel as mistress ; but the real mistress was herself, Isabel
little more than an automaton. Her impulses were checked, her wishes
frustrated, her actions tacitly condemned by the imperiously willed
Miss Carlyle. Poor Isabel, with her refined manners and her timid
and sensitive temperament, stood no chance against the strong-minded
woman, and she was in a state of galling subjection in her own house.
Mr. Carlyle suspected it not. At home only morning and evening,
and then generally alone with his wife, and becoming gradually more
absorbed with the cares of his business, which increased upon him, he
saw not that anything was wrong. Once, certain counter-orders of the
two ladies had clashed with each other, and caused a commotion :
Miss Carlyle immediately withdrew hers, but, in doing so, her pecu-
liarly ungracious manner was more ungracious than ever. Isabel had
then hinted to her husband that they might be happier if they lived
alone; hinted it with a changing cheek and beating heart, as if she
were committing a wrong upon Miss Carlyle. He proposed to his
sister that she should return to her own home; she turned round and
accused him of speaking for Isabel. In his truthful open way, he
acknowledged the fact, making no secret of it. Miss Carlyle bounced
off and presented herself before Lady Isabel, demanding what offence
she had committed, and why the house was not large enough for her to
have a corner in it. Isabel, shrinkingly tenacious of hurting the feelings
even of an enemy, absolutely made a sort of apology, and afterwards
begged her husband to think no more of what she had said. He did
not; he was easy and unsuspicious; but had he only gained the faintęst


DEATH OR LIFE.
125
inkling of the truth, he would not have lost a moment in emancipating
his wife from the thraldom of Miss Corny.
Not a day passed but Miss Carlyle, by dint of hints and innuendoes,
contrived to impress upon Lady Isabel the unfortunate blow to his own
interests that Mr. Carlyle's marriage had been, the ruinous expense
she had entailed upon the family. It struck a complete chill to
Isabel's heart, and she became painfully imbued with the incubus she
must be to Mr. Carlyle--so far as his purse was concerned. Lord
Mount Severn, with his little son, had paid them a short visit at
Christmas, and Isabel had asked him, apparently with unconcern,
whether Mr. Carlyle had put himself very much out of the way to
marry her ; whether it had entailed on him an expense and a style of
living he would not otherwise have deemed himself justified in afford-
ing. Lord Mount Severn's reply was an unfortunate one. He said
his opinion was that it had, and that Isabel ought to feel grateful to
him for his generosity. She sighed as she listened, and from thence-
forth determined to put up with Miss Carlyle. That lady contributed
a liberal share to the maintenance of the household, and would do it ;
quite as much as would have kept up her establishment at home. She
was not at East Lynne to save her own pocket, and there lay a greater
difficulty in getting rid of her. Whether she spent her money at East
Lynne or not, it would come to the same in the end, for it was known
that all she had would go to Archibald.
More timid and sensitive by nature than many would believe of
can imagine, reared in seclusion more simply and quietly than falls
to the general lot of peers' daughters, completely inexperienced,
Isabel was unfit to battle with the world, totally unfit to battle with
Miss Carlyle. The penniless state in which she was left at her
father's death : the want of a home, except that accorded her at Castle
Marling, even the hundred-pound note left in her hand by Mr. Carlyle,
all had imbued her with a deep consciousness of humiliation ; ard, far
from rebelling at or despising the small establishment (comparatively
speaking) provided for her by Mr. Carlyle, she felt thankful to him
for it. But to be told continually that this was more than he could
afford, that she was in fact a blight upon his prospects, was enough
to turn her heart to bitterness. Oh, that she had had the courage
to speak openly to her husband ! that he might, by a single word of
earnest love and assurance, have taken the weight from her heart,
and rejoiced it with the truth-that all these miserable complaints
were but the phantoms of his narrow-minded sister. But Isabel never
did so ; when Miss Corny lapsed into her grumbling mood, she would
hear in silence, or gently bend her aching forehead in her hands, never
retorting.
One day, it was in the month of February—after a tolerably long
explosion of wrath on Miss Corny's part, not directed against Isabel,
but at something which had gone wrong amongst the servants, silence
supervened. Isabel, who was sitting listless and dispirited, suddenly
broke it, speaking more to herself than to Miss Carlyle.
“I wish evening had come!”
“Why do you wish that?”
“ Because Archibald would be at home."


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EAST LYNNE.
Miss Carlyle gave an unsatisfactory grunt. “You seem tired, Lady
Isabel.”
“I am very tired.”
6 I don't wonder at it. I should be tired to death if I sat doing
nothing all day. Indeed, I think I should soon drop into my grave."
“There's nothing to do," returned Lady Isabel.
“There's always something to do when people like to look for it.
You might help me with these new table napkins, rather than do
nothing."
"I make table napkins !” exclaimed Lady Isabel.
“ You might do a worse thing, ma'am,” snapped Miss Corny.
“I don't understand that sort of work," said Isabel, gently. .
“Neither does anyone else till they try. For my part, I'd rather
set on and make and mend shoes, than I'd sit with my hands before me.
It's a sinful waste of time.”
“I never feel very well now," answered poor Isabel, in an apologetic
tone. “I am not equal to exertion.”
“Then I'd go out for a drive, and take the air. Moping indoors all
day does invalids no good.”
“ But, since the ponies started last week and alarmed me, Archibald
will not allow me to go out, unless he drives me himself.”
“ There's nothing the matter with John's driving,” returned Miss
Corny, in her spirit of contradiction. “And in the matter of experi-
ence, he has had quite as much as your husband, ma'am.”
“ John was driving when the ponies took fright.”
“ If ponies take fright once, it's no reason why they should a second
time. Ring the bell, and order John to bring the carriage round : it is
what I should advise.”
Isabel shook her head decisively. “No: Archibald bade me not go
out without him, unless it was in the close carriage. He is so careful
of me just now ; and he knows that I should not be alarmed with him,
if the ponies did start, as I should be with a servant."
“It occurs to me that you have grown a little fanciful of late, Lady
Isabel.”
“I suppose I have,” was the meek answer. “ I shall be better when
baby is born : and I shall never feel at a loss then; I shall have plenty
to do.”
“So will most of us, I expect,” returned Miss Corny, with a groan.
“Why, what on earth-why, if I don't believe here's Archibald !
What brings him home at this time of day?"
“ Archibald ! " Out she flew in her glad surprise, meeting him in
the hall, and falling upon him in her delight. “Oh, Archibald, my
darling, it is as if the sun had shone! What have you come home
for ? "
“To drive you out, love," he whispered, as he took her back with
him and rang the bell.
“You never told me this morning."
“ Because I was not sure of being able to come. Peter, let the
pony-carriage be brought round without delay. I am waiting for it.”
“Why, where are you going with the pony-carriage ?” exclaimed
Miss Carlyle, as Isabel left the room to dress.


128
EAST LYNNE.
“ It is to be hoped they are not,” rejoined Miss Carlyle. “And why
is the express gone to Lynneborough for Dr. Martin ?"
Up started Joyce awe-struck. “An express for Dr. Martin ! Oh,
ma'am! Who sent it? When did it go?"
“All I know is that it's gone. Mr. Wainwright went to your
master, and he came out of his room and sent John galloping to the
telegraph-office at West Lynne : where could your ears have been not
to hear the horse tearing off? I heard it, I know that, and a nice
fright it put me into. I went to Mr. Carlyle's room to ask what was
amiss, and he said he did not know himself; nothing, he hoped. And
then he shut his door again in my face, instead of stopping to speak to
me as any other Christian would.”
Joyce did not answer : she was faint with apprehension ; and there
was a silence broken only by the sounds from the next room. Miss
Carlyle rose, and a fanciful person might have thought she was
shivering.
“ I can't stand this, Joyce; I shall go. If they want coffee, or any-
thing, it can be sent in. Ask.”
“ I will presently ; in a few minutes," answered Joyce, with a real
shiver. “You are not going in, are, you, ma'am ? " she uttered in
apprehension, as Miss Carlyle began to steal on tiptoe to the inner
door, and Joyce had a lively consciousness that her sight would not
be an agreeable one to Lady Isabel. “They want the room free, and
sent me out."
“No," answered Miss Corny. “I could do no good; and those, who
cannot are better away.”
“Just what Mr. Wainwright said, when he dismissed me," murmured
Joyce. And Miss Carlyle finally passed into the corridor and with-
drew.
· Joyce sat on : the time seemed to her interminable. And then she
heard the arrival of Dr. Martin ; heard him go into the next room.
By-and-by Mr. Wainwright came out of it, into the room where Joyce
was sitting. Her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, and before
she could bring out the ominous words, “Is there danger ?” he had
passed through it.
Mr. Wainwright was on his way to the apartment where he
expected to find Mr. Carlyle. The latter was pacing it: he had so
paced it the whole night. His pale face flushed as the surgeon entered.
“You have little mercy of my suspense, Wainwright. Dr. Martin
has been here these twenty minutes. What does he say?"
“Well, he cannot say any more than I did. The symptoms are
critical, but he hopes she will do well. There's nothing for it but
patience."
Mr. Carlyle resumed his weary walk.
“ I come now to suggest that you should send for Little. In these
protracted cases
The speech was interrupted by a cry from Mr. Carlyle, half horror,
half despair. For the Reverend Mr. Little was the incumbent of St.
Jude's, and his apprehensions had flown-he hardly knew to what they
had not flown.
“ Not for your wife ! ” hastily rejoined the surgeon. “I spoke for


130
EAST LYNNE.
“ This afternoon,” he replied.
“ Why did you give baby my name—Isabel ?”
“ Do you think I could have given it a prettier one? I don't.”
“Why do you not bring a chair and sit down by me?”
He smiled and shook his head. “I wish I might. But they limited
my stay with you to four minutes, and Wainwright has posted himself
outside the door with his watch in his hand.”
Quite true. There stood the careful surgeon : and the short inter-
view was over almost as soon as it had begun.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WILSON'S GOSSIP.
The baby lived, and appeared likely to live, and of course the next
thing was to look out for a maid for it. Isabel did not grow strong very
quickly ; fever and weakness had a struggle with each other, and with
her. One day when she was dressed and sitting in her easy-chair Miss
Carlyle entered.
“Of all the servants in the neighbourhood, who should you suppose
has come up after the place of nurse ? ” she said to Lady Isabel.
“ Indeed I cannot guess.”
“Why, Wilson, Mrs. Hare's maid. Three years and five months she
has been with them, and now leaves in consequence of a quarrel with
Barbara. Will you see her?”
“ Is she likely to suit ? Is she a good servant ? ”
“ She's not a bad servant, as servants go," responded Miss Carlyle.
“She's steady and respectable ; but she has a tongue as long as from
here to Lynneborough.”
“ That won't hurt baby,” said Lady Isabel. “But if she has lived as
lady's-maid, she probably does not understand the care of infants."
“Yes, she does. She was upper nurse at Squire Pinner's, before
going to Mrs. Hare's. She lived there five years.”
“I will see her,” said Lady Isabel.
Miss Carlyle left the room to send the servant in, but came back
first alone.
“Mind, Lady Isabel, don't you engage her. If she is likely to suit
you, let her come again for the answer, and meanwhile I will go down
to Mrs. Hare's and learn the ins and outs of her leaving. It is all
very plausible for her to put it upon Barbara, but that is only one
side of the question. Before engaging her, it may be as well to hear
the other.”
Of course this was only right. Isabel acquiesced, and the servant was
introduced : a tall, pleasant-looking woman, with black eyes. Lady
Isabel inquired why she was leaving Mrs. Hare's.
“My lady, it was through Miss Barbara's temper. Latterly--oh,
for this year past-nothing has pleased her; she has grown nearly as
imperious as the justice himself. I have threatened many times to
leave, and last evening we came to another outbreak, and I left this
morning.”


WILSON'S GOSSIP.
131
“ Left entirely ?”
“Yes, my lady. Miss Barbara provoked me so, that I said last
night I would leave as soon as breakfast was over. And I did so. I
should be very glad to take your situation, my lady, if you would please
to try me."
“You have been the upper maid at Mrs. Hare's ?”
"Oh yes, my lady."
“Then possibly this situation might not suit you so well as you
imagine. Joyce is the upper servant here, and you would, in a manner,
be under her. I have great confidence in Joyce; and in case of my
illness or absence, Joyce would superintend the nursery."
“I should not mind that,” was the applicant's answer. “We all like
Joyce, my lady."
A few more questions, and then the woman was told to come again in
the evening for her answer. Miss Carlyle went to the Grove for the
“ins and outs” of the affair, when Mrs. Hare frankly stated that she
had nothing to urge against Wilson, except her hasty manner of leaving,
of which she believed the chief blame to be due to Barbara. Wilson
was therefore engaged, and was to enter upon her new service the
following morning.
In the afternoon succeeding to it, Isabel was lying on the sofa in
her bedroom, asleep, as was supposed. In point of fact, she was in
that state, half sleep, half wakeful delirium, which those who suffer
from weakness and fever know only too well. Suddenly she was
aroused from it by hearing her own name mentioned in the adjoining
room, where sat Joyce and Wilson, the latter holding the sleeping
infant on her knee, the former sewing, the door between the rooms
being ajar.
"How ill she looks,” observed Wilson.
" Who?” asked Joyce.
“Her ladyship. She looks as if she'd never get over it.”
“She is getting over it quickly, now,” returned Joyce. “If you had
seen her a week ago, you would not say she was looking ill now
speaking by comparison.”
“My goodness! would not somebody's hopes be up again if anything
should happen?”
“Nonsense ! ” crossly returned Joyce.
“ You may cry out ‘nonsense' for ever, Joyce, but they would,” went
on Wilson. “And she would snap him up, to a dead certainty : she'd
never let him escape her a second time. She is as much in love with
him as she ever was.”
“It was all talk and fancy,” said Joyce. “West Lynne must be
busy. Mr. Carlyle never cared for her.”
“That's more than you know. I have seen a little, Joyce ; I have
seen him kiss her.”
“A pack of rubbish l ” remarked Joyce. “That tells nothing."
“I don't say it does : he gave her that locket and chain she wears.”
“Who wears?" retorted Joyce, determined not graciously to counte-
nance the subject. “I don't want to hear anything about it."
“Who,' now! Why, Miss Barbara. She has hardly had it off her
neck since : my belief is, she wears it in her sleep."


132
EAST LYNNE.
“ More simpleton she !” echoed Joyce.
“ The night before he left West Lynne to marry Lady Isabel—and
didn't the news come upon us like a thunderclap ! - Miss Barbara had
been at Miss Carlyle's, and he brought her home. A lovely night it
was, the moon rising, and nearly as light as day. He somehow broke
her parasol in coming home, and when they reached our gate there was
a love scene."
“Were you a third in it?" sarcastically demanded Joyce.
“ Yes—without meaning to be. That skinflint old justice won't
allow followers indoors, and there's no seeing anybody on the sly in
that conspicuous kitchen-garden, where there's nothing higher than a
cauliflower, so the only chance we have is to get half an hour's chat
amidst the grove trees in front, if a friend comes up. I was expect-
ing somebody that evening-a horrid faithless fellow he turned out,
and went, three months after, and married the barmaid at the Buck's
Head-and I was in the trees waiting for him. Up came Mr. Carlyle
and Miss Barbara. She wanted him to go in, but he would not, and
they stood there. Something was said about the locket, and about his
giving her a piece of his hair to put in it: I could not catch the words
distinctly, and I did not dare to stir nearer, for fear of their hearing
me. It was a regular love scene; I could hear enough for that. If
ever anybody thought to be Mrs. Carlyle, Barbara Hare did that
night.”
“Why, you great gaby! You have just said it was the night before
he went to be married :"
“I don't care ; she did. After he was gone, I saw her lift up her
hands and her face in ecstasy, and say he could never know how much
she loved him until she was his wife. Be you very sure, Joyce, many
a love passage had passed between them two; but I suppose when
my lady was thrown in his way he couldn't resist her rank and her
beauty, and the old love was cast over. It is in the nature of man to
be fickle, especially those that can boast of their own good looks, like
Mr. Carlyle."
“Mr. Carlyle's not fickle.”
“I can tell you some more yet. Two or three days after that, Miss
Corny came up to our house with the news of his marriage. I was
in mistress's bedroom, and they were in the room underneath, the
windows open, and I heard Miss Corny tell the tale, for I was leaning
out. Up came Miss Barbara upon an excuse and few into her room,
and I went into the corridor. A few moments, and I heard a noise ;
it was a sort of wail, or groan, and I opened the door softly, fearing
she might be fainting. Joyce, if my heart never ached for anybody
before, it ached then. She was lying on the floor, her hands writhed
together, and her poor face all white, like one in mortal agony. I'd
have given a quarter's wages to be able to say a word of comfort to
her ; but I didn't dare interfere with such sorrow as that I came out
again and shut the door without her seeing me.”
"How thoroughly stupid she must have been," uttered Joyce, "to go
caring for one who did not care for her!”
“I tell you, Joyce, you don't know that he did not care. You are
as obstinate as the justice! And I wish to goodness you wouldn't


WILSON'S GOSSIP.
133
interrupt me. They came up here to pay the wedding visit, master,
mistress, and she; came in state in the grand chariot, with the coach-
man and Jasper ; if you have any memory at all, you can't fail to
recollect it. Miss Barbara remained behind at East Lynne to spend
the rest of the day.”
“ I remember it."
“ I was sent to attend her home in the evening, Jasper being out. I
came the field way; for the dust by the road was enough to smother
one, and at the last stile but one, what do you think I came upon ?”
Joyce lifted her eyes. “A snake, perhaps."
“ I came upon Miss Barbara and Mr. Carlyle. What had passed,
nobody knows but themselves. She was leaning against the stile,
crying ; sobs breaking from her, like one might expect to hear from
a breaking heart. It seemed as if she had been reproaching him, as if
some explanation had passed, and I heard him say that from hence-
forth they could only be brother and sister. I spoke soon, for fear
they should see me, and Mr. Carlyle got over the stile. Miss Barbara
said to him that he need not come any farther, but he just held out
his arm and came with her to our back gate. I went on then to open
the door, and I saw him with his head bent down to her, and her two
hands held in his. We don't know how it was between them, I tell
you."
“At any rate, she is a downright fool to suffer herself to love him
still !” uttered Joyce, indignantly.
“So she is, but she does do it. She'll often steal out of the gate
about the time she knows he'll be passing, and watch him by, not
letting him see her. It is nothing but her unhappiness, her jealousy of
Lady Isabel, that makes her cross : I assure you, Joyce, in this past
year she has so changed that she's not like the same person. If Mr.
Carlyle should ever get tired of my lady, and
“Wilson !” harshly interrupted Joyce. “Have the goodness to
recollect yourself.”
“What have I said now ? Nothing but truth. Men are shamefully
fickle ; husbands worse than sweethearts, and I'm sure I'm not think-
ing of anything wrong. But to go back to the argument that we began
with-I say that if anything happened to my lady, Miss Barbara, as
sure as fate, would step into her shoes."
“Nothing is going to happen to her," returned Joyce, with com-
posure.
“I hope it is not, now or later-for the sake of this dear little inno-
cent thing upon my lap,” went on the undaunted Wilson. “She would
not make a very kind stepmother, for it is certain that where the first
wife has been hated, her children won't be loved. She would turn
Mr. Carlyle against them "
“I tell you what it is, Wilson,” interrupted Joyce, in a firm, unmis-
takable tone, “ if you think to pursue these sort of topics at East
Lynne, I shall inform my lady that you are unsuited to the situation."
" I dare say!”
“And you know that when I make up my mind to a thing, I do it,"
continued Joyce. “ Miss Carlyle may well say you have the longest
tongue in West Lynne ; but you might have the grace to know that


134
EAST LYNNE.
this subject is one more unsuited to it than another, whether you
are eating Mr. Hare's bread, or whether you are eating Mr. Carlyle's.
Another word, Wilson : it appears to me that you have carried on a
prying system in Mrs. Hare's house ; do not attempt such a thing in
this."
6 You were always one of the straitlaced sort, Joyce,” cried Wilson,
laughing good-humouredly. “But now that I have had my say out, I
shall stop; and you need not fear I should be such a simpleton as to
go prattling of this kind of thing to the servants.”
Now just fancy this conversation penetrating to Lady Isabel. She
heard it, every word. It is all very well to oppose the argument,
“ Who attends to the gossip of servants?" Let me tell you it depends
upon what the subject may be, whether the gossip is attended to or
not. It might not, and indeed would not, have made so great an im-
pression upon her had she been in strong health, but she was weak,
feverish, in a state of partial delirium : and she hastily took up the
idea that Archibald Carlyle had never loved her, that he had admired
her and made her his wife in his ambition, but that his heart had been
given to Barbara Hare.
A pretty state of excitement she worked herself into as she lay
there ; jealousy and fever, ay, and love too, playing pranks with her
brain. It was near the dinner-hour, and when Mr. Carlyle entered, he
was startled to see her ; her pallid cheeks were burning with a hectic
flush, and her eyes glistened with fever.
“ Isabel, you are worse!” he uttered. approaching her with a quick
step.
She partially rose from the sofa, and clasped him in her emotion.
“Oh, Archibald! Archibald !” she uttered, “don't marry her! I
could not rest in my grave.”
Mr. Carlyle, in his puzzled astonishment, believed her to be labour-
ing under some temporary hallucination, the result of weakness. He
attempted to soothe her, but it seemed that she could not be soothed.
She burst into a storm of tears, and began again : wild words.
“She would ill-treat my child ; she would draw your love from it,
and from my memory. Archibald, you must not marry her.”
“You must be speaking from the influence of a dream, Isabel,” he
soothingly said ; "you have been asleep, and are not yet awake. Be
still, and recollection will return to you. There, love ; rest upon me.”
“To think of her as your wife brings pain enough to kill me," she
continued to reiterate.“ Promise me that you will not marry her :
Archibald, promise it ! ”
“I will promise you anything in reason," he replied, bewildered by
her words, “but I do not know what you mean. There is no possibility
of my marrying any one, Isabel : you are my wife.”
“But if I die? I may; you know I may ; and many think I shall-
do not let her usurp my place.”
“ Indeed she shall not-whoever you may be talking of. What have
you been dreaming? Who is it that is troubling your mind ?”
" Archibald, do you need to ask? Did you love no one before you
married me? Perhaps you have loved her sinceperhaps you love
her still ? "


WILSON'S GOSSIP.
135
Mr. Carlyle began to discern" method in her madness." He changed
his cheering tone to one of grave earnestness. “Of whom do you speak,
Isabel ?”
“Of Barbara Hare.”.
He knitted his brow; he was both annoyed and vexed. What had
put this bygone nonsense into his wife's head? He quitted the sofa
where he had been supporting her, and stood upright before her, calm,
dignified, almost solemn in his seriousness. .
“ Isabel, what notion you can possibly have picked up about myself
and Barbara Hare, I am unable to conceive. I never loved Barbara
Hare; I never entertained the faintest shadow of love for her ; either
before my marriage or since. You must tell me what has given rise to
this idea in your mind.”
“But she loved you."
A moment's hesitation ; for of course Mr. Carlyle was conscious that
she had ; but, taking all the circumstances into consideration, more espe-
cially how he learnt the fact, he could not in honour acknowledge it even
to his wife. “If it was so, Isabel, she was more reprehensibly foolish
than I should have given Barbara's good sense credit for : a woman
may almost as well lose herself, as suffer herself to love unsought. If
she did give her love to me, I can only say I was utterly unconscious
of it. Believe me, you have as much cause to be jealous of Cornelia,
as you have of Barbara Hare.”
Isabel sighed. It was a sigh of relief, and her breath grew calmer.
She felt inexpressibly reassured. Mr. Carlyle bent his head, and spoke
in a tender, though a pained tone.
“I had not thought that the past year was quite thrown away.
What proof can a man give of true and earnest love, that I have not
given to you?”
She looked up, her eyelashes wet with contrition, took his hand and
held it between hers. “Don't be angry with me, Archibald : the
trouble and the doubt would not have arisen had I cared for you less.”
He smiled again, his own fond smile, and bent lower. “And now
tell me what put this into your brain ?"
An impulse arose within her that she would tell him all; the few words
dropped by Susan and Joyce twelve months before ; the conversation
she had just overheard ; but in that moment of renewed confidence it
appeared to her that she must have been very foolish to attach im-
portance to it—that a sort of humiliation, in listening to the converse of
servants, was reflected on her ; and she remained silent.
“Has any one been striving to bias your mind against me?” he
resumed.
“ Archibald ! no. Would any one dare to do it?"
“Then did you dream ?-and could not forget it on awaking ?”
“I do sometimes dream strange things, especially in my feverish
afternoon sleeps. I think I am a little delirious at times, Archibald,
and do not know what is real, and what is fancy."
The answer, while expressing correctly her physical state, was an
evasive one, but not evasively did it fall upon the ear of Mr. Carlyle.
It presented to him the only probable solution to the enigma, and he
never questioned it.


136
EAST LYNNE.
“Don't have any more of these dreams if you can help it,” he said.
“Regard them for what they are-illusions, neither pleasant for you,
nor fair to me. I am bound to you by fond ties as well as by legal
ones, remember, Isabel; and it is out of Barbara Hare's power to step
in between us.”
There never was a passion in this world, there never will be one, so
fantastic, so delusive, so powerful as jealousy. Mr. Carlyle dismissed
the episode from his thoughts ; he believed his wife's emotion to have
arisen simply from a feverish dream, and never supposed but that,
with the dream, its recollection would pass away from her. Not so.
Implicitly relying upon her husband's words at the moment, feeling
quite ashamed of her own suspicion, Lady Isabel afterwards suffered
the unhappy fear to regain its influence; the ill-starred revelations of
Wilson reasserted their power, over-mastering the denial of Mr. Carlyle.
Shakespeare calls jealousy yellow and green : I think it may be called
black and white, for it most assuredly views white as black, and black
as white. The most fanciful surmises wear the aspect of truth, the
greatest improbabilities appear as consistent realities. Isabel said not
another word to her husband; and the feeling-you will understand
this if you have ever been foolish enough to sun yourself in its delights
-only caused her to grow more attached to him, to be more eager
for his love. But certain it is that Barbara Hare dwelt on her heart as
an incubus.
CHAPTER XIX.
CAPTAIN THORN AT WEST LYNNE.
“ BARBARA, how fine the day seems !”.
“It is a beautiful day, mamma."
“I think I should be all the better for going out."
“I am sure you would be, mamma," was Barbara's answt.. “If you
went out more, you would find the benefit of doing so : every fine day
you ought to do so.”
“But I have not spirits for it, dear,” sighed Mrs. Hare. “The first
bright days of spring, the first warm days of summer, always have an
exhilarating effect upon me. I think I must go out to-day. There's
your papa in the garden : ask him if it will be convenient to him.”
Barbara was darting off, but arrested her steps for a moment.
“Mamma, you have been talking these three weeks of buying the new
dresses and other things that we require : why not do so to-day?”.
“Well—I don't know,” hesitated Mrs. Hare, in the irresolution
natural to her.
“Yes, yes; you will not find a better opportunity.” And away went
Barbara.
Justice Hare was in his front garden, imperiously pointing out to
his servant, Benjamin, something which had not been done according
to his directions. Benjamin fulfilled the duties of coachman and
groom at the Grove, filling up his spare time with gardening. He
was a married man, and slept at home, though he took his meals in


CAPTAIN THORN AT WEST LYNNE. 137
the house ; coming to it early, and going away late. The justice was
in his dressing-gown and wig, and was working himself into a passion
when Barbara approached. She was the only one of the three children
not afraid of her father : Barbara stood in awe of him, but not so
utterly as the others.
“Papa.”
“What do you want?" said the justice, turning round his portly
person.
. “Mamma thinks that it would do her good to go out this fine day.
Can we have the carriage?” .
The justice paused before he answered, and looked up at the sky.
“Where does she want to be off to ?”.
“We wish to do some shopping, please, papa. Only in West
Lynne," hastily added Barbara, seeing a cloud rise on the paternal
countenance. “Not at Lynneborough.”
“And your mamma thinks I am going to drive her ! ” cried Justice
Hare. “I'd see the shops further, first. The last time you and she
went into one, you kept me waiting an hour and a half.”
“ Benjamin can drive us, papa.”
Mr. Hare strode pompously across the grass to the dining-room
window, threw it up, and addressed his wife. Barbara drew close,
and stood timidly at his side.
“Do you say you want to go shopping to-day, Anne?”.
“Not particularly to-day," was the meek answer, meekly delivered ;
"any day will do for it. Do you think of using the carriage yourself ? "
“ I don't know,” replied the justice. The fact is, he had not thought
about it at all ; but he liked every scheme, every movement to be pro-
posed by himself, to be regulated by his own will.
“The day is so fine that I think I should like to take advantage of
it,” said Mrs. Hare. “And Barbara must have her summer dresses
bought.” .
“She's always having dresses bought,” growled the justice.
“Oh, papa! -
“Silence, young lady ; you have twice as many as you need."
“ Perhaps, Richard, I might manage to walk in and back again,
without being much fatigued, if you cannot spare me the carriage,” said
Mrs. Hare, gently.
“And have you laid up for a week! What next ! The idea of your
walking into West Lynne and back again ! that would be a piece of
folly."
The justice shut down the window, and strode back to Benjamin,
leaving Mrs. Hare and Barbara at an uncertainty : were they to go,
or were they not? Barbara went indoors to her mother.
“Barbara, dear, I wonder where your papa was thinking of going in
the carriage?”
“I don't believe he was going anywhere," replied independent
Miss Barbara.
“Oh, child !”
“Well, I don't. Only he always must oppose everybody. Mamma,
I do think you might walk in, and we could come back in one of
Coke's flys."


138
EAST- LYNNE
Mrs. Hare shook her head. “I have no doubt I could walk quite
well one way, Barbara : but I should not think of doing so, unless
your papa approved.”
Barbara was looking from the window. She saw Benjamin gather
up his garden tools and put them away. He then crossed to the
narrow side-path which led down by the house to the back, where the
stables were situated. Barbara ran through the hall and intercepted
him.
“Has papa given any orders about the carriage, Benjamin ?"
“ Yes, miss. I am to drive you and mistress into West Lynne. I
was to get ready directly,” he said.
Back waltzed Barbara. “Mamma, it is all right : Benjamin has gone
to get the carriage ready. You would like luncheon before you go?
I will order in the tray.".
"Anything you please, my dear," said the sweet-tempered, gentle
woman. "I don't know why, but I feel glad to go out to-day :
perhaps because it is so lovely."
Benjamin made ready his carriage and himself, drove out of the
yard, and brought the carriage round to the front gate. As Mrs. Hare
and Barbara went down the path, Mr. Hare was in the garden still.
“ Thank you, Richard," she said, as she passed him, a loving smile
lighting her delicate face.
"Mind you are home by dinner-time, and don't let Barbara spend
too much money," cried the justice, in return. But he was not polite
enough to go and hand them in.
The carriage-or phaeton, as it was often called—was a somewhat
old-fashioned concern, as many country things often are. A small
box in front for the driver, and a wide seat with a head behind, accom-
modating Barbara well between them when Mr. and Mrs. Hare both
sat in it. Mr. Hare, however, generally drove himself, taking no
servant. The head was down to-day, but it was found useful in rainy
weather; and there were a double set of poles, so that one horse or a
pair might be driven in it. Very rarely, never unless they were going
a distance, was a pair used ; the long-tailed, black coach-horses were
taken out in turn, for the justice kept only that pair, and a saddle-horse
for himself.
Benjamin drew the rug carefully over his mistress's knees—the
servants did not like Mr. Hare, but would have laid down their lives
for her—ascended to his box, and drove them to their destination,
the linendraper's. It was an excellent shop, situated a little beyond
the office of Mr. Carlyle, and Mrs. Hare and Barbara were soon
engaged in that occupation said to possess a fascination for all women.
They had been deep in it about an hour, when Mrs. Hare discovered
that her bag was missing.
“I must have left it in the carriage, Barbara. Go and bring it, will
you, my dear? the pattern of that silk is in it."
Barbara went out. The carriage and Benjamin, and the sleek old
horse were all waiting drowsily together. Barbara could not see the
bag, and she appealed to the servant.
“Find mamma's bag, Benjamin. It must be somewhere in the
carriage.”


CAPTAIN THORN AT WEST LYNNE.
139
Benjamin got off his box, and began to search. Barbara waited,
gazing listlessly down the street. The sun was shining brilliantly,
and its rays fell upon the large cable chain of a gentleman who was
sauntering idly up the pavement, making its gold links and its droop-
ing seal and key glitter, as they crossed his waistcoat. It shone also
upon the enamelled gold studs of his shirt front, and as he suddenly
raised his ungloved hand, a white hand, to stroke his moustache-by
which action you may know a vain man--a diamond ring gleamed with
a light that was positively dazzling. Involuntarily Barbara thought of
the description her brother Richard had given of certain dazzling
jewels worn by another.
She watched him advance. He was a handsome man of, perhaps,
seven or eight and twenty, tall, slender, and well made, his eyes and
hair black. A very pleasant expression sat upon his countenance,
and on the left hand he wore a light buff kid glove, and was swinging
its fellow by the fingers, apparently in deep thought, as he softly
whistled to himself. But for the great light cast at that moment by
the sun, Barbara might not have noticed the jewellery, or connected
it in her mind with the other jewellery in that unhappy secret.
“Halloa ! Thorn, is that you ? Just step over here!”
The speaker was Otway Bethel, who was on the opposite side of
the street ; the spoken-to, the gentleman with the jewellery. But the
latter was in a brown study, and did not hear. Bethel called out again,
louder.
• Captain Thorn !”
That was heard. Captain Thorn nodded, and turned short off
across the street. Barbara stood as one in a dream, her brain, her
mind, her fancy all a confused mass together.
“ Here's the bag, Miss Barbara. It had got among the folds of
the rug." .
Benjamin held it out to her, but she took no notice of it: she was un-
conscious of all external things, save one. That she beheld the real
murderer of Hallijohn she entertained no manner of doubt. In every
particular he tallied with the description given by Richard : tall, dark,
vain, handsome, delicate hands, jewellery, and — Captain Thorn !
Barbara's cheeks grew white, and her heart turned sick.
“ The bag, Miss Barbara.”
But Barbara was gone, leaving Benjamin and the bag. She had
caught sight of Mr. Wainwright, the surgeon, at a little distance, and
sped towards him.
“Mr. Wainwright,” began she, forgetting ceremony in her agitation,
"you see that gentleman talking to Otway Bethel. Who is he?”
Mr. Wainwright had to put his glasses across the bridge of his nose
before he could answer, for he was short-sighted. “That? Oh, it is
a Captain Thorn. He is visiting the Herberts, I believe.”
“Where does he come from? Where does he live?" reiterated
Barbara, in her eagerness.
“I don't know anything about him. I saw him this morning with
young Smith, and he told me he was a friend of the Herberts. You
are not looking well, Miss Barbara."
She made no answer. Captain Thorn and Mr. Bethel came walking


140
EAST LYNNE.
down the street, and the latter saluted her, but she was too con-
fused to respond to it. Mr. Wainwright then wished her good day,
and Barbara walked slowly back. Mrs. Hare was appearing at the
shop door.
“My dear, how long you are ! Cannot the bag be found ? ”
“I went to speak to Mr. Wainwright," answered Barbara, mechani-
cally taking the bag from Benjamin and giving it to her mother, her
whole heart and eyes still absorbed with that one object moving away
in the distance.
“ You look pale, child. Are you well ?”
“Oh yes, quite. Let us get our shopping over, mamma."
She moved on to their places at the counter as she spoke, eager to
“get it over” and be at home, that she might have time for thought.
Mrs. Hare wondered what had come to her ; the pleasant interest
previously displayed in their purchases was now gone, and she sat
inattentive and absorbed.
“Now, my dear, it is only waiting for you to choose. Which of the
two silks will you have?”
“ Either. Any. Take which you like, mamma."
“Barbara, what has come to you?”
“I believe I am tired,” said Barbara, with a forced laugh, as she
compelled herself to pay some sort of attention. “I don't like the
green : I will take the other."
They arrived at home. Barbara was five minutes alone in her
chamber, before dinner was on the table. All the conclusion she
could come to, was that she could do nothing, except tell the facts to
Archibald Carlyle.
How could she contrive to see him? The business might admit of
no delay. She supposed she must go to East Lynne that evening ;
but where would be her excuse for it at home? Puzzling over it, she
went down to dinner. During the meal, Mrs. Hare began talking of
some silk she had purchased for a mantle. She should have it made
like Miss Carlyle's new one. When Miss Carlyle was at the Grove the
other day, about Wilson's character, she had offered her the pattern,
and she, Mrs. Hare, would send one of the servants up for it, after
dinner.
“Oh, mamma, let me go !” burst forth Barbara. She spoke so
vehemently, that the justice paused in his carving, and demanded what
ailed her. Barbara made some timid excuse.
“Her eagerness is natural, Richard,” smiled Mrs. Hare. “Barbara
thinks she shall get a peep at the baby, I expect. All young folks are
fond of babies.”
Barbara's face flushed: but she did not contradict the opinion.
She could not eat her dinner, for she was too full of poor
Richard : she played with it and then sent away her plate, almost
untouched.
“That's through the finery she has been buying,” pronounced Justice
Hare. “Her head is stuffed with it."
No opposition was offered to Barbara's going to East Lynne. She
reached it just as dinner was over. It was for Miss Carlyle she
asked.


CAPTAIN THORN AT WEST LYNNE. 141
“Miss Carlyle is not at home, miss. She is spending the day out;
and my lady does not receive visitors yet.”
It was a sort of checkmate. Barbara was compelled to say she
would see Mr. Carlyle. Peter ushered her into the drawing-room, and
Mr. Carlyle came to her.
“I am so very sorry to disturb you ; to have asked for you,” began
Barbara, with a burning face, for a certain evening interview of hers
with him, twelve months before, was disagreeably present to her.
Never, since that evening of agitation, had Barbara suffered herself to
betray emotion to Mr. Carlyle : her manners to him had been calm,
courteous, and indifferent. And she now more frequently called him
“ Mr. Carlyle" than “ Archibald.”
“Take a seat, take a seat, Barbara."
“I asked for Miss Carlyle,” she continued, "for mamma is in want
of a pattern that she promised to lend her ; but, in point of fact, it was
you I wished to see. You remember the Lieutenant Thorn, whom
Richard spoke of as being the real criminal ? "
“ Yes."
“ I think he is at West Lynne."
Mr. Carlyle was aroused to eager interest. “He! That same Thorn?”
“It can be no other. Mamma and I were shopping to-day, and I
went out for her bag which she had left in the carriage. While
Benjamin was finding it, I saw a stranger coming up the street : a tall,
good-looking, dark-haired man, with a conspicuous gold chain and
studs. The sun was full upon him, causing the ornaments to shine,
especially a diamond ring he wore, for he had one hand raised to
his face. The thought flashed over me, 'That is like the description
Richard gave of the man Thorn. Why the idea should have occurred
to me in that strange manner I do not know, but it most assuredly did
occur, though I did not really suppose him to be the same. Just then
I heard him spoken to by some one on the other side of the street; it
was Otway Bethel, and he called him Captain Thorn."
“ That is curious indeed, Barbara. I did not know any stranger was
at West Lynne.”
“I saw Mr. Wainwright, and asked him who it was. He said a
Captain Thorn, a friend of the Herberts. A Lieutenant Thorn four or
five years ago would probably be Captain Thorn now."
Mr. Carlyle nodded, and there was a pause.
“What can be done?” asked Barbara.
Mr. Carlyle was passing one hand over his brow ; it was a habit of
his when deep in thought. “ It is hard to say what is to be done,
Barbara. The description you give of this man certainly tallies with
that given by Richard. Did he look like a gentleman ?”
“Very much so. A remarkably aristocratic-looking man, as it
struck me.”
Mr. Carlyle again nodded assentingly. He remembered Richard's
words, when describing the other : “ an out-and-out aristocrat.” “Of
course, Barbara, the first thing must be to try and ascertain whether
it is the same," he observed. “If we find that it is, then we must
deliberate upon future measures. I will see what I can find out, and
let you know."


142
EAST LYNNE.
Barbara rose. Mr. Carlyle escorted her across the hall, and then
strolled down the park by her side, deep in the subject; and quite
unconscious that Lady Isabel's jealous eyes were watching them from
her dressing room window.
“ You say he seemed intimate with Otway Bethel ?"
“As to being intimate, I do not know. Otway Bethel spoke as
though he knew him."
“This must have caused excitement to Mrs. Hare."
“ You forget that mamma was not told anything about Thorn," was
Barbara's answer. “The uncertainty would have worried her to
death. All Richard said to her was, that he was innocent, that it was
a stranger who did the deed, and she asked for no particulars : she has
implicit faith in Richard's truth.”
“True ; I did forget,” replied Mr. Carlyle. “I wish we could find
out some one who knew the other Thorn. To ascertain that they were
the same would be a great point gained.”
He went as far as the park gates with Barbara, shook hands, and
wished her good evening. Scarcely had she departed, when Mr.
Carlyle saw two gentlemen advancing from the opposite direction, in
one of whom he recognized Tom Herbert, and the other-instinct told
him—was Captain Thorn. He waited until they came up.
“If this isn't lucky, seeing you," cried Mr. Tom Herbert, who was a
free-and-easy sort of gentleman, the second son of a brother-justice of
Mr. Hare's. “I wish to goodness you'd give us a draught of your
cider, Carlyle. We went up to Beauchamp's for a stroll, but found
them all out ; and I'm awfully thirsty. Captain Thorn, Carlyle.”
Mr. Carlyle invited them to his house, and ordered refreshments.
Young Herbert coolly threw himself into an arm-chair and lit a cigar.
“ Come, Thorn,” cried he, “ here's a weed for you.”
Captain Thorn glanced towards Mr. Carlyle : he appeared of a far
more gentlemanly nature than Tom Herbert.
“ You'll have one too, Carlyle,” said Herbert, holding out his cigar-
case. “Oh, I forgot ; you are a muff; don't smoke one twice in a year.
I say, how's Lady Isabel ?”
“ Very ill still.”
“By Jove! is she, though? Tell her I am sorry to hear it, will you,
Carlyle? But-I say ! will she smell the smoke?” asked he, with a
mixture of alarm and concern in his face.
Mr. Carlyle reassured him upon that point, and turned to Captain
Thorn.
“ Are you acquainted with this neighbourhood ? "
Captain Thorn smiled. “I only reached West Lynne yesterday.
“You were never here before, then?” continued Mr. Carlyle, setting
down the last as a probably evasive answer.
"No."
“He and my brother Jack, you know, are in the same regiment,”
put in Tom Herbert, with scant ceremony.' “ Jack had invited him
down for some fishing, and Thorn arrives. But he never sent word he
was coming. Jack had given him up, and is off on some Irish expe-
dition, the deuce knows where. Precious unlucky that it should have
happened so, Thorn says he shall cut short his stay, and go again.”


CAPTAIN THORN AT WEST LYNNE.
143
The conversation turned upon fishing, and in the heat of argument
the stranger mentioned a certain pond, and its famous eels—"the
Low Pond.” Mr. Carlyle looked at him, speaking, however, in a care-
less manner.
“Which do you mean? We have two ponds not far apart, each
called the 'Low Pond.'”
“I mean the one on an estate about three miles from here : Squire
Thorpe's, unless I am mistaken."
Mr. Carlyle smiled. “I think you must have been in the neighbour-
hood before, Captain Thorn. Squire Thorpe is dead, and the property
has passed to his daughter's husband, and that Low Pond was filled
up three years ago."
“I have heard a friend mention it," was Captain Thorn's reply,
spoken in an indifferent tone, though he evidently wished not to
pursue the subject.
Mr. Carlyle, by easy degrees, turned the conversation upon Swain-
son, the place whence Richard Hare's Captain Thorn was suspected to
have come. The present Captain Thorn said he knew it "a little;" he
had once been“ staying there a short time.” Mr. Carlyle became
almost convinced that Barbara's suspicions were correct. The descrip-
tions certainly agreed, as far as he could judge, in the most minute
particulars. The man jefore him wore two rings, a diamond-and
a very beautiful diamond, too-on the one hand, a seal ring on the
other; his hands were delicate to a degree, and his handkerchief,
a cambric one of unusually fine texture, was not quite guiltless of
scent : a mark of dandyism, which, in the other Captain Thorn, used
considerably to annoy Richard. Mr. Carlyle quitted the room for a
moment, and summoned Joyce to him.
"My lady has been asking for you, sir,” said Joyce.
“Tell her I will be up the moment these gentlemen leave. Joyce,"
he added, “ find an excuse for coming into the room presently ; you can
bring something or other in ; I want you to look at this stranger who
is with young Mr. Herbert. Notice him well; I fancy you may have
seen him before."
Mr. Carlyle returned to the room, leaving Joyce surprised. But
she presently followed, taking in some water, and lingered a few
minutes, apparently placing the things on the table in better order.
When the two departed, Mr. Carlyle called Joyce, before proceed-
ing to his wife's room. “Well?” he questioned, " did you recognize
him ? »
“ Not at all, sir. He seemed quite strange to me.”
“ Cast your thoughts back, Joyce. Did you never see him in years
gone by?”
Joyce looked puzzled, but she replied in the negative.
“Is he the man, think you, who used to ride over from Swainson to
see Afy ?”
Joyce's face flushed crimson. “Oh, sir !” was all she uttered.
* The name is the same, Thorn: I thought it possible the man
might be the same also,” observed Mr. Carlyle.
“Sir, I cannot say. I never saw that Captain Thorn but once, and
I don't know—I don't know”-Joyce spoke slowly and with considera.


144
EAST LYNNE.
tion—"that I should at all know him again. I did not think of him
when I looked at this gentleman; but, at any rate, no appearance in
this one struck upon my memory as being familiar to me."
• So, from Joyce Mr. Carlyle obtained no clue, one way or the other.
The following day he sought out Otway Bethel.
“Are you intimate with that Captain Thorn who is staying with the
Herberts?” asked he.
“Yes," answered Bethel, derisively, “ if passing a couple of hours in
his company can constitute intimacy. That's all I have seen of
Thorn.”
“ Are you sure?” pursued Mr. Carlyle.
“ Sure!” returned Bethel ; " why, what are you driving at now? I
called in at Herberts' the night before last, and Tom asked me to stay
the evening. Thorn had just arrived. A jolly bout we had : cigars and
cold punch.”
“Bethel,” said Mr. Carlyle, dashing to the point, “ is it the Thorn
who used to go after Afy Hallijohn ? Come, you can tell if you like.”
Bethel remained dumb for a moment, apparently with amazement.
“What a confounded lie !” uttered he, at length. “Why, it's no more
that Thorn than-What Thorn?” he broke off, abruptly.
“ You are equivocating, Bethel. The Thorn who was mixed upor
said to be-in the Hallijohn affair. Is this the same man ?”
“ You are a fool, Carlyle : which is what I never took you to be
yet," was Mr. Bethel's rejoinder, spoken in a savage tone. “I have
told you that I never knew there was any Thorn mixed up with Afy,
and I should like to know why my word is not to be believed ? I never
saw Thorn in my life till I saw him the other night at the Herberts',
and that I would take an oath to, if put to it.”
Bethel quitted Mr. Carlyle with the last word, and the latter gazed
after him, revolving points in his brain. The mention of Thorn's
name (the one spoken of by Richard Hare) appeared to excite some
sore feeling in Bethel's mind, rousing it to irritation. Mr. Carlyle
remembered that it had done so previously, and now it had done so
again : and yet, Bethel was an easy-natured man in general, far better
tempered than principled. That there was something hidden, some
mystery connected with the affair, Mr. Carlyle felt sure, but he could
not attempt so much as a guess at what it might be ; and his interview
with Bethel brought him no nearer the point he wished to find out-
whether this Thorn was the same man. In walking back to his office,
he met Mr. Tom Herbert.
“ Does Captain Thorn purpose making a long stay with you ?” he
stopped him to inquire.
“He's gone : I have just seen him off by the train," was the reply of
Tom Herbert. “ It seemed rather slow work for him without Jack,
so he shortened his visit, and says he will pay us one when Jack's to
the fore.”
As Mr. Carlyle went home to dinner that evening, he entered the
Grove, ostensibly to make a short call on Mrs. Hare. Barbara, on the
tenter-hooks of impatience, accompanied him outside when he departed,
and walked down the path.
“What have you learned ?" she eagerly asked.


CAPTAIN THORN AT WEST LYNNE. 145
“ Nothing satisfactory," was the reply of Mr. Carlyle. “The man is
gone."
“ Gone!” said Barbara.
Mr. Carlyle explained. He told her how they had come to his
house the previou, evening after Barbara's departure, and his encounter
with Tom Herbert that day : he mentioned, also, his interview with
Bethel.
“Can he have gone away on purpose, fearing consequences ?” won-
dered Barbara.
“Scarcely : or why should he have come ?"
“You did not suffer any “ord to escape you last night, causing him
to suspect that he was doubted ?"
“Not any. You would make a bad lawyer, Barbara."
“Who or what is he?”
“An officer in her Majesty's service, in John Herbert's regiment. I
ascertained no more. Tom said he was of good family. But I cannot
help suspecting that it is the same man.”
“Can nothing more be done?”.
“Nothing, in the present stage of the affair,” concluded Mr. Carlyle,
as he passed through the gate to continue his way. “We can only
wait on again with what patience we may, hoping that time will bring
about its own elucidation.”
Barbara pressed her forehead down on the cold iron of the gate as
his footsteps died away. “Ay, to wait on," she murmured,“ to wait
on in dreary pain; to wait on, perhaps for years, perhaps for ever!
And poor Richard-wearing out his days in poverty and exile ! ”
Lady Isabel recovered, and grew strong ; and a few years passed
smoothly on, no special event occurring to note them.
East Lyano,
10


PART THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
GOING FROM HOME.
A FEW years had passed.
“I should recommend a complete change of scene, Mr. Carlyle.
Say, some place on the French or Belgian coast. Sea-bathing might
do wonders.”
“Should you think it well for her to go so far from home?"
“I should. Where there is any chronic or confirmed disorder, one
we can grapple with, I don't care a straw for change of scene or air ; a
patient is as well at his own home as away from it. A certain treat-
ment must be gone through, surgical or physical, and it is of little
moment whether it is pursued on a mountain in Switzerland or in a
vale in Devonshire. But in these cases of protracted weakness, where
you can do nothing but try to coax the strength back again, change of
air and scene are of immense benefit."
“ I will propose it to her,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“I have just done so," replied Dr. Martin, who was the other speaker.
“She met it with objection. This I expected, for invalids naturally
feel a disinclination to move from home. But it is necessary that she
should go."
The object of their conversation was Lady Isabel. There were three
children now at East Lynne : Isabel, William, and Archibald ; the latter
twelve months old. Lady Isabel had, a month or two ago, been attacked
with illness : she recovered from it ; that is, she recovered from the dis-
order ; but it had left her in an alarming state of prostration. Mr.
Wainwright tried in vain to grapple with the weakness; she seemed to
grow worse, rather than better ; and Dr. Martin was summoned from
Lynneborough. The best thing he could recommend-as you have
heard-was change of scene and air.
Lady Isabel was unwilling to take the advice; more especially to go
so far as the “French coast," and, but for a circumstance that seemed to
have happened purposely to induce her to decide, would probably never
have gone. Mrs. Duc.e-tne reader may not have forgotten her name
-had, in conjunction with her husband, the Honourable Augustus,
somewhat run herself out at elbows, and found it desirable to enter for
a time on the less expensive life of the. Continent. For eighteen months
she had been staying in Paris, the education of her younger daughters
being the plea put forth for the sojourn : and a very convenient plea it
is, and serves hundreds. Isabel had had two or three letters from her


GOING FROM HOME.
147
during her absence, and she now received another, saying that they
were going to spend a month or two at Boulogne-sur-Mer. Dr. Martin
and Mr. Wainwright declared that this must remove all Lady Isabel's
unwillingness to go from home, for Mrs. Ducie's society would do away
with the loneliness she had anticipated : a loneliness which had been
the ostensible reason of her objection.
“ Boulogne-sur-Mer, of all places in the world !” remonstrated Lady
Isabel. “It is said to be crowded and vulgar.”
Mr. Carlyle also demurred at Boulogne-sur-Mer. It did not stand
well in his estimation. It was not a place he cared to send his wife to :
more especially as he could not remain there with her. Trouville, a
pleasant, retired watering-place, near Harfleur, and little known in
those days, had been the one chosen. Lady Isabel probably would
have found it dull and depressing.
Dr. Martin strongly urged its being changed for Boulogne. "What
did it matter if Boulogne were crowded and vulgar?” he asked : “there
would be the more amusement for Lady Isabel. He had had his doubts
of Trouville before, as regarded its dullness : by all means let her go to
Boulogne and join Mrs. Ducie.”
Mr. Carlyle yielded the point, and ended by approving it ; and Lady
Isabel, finding she had no chance against them all, consented to go,
and plans were hastily decided upon.
She certainly looked very ill : her features were white and attenuated,
her sweet, sad eyes had grown larger and darker ; her hands were hot
and sickly. Though warm weather, she had generally a shawl folded
round her, and would sit for hours without rousing herself, as those
suffering from great weakness like to do; would sit gazing out on the
calm landscape, or watching her children at play. She went out once
a day in the close carriage, and that was all : no other exertion could
she be aroused to make.
In this illness the old trouble had returned—the sore feeling touching
her husband and Barbara Hare. It had lain pretty dormant in the last
few years, nothing having occurred to excite it ; but Lady Isabel was in
that state of weakness, where grievances, let them be old or new, grow
upon the mind. Her thoughts would wander to the unsatisfactory ques-
tion of whether Mr. Carlyle had ever truly loved her ; or whether, lured
by her rank and her beauty, he had married her, loving Barbara. Mr.
Carlyle's demonstrative affection, shown so greatly for her in the first
twelve months or so of their married life, had subsided into calmness.
Is not a similar result arrived at by every husband that the Church ever
made one with woman? It was not that his love had faded, but that
time and custom had wrought their natural effects. Look at children
with their toys; a boy with a new drum, a girl with a new doll. Are
not the playthings kissed, and hugged, and clasped in arms, and never
put down ? Did ever playthings seem like them? Are not all other
things neglected, while the new toy is all in all ? But, wait a little time,
and the drum is consigned to some dark closet; the doll to its cradle ;
and neither of them is visited or looked at. Tell the children to go and
find their lately cherished playthings, to make them their evening's
amusement; and they will go unwillingly, for they are tired of them. It
is of no use scolding the children for being fickle : it is in their nature


148
EAST LYNNE.
to be fickle, for they are human. Are grown children otherwise ? Do
we not all, men and women, become indifferent to our toys when we
hold them securely in possession ? Young lady, when he, who is soon
to be your lord and master, protests to you that he shall always be as
ardent a lover as he is now, believe him if you like, but don't reproach
him when disappointment comes. He does not wilfully deceive you ;
he only forgets that it is in the constitution of man to change, the very
essence of his nature. The time will arrive when his manner must settle
down into a calmness, which to you, if you are of an exacting tempera-
ment, may look like indifference or coldness; but you will do well to
put up with it, for it will never now be otherwise. Never : the heyday
of early love, of youth, and of novelty is past.
Lady Isabel did not understand the even manner, the quiet calmness
into which her husband's once-passionate love had subsided, and in her
fanciful jealousy she attributed it to the influence Barbara held upon
his memory. She looked for the little tender episodes of daily life :
she would fain have had him hang over her chair as she sang, and
draw her face to his, and feel his kisses on her lips, as when she first
came, a wife, to East Lynne. It has been seen that Lady Isabel did
not love Mr. Carlyle ; but his tenderness, his anxious care for her in
their early married days, caused her to lift up her heart to him with
gratitude, and to try earnestly to love him. But—to try to love !
Vain effort : Love never yet came for trying: it is a capricious pas-
sion, and generally comes without the knowledge and against the will.
It is possible that she thought she had succeeded, for her whole esteem,
her respect, and her admiration were his. When she compared him
with other men, and saw how far he surpassed them, how noble and
how good he was, how little the rest looked beside him, her heart
rose up with pride at the consciousness of being his wife : a princess
might have deemed it an honour to be the chosen of such a man as
Archibald Carlyle. Spare one single corner of his heart to Barbara
Hare! No indeed ; Isabel could not afford that.
On the day that the journey was finally decided upon, Lady Isabel
was in the drawing-room with her three children; even the little fellow
was sitting on the carpet. Isabel was a delicate, pretty child in her
fifth year, William was the very image of his mother, Archibald was
like Mr. Carlyle.
“Come hither, my darlings,” she cried.
Isabel and William ran to her, and she placed an arm round each.
Master Archie was kicking nis heels on the carpet at a distance. They
looked up at their mother.
“Would my little dears like to go a great way with mamma? Over
the sea in a boat?”
Isabel—who had inherited the refined, sensitive feelings of her
mother-replied only by a smile and vivid blush. William clapped
his hands. “Oh yes, in a boat! Arty too, mamma?”
" Archie and all," answered Lady Isabel.“ And Joyce, and Wilson,
and— ”
Miss Carlyle, who was seated near one of the windows, sewing,
turned sharply round to interrupt the gladness. Miss Carlyle, though
not openly dissenting, did not inwardly approve of the proposed emi.


GOING FROM HOME.
149
gration. What did people want with change of air? thought she.
She had never wanted any. A pack of new-fangled notions that
doctors had got into, recommending change of air for everything!
They would order it, next, for a cut finger. If Lady Isabel would
make an effort, she'd get strong fast enough at home.
“The children are not going to the seaside,” said she. “They are
not ordered there."
“But they must go with me,” replied Lady Isabel. “Of course they
are not expressly ordered to it. Why should they not go ?”
“Why should they not?” retorted Miss Corny. “Why, on account
of the expense, to be sure. I can tell you what it is, Lady Isabel,
what with one expense and another, your husband will soon be on the
road to ruin. Your journey with Joyce and Peter will cost enough,
ma'am, without taking a van-load of nurses and children.”
Lady Isabel's heart sank within her.
“Besides, your object in going is to recover health, and how can you
do that, if you are to be worried with the children ? ” pursued Miss
Corny. “People who go abroad for pleasure, or invalids in search of
health, won't find much of either if they carry their cares with them.”
Lady Isabel rose, and, with difficulty, lifted Archibald from the carpet ;
sat down with him on her knee, and pressed his little face to hers.
“Would my baby like mamma to go away and leave him?" she
asked, the tears falling fast on her fair curls. “Oh! I could not leave
them behind me !” she added, looking imploringly at Miss Carlyle.
“I should grow no better if you send me there alone; I should ever be
yearning for my children."
“Alone, Lady Isabel ! Is your husband nothing?"
“But he will only take me; he will not remain.”
“Well, you can't expect his business to go to rack and ruin,” snapped
Miss Corny. “How can he stay away from it? With all these heavy
expenses upon him, there's more need than ever for his sticking to it
closely. And, before the children are gallivanted over the water, it
might be as well to sit down and calculate the cost. Of course, Lady
Isabel, I only offer my opinion; you are Archibald's wife, and sole
mistress, and will do as you please."
Do as she pleased ! Poor Lady Isabel laid her head meekly down
upon her children, effectually silenced, and her heart breaking with
pain. Joyce, who was then in the room, heard a little, and con-
jectured much of what had passed.
In the evening Mr. Carlyle carried little Isabel up to the nursery on
his shoulder. Joyce happened to be there, and thought it a good
opportunity to speak.
"My lady wishes to take the children with her to France, sir."
“Does she?” replied Mr. Carlyle.
“And I fear she will make herself very unhappy if they do not go,
“Why should they not go ?” asked Mr. Carlyle.
He went back to the drawing-room, where his wife was alone.
“ Isabel, do you wish to take the children with you?”
“Oh, I did so wish it !” she replied, the hectic of hope lighting her
pale cheeks. “If they might only go, Archibald ? ”
sir."


150
EAST LYNNE.
“Of course they may go. It will be a change for them, as well as
for you. Why should you hesitate ?"
“The expense,” she timidly whispered, the hectic growing deeper.
He looked into her eyes with his pleasant smile. , "Expense is
no concern of yours, Isabel : it is mine. "Never let the word expense
trouble you, until I tell you that it must do so."
“It will not increase the cost so very much,” she returned, her eyes
smiling with happiness. “And I shall get well all the sooner for
having them with me."
“ And, to further that, you should take them, if it were to the end
of the world. Why should you study aught but your own wishes and
comfort?”
She took his hand in her love and gratitude-for every tone of his
voice spoke of care and tenderness for her ; all jealous fancies were
forgotten, all recollection, in that moment, that his manner was calmer
than of old. “ Archibald ! I do believe you care for me as much as
you ever did ?"
He did not understand the words, but he held her to him as in days
gone by, and kissed her tenderly. “More precious, far more precious
to me than of yore, Isabel !”
Miss Carlylé flew out when she heard the decision, and frightened
her brother to repentance, assuring him that his sending the children
was the certain way to preclude all chance of his wife's recovery. Mr.
Carlyle was sorely puzzled between Isabel's wishes and Isabel's welfare :
he would promote both if he could, but if they clashed-? He feared
his own judgment, he feared his wife's ; and he appealed to the medical
men. But Miss Corny had forestalled him there : she had contrived so
to impress those gentlemen with the incessant worry the children would
prove to Lady Isabel, that they pronounced their veto, and forbade the
children's going. So, after all, Lady Isabel had to resign herself to the
disappointment.
“ Joyce,” said she to her waiting-maid, “I shall leave you at home;
I must take Wilson instead."
“Oh, my lady! what have I done?”
“You have done all that you ought, Joyce, but you must stay with
the children. If I may not take them, the next best thing will be to
leave them with you. I shall give them into your charge, not into
Miss Carlyle's,” she said, sinking her voice. “If Wilson remained,
I could not do that."
“My lady, I must do whatever you think best. I wish I could at-
tend you and stay with them, but of course I cannot do both."
“I am sent away to recover health and strength, but it may be I
shall die, Joyce. If I never return, will you promise to remain with
my children?”.
Joyce felt a creeping sensation in her veins : sobs rose in her throat,
but she swallowed them down, and constrained her voice to calmness.
“ My lady, I hope you will come back to us as well as you used to be.
I trust you will hope so too, my lady, and not give way to low spirits."
“I sincerely hope and trust I shall,” answered Lady Isabel, fervently.
“ Still, there is no knowing, for I am very ill. Joyce, give me your
promise in case of the worst, that you will remain with the children.”


FRANCIS LEVISON.
151
“I will, my lady—as long as I am permitted."
“And be kind to them, and love them, and shield them from-from
-any unkindness that may be put upon them,” she added, her head
full of Miss Carlyle. “And talk to them sometimes of their poor
mother who is gone."
“I will, I will : oh, my lady, I will !” And Joyce sat down in the
rocking-chair as Lady Isabel quitted her, and burst into tears.
CHAPTER II.
FRANCIS LEVISON.
MR. CARLYLE and Lady Isabel, with Wilson and Peter in attendance,
arrived at Boulogne, and proceeded to the Hôtel des Bains. It may
be as well to mention that Peter had been transferred from Miss
Carlyle's service to theirs, when the establishment was first formed at
East Lynne. Upon entering the hotel, they inquired for Mrs. Ducie,
and then a disappointment awaited them. A letter was handed to them,
which had arrived that morning from Mrs. Ducie, expressing her regret
that certain family arrangements prevented her visiting Boulogne ; she
was proceeding to some of the baths in Germany instead.
"I might almost have known it,” remarked Isabel. “She was
always the most changeable of women.”
Mr. Carlyle proposed that they should, after all, go on to Trouville,
but Isabel said now that she had come to Boulogne, she would stay
there. He went out in search of lodgings, Isabel objecting to remain
in the bustling hotel. He succeeded in finding some excellent ones
in the Rue de l'Ecu, near the port, and they moved into them. He
thought the journey had done her good, for she looked better, and
said she already felt stronger. Mr. Carlyle remained with her three
days; he had promised only one, but he was pleased with Isabel's
returning glimpses of health, and amused with the scenes of the busy
town.
“I shall make no acquaintances here," Isabel observed to him, as
they sat together at the end of the first division of the pier, which she
had reached without much fatigue, and watched the gay idlers flocking
past them.
“It would not be wise to do so indiscriminately,” he replied, "but
you may chance to find some you know. All sorts of people come
over here : some respectable, and from respectable motives ; others
the contrary. Some of these men, going by now, are here because
they have kites flying in England.”
"Kites !” echoed Lady Isabel.
“Kites, and bills, and ghosts of renewed acceptances," returned Mr.
Carlyle. “And well for them if they are over here for nothing else.
The worse a man's conduct has been at home, the more assurance he
puts on abroad, and is the first to rush and proclaim his arrival at the
consulate. To hear these men boast, we might think they were
millionaires in England, and had led the lives of saints.”


152
EAST LYNNE.
“ You have never stayed in these continental towns, Archibald : how
do you know this?”
"I have had plenty to do with those who have stayed in them.
There goes Buxton !” he suddenly exclaimed ; "he sees me, too.
Look at him, Isabel. He does not know whether to come on, or to
turn and make a run for it.”
“Who? Which ?” cried Isabel, confused by the many passers by.
“That stout, well-dressed man, with the light hair, and a bunch of
seals hanging to his watch-chain. He thinks better of it, and comes
on. All safe, my good sir, on Boulogne pier, but if they catch you on
the other side the water. Here comes his wife, following with some
ladies. Look at her satins, and her chains, and her bracelets—all
swindled out of credulous tradespeople. There's not a doubt they are
playing at being grand people in the English society here. It must be
as good as a comedy to be behind the scenes in this Anglo-French
town, and watch the airs and graces of some of its sojourners. Are
you tired, Isabel ?”
“A little. I should like to return."
Mr. Carlyle rose, and giving his arm to his wife, they walked slowly
down the pier. Many an eye was turned to look at them ; at his tali,
noble form; at her young beauty ; at the unmistakable air of distinc-
tion which enshrined both. They were not like the ordinary visitors
at Boulogne-sur-Mer.
The tide served at eight o'clock the following morning, and Mr.
Carlyle left by the Folkestone boat. Wilson made his breakfast, and
after swallowing it in haste, he returned to his wife's room to say
farewell.
“Good-bye, my love,” he said, stooping to kiss her. “Take care of
yourself.”
“ Give my dear love to the darlings, Archibald. And-and- "
“And what ? ” he asked. “I have not a moment to lose.”
“Do not get making love to Barbara Hare while I am away.”
She spoke in a tone half jest, half serious—could he but have seen
how her heart was beating! Mr. Carlyle took it wholly as a jest, and
went away laughing. Had he believed she was serious, he could have
been little more surprised had she charged him not to go about the
country on a dromedary.
Isabel rose later, and lingered listlessly over her breakfast. She was
wondering how she could pass away the next few weeks : what she
should do with her time. She had taken two sea-baths since her
arrival, but they had appeared not to agree with her, leaving her low and
shivering afterwards, so that it was not thought advisable to attempt
any more. It was a lovely morning, and she determined to venture
on to the pier, where they had been the previous evening. She had not
Mr. Carlyle's arm, but it was not far, and she could take a long rest at
the end of it.
She went, attended by Peter, took her seat, and told him to come
for hei in an hour. She watched the strollers on the pier ; not in
crowds now, but stragglers, coming on at intervals. There came a
gouty man, in a list shoe ; there came three young ladies and their
governess ; there came two fast puppies in shooting-jackets and eye-


FRANCIS LEVISON.
153
glasses, which they turned with a broad stare on Lady Isabel ; but
there was something about her which caused them to drop their
glasses and their ill manners together. After an interval, there
appeared another; a tall, handsome, gentlemanly man. Her eyes fell
upon him ; and—what was it that caused every nerve in her frame to
vibrate, every pulse to quicken? Whose form was it that was thus
advancing, and changing the monotony of her mind into tumult ?
It was that of one who, she was soon to find, had never been entirely
forgotten.
Captain Levison came slowly on, approaching the part of the pier
where she sat. He glanced at her, not with the hardihood displayed
by the two young men, but with quite sufficiently evident admiration.
" What a lovely girl !” thought he to himself. “Who can she be,
sitting there alone?” All at once a recollection flashed into his mind :
he raised his hat and extended his hand, his fascinating smile in full play.
“I certainly cannot be mistaken. Have I not the honour of once
more meeting Lady Isabel Vane?"
She allowed him to take her hand, answering a few words at
random, for her wits seemed to have gone wool-gathering.
“I beg your pardon-I should have said Lady Isabel Carlyle. Time
has elapsed since we parted, and in the pleasure of seeing you again
so unexpectedly, I thought of you as you were then.”
She sat down again, the brilliant flush of emotion dying away on
her cheeks. It was the loveliest face Francis Levison had seen since
he had last seen hers, and he thought so as he gazed at it.
“What can have brought you to this place ?” he inquired, taking a
seat by her.
“I have been ill, she explained, “and am ordered to the seaside.
We should not have come here but for Mrs. Ducie; we expected to
meet her. Mr. Carlyle only left me this morning."
“Mrs. Ducie is off to Ems. I see them occasionally. They have
been fixtures in Paris for some time. You do indeed look ill !” he
abruptly added, in a tone of sympathy; "alarmingly ill. Is there any-
thing I can do for you?”
She was aware that she looked unusually ill at that moment, for
the agitation and surprise of meeting him were fading away, leaving
her face of an ashy whiteness. She was exceedingly vexed and angry
with herself, that meeting him should have had power to call forth
emotion. Until that moment she was unconscious that she retained
any sort of feeling for Captain Levison.
“Perhaps I have ventured out too early,” she said, in a tone that
would seem to apologize for her looks ; “I think I will return. I shall
meet my servant, no doubt. Good morning, Captain Levison.”
“But indeed you do not appear fit to walk alone,” he remonstrated.
“You must allow me to see you safely home.”
Drawing her hand within his arm quite as a matter of course, as he
had done many a time in the days gone by, he proceeded to assist her
down the pier. Lady Isabel, conscious of her own feelings, felt that it
was not quite the thing to walk thus familiarly with him, but he was a
sort of relative of the family—a connection at any rate, and she could
find no ready excuse for declining.


154
EAST LYNNE.
“ Have you seen Lady Mount Severn lately ?” he inquired.
“I saw her when I was in London this spring with Mr. Carlyle. The
first time we have met since my marriage : we do not correspond. Lord
Mount Severn has paid us some visits at East Lynne. They are in
town yet, I believe."
"For all I know, I have not seen them, or England either, for ten
months. I have been staying in Paris, and got here yesterday.”
“A long leave of absence," she observed.
“Oh, I have left the army. I sold out. The truth is, Lady Isabel
--for I don't mind telling you—things are rather down with me at
present. My old uncle has behaved shamefully : he has married
again.”
" I heard that Sir Peter had married.”
“He is seventy-three-the old simpleton! Of course this materially
alters my prospects, for it is just possible he may have a son of his
own now; and my creditors all came down upon me. They allowed
me to run into debt with complacency when I was heir to the title
and estates, but as soon as Sir Peter's marriage appeared in the papers,
myself and my consequence dropped a hundred per cent.; credit was
stopped, and I was dunned for payment. So I sold out and came
abroad."
“ Leaving your creditors behind you ?”
“What else could I do? My uncle would not pay them, or increase
my allowance.”
“What are your prospects, then ?” resumed Lady Isabel.
“Prospects? Do you see that little ragged boy, throwing stones into
the harbour ?-it is well if the police don't drop upon him. Ask him
what his prospects are, and he would stare in your face, and say, “None.'
Mine are on a par with his.”
“ You may succeed Sir Peter yet."
“I may : but I may not. When these old idiots marry a young
wife
“Have you quarrelled with Sir Peter ? ” interrupted Lady Isabel.
“I should quarrel with him, as he deserves, if it would do any good :
but I might get my allowance stopped. Self-interest, you see, Lady
Isabel, is the order of the day with most of us."
“Do you purpose staying long in Boulogne ?”
“I don't know. As I may find amusement Paris is a fast capital,
with its heated rooms and its late hours, and I came down for the
refreshment of a few sea-dips. Am I walking too fast for you?”
“You increased your pace alarmingly when you spoke of Zir Peter's
marriage. And I am not sorry for it,” she added, good-naturedly, "for
it has proved to me how strong I am growing. A week ago I could
not have walked so fast."
He interrupted with eager apologies, and soon they reached her home.
Captain Levison entered with her-uninvited. He probably considered
that between connections great ceremony might be dispensed with, and
he sat a quarter of an hour, chatting to amuse her. When he rose, he
inquired what she meant to do with herself in the afternoon.
To lie down,” replied Lady Isabel. “I am not strong enough to
sit up all day.”


FRANCIS LEVISON.
155
“Should you be going out again afterwards, you must allow me to
take care of you,” he observed. “I am glad that I happen to be here,
for I am sure you ought not to wander out only followed by a servant.
When Mr. Carlyle comes, he will thank me for my pains.”
What was shę to urge in objection ? Simply nothing. He spoke,
let us not doubt, from a genuine wish to serve her, in a plain, easy
tone, as any acquaintance might speak. Lady Isabel schooled herself
severely; if those old feelings were not quite dead within her, why, she
must smother them down again as effectually as if they were : the very
fact of recognizing them to her own heart, brought its glow of shame to
her brow. She would meet Captain Levison and suffer his companion-
ship as she would that of the most indifferent stranger.
It was just the wrong way for her to go to work.
As the days passed on, Lady Isabel improved wonderfully. She
was soon able to go to the sands in a morning and sit there to enjoy
the sea-air, watching the waves come up or recede with the tide. She
made no acquaintances whatever in the place, and when she had a com-
panion it was Captain Levison. He would frequently join her there,
sometimes take her, almost always give her his arm home. She disliked
having to take his arm : her conscience whispered it might be better if
she did not do so. One day she said, in a joking sort of manner-she
would not say it in any other—that now she was strong she had no need
of his arm and his escort. He demanded, in evident astonishment,
what had arisen that he might not still afford it, as her husband was
not with her to give her his. She had no answer to give to this, no
excuse to urge, and, in default, took his arm as usual. In the evening,
he was always ready to take her to the pier, but they sat apart, mixing
not with the bustling crowd, he lending to his manner, as he conversed
with her, all that it could call up of fascination-and fascination, such
as Francis Levison's, might be dangerous to any ear in the sweet evening
twilight. The walk over, he left her at her own door. In the evening
she never asked him in, and he did not intrude without permission, as
he sometimes would in a morning.
Now, where was the help for this? You may say that she should
have remained indoors, and not have subjected herself to his com-
panionship. But remaining indoors would not have brought her health,
and it was health that she was staying in Boulogne to acquire, and the
sooner it came the better pleased she would be, for she winted to be at
home with her husband and children.
In a fortnight from the period of his departure, Mr. Carlyle was
expected in Boulogne. But what a marvellous change had this fort-
night wrought in Lady Isabel ! She did not dare to analyze her feelings,
but she was conscious that ail the fresh emotions of her youth had come
again. The blue sky seemed of the clearest sapphire, the fields and the
waving trees were emerald, the perfume of the flowers was more fragrant
than any perfume had yet seemed. She knew that all these things were
only as they had ever been ; and she knew that the change, the sensa-
tion of ecstasy, was in her own heart. No wonder that she shrank from
self-examination.
The change from listless langour to her present feelings brought
the hue and contour of health to her face far sooner than anything


156
EAST LYNNE.
else could have done. She went down with Captain Levison to meet
Mr. Carlyle the evening he came in, and when Mr. Carlyle saw her
behind the cords, as he was going to the custom-house, he scarcely
knew her. Her features had lost their sharpness, her cheeks wore a
rosy flush, and the light of pleasure at meeting him again shone in her
eyes.
“What can you have been doing to yourself, my darling ?” he
uttered in delight, as he emerged from the custom-house and took her
hands in his. “You look almost well.”
“Yes, I am much better, Archibald, but I am warm now and flushed.
We have waited here some time; and the setting sun was full upon us.
How long the boat was coming in.”
“ The wind was dead against us,” replied Mr. Carlyle, wondering
who the exquisite was, at his wife's side. He thought he remembered
his face.
“ Captain Levison," said Lady Isabel. “I wrote you word in one of
my letters that he was here. Have you forgotten it?" Yes, it had
slipped from his memory.
"And I am pleased that it happened to be so," said that gentleman,
interposing," for it has enabled me to attend Lady Isabel in some of
her walks. She is stronger now, but at first she was unfit to venture
out alone.”
“I feel much indebted to you,” said Mr. Carlyle, warmly.
Lady Isabel had taken her husband's arm, and Francis Levison
walked by the side of Mr. Carlyle. “To tell you the truth,” he said,
dropping his voice so that it reached only Mr. Carlyle's ear, “when I
met Lady Isabel, I was shocked to see her. I thought her days were
numbered ; that a very short period must close them. I therefore
considered it a bounden duty to render her any slight service that might
be in my power.”
“I am sure she has been obliged for your attention," responded Mr.
Carlyle. “And as to her visible improvement, it seems little short of
a miracle. I expected, from Lady Isabel's letters to me, to find her
better, but she is more than better ; she looks well. Do you hear,
Isabel ? I say a miracle must have been wrought, to bring back your
bloom, for a fortnight's space of time could scarcely have done it.
This must be a famous air for invalids.”
The bloom that Mr. Carlyle spoke of deepened to a glowing crimson
as she listened. She knew-and she could not stifle the knowledge,
however she might wish to do so-that it was not the place or the sea-
air which had renovated her heart and her countenance. But she
clasped her husband's arm the closer, and inwardly prayed for strength
and power to thrust away from her this dangerous foe, that was creeping
on in guise so insidious.
“ You have not said a word to me about the children," exclaimed
Lady Isabel, as she and her husband entered their rooms, Francis
Levison not having been invited to enter. “Did they all send me
some kisses ? Did Archie send me any ? :)
Mr. Carlyle laughed : he was not a mother, he was only a father.
Archie, with his year of age, send kisses !
“ Had you been away, as I am, he should have sent some to you,"


FRANCIS LEVISON.
157
murmured Lady Isabel. “I would have taken a thousand from him,
and told him they were for papa.”
“ I will take a thousand back to him," answered Mr. Carlyle, folding
his wife to his heart. “My dearest, the sight of you has made me
glad.”
The following day was Sunday, and Francis Levison was asked to
dine with them : the first meal he had been invited to in the house.
After dinner, when Lady Isabel left them, he grew confidential with
Mr. Carlyle; laying open all his intricate affairs and his cargo of
troubles.
“This compulsory exile abroad is becoming intolerable,” he con-
cluded ; "and a Paris life plays the very deuce with one. Do you see
any chance of my getting back to England ?”
“Not the least," was the candid answer ;“ unless you can manage to
satisfy; or partially satisfy, these claims you have been telling me of.
Will not Sir Peter assist you ?”
“I believe he would were the case fairly represented to him ; but
how am I to get over to do it? I have written several letters to him
lately, and for some time I had no reply. Then came an epistle from
Lady Levison ; not short and sweet, but short and sour. It was to
the effect that Sir Peter was ill, and could not at present be troubled
with business matters."
“He cannot be very ill,” remarked Mr. Carlyle. “He passed through
West Lynne in his open carriage a week ago."
“He ought to help me,” grumbled Captain Levison. “I am his heir,
so long as Lady Levison does not give him one. I do not hear that
she has expectations."
“ You should contrive to see him."
“I know I should : but it is not possible, under present circum-
stances. With these thunder-clouds hanging over me, I dare not set
foot in England, and run the risk of being dropped upon. I can stand
a few things, but I shudder at the bare idea of a prison. Something
peculiar in my idiosyncrasy I take it, for those who have tried it say
that it's nothing when you're used to it.”
“Some one might see him for you.”
“Some one !-who? I have quarrelled with my lawyers, Sharp and
Steel, of Lincoln's Inn."
“ Keen practitioners," put in Mr. Carlyle.
"Too keen for me. I'd send them over the herring-pond if I could.
They have used me shamefully since my uncle's marriage. If ever I
do come into the Levison estates, they'll be ready to eat their ears off.
They would like a finger in the pie with such a property as that.”
“Shall I see Sir Peter Levison for you ? "
“Will you ?” returned Captain Levison, his dark eyes lighting up.
“ If you like ; as your friend, you understand, not as your solicitor :
that I should decline. I have a slight knowledge of Sir Peter ; my
father was well acquainted with him : and if I can render you any
little service, I shall be happy to do so, in return for your attetion to
my wife. I cannot promise to see him for these two or three weeks,”
resumed Mr. Carlyle, “for we are terribly busy. Otherwise I should
be staying here with my wife.”


158
EAST LYNNE.
Francis Levison expressed his gratitude, and the prospect, however
remote, of being enabled to return to England, increased his spirits to
exultation. Whilst they continued to converse, Lady Isabel sat at the
window in the adjoining room, listlessly looking out on the French,
who were crowding to and from the port in their Sunday attire : look-
ing at them with her eyes, not with her senses ; her senses were holding
commune with herself, and it was not altogether satisfactory. She was
aware that a sensation all too warm, a feeling of attraction towards
Francis Levison, was working within her ; not a voluntary one ; she
could no more repress it than she could repress her own sense of
being; and, mixed with it was the stern voice of conscience, over-
whelming her with the most lively terror. She would have given
all she possessed to be able to overcome it ; she would have given
half the years of her future life to separate herself at once and for ever
from the man.
But, do not mistake the word terror ; or suppose that Lady Isabel
Carlyle applied it here in the vulgar acceptation of the term. She did
not fear for herself ; none.could be more securely conscious of their
own rectitude of principle and conduct : and she would have believed
it as impossible for her ever to forsake her duty as a wife, a gentle-
woman, and a Christian, as for the sun to turn from the west to the
east. That was not the fear which possessed her ; it had never
presented itself to her mind. What she did fear was, that further com-
panionship, especially lonely companionship, with Francis Levison
might increase the sentiments she entertained for him to a height, that
her life, for perhaps years to come, would be one of unhappiness and
concealment. More than all, she shrank from the consciousness of the
bitter wrong that these sentiments cast upon her husband.
“Archibald, I have a favour to ask you,” she timidly began, as they
sat together after Captain Levison's departure. “You must promise
to grant it me.”
"What is it?"
“But that is not promising."
“I will grant it, Isabel ; if it be in my power.”
“I want you to remain with me for the rest of the time that I must
stay here."
Mr. Carlyle looked at her in surprise. “My dear, how could you
think of wishing anything so unlikely? It is circuit time.”
“Oh, Archibald, you must remain."
“I wish I could : but it is impossible ; you must know it to be so,
Isabel. A few weeks later in the year, and I could have stayed the
whole time with you. As it is I did not know how to get away for
these two or three days."
“And you go back to morrow ?”
“ Necessity has no law, my darling.”
“ Then take me with you.”
Mr. Carlyle smiled. ""No, Isabel : not while I find the change is
doing you so much good. I took these rooms for six weeks ; you
must remain certainly until the end of the term, if not longer.”
The colour came flowing painfully into her cheek. “I cannot stay
without you, Archibald.”


QUITTING THE DANGER.
159
“ Tell me why," smiled Mr. Carlyle.
Tell him why! “I am so dull without you," was the best argument
she could offer; but her voice faltered, for she felt that it would not be
listened to.
Neither was it. Mr. Carlyle left the following day, and when he
was departing, commended his wife to the further attention of Captain
Levison. Not the faintest suspicion that it might be unwise to do so
ever crossed his mind. How should it? Perfectly correct and honoui-
able himself, it never occurred to him that Captain Levison might be
less so. And as to his wife—he would fearlessly have left her alone
with him, or with any one else, on a desert island, so entire was his
confidence in her.
CHAPTER III.
QUITTING THE DANGER.
LADY ISABEL was seated on one of the benches of the Petit Camp, as
it is called, under the ramparts of the upper town. A week or ten days
had passed away since the departure of Mr. Carlyle, and in her health
there was a further visible improvement. In her strength, the change
was almost beyond credence. She had walked from her home to the
cemetery, had lingered there, reading the inscriptions on the English
graves, and now on her departure sat down to rest ; tired, it must be
owned, but not much more so than many a lady would be, rejoicing in
rude health. Captain Levison was her companion, as he usually was
in her walks ; shake him off she could not. She had attempted a few
stratagems; going out at unusual hours, or choosing unfrequented
routes ; but he was sure to trace her steps and come upon her. Isabel
thought he must watch her ; probably he did so. She would not take
more decided steps, or say to him, you shall not join me; he might
have asked for an explanation, and Isabel, in her conscious state of
feeling, avoided that above all things. It will be only for a little time,
she reflected ; I shall soon be gone, and leave him, I hope, for ever.
But meanwhile, she felt that this prolonged intercourse with him was
bearing fruit ; that her cheek blushed at his approach, her heart beat
with something too like rapture. She tried to suppress it. Why did
she not try to arrest the breeze as it filled the sails of the passing
vessels? It would not have been a more hopeless task.
It was a still evening, cool for July. No sound was heard save the
hum of the summer insects, and Lady Isabel sat in silence with her
companion, her rebellious heart beating with a sense of its own hap-
piness. But for the voice of conscience, strong within her ; but for
the sense of right and wrong ; but for existing things; in short, but
that she was a wife, she might have been content so to sit by his side
for ever, never to wish to move, or to break the silence. Did he read
her feelings? He told her, months afterwards, that he did so : but it
might have been only a vain boast.
“Do you remember the evening, Lady Isabel, just such a one as
heat she wever tole tol


QUITTING THE DANGER.
161
current of feeling, whispering that under other auspices the avowal
would have brought to her heart the most intense bliss.
“What I have said can do no harm now," resumed Captain Levison ;
“the time has gone by for it; for neither you nor I are likely to forget
that you are a wife. We have each chosen our path in life, and must
abide by it; the gulf between us is impassable ; but the fault was mine.
I ought to have avowed my affection, and not have suffered you to
throw yourself away upon Mr. Carlyle.”
“Throw myself away !" she indignantly uttered, roused to the retort.
“Mr. Carlyle is my dear husband ; esteemed, respected, beloved. I
married him of my own free choice, and I have never repented it. I
have grown more attached to him day by day. Look at his noble
nature, his noble form : what are you by his side? You forget your-
self, Francis Levison.”
He bit his lips. “No, I do not.”
“You are talking to me as you have no right to talk,” she exclaimed
in her agitation. “Who, but you, would so insult me, or take advan-
tage of my momentarily unprotected condition ? Would you dare to
do it, were Mr. Carlyle within reach ? I wish you good evening, sir.”
She walked away as quickly as her tired fraine would permit.
Captain Levison strode after her. He took forcible possession of her
hand, and placed it within his arm.
“I pray you forgive and forget what has escaped me, Lady Isabel.
Suffer me to be as before, the kind friend, the anxious brother, endea-
vouring to be of service to you in the absence of Mr. Carlyle.”
“ It is what I have suffered you to be, looking upon you as--I may
say—a relative," she coldly rejoined, withdrawing her hand from his
contact. “Not else should I have permitted your incessant companion-
ship : and this is how you have repaid it! My husband thanked you
for your attention to me; could he have read what was in your false
heart, he had offered you a different sort of thanks, I fancy.”
“I ask you for pardon, Lady Isabel ; I have acknowledged my fault ;
and I can do no more. I will not so offend again; but there are
moments when our dearest feelings break through the rules of life, and
betray themselves, in spite of our sober judgment. Suffer me to
support you down this steep hill,” he added, for they were then going
over the sharp stones of the Grand'Rue ; "you are not strong enough
to proceed alone, after this evening's long walk.”
" You should have thought of that before," she said, some sarcasm in
her tone. “No. I have declined.”
So he had to put his arm back, which he was holding out, and she
walked on unsupported, with what strength she had, he continuing to
walk by her side. Arrived at her own door, she wished him a cold
good evening, and he turned away in the direction of his hotel.
Lady Isabel brushed past Peter, and flew upstairs, startling Wilson,
who had taken possession of the drawing-room to air her smart cap at
its windows in the absence of her lady.
“My desk, Wilson, immediately,” cried she, tearing off her gloves,
her bonnet, and her shawl. “Tell Peter to be in readiness to take a
letter to the post; and he must walk fast, or he will not catch it before
the English mail is closed.”
Last wyou.


162
EAST LYNNE..
The symptoms of sinful happiness throbbing at her heart, while
Francis Levison told her of his love, spoke plainly to Lady Isabel of
the expediency of withdrawing entirely from his society and his dan-
gerous sophistries. She would go away from the very place that
contained him ; put the sea between them. So she dashed off a letter
to her husband; an urgent summons that he should come for her
without delay, for, remain away longer, she would not. It is probable
that she would have started alone, without waiting for Mr. Carlyle, but
for the fear of not having sufficient funds for the journey, after the rent
and other things were paid.
Mr. Carlyle, when he received the letter and marked its earnest
tone, wondered much. In reply, he stated he would be with her on
the following Saturday, and then her returning, or not, with him could
be settled. Fully determined not to meet Captain Levison again,
Isabel, in the intervening days, only went out in a carriage. He called
once, and was shown into the drawing-room : but Lady Isabel, who
happened to be in her own chamber, sent out a message, which was
delivered by Peter. “My lady's compliments, but she must decline to
receive visitors.”
Sunday morning—it had been impossible for him to get away before
-brought Mr. Carlyle. He strongly combated her wish to return
home until the six weeks should have expired ; he almost said he would
not take her ; and she grew earnest over it, almost to agitation.
“ Isabel,” he said, “let me know your motive, for it appears to me
that you have one. The sojourn here is evidently doing you a great
deal of good, and what you urge about being dull' sounds very like
nonsense. Tell me what it is.”
A sudden impulse flashed over her that she would tell him the
truth. Not tell him that she loved Francis Levison, or that he had
spoken to her as he did : she valued her husband too greatly to draw
him into any unpleasantness of which the end could not be seen ; but
own to him that she had once felt a passing fancy for Francis Levison,
and preferred not to be subjected to his companionship now. Oh,
that she had done so ! her kind, her noble, her judicious husband !
Why did she keep silence ? The whole truth, as to her present
feelings, it was not expedient that she should tell, but she might
have confided sufficient to him. He would only have cherished her
the more deeply, and sheltered her under his fostering care, safe from
harm.
Why did she not speak? In the impulse of the moment she was
about to do so, when Mr. Carlyle, who had been taking a letter from
his pocket-book, put it into her hand. Upon such slight threads do
the events of life turn! Her thoughts diverted, she remained silent
while she opened the letter. It was from Miss Carlyle, who had
handed it to her brother in the moment of his departure, to carry to
Lady Isabel and save postage. Mr. Carlyle had nearly dropped it
into the Folkestone post-office.
A letter as stiff as Miss Corny herself. The children were well, and
the house was going on well, and she hoped Lady Isabel was better.
It filled three sides of note-paper, but that was all the news it con-
tained, and it wound up with the following sentence : “ I would


QUITTING THE DANGER.
163
continue my epistle, but Barbara Hare, who is to spend the day witis
us, has just arrived.”
Barbara Hare spending the day at East Lynne! That item was
quite enough for Lady Isabel ; and her heart and her confidence
closed to her husband. “She must go home to her children,” she
urged ; she could not remain longer away from them ; and she urged
it at length with tears.
“Nay, Isabel,” said Mr. Carlyle ; " if you are so much in earnest as
this, you shall certainly go back with me.”
Then she was as a child let loose from school. She laughed ; she
danced in her excess of content ; she showered kisses on her husband,
thanking him in her happy gratitude. Mr. Carlyle set it down to her
love for him ; he arrived at the conclusion that, in reiterating that she
could not bear to be away from him, she spoke the fond truth.
“ Isabel,” he said, smiling tenderly upon her, “ do you remember, in
the first days of our marriage, you told me you did not love me, but
that the love would come? I think this is it."
Her face flushed nearly to tears at the word ; a bright, glowing, all
too conscious flush. Mr. Carlyle mistook its source, and caught her
to his heart.
One day more, and then they—she and that man-shoula be sepa-
rated by the broad sea. The thought caused her to lift up her heart
in thankfulness. She knew tha: to leave him would be as though she
left the sun behind her ; that the other side might for a time be some-
what dreary; nevertheless, she fervently thanked Heaven. Oh,
reader ! never doubt the principles of poor Lady Isabel, her rectitude
of mind, her wish and endeavour to do right, her abhorrence of wrong ;
her spirit was earnest and true, her intentions were pure.
Captain Levison paid a visit to Mr. Carlyle, and inquired if he had
had time to see Sir Peter. Not yet ; Mr. Carlyle had been too busy
to think of it ; but he should soon have more leisure on his hands, and
would not fail him. Such was the reply; the reply of an honourable
man to a man of dishonour : but, of the dishonour, Mr. Carlyle sus-
pected nothing. .
It was high water in the afternoon, and the Folkestone boat was an-
nounced to start at one o'clock. The Carlyles and their servants went
on board in good time, and Captain Levison greeted them and said fare-
well as they stepped on to the steamer. Lady Isabel took her seat on
deck, her husband standing by her; the ropes were unloosened, and
the boat moved slowly down the harbour. On the shore stood Francis
Levison, watching its progress, watching her. He was a bold, unscrupu-
lous man; and there was little doubt that the more refined feelings, both
of the past and present, he had thought fit to avow for Lady Isabel,
were all assumed to serve a purpose. However, he had received his
checkmate.
As he receded from Isabel's view, a sensation of relief thrilled through
her whole frame, causing it to shudder, and involuntarily she clasped
the hand of Mr. Carlyle.
“You are not cold, Isabel ?” he said, bending over her.
“Oh no: I am very comfortable ; very happy."
“But you were surely shivering ?”


164
EAST LYNNE.
“At the thought of what I should have done with myself, had you
come away, and left me there still, all alone. Archibald,” she continued
in an impassioned whisper, "never let me go away from you again ;
keep me near you always."
He smiled as he looked down into her pleading eyes, and a whole
world of tender response and love might be detected in his earnest tone.
“ Always and always, Isabel. It is greater pain to me than to you, to
have you away from me."
How could she ever doubt him?
CHAPTER IV.
THE FRACTURED ANKLE.
LADY ISABEL had returned home to health, to the delight of meeting
her children, to the glad sensation of security. But, as the days went
on, a miserable feeling of apathy stole over her: a feeling as if all whom
she had loved in the world had died, leaving her living and alone. It
was a painful depression, this vacuum in her heart which was making
itself felt in its keen intensity. She strove to drive that bad man away
from her thoughts ; but even while she so strove, he was again in them.
Too frequently she caught herself thinking that if she could only see
him once again, for ever so short a period, one hour, one day, she could
compose her spirit afterwards to rest. She did not encourage these
reflections : from what you know of her, you may be sure of that : but
they thrust themselves continually forward. The form of Francis
Levison was ever present with her; not a minute of the day but it gave
the colouring to her thoughts, and at night it made the subject of her
dreams. Oh, those dreams! they were painful to awake from ; painful
from the contrast they presented to reality ; and equally painful to her
conscience, in its striving after what was right. She would have given
much not to have these dreams ; never to see or think of him in her
sleep. But, how prevent it? There was no prevention ; for when the
mind (or the imagination, if you prefer the word) is thoroughly imbued
with a subject of this nature, especially if unhappiness mingles with it,
then the dreams follow necessarily the bent of the waking thoughts.
Poor Lady Isabel would awaken to self-reproach, restless and feverish;
wishing that this terrible disease could be driven away, root and branch :
but Time, the great healer, must, she knew, pass over her, before that
could be.
Mr. Carlyle mounted his horse one morning and rode over to Levison
Park. He asked for Sir Peter, but was shown into the presence of Lady
Levison : a young and pretty woman, showily dressed. She inquired
his business.
“ My business, madam, is with Sir Peter."
“But Sir Peter is not well enough to attend to business. It upsets
him ; worries him.”
“Nevertheless, I am here by his own appointment. He mentioned
twelve o'clock ; and the hour has barely struck.”
Lady Levison bit her lip and bowed coldly ; and at that moment a


THE FRACTURED ANKLE.
165
servant appeared to conduct Mr. Carlyle to Sir Peter. The matter
which had taken Mr. Carlyle thither was entered upon immediately-
Francis Levison, his debts, and his gracelessness. Sir Peter, an old
gentleman in a velvet skull-cap, particularly enlarged upon the latter.
“I would pay his debts to-day and set him upon his legs again, but
that I know I should have to do the same thing over and over again to
the end of the chapter-as I have done before," cried Sir Peter. “His
grandfather was my only brother, his father my dutiful and beloved
nephew; but he is just as bad as they were estimable. He is a worth-
less fellow, and nothing else, Mr. Carlyle.”
“His tale drew forth my compassion, and I promised I would see
you and speak for him," returned Mr. Carlyle. “Of Captain Levison's
personal virtues or vices I know nothing."
“And the less you know of them the better,” growled Sir Peter. “I
suppose he wants me to clear him and start him afresh ?”
* Something of the sort, I conclude."
“But how is it to be done? I am at home, and he is over there. His
affairs are in a state of confusion, and no one can come to the bottom
of them without an explanation from him. Certain liabilities, for which
I have furnished the money, the creditors swear have not yet been
liquidated. He must come over if he wants anything done.”
“Where is he to come to? He must be in England sub rosa."
“He can't be here,” hastily rejoined Sir Peter. “ Lady Levison would
not have him for a day."
“He might be at East Lynne,” good-naturedly observed Mr. Carlyle.
“No one would dream of looking for him there. I think it is a pity that
you should not meet, if you do feel inclined to help him.”
- “You are a great deal more considerate to him than he deserves,
Mr. Carlyle. May I ask if you intend to act for him in a professional
capacity?"
"I do not.”
A few more words, and it was decided that Captain Levison should
be immediately sent for. As Mr. Carlyle left Sir Peter's presence, he
encountered Lady Levison.
“I can scarcely be ignorant that your conference with my husband
has reference to his grand-nephew," she observed.
“It has,” replied Mr. Carlyle.
“I have a very bad opinion of him, Mr. Carlyle : at the same time
I do not wish you to carry away a wrong impression of me. Francis
Levison is my husband's nephew, his heir presumptive ; it may there-
fore appear strange that I set my face so determinedly against him.
Two or three years ago, before my marriage with Sir Peter, in fact
before I knew Sir Peter, I was brought into contact with Francis
Levison. He was acquainted with some friends of mine, and at their
house I met him. He behaved shamefully ill; he repaid their hos-
pitality with gross ingratitude : other details and facts, regarding his
conduct, also became known to me. Altogether, I believe him to be
a base and despicable man, both by nature and by inclination, and
that he will remain so to the end of time.”
“I know very little indeed of him," observed Mr. Carlyle. “May I
inquire the nature of his ill conduct in the instance you mention ? "


166
EAST LYNNE.
“He ruined them. He ruined them, Mr. Carlyle. They were
simple, unsuspicious country people, understanding neither fraud nor
vice, nor the ways of an evil world. Francis Levison persuaded them
to put their names to bills, as a simple matter of form, to accommo-
date him for a month or so,' as he stated, and as they believed. They
were not rich : they lived in comfort upon their own small estate, but
with no superfluous money to spare, and when the time came for them
to pay-as come it did—it brought them ruin, and they had to leave
their home. He deliberately did it: I am certain that Francis Levison
deliberately did it, knowing what would be the end. And I could tell
you of other things. Sir Peter may have informed you that I object
to receive him here. I do. My objection is to the man, to his
character ; not owing, as I hear it has been said, to any jealous or
paltry feeling touching his being the heir. I must lose my own self-
respect before I admit Francis Levison to my house, an inmate. Sir
Peter may assist him and welcome, may pay his debts and get him
out of his scrapes as often as he pleases ; but I will not have him
here."
“Sir Peter said you declined to receive him. But it is necessary he
should come to England-if his affairs are to be set straight-and also
that he should see Sir Peter."
“ Come to England ?" interrupted Lady Levison. “How can he
come to England under present circumstances ? Unless, indeed, he
comes en cachette.”
“En cachette, of course," replied Mr. Carlyle. “There is no other
way. I have offered to let him stay at East Lynne. He is, you may
be aware, a connection of Lady Isabel's.”
“Take care that he does not repay your hospitality wich ingratitude,"
warmly returned Lady Levison. “ It would only be in accordance
with his usual practice.”
Mr. Carlyle laughed. “I do not well see what harm he could do
me, allowing that he had the inclination. He would not scare my
clients from me; or beat my children ; and I can take care of my
purse. A few days, no doubt, will be the extent of his sojourn with us."
Lady Levison smiled too, and shook hands with Mr. Carlyle. “In
your house perhaps there may be no field for his vagaries; but rely
upon it, where there is one, he is sure to be at some mischief or
other.”
This visit of Mr. Carlyle's to Levison Park took place on a Friday
morning, and on his return to his office he despatched an account of
it to Captain Levison at Boulogne, telling him to come over. But Mr.
Carlyle, like many another man whose brain has its share of work,
was sometimes forgetful of trifles, and it quite slipped his memory
to mention the expected arrival at home. The following evening,
Saturday, he and Lady Isabel were dining in the neighbourhood,
when the conversation at table turned upon the Ducies and their
embarrassments. The association of ideas led Mr. Carlyle's thoughts
to Boulogne, to Captain Levison and his embarrassments, and it
immediately occurred to him that he had not told his wife of the
anticipated visit. He kept it in mind, and spoke as soon as they were
in the chariot returning home.


THE FRACTURED ANKLE.
167
“ Isabel,” he began, “I suppose we have always rooms ready for
visitors. Because I am expecting one."
“ Oh yes. Or, if not, they are soon made ready.”
“Ay, but to-morrow is Sunday, and I have no doubt that is the
day he will take advantage of to come. I am sorry I forgot to mention
it yesterday."
“Who is coming ?”
“ Captain Levison."
“Who?” repeated Lady Isabel in a sharp tone of consternation.
“ Captain Levison. Sir Peter consents to see him, with a view to
the settlement of his liabilities, but Lady Levison declines to receive
him at the park. So I offered to give him house room at East Lynne
for a few days."
There is an old saying about the heart leaping into the mouth ; and
Lady Isabel's heart leaped into hers. She grew dizzy at the words ;
her senses seemed for the moment to desert her : her first sensation
was as if the dull earth had opened and shown her a way to paradise ;
her second was a lively consciousness that Francis Levison ought not
to be suffered to come again into companionship with her. Mr. Car-
lyle continued to converse of the man's embarrassments, of his own
interview with Sir Peter, of Lady Levison; but Isabel was as one who
heard not. She was debating the question, how could she prevent his
coming ?
"Archibald,” she presently said, “I do not wish Francis Levison to
stay at East Lynne."
" It will only be for a few days; perhaps only a day or two. Sir
Peter is in the humour to discharge his claims; and, the moment his
resolve is known, the ex-captain may walk her Majesty's dominions,
an unmolested man; free to go where he will."
“That may be,” interrupted Lady Isabel, in an accent of impatience,
" but why should he come to our house ?”
“I proposed it myself. I had no idea you would dislike his coming.
Why should you ?"
"I don't like Francis Levison,” she murmured. “That is, I don't
care to have him at East Lynne.”
“My dear, I fear there is no help for it now : he is most likely on
his road, and will arrive to-morrow : I cannot turn him out again, after
my own voluntary invitation. Had I known it would be disagreeable
to you, I should not have proposed it.”
"To-morrow !” she exclaimed, the only word that caught her ear.
“Is he coming to-morrow ?”
“ As it is Sunday, a free day, he will be sure to take advantage of it.
What has he done, tha, you should object to his coming ? You did
not say in Boulogne that you disliked him."
"He has done nothing," was her faltering answer, feeling that her
grounds of opposition must melt under her, one by one.
“Lady Levison appears to possess a very bad opinion of him," re-
sumed Mr. Carlyle." She says she knew him in years gone by. She
mentioned one or two things which, if true, were bad enough : but
possibly she may be prejudiced.”
“She is prejudiced,” said Isabel. “At least, so Francis Levison


168
EAST LYNNE.
told me in Boulogne. There appeared to be no love lost between
them.”
“At any rate, his ill doings or well doings cannot affect us for the
short time he is likely to remain at East Lynne. You have taken a
prejudice against him also, I suppose, Isabel ?”
She suffered Mr. Carlyle to remain in the belief, and sat with clasped
hands and a despairing spirit, feeling that Fate was against her. How
could she accomplish her task of forgetting this man, if he was thus
to be thrown into her home and her companionship? Suddenly she
turned to her husband, and laid her cheek upon his shoulder.
He thought she was tired. He passed his arm round her waist,
drew her face to a more comfortable position, and bent his own lovingly
upon it. It came into her mind as she lay there, to tell him a portion
of the truth, as it had done once before. It was a strong arm of shelter
round her ; a strong pillar of protection, he upon whom she leaned ;
why did she not confide herself to him as trustingly as a little child ?
Simply because her courage failed. Once, twice, the opening words
were upon her lips, but come forth they did not ; and then the carriage
stopped at East Lynne, and the opportunity was over. Oh, how many
a time, in after years, did Lady Isabel recall that midnight drive with
her husband, and wish, in her vain repentance, that she had opened
his eyes to that dangerous man !
The following morning proved a wet one, but it cleared up in the
middle of the day. In the afternoon, however, whilst they were at
church, rain came on again.
“ Cornelia,” whispered Mr. Carlyle, approaching his sister when
service was over, “it is raining heavily : you had better return with us
in the pony carriage. John can walk.”
Not she. Had it poured cats and dogs Miss Carlyle would not have
gone to or from church otherwise than on her legs, and off she started
with her large umbrella. Mr. Carlyle and Isabel soon passed her,
striding along the footpath, some of the servants behind her. Not in
attendance upon Miss Carlyle : she would have scorned such attend-
ance more than she scorned the pony carriage. No matter what might
be the weather, this adventurous lady would be seen pushing through
it ; through the summer's heat, and the winter's snow; through the
soft shower and the impetuous storm ; that great umbrella (it might
have covered a moderate haystack) her almost constant companion,
for Miss Corny was one of those prudent spirits who like to be prepared
for contingencies and to be on the safe side ; those who act up to the
maxim, “ When it's fine take an umbrella ; when it rains, do as you
like.” In fine weather she chose the pathway through the fields, but
not in wet weather, for the damp grass did not agree with her petti-
coats.
Mr. Carlyle had driven through the gates and was winding up the
avenue, when sounds of distress were heard, and they saw little Isabel
flying towards them from the slopes, crying and sobbing in the greatest
agitation. Mr. Carlyle jumped out and met the child.
“Oh, papa, papa ! oh come, pray come! I think she is dead.”
He took the child in his arms to soothe her. “Hush, my little
darling, you will alarm mamma. Don't tremble so. Tell me what it is."


THE FRACTURED ANKLE.
169
Isabel told her tale. She had been a naughty child, she freely con-
fessed, and had run out in the rain for fun because Joyce told her not.
She had run into the wet grass of the park, down the slopes, Joyce
after her. And Joyce had slipped and was lying at the foot of the
slopes with a white face, never moving.
“Take care of her, Isabel," said Mr. Carlyle, placing the agitated
and repentant child by his wife's side. “She says Joyce has fallen by
the slopes. No, do not come : I will go first and see what has
happened.”
Joyce was lying just as she fell, at the foot of the slopes. But her
eyes were open now, and if she had fainted-as might be inferred from
the little girl's words—she had recovered consciousness.
“Oh, sir, don't try to move me! I fear my leg is broken.”
He did, however, essay gently to raise her, but she screamed with
pain, and he found he must wait for assistance. “I trust you are not
much hurt,” he kindly said. “How did it happen?”
“ Miss Isabel ran out, sir, in all the rain and wet, and I went after
her to bring her back again. But the slopes are slippery, and down I
went, and just at first I remembered nothing more.”
Mr. Carlyle despatched John and the pony carriage back for Mr.
Wainwright, and with the aid of the servants, who were soon up from
church, Joyce was carried in, and laid on a bed, dressed as she was.
Mr. Carlyle and Lady Isabel remained with her. Miss Carlyle also
was there, fidgeting and banging about, getting things ready that she
fancied might be wanted, and pressing cordials upon Joyce which the
latter could not take. Miss Carlyle's frame of mind, between sympathy
and anger, was rather an explosive one : altogether, she did more harm
than good. Little Isabel stole in and drew her mother away from the
bed.
“Mamma,” she whispered, “there is a strange gentleman downstairs.
He came in a chaise. He has a portmanteau, and he is asking for you
and papa.”
Lady Isabel turned sick with apprehension. Had he really come ?
“Who is it, Isabel ? ” she said, by way of making some answer : she
guessed only too well.
“I don't know. I don't like him, mamma. He took hold of me and
held me, and there was an ugly look in his eyes.”
“Go round the bed and tell your papa that a stranger is downstairs,”
said Lady Isabel.
“Mamma,” shivered the child, before she stirred to obey, “ will
Joyce die ?”
“No, dear ; I hope not."
“Because you know it will be my fault. Oh, mamma, I am so
sorry! what can I do?"
“Hush! If you sob, it will make Joyce worse. Go and whisper to
papa about the gentleman.”.
“But will Joyce ever forgive me?"
"She has forgiven you already, I am sure, Isabel ; but you must be
all the more obedient to her for the future. Go to papa, my dear, as I
tell you."
The stranger was of course Captain Levison. Mr. Carlyle went


170
EAST LYNNE.
down to receive and entertain him. Lady Isabel did not, the accident
to her maid being put forth as an excuse.
Mr. Wainwright pronounced the injury to be a simple fracture of the
ankle-bone. It might have been much worse, he observed, but Joyce
would be confined to her bed for three or four weeks.
"Joyce," whispered Isabel, “ I'll come and read my Bible-stories to
you always; always and always ; I know mamma will let me, and then
you won't be dull. And there's that beautiful new book of fairy-tales
with the pictures ; you'll like to hear them ; there's about a princess
who was locked up in a castle with nothing to eat."
Joyce faintly smiled, and took the child's eager little hand in hers.
Later in the evening, Isabel and William were in the room with
Mr. Carlyle. “These are fine children," observed Francis Levison.
“Beautiful faces !"
“They resemble their mother much, I think,” was the reply of Mr.
Carlyle. “She was a very lovely child.”
“ Did you know Lady Isabel as a child ?" inquired Francis Levison,
some surprise in his tone.
“I frequently saw her. She used to stay here with Lady Mount
Severn."
“Ah, by the way, this place was Mount Severn's property then.
What a reckless man he was! Young lady, I must take possession of
you," continued Captain Levison, extending his hand and drawing
Ísabel towards him. “You ran away from me when I first came, and
would not tell me what your name was."
“I ran away to tell mamma that you were here. She was with Joyce.”
" Joyce! Who is Joyce ?"
“ Lady Isabel's maid," interposed Mr. Carlyle. “The one to whom,
as I told you, the accident had just happened. A particularly valued
servant in our family, is Joyce."
“It is a curious name,” remarked Captain Levison. “Joyce-Joyce !
I never heard such a name. Is it a Christian or surname?”
“She was baptized Joyce. It is not so very uncommon. Her name
is Jovce Hallijohn. She has been with us several years."
At this moment Isabel, having been trying in vain to escape from
Captain Levison, burst into tears. Mr. Carlyle inquired what was
amiss.
“I don't like him to hold me," was the response of Miss Isabel,
ignoring ceremony.
Captain Levison laughed and held her tighter. But Mr. Carlyle rose,
and with quiet authority drew away the child, and placed her on his
own knee. She hid her face upon him, and put up her little hand
round his neck.
“Papa, I don't like him,” she whispered softly ; “I am afraid of him.
Don't let him take me again."
Mr. Carlyle's only answer was to press her to him. “You are not
accustomed to children, Captain Levison,” he observed. “They are
curious little plants to deal with, capricious and sensitive."
“They must be a great worry," was the rejoinder. “This accident
to your servant must be a serious one. It will confine her to her bed
for some time, I presume ?"


MRS. HARE'S DREAM.
171
“For weeks, the doctor says. And no possibility of her getting up
from it.”
Captain Levison rose, caught hold of William in apparent glee, and
swung him round. Unlike his sister, the boy laughed, and seemed
to enjoy the fun.
CHAPTER V.
.
MRS. HARE'S DREAM.
The next day rose bright, warm, and cloudless, and the morning sun
streamed into the bedroom of Mrs. Hare. That lady lay in bed, a
Aush on her delicate cheeks, and her soft eyes rather glistening, as if
with a touch of fever. The justice, in a cotton nightcap with a tassel,
sat on a chair tying his drawers at the knee, preparatory to inducting
his legs into his pantaloons-if any single damsel in years, who may
read this, will forgive this slight revelation as to the mysteries of a
gentleman's toilette. The pantaloons assumed, and the braces fastened,
the justice threw his nightcap on to the bed and went up to the wash-
stand, where he splashed away for a few minutes at his face and
hands : he never shaved until after breakfast. Mr. and Mrs. Hare were
of the old-fashioned class who knew nothing about dressing-rooms;
their bedroom was very large, and they had never used a dressing-
room in their lives, or found the need of one. The justice rubbed his
face to brilliancy, settled into his morning wig and his dressing-gown,
and then turned to the bed.
“What will you have for breakfast ?”.
“Thank you, Richard, I do not think that I can eat anything. I
shall be glad of my tea; I am very thirsty."
"All nonsense,” responded the justice, alluding to the intimation of
not eating. “Have a poached egg."
Mrs. Hare smiled at him and gently shook her head. “You are
very kind, Richard, but I could not take it this morning. Barbara may
send up the smaliest bit of dry toast.”
“My belief is, that you just give way to this notion of feeling ill,
Anne,” cried the justice. “It's half fancy, I know. If you'd get up
and shake it off, and come down, you would enjoy your breakfast and
be set up for the day. Whereas you lie here, taking nothing but
trashy tea, and get up afterwards weak, shaky, and fit for nothing."
“ It is ever so many weeks, Richard, since I lay in bed to breakfast,"
remonstrated poor Mrs. Hare. “I really don't think I have done so
once, since-since the spring."
“And have been all the better for it."
“But indeed I am not equal to getting up this morning. Would
you please throw this window open before you go down. I should like
to feel the air.”
“You will get the air too near from this window," replied Mr. Justice
Hare, opening the further one. Had his wife requested the further one
to be opened, he would have opened the other ; his own will and
opinions were ever paramount. Then he descended.


172
EAST LYNNE.
A minute or two, and up ran Barbara, looking bright and fair as
the morning, her pink muslin dress with its ribbons and its open white
lace sleeves as pretty as she was. She leaned over to kiss her mother.
Barbara had grown more gentle and tender of late years. The
bitterness of her pain had passed away, leaving all that had been good
in her love to mellow and fertilize her nature. Her character had been
greatly improved by sorrow.
“Mamma, are you ill? And you have been so well lately : you
went to bed so well last night! Papa says--"
“ Barbara, dear,” interrupted Mrs. Hare, glancing round the room
with dread, and speaking in a deep whisper : “ I have had one of those
dreadful dreams again.”
“Oh, mamma, how can you !” exclaimed Barbara, starting up in
vexation. “How can you suffer a foolish dream so to overcome you
as to make you ill ? You have good sense in other matters; but, in
this, you seem to put all sense away from you."
“ Child, will you tell me how I am to help it?" returned Mrs. Hare,
taking Barbara's hand and drawing her to her again. “I do not give
myself these dreams ; I cannot prevent their making me sick, prostrate,
feverish. I was as well yesterday as I could be ; I went to bed quite
comfortable ; in excellent spirits ; I do not know that I had even once
thought of poor Richard during the day. And yet the dream came.
There were no circumstances to lead to or induce it, either in my
thoughts or in absolute facts; but, come it did. How can I help these
things, I ask ? "
“ And it is so long since you had one of these disagreeable dreams!
Why, how long is it, mamma ? "
“So long, Barbara, that the dread of them had nearly left me. I
scarcely think I have had one since that stolen visit of Richard's, years
ago."
“ Was it a very bad dream, mamma?”
“Oh, child, yes. I dreamt that the real murderer came to West
Lynne : that he was with us here, and we
At this moment the bedroom door was Aung open, and the face of
the justice, especially stern and cross, was pushed in. So startled was
Mrs. Hare, that she shook until she shook the pillow, and Barbara
sprang away from the bed. Surely he had not distinguished their
topic of conversation !
" Are you coming to make breakfast to-day, or not, Barbara ? Do
you expect me to make it ?”
“She is coming this instant, Richard,” said Mrs. Hare, her voice
more faint than usual. And the justice turned and stamped down
again.
“ Barbara, could your papa have heard me mention Richard ?”
“ No, no, mamma, impossible ; the door was shut. I will bring up
your breakfast myself, and then you can tell me about the dream."
Barbara flew after Mr. Hare, poured out his coffee, saw him settled
at his breakfast, with a plateful of grouse-pie before him, and then
returned with her mother's tea and dry toast.
“ Go on with the dream, mamma,” she said.
“ But your own breakfast will be cold, child."


MRS. HARE'S DREAM.
173
“Oh, I don't mind that. Did you dream of Richard ?”
“ Not very much of Richard ; except that the old and continuous
trouble, of his being away and unable to return, seemed to follow it
all through. You remember, Barbara, Richard asserted to us, in that
short, hidden night visit, that he did not commit the murder ; that it
was another who did so ?”
“ Yes, I remember," replied Barbara.
“ Barbara, I am convinced he spoke truth : I trust him implicitly."
“I feel sure of it also, mamma."
“I asked him, you may remember, whether it was Otway Bethel
who committed it ; for I have always doubted Bethel in a vague
indefinite manner : Richard replied that it was not Bethel, but a
stranger. Well, Barbara, in my dream I thought that stranger came
to West Lynne ; that he came to this house, here, and we were talking
to him of it, conversing as we might with any other visitor. Mind
you, we seemed to know that he was the one who actually did it ; but
he denied it ; he wanted to put it upon Richard : and I saw him-
yes, I did, Barbara—whisper to Otway Bethel. But oh, I cannot tell
you the sickening horror that was upon me throughout, and seemed
to be upon you also, lest he should make good his own apparent
innocence, and crush Richard, his victim. I think the dread and horror
awoke me.”
“What was this stranger like ? " asked Barbara, in a low tone.
“Well, I cannot quite tell you : the recollection of his appearance
seemed to pass away from me with the dream. He was dressed as a
gentleman, and we conversed with him as an equal."
Barbara's mind was full of Captain Thorn ; but his name had not
been mentioned to Mrs. Hare, neither would she mention it now. She
fell into deep thought, and Mrs. Hare had to speak twice before she
could be aroused.
“ Barbara, I say, don't you think that this dream, coming uncalled-
for, uninduced, must forbode some ill ? Rely upon it, something
connected with that wretched murder is going to be stirred up again.”
“You know, mamma, I do not believe in dreams,” was Barbara's
answer. “I think when people say, 'This dream is a sign of such and
such a thing,' it is the greatest absurdity in the world. I wish you
could remember what the man was like in your dream."
“I wish I could,” answered Mrs. Hare, breaking off a particle of her
dry toast. “All I remember is, that he appeared to be a gentleman.”
“Was he tall ? Had he black hair?"
Mrs. Hare shook her head. “I tell you, my dear, the remembrance
has passed from me; so whether his hair was dark or light, I cannot
say. I think he was tall : but he was sitting down, and Otway Bethel
stood behind his chair. I seemed to feel that Richard was outside the
door, in hiding, trembling lest the man should go out and see him
there ; and I trembled too. Oh, Barbara, it was a distressing dream !”
“I wish you could avoid having them, mamma, for they seem to
upset you very much.”
“Why did you ask whether the man was tall, and had black
hair?"
Barbara returned an evasive answer. It would not do to tell Mrs.


174
EAST LYNNE.
Hare that her suspicions pointed to one particular quarter : it would
have agitated her too greatly.
“So vivid was the dream, so like reality, that even when I awoke I
could not for some minutes believe that the murderer was not actually
at West Lynne," resumed Mrs. Hare. “The impression that he is
here, or is coming here, is upon me still ; a sort of undercurrent of
impression, you understand, Barbara : of course my own good sense
tells me that there is no real foundation for supposing this to be the
case. Oh, Barbara, Barbara !” she added, in a tone of wailing, as
her head drooped forward, in its pain, until it ested on her daughter's
arm, “when will this unhappy state of things end? One year glides
away and another comes ; year after year, year after year the years
drag on, and Richard remains an exile !'
Barbara spoke not : what sympathy or comfort could she offer in
words ? the case admitted of none : but she pressed her lips upon her
mother's pale vorehead.
“ Child, I am growing sick, sick to hear of Richard. My heart aches
for the sight of him," went on the poor lady. “Seven years next spring,
since he stole here to see us. Seven years, and not a look at his beloved
face, not a word of news from him to say that he is yet in life! Was
any mother ever tried as I am tried ?”
“Dear mamma, don't! You will make yourself ill."
"" I am ill already, Barbara.”
“ Yes; but this grief and emotion will make you worse. People say
that the seventh year always brings a change : it may bring one as
regards Richard. It may bring him clearance, mamma, for all we
know. Do not despair.”
“Child! I do not despair. Despondency I cannot help at times
feeling, but it has not reached despair. I believe, I truly believe that
God will some time bring the right to light; how can I despair, then,
while I trust in Him ? "
There was a pause, which Barbara broke. “Shall I bring you up
some more tea, mamma?”
“No, my dear. Send me some up, for I am still thirsty ; but you
must remain below and take your own breakfast. What may your
papa not be suspecting, if you do not? Guard your very countenance.
I always dread lest, if we appear sad, he should suppose we are thinking
of Richard.”
“And what if he did, mamma ? Surely thoughts are free.”
“Hush, Barbara ! hush !" repeated Mrs. Hare, in a whispered tone
of warning. “You know the oath he has taken to bring Richard to
justice ; you know how determined he is ; and you know that he fully
believes Richard to be guilty. If he found we dwelt upon his inno-
cence, he might be capable of scouring the whole land from one end of
it to the other in search of him, to deliver him up to trial. Your papa
is so very--"
“ Pig-headed,” put in Barbara, saucily, though it was not precisely a
young lady's word, and her cherry lips pouted after uttering it.
“ Barbara !” remonstrated Mrs. Hare. “I was going to say so very
“Then I say he would be cruel and unnatural, rather than just, if he
just."


MRS. HARE'S DREAM.
175
were to search the country that he might deliver up his own son to
death," returned Barbara, boldly, but with wet eyelashes. Very care-
fully did she dry them, before entering the breakfast-room.
The dinner-hour of the Hares, when they were alone, was four
o'clock, and it arrived that day as usual, and they sat down to table.
Mrs. Hare was better then ; the sunshine and the business of stirring
life had in some measure effaced the visions of the night, and restored
her to her wonted frame of mind. The justice mentioned the accident
to Joyce : they had not heard of it; but they had not been out during
the day, and had received no visitors. Mrs. Hare was full of concern :
Joyce was a universal favourite.
The cloth was removed, and the justice sat only a little while over
his port wine, for he was engaged to smoke an after-dinner pipe with
a brother magistrate, Mr. Justice Herbert.
“Shall you be home to tea, papa ?” inquired Barbara.
“ Is it any business of yours, young lady?”
“Oh, not in the least," answered Miss Barbara. “Only, if you had
been coming home to tea, I suppose we must have waited for you."
“I thought you said, Richard, that you were going to spend the
evening with Mr. Herbert," observed Mrs. Hare.
“So I am,” responded the justice. “But Barbara has a great liking
for the sound of her own tongue.”
The justice departed, striding pompously down the gravel-walk.
Barbara waltzed round the large room to a merry song, as if she felt
his absence a relief. Perhaps she did so. “You can have tea now,
mamma, at any time you please, without waiting until seven," said she.
“ Yes, dear. Barbara.”
“What, mamma?”
“I am sorry to hear of this calamity which has fallen upon Joyce.
I should like to walk to East Lynne this evening and inquire after
her; and see her, if I may. It would be only neighbourly.”
Barbara's heart beat more quickly. Hers was indeed a true and
lasting love, one that defied time and change. Having to bury it
wholly within her, had perhaps only added to its force and depth. Who
could suspect, under Barbara's sometimes cold, sometimes playful
exterior, that one was hidden in her heart, filling up its every crevice?
one who had no right there. The intimation that she might soon.
possibly be in his presence, sent every pulse throbbing.
“ Walk, did you say, mamma ? Should you do right to walk ? ”
“I feel quite equal to it. Since I have accustomed myself to take
more exercise I feel better for it, and we have not been out to-day.
Poor Joyce! What time shall we go, Barbara ?”
“If we were to get up there by--by seven, I should think they will
have dined.”
“Yes," answered Mrs. Hare with alacrity, who was always pleased
when some one else decided for her. “But I should like some tea
before we start, Barbara.”.
Barbara took care that her mamma should have some tea, and then
they proceeded towards East Lynne. It was a lovely evening. The
air was warm, and the humming gnats sported in it, as if anxious to
make the most of the waning summer. Mrs. Hare enjoyed it at first,


178
EAST LYNNE.
to have taken up the idea that he was an obscure man; we do not
generally associate the notion of gentlemen with murderers : and yet,
in her dream, she saw that he was a gentleman.”
“I think you must be becoming a convert to the theory of dreams
yourself, Barbara ; you are so very earnest,” smiled Mr. Carlyle.
“No, not to dreams; but I am earnest for my dear brother Richard's
sake. Were it in my power to do anything to elucidate the mystery,
I would spare no pains, no toil ; I would walk barefooted to the end of
the earth to bring the truth to light. If ever that Thorn should come
to West Lynne again, I will hope, and pray, and strive, to be able to
bring it home to him.”
“ That Thorn does not appear in a hurry, again to favour West
Lynne with his---
Mr. Carlyle paused, for Barbara had hurriedly laid her hand upon
his arm with a warning gesture. In talking, they had wandered
across the park to its ornamental grounds, and were now in a quiet
path, overshadowed on either side by a chain of imitation rocks. Seated
astride on the summit of these rocks, right above where Mr. Carlyle
and Barbara were standing, was Francis Levison. His face was
turned from them, and he appeared intent upon a child's whip, winding
leather round its handle. Whether he heard their footsteps or not, he
did not turn. They quickened their pace, and left the walk, bending
their steps backwards towards the group of ladies.
“Could he have heard what we were saying ?” ejaculated Barbara,
below her breath.
Mr. Carlyle looked down on the concerned, Aushed cheeks with a
smile. Barbara was evidently disturbed. But for a certain episode
in their lives, some years ago, he might have soothed her.
“I think he must have heard a little, Barbara : unless his own wits
were wool-gathering : he might not have been attending. What if he
did hear? it is of no consequence.”
“I was speaking, you know, of Captain Thorn-of his being the
murderer.”
“You were not speaking of Richard or his movements, so never
mind. Levison is a stranger to the whole ; it is nothing to him : if
he heard the name of Thorn mentioned, or could even have distin-
guished the subject, it would bear for him no interest ; would, as
the saying runs, go in at one ear and out at the other. Be at rest,
Barbara.”
He really did look somewhat tenderly upon her as he spoke-and
they were near enough to Lady Isabel for her to note the glance.
She need not have been jealous : it bore no treachery to her. But
she did note it : she had noted also their wandering away together,
and she jumped to the conclusion that it was premeditated—that they
had gone beyond her sight to enjoy each other's society for a few
stolen moments. Wonderfully attractive looked Barbara that evening
for Mr. Carlyle or any one else to steal away with. Her elegant, airy
summer attire, her bright blue eyes, her charming features, and her
lovely complexion. She had untied the strings of her pretty white
bonnet, and was restlessly playing with them, more in thought than
nervousness.


MRS. HARE'S DREAM.
179
“ Barbara, love, how are we to get home?" asked Mrs. Hare. “I
fear I shall never be able to walk. I wish I had told Benjamin to
bring the phaeton."
“ I can send to him," said Mr. Carlyle.
“But it is too bad of me, Archibald, to take you and Lady Isabel by
storm in this unceremonious manner, and to give your servants trouble
besides."
“A great deal too bad, I think,” returned Mr. Carlyle, with mock
gravity. “As to the servants, the one who has to go will never recover
from the trouble, depend upon it. You always were more concerned
for others than for yourself, dear Mrs. Hare.”
“ And you were always kind, Archibald, clearing away difficulties
for all, and making a trouble of nothing. Ah, Lady Isabel, were
I a young woman, I should envy you your good husband : there are
not many like him.”
Possibly the sentence reminded Lady Isabel that another, who was
young, might be envying her. Isabel's cheeks flushed crimson. Mr.
Carlyle held out his strong arm to Mrs. Hare.
“If sufficiently rested, I fancy you would be more comfortable on a
sofa indoors. Allow me to support you thither."
“And you can take my arm on the other side,” cried Miss Carlyle,
placing her tall form by Mrs. Hare. “Between us both we will pull
you bravely along : your feet need scarcely touch the ground.”
Mrs. Hare laughed, but said she thought Mr Carlyle's arm would
be sufficient. She took it, and they were turning towards the house,
when her eye caught the form of a gentleman passing along the road
by the park gates.
“Barbara, run ! " she hurriedly exclaimed. “There's Tom Herbert
going towards our house : he will call in and tell them to send the
phaeton, if you ask him, which will save trouble to Mr. Carlyle's
servants. Haste, child ; you will be up with him in half a minute."
Barbara, thus urged, set off, on the spur of the moment, towards the
gates, before the rest of the party well knew what was being done.
It was too late for Mr. Carlyle to stop her and repeat that a servant
should go, for Barbara was already up with Mr. Tom Herbert. The
latter had seen her running towards him, and waited at the gate.
“Are you going past our house?” inquired Barbara, perceiving then
that Otway Bethel also stood there, but just beyond view of the
avenue.
“ Yes. Why?” replied Tom Herbert, who was not famed for polite-
ness, being blunt by nature and “fast” by habit.
“Mamma would be so much obliged to you if you would call in and
leave word that Benjamin is to bring up the phaeton. Mamma walked
here, intending to walk home, but she finds herself so fatigued as to be
unequal to it."
"All right : I'll call and send him. What time?"
Nothing had been said to Barbara about the time, so that she was
at liberty to name her own. “Ten o'clock. We shall be home then
before papa.”
“That you will,” responded Tom Herbert. “He and the governor
and two or three more old codgers are blowing clouds till you can't see


180
EAST LYNNE.
across the room : and they are sure to be at it again after supper. I
say, Miss Barbara, are you good for a few picnics!”
“Good for a great many,' returned Barbara.
“Our girls want to get up some in the next week or two. Jack is at
home, you know."
“Is he?” said Barbara, in surprise.
“We had the letter yesterday, and he arrived to-day, a brother-
officer with him. Jack vows if the girls don't cater well for them in
the way of amusement, he'll never honour them by spending his leave
at home again : so mind you keep yourself in readiness for any fun
that may turn up. Good evening."
“Good evening, Miss Hare," added Otway Bethel. As Barbara was
returning their salutation, she became conscious of other footsteps,
advancing from the same direction that they had come, and moved
her head hastily round. Two gentlemen, walking arm-in-arm, were
close upon her, in one of whom she recognized “ Jack,” otherwise
Major Herbert. He stopped and held out his hand.
“It is some years since we met, but I have not forgotten the pretty
face of Miss Barbara,” he cried. “A young girl's face it was then, but
it is a stately young lady's now."
Barbara laughed. “Your brother told me you had arrived at West
Lynne ; but I did not know you were so close to me. He has been
asking me if I am ready for some pic- "
Barbara's voice faltered, and the rushing crimson of emotion dyed
her face. Whose face was that, who was he, standing opposite to her,
side by side with John Herbert ? She had seen the face but once, yet
it had implanted itself upon her memory in characters of fire Major
Herbert continued to talk, but Barbara for once lost her self-posses-
sion. She could not listen ; she could not answer ; she could only stare
at that face as if fascinated to the gaze, looking herself something like
a simpleton, her shy blue eyes anxious and restless, and her lips
turning to an ashy whiteness. A strange feeling of wonder, of super-
stition, was creeping over Barbara. Was that man before her in sober
reality ?-or was it but a phantom, called up in her mind by the
associations arising from her mother's dream ; or by the conversation
held not many moments ago with Mr. Carlyle ?
Major Herbert may have thought that Barbara, who was not attend-
ing to him, but to his companion, wished for an introduction, and he
accordingly made it. “ Captain Thorn; Miss Hare.”
Then Barbara roused herself; her senses were partially coming back
to her, and she became alive to the fact that they must deem her
behaviour unorthodox for a young lady.
“I-I—looked at Captain Thorn, for I thought I remembered his
face,” she stammered.
“I was in West Lynne for a day or two some five years ago," he
observed.
“Ah-yes," returned Barbara. “Are you going to make a long stay
now?"
“We have several weeks' leave of absence. Whether we shall re-
main here the whole time I cannot say."
Barbara parted from them. Thought upon thought crowded upon


MRS. HARE'S DREAM.
181
her brain as she flew back to East Lynne. Bhe ran up the steps to
the hall, gliding towards a group which stood near its further end
her mother, Miss Carlyle, Mr. Carlyle, and little Isabel ; Lady Isabel
she did not see. Mrs. Hare was then going up to see Joyce. In the
agitation of the moment she stealthily touched Mr. Carlyle, and he
stepped away from the rest to speak to her. She drew back towards
the door of one of the reception rooms, and motioning him to
approach.
"Oh, Archibald, I must speak to you alone. Could you not come
out again for a little while ?"
He nodded, and walked out openly by her side. Why should he not
do so? What had he to conceal ? But, unfortunately, Lady Isabel,
who had only gone into that same room for a minute and was coming
out again to join Miss Hare, both saw Barbara's touch upon her
husband's arm, marked her agitation, and heard her words. She went
to one of the hall windows and watched them saunter towards the more
retired parts of the grounds : she saw her husband send back Isabel.
Never, since her marriage, had Lady Isabel's jealousy been excited as
it was excited that evening.
"1-I feel-I scarcely know whether I am awake or dreaming,"
began Barbara, putting up her hand to her brow, and speaking in a
dreamy tone. “ Pardon me for bringing you out in this unceremonious
manner.”
“What state secrets have you to disclose ?" asked Mr. Carlyle, in
a jesting manner.
“We were speaking of mamma's dream. She said the impression it
left upon her mind that the murderer was at West Lynne-was so
vivid that, in spite of common sense, she could not persuade herself to
the contrary. Well—just now
“ Barbara, what can be the matter ?" said Mr. Carlyle, perceiving
that her agitation was so great as to impede her words.
“ I have just seen him," she rejoined.
“Seen him ?" echoed Mr. Carlyle, looking at her fixedly, a doubt
crossing his mind whether Barbara's mind might be as wandering as
her manner.
“What were almost my last words to you? That if ever that Thorn
did come to West Lynne again, I would leave no stone unturned to
bring it home to him. He is here, Archibald. When I went to the
gates to speak to Tom Herbert, his brother Major Herbert was also
there, and with him Captain Thorn ; Bethel also. Do you wonder, I
say, that I know not whether I am awake or dreaming? They have
some weeks' holiday, and are here to spend it.”
“It is a singular coincidence,” exclaimed Mr. Carlyle.
“Had anything been wanting to convince me that Thorn is the
guilty man, this would have done it,” went on Barbara in her excite-
ment. “Mamma's dream, with the steadfast impression it left upon
her that Hallijohn's murderer was now at West Lynne- "
In turning the sharp corner of the covered walk, they came into
contact with Captain Levison, who appeared to be either standing or
sauntering there, his hands under his coat-tails. Again Barbara felt
vexed, wondering how much he had heard, and beginning in her heart


182
EAST LYNNE.
to dislike the man. He accosted them familiarly, and appeared as if he
would have turned with them but none could put down presumption
more effectually than Mr. Carlyle, calm and gentlemanly though he
always was.
“ I will join you presently, Captain Levison,” he said, with a wave of
the hand. And he turned back with Barbara towards the open parts
of the park.
“Do you like that Captain Levison ?" she abruptly inquired, when
they were beyond hearing.
“I cannot say that I do," was Mr. Carlyle's reply. “He is one who
does not improve upon acquaintance.”
“ To me, it looks as though he had placed himself in our way to
hear what we were saying.”
“No, no, Barbara. What interest could it bear for him?"
Barbara did not contest the point : she turned to the one nearer at
heart. “What must be our course with regard to Thorn?”
“It is more than I can tell you,” replied Mr. Carlyle. “I cannot go
up to the man and unceremoniously accuse him of being Hallijohn's
murderer. In the first place, Barbara, we are not positively sure that
he is the man spoken of by Richard."
“Oh, Archibald, how can you doubt? The extraordinary fact of
his appearing here at this moment, coupled with mamma's dream,
might assure us of it.”
“Not quite,” smiled Mr. Carlyle. “ All we can do is to go cautiously
to work, and endeavour to ascertain whether he is the same or not.”
“And there is no one but you to do it !” wailed Barbara. “How
vain and foolish are our boastings! I said I would not cease striving
to bring it ome to him, did he come again to West Lynne; and now
he is here, even as the words were in my mouth, and what can I do?
Nothing."
They took their way to the house, for there was nothing further to
discuss. Captain Levison had entered before them, and saw Lady
Isabel standing at the hall window. Yes, she was standing and
looking ; brooding over her fancied wrongs.
“Who is that Miss Hare ?” he demanded in a cynical tone. “They
appear to have a pretty good understanding together : twice this even-
ing I have met them in secret conversation."
"Did you speak to me, sir ?" sharply and haughtily returned Lady
Isabel.
“I did not mean to offend you : I spoke of Mr. Carlyle and Miss
Hare,” he replied in a gentle voice. He knew she had distinctly heard
his first remark in spite of her question.
CHAPTER VI.
CAPTAIN THORN IN TROUBLE.
In talking over a bygone misfortune, we sometimes make the remark,
or hear it made, “ Circumstances worked against it.”. Such and such
a thing might have turned out differently, we say, had the surrounding


CAPTAIN THORN IN TROUBLE.
183
circumstances been more in favour, but they were in opposition :
they were dead against it. Now, if ever attendant circumstances can
be said to have borne a baneful influence upon any person in this
world, they most assuredly did at the present time upon Lady Isabel
Carlyle.
Cóeval, you see, with the arrival of the ex-captain, Levison, at East
Lynne, all the jealous feeling touching her husband and Barbara Hare,
was renewed, and with greater force than ever. Barbara : painfully
anxious that something should be brought to light by which her brother
should be exonerated from the terrible charge under which he lay, fully
believing that Frederick Thorn, Captain in her Majesty's service, was
the man who had committed the crime, as asserted by Richard : was in
a state of excitement bordering on frenzy. Too keenly she felt the
truth of her own words, that she was powerless, and could, of herself,
do nothing. When she rose in the morning, after a night passed in
troubled reflection more than in sleep, her thoughts were, “Oh, that
I could this day find out something certain !” She was often at the
Herberts ; frequently invited there, sometimes going uninvited. She
and the Miss Herberts were intimate, and they pressed Barbara into
all the impromptu fêtes got up for their brother now he was at home.
There she of course saw Captain Thorn, and now and then she was
enabled to pick up scraps of his past history. Eagerly were these
scraps carried to Mr. Carlyle. Not to his office ; Barbara would not
appear there. It may be, that she feared, if seen haunting Mr. Carlyle's
office, Captain Thorn might come to hear of it, and suspect the agita-
tion that was afloat-for who could know better than he the guilt that
was falsely attaching to Richard ? Therefore she chose rather to go
to East Lynne, or to waylay Mr. Carlyle as he passed to and from
business. It was very little that she gathered to tell him. One evening
she met him with the news that Thorn had been in former years at
West Lynne, though she could not fix the date : another time she
went boldly to East Lynne in eager anxiety, ostensibly to make a call
on Lady Isabel-and a very restless one it was- contriving to make
Mr. Carlyle understand that she wanted to see him alone. He went
out with her when she departed, and accompanied her as far as the
park gates, the two evidently absorbed in earnest converse : Lady
Isabel's jealous eyes saw that. The communication Barbara had to
make was, that Captain Thorn had let fall the avowal that he had
once been “in trouble,” though of its nature no indication was given.
Another journey of hers took the scrap of news, that she had discovered
he knew Swainson well. Part of all this, nay, perhaps the whole of it,
Mr. Carlyle had found out for himself ; nevertheless he always received
Barbara with vivid interest. Richard Hare was related to Miss Carlyle,
and if his innocence could be made clear in the sight of men, it would
be little less gratifying to them than to the Hares. Of Richard's
innocence, Mr. Carlyle now entertained little, if any, doubt, and he
was becoming impressed with the guilt of Captain Thorn. The latter
spoke mysteriously of a portion of his past life-when he could be
brought to speak of it at all-and he bore evidently some secret that
he did not care to allude to.
But now, look at the treachery of that man, Francis Levison! The


184
EAST LYNNE.
few meetings that Lady Isabel witnessed between her husband and
Barbara would have been quite enough to excite her anger and jealousy,
and to trouble her peace; but, in addition, Francis Levison took
care to tell her of those she did not see. It pleased him-he best
knew his own motive-to watch the movements of Mr. Carlyle and
Barbara. There was a hedged pathway through the fields on the
opposite side of the road to the residence of Justice Hare, and as Mr.
Carlyle walked down the road to business, in his unsuspiciousness
(not one time in fifty did he choose to ride : he said the walk to and
fro kept him in health), Captain Levison would be strolling down like
a serpent behind the hedge, watching all his movements, watching his
interviews with Barbara, if any took place, watching Mr. Carlyle turn
into the Grove, as he sometimes did, and perhaps watching Barbara
run out of the house to meet him. It was all retailed, with miserable
exaggeration, to Lady Isabel, whose jealousy, as a natural sequence,
grew feverish in its extent.
It is scarcely necessary to explain that of Lady Isabel's jealousy
Barbara knew nothing : not a shadow of suspicion had ever penetrated
to her mind that Lady Isabel was jealous of her. Had she been told
that this was the fact she would have laughed in derision at her
informant. Mr. Carlyle's happy wife, proudly secure in her position
and in his affection, jealous of her; of her, to whom he never gave an
admiring look or a loving word! It would have taken a great deal to
make Barbara believe that.
How different were the facts in reality. These meetings of Mr.
Carlyle's and Barbara's, instead of being episodes of love-making and
tender speeches, were positively painful to Barbara, from the unhappy
nature of the subject to be discussed. Far from feeling a reprehen-
sible pleasure in seeking the meetings with Mr. Carlyle, Barbara
shrank from them. But that she was urged by dire necessity, in the
interests of Richard, she would wholly have avoided them. Poor
Barbara, in spite of that explosion years ago, was a lady, possessed of
a lady's ideas and feelings, and—remembering that explosion-it did
not at all accord with her pride to be thrusting herself into what might
be called secret meetings with Archibald Carlyle. But Barbara, in
her love for her brother, repressed all thoughts of self, and went per-
severingly forward for Richard's sake.
Mr. Carlyle was seated one morning in his private room at his office,
when his head clerk, Mr. Dill, came in. “A gentleman is asking to
see you, Mr. Archibald.”
“I am too busy to see any one for this hour to come. You know
that, Dill.”
“So I told him, sir, and he says he will wait. It is that Captain
Thorn who is staying here with John Herbert." .
Mr. Carlyle raised his eyes, and they encountered those of the old
man : a peculiar expression was in the face of both. Mr. Carlyle
glanced down at the parchments he was perusing, as if calculating his
time. Then he looked up again and spoke.
“I will see him, Dill. "Send him in."
The business, leading to the visit, was very simple. Captain
Frederick Thorn had got himself into some trouble and vexation about


CAPTAIN THORN IN TROUBLE.
185
a “bill ”—as too many other captains do on occasions, and he had
come to crave advice of Mr. Carlyle.
Mr. Carlyle felt dubious as to giving it. This Captain Thorn was a
pleasant, attractive man, who won much on acquaintance ; one whom
Mr. Carlyle would have been pleased, in a friendly point of view, and
setting professional interests apart, to help out of his difficulties ; but
if he were the villain they suspected him to be, the man with crime
upon his hand, then Mr. Carlyle would have ordered his office door
held wide that he might slink out of it.
“ Cannot you advise me as to what my course ought to be ?” he
inquired, detecting Mr. Carlyle's hesitation.
“ I could advise you, certainly. But-you must excuse my plain
speaking, Captain Thorn—I like to know who my clients are, before I
take up their cause or accept them as clients."
“I am able to pay you,” was Captain Thorn's reply. “I am not
short of ready money ; only this bill —"
Mr. Carlyle laughed out, after having bit his lip with annoy-
ance.
“ It was a natural inference of yours," he said, “but I assure you I
was not thinking of your purse. My father held it right never to
undertake business for a stranger : unless a man was good, and his
cause good, he did not entertain it : and I have acted on the same
principle. By these means, the position and character of our business
is such as is rarely obtained by a solicitor. Now, in saying that you
are a stranger to me, I am not casting any doubt upon you, Captain
Thorn; I am merely upholding my ordinary practice.”
“My family is well connected," was Captain Thorn's next venture.
“Excuse me ; family has nothing to do with it. If the poorest day
labourer, if a pauper out of the workhouse came to me for advice, he
should be heartily welcome to it, provided he were an honest man in
the face of day. Again I repeat, you must take no offence at what I
say, for I cast no reflection on you : I only urge that you and your
character are unknown to me.”
Curious words from a lawyer to a client-aspirant, and Captain Thorn
found them so. But Mr. Carlyle's tone was so courteous, his manner
so affable, in fact, he was so thoroughly the gentleman, that it was
impossible to feel hurt.
"Well-how can I convince you that I am respectable ? I have
served my country ever since I was sixteen, and my brother-officers
have found no cause of complaint. My position as an officer and a
gentleman would be generally deemed a sufficient guarantee. Inquire
of John Herbert. The Herberts, too, are friends of yours, and they
have not disdained to give me house-room amidst their family."
“True," returned Mr. Carlyle, feeling that he could not well object
further; and also that all men should be considered innocent until
proved guilty. “At any rate, I will advise you as to what must be done
at present,” he added, “though if the affair must go on, I do not
promise that I can continue to act for you. I am very busy just now."
Captain Thorn explained his dilemma, and Mr. Carlyle told him
what to do in it. “Were you not at West Lynne some ten years ago ? "
he suddenly inquired at the close of the conversation. “You denied


186
EAST LYNNE.
it to me once at my house, but I concluded, from an observation you
let fall, that you had been here."
“ Yes, I was,” replied Captain Thorn, in a confidential tone. “I
don't mind owning it to you in confidence, but I do not wish it to get
abroad. I was not at West Lynne, but in its neighbourhood. The
fact is, when I was a careless young fellow, I was stopping a few
miles from here, and got into a scrape, through a-a-in short, it
was an affair of gallantry. I did not show out very well at the time,
and I don't care that it should be known that I am in the county
again.”
Mr. Carlyle's pulses-for Richard Hare's sake-beat a shade quicker.
The avowal“ an affair of gallantry · was almost a confirmation of his
suspicions.
“Yes," he pointedly said. “The girl was Afy Hallijohn.”
“Afy—who?” repeated Captain Thorn, opening his eyes, and fixing
them on Mr. Carlyle's.
“Afy Hallijohn."
Captain Thorn continued to look at Mr. Carlyle, an amused expres-
sion, rather than any other, predominant on his features. “You are
mistaken,” he observed. “Afy Hallijohn? I never heard the name
before in my life.”
“Did you never hear, or know, that a dreadful tragedy was enacted
in this place about that period ? " returned Mr. Carlyle, in a low,
meaning tone. “That Afy Hallijohn's father
“Oh, stay, stay, stay," hastily interrupted Captain Thorn. “I am
telling a story in saying I never heard the name. Afy Hallijohn ?
Why, that's the girl Tom Herbert was telling me about : who—what
was it ?-disappeared, after her father was murdered.”
“Murdered in his own cottage ; almost in Afy's presence ; murdered
by-by--" Mr. Carlyle recollected himself: he had spoken more
impulsively than was his custom. “Hallijohn was my father's faithful
clerk for many years,” he more calmly concluded.
“And he who committed the murder, was young Hare, son of
Justice Hare, and brother to that attractive girl, Barbara. Your
speaking of this has brought what they told me to my recollection.
The first evening I was at the Herberts', Justice, Hare and others were
there, smoking-half a dozen pipes were going at once ; I also saw Miss
Barbara that evening at your park gates ; and Tom told me of the
murder. An awful calamity for the Hares. I suppose that is the
reason the young lady is Miss Hare still. One, with her fortune and
good looks, ought to have changed her name ere this ”
“No, it is not the reason," resumed Mr. Carlyle.
“ What is the reason, then ? ”.
A faint flush tinged Mr. Carlyle's brow. “I know more than one
who would be glad to have Barbara, in spite of the murder. Do not
depreciate Miss Hare.”
is Not I, indeed ; I like the young lady too well,” replied Captain
Thorn. " The girl Afy has never been heard of since, has she?'
“Never,” said Mr. Carlyle. “Did you know her well ? ” he delibe.
rately added.
“ I never knew her at all, if you mean Afy Hallijohn. Why should


CAPTAIN THORN IN TROUBLE.
187
you think I did ? I never heard of her till Tom Herbert amused me
with the history.”
Mr. Carlyle devoutly wished he could tell whether the man before
him was speaking tršith or falsehood. He continued :
“Afy's favours-I mean her smiles and her chatter-were pretty
freely dispersed, for she was heedless and vain. Amidst others who
had the credit for occasionally basking in her rays, was a gentleman of
the name of Thorn. Was it not yourself?”
Captain Thorn stroked his moustache with an air that seemed to
say he could boast of his share of such baskings ; in short, as if he felt
half inclined to do it. “Upon my word,” he simpered, “ you do me too
much honour : I cannot confess to having been favoured by Miss Afy.”
“Then she was not the—the damsel you speak of, who drove you-
if I understood aright-from the locality ?" resumed Mr. Carlyle,
fixing his eyes upon him, so as to take in every tone of the answer,
and shade of the countenance, as he gave it.
“I should think not, indeed. It was a married lady, more's the
pity ; young, pretty, vain, and heedless, as you represent this Afy.
Things went smoother after a time, and she and her husband--a stupid
country yeoman-became reconciled. But I have been ashamed of the
affair ever since ; doubly ashamed of it since I have grown wiser, and
I do not care ever to be recognized as the actor in it, or to have it
raked up against me.”
Captain Thorn rose, and took a somewhat hasty leave. Was he,
or was he not the man? Mr. Carlyle could not solve the doubt.
Mr. Dill came in as he disappeared, closed the door and advanced
to his master, speaking in an undertone.
“Mr. Archibald, has it struck you that the gentleman just gone out
may be the Lieutenant Thorn you once spoke to me about ?-he who
had used to gallop over from Swainson to court Afy Hallijohn »
" It has struck me so most forcibly," replied Mr. Carlyle. “Dill, I
would give five hundred pounds out of my pocket this moment, to be
assured of the fact-if he is the same."
“ I have seen him several times since he has been staying with the
Herberts,” pursued the old gentleman, “and my doubts have naturally
been excited, as to whether it could be the man in question. Curiously
enough, Bezant, the doctor, was over here yesterday from Swainson ;
and, as I was walking with him arm-in-arm, we met Captain Thorn.
The two recognized each other and bowed, but merely as distant
acquaintances. “Do you know that gentleman ?' said I to Bezant.
'Yes,' he answered, it is Mr. Frederick.' 'Mr. Frederick with
something added to it,' said I. ‘his name is Thorn.' 'I know that,'
returned Bezant, “but when he was in Swainson some years ago, he
chose to drop the Thorn, and the town in general knew him only as
Mr. Frederick. What was he doing there, Bezant?' I asked.
Amusing himself and getting into mischief, was the answer :
nothing very bad ; only the random scrapes of young men. Was
he often on horseback, riding to a distance?' was my next question.
'Yes, that he was,' replied Bezant; none more fond of galloping
across country than he:' I used to tell him he'd ride his horse's
tail off. Now, Mr. Archibald, what do you think?” concluded the old


188
EAST LYNNE.
clerk :“ and so far as I could make out, this was about the very time
of the tragedy at Hallijohn's.”
“Think?" replied Mr. Carlyle, “what can I think but that it is the
same man? I am convinced of it now.”
And, leaning back in his chair, he fell into a deep reverie, regardless
of the parchments that lay before him.
CHAPTER VII.
THE SECRET SCRAP OF PAPER.
The weeks went on; two or three of them : and things seemed to be
progressing backwards rather than forwards—if that is not an Irishism.
Francis Levison's affairs-that is, the adjustment of them- did not
advance : creditors were obstinate. He had been three times over to
Levison Park, securely boxed up in Mr. Carlyle's close carriage from
prying eyes ; but Sir Peter seemed to be turning as obdurate as the
creditors. Captain Levison had deceived him, he found out : inasmuch
as certain sums of money, handed over by Sir Peter some time back to
settle certain claims, had been by the gentleman appropriated to his
own purposes. Sir Peter did not appear inclined to forgive the deceit,
and vowed he would do nothing further for the present. There was
nothing for him but to return to the Continent, Captain Levison
observed. And the best place for him ; plenty of scamps congregated
there, was the retort of Sir Peter. He apparently meant what he said,
for when Francis Levison rose to leave, Sir Peter took out of his
pocket-book notes to the value of £100, told him that would pay the
expense he had been put to in coming, and that his allowance would be
continued as usual.
“How did you get on to-day with Sir Peter ? ” inquired Mr. Carlyle,
that evening at dinner, when his guest was back at East Lynne.
“ Middling," replied Francis Levison. “I did not do much with him.
These old stagers like to take their own time over things."
An answer false as he was. It did not suit his plans to quit East
Lynne yet ; and, had he told the truth, he would have had no plea for
remaining.
Another thing that was going on fast to bad, instead of to good,
was the jealousy of Lady Isabel. How could it be otherwise, kept
up, as it was, by Barbara's frequent meetings with Mr. Carlyle, and
by Captain Levison's comments and false insinuations regarding them ?
Discontented with herself and with every one about her, Isabel was
living now in a state of excitement ; a dangerous resentment against
her husband working in her heart. That very day, the one of Captain
Levison's visit to Levison Park, in driving through West Lynne in
the pony carriage, she had come upon her husband in close converse
with Barbara Hare. So absorbed were they that they never saw her,
though her carriage passed close to the pavement on which they stood.
On the following morning, as the Hare family were seated at break-
fast, the postman was seen coming towards the house. Barbara sprang
from her seat to the open window, and the man advanced to her.


• THE SECRET SCRAP OF PAPER.
189
"Only one, miss. It is for yourself.”
“Who is it from?” began the justice, as Barbara returned to her
chair. In letters, as in other things, he was curious to know their
contents, whether they were addressed to himself or not.
“It is from Anne, papa,” replied Barbara, as she placed the letter by
her side on the table.
“Why don't you open it and see what she says?"
“I will, directly. I am just going to pour out some more tea for
mamma."
Barbara handed her mother the tea, and then took up her letter.
As she opened it, a small bit of folded paper fell upon her lap. For-
tunately, most fortunately, Justice Hare, who at the moment had his
nose in his coffee-cup, did not see it, but Mrs. Hare did.
“ Barbara, you have dropped something."
Barbara had seen it also, and was clutching stealthily at the “some-
thing” with almost a guilty movement. She had no answer at hand,
but bent her eyes upon her letter, and Mrs. Hare spoke again.
“My love, something dropped on to your lap."
“Don't you hear your mamma, young lady?” pursued the justice.
“What is it you have dropped ?”
Barbara, with a crimson face, rose from her chair and shook out her
pretty muslin dress-somehow, Barbara's dresses were always pretty.
ä There's nothing at all, papa, nothing that I can see.” And, in
· sitting down, she contrived to give her mother a warning look, which
silenced Mrs. Hare. Then Barbara read her sister's letter, and laid
it open on the table for the benefit of any one who might like to do the
same.
The justice snatched it up, taking first benefit to himself—as he was
sure to do. He threw it down, grumbling.
“Not much in it. There never is in Anne's letters: she won't set
the Thames on fire as a correspondent. As if any one cared to hear
about the baby's being 'short-coated !' I think I'll have a cup more
coffee, Barbara.”
Finally the justice finished his breakfast and strolled out into the
garden. Mrs. Hare turned to Barbara.
“My dear, why did you give me that mysterious look ? And what
was it that dropped into your lap? It seemed to fall from Anne's
letter."
“Well, mamma, it did fall from Anne's letter. You know how
exacting papa is always will see and inquire into everything—so,
when Anne wants to tell me any bit of news that she does not care
the whole world to know, she writes it on a separate bit of paper and
puts it inside her letter. I suppose it was one of those bits that fell
out."
“Child, I cannot let you insinuate that your papa has no right to
look into your letters."
“Of course not, mamma,” was Miss Barbara's rejoinder. “But if
he had a grain of common sense, he might know that I and Anne
may sometimes have little private matters to say to each other, not
necessary or expedient for him to pry into.”
Barbara had produced the scrap of paper as she spoke, and was


190
EAST LYNNE.
opening it. Mrs. Hare watched her movements, and her countenance.
She saw the latter flush suddenly and vividly, and then become deadly
pale : she saw Barbara crush the note in her hand when read.
“Oh, mamma!” she uttered.
The flush of emotion came also into Mrs. Hare's delicate cheeks.
“ Barbara ! is it bad news ? "
“Mamma,-it-it-is about Richard ! ” she whispered, glancing at
the door and window, to see that none might be within sight or
hearing. “I never thought of him : I only fancied Anne might be
sending me some bit of news concerning her own affairs. Good
Heavens! how fortunate-how providential that papa did not see the
paper fall; and that you did not persist in your inquiries! If he--"
Barbara, you are keeping me in suspense,” interrupted Mrs.
Hare, who had also grown white. “What should Anne know about
Richard ? "
Barbara smoothed out the writing and held it before her mother.
It was as follows:
“I have had a curious note from R. It was without date or signa-
ture, but I knew his handwriting. He tells me to let you know, in
the most sure and secret manner, that he will soon be paying you
another night visit. You are to watch the grove every evening when
the present moon grows bright.”
Mrs. Hare covered her face for some minutes. “Thank God for all
His mercies,” she murmured.
“Oh, mamma, but it is an awful risk for him to run!”
“ But to know that he is in life-to know that he is in life! And as
for the risk-Barbara, I dread it not. The same good God who pro-
tected him through the last visit, will protect him through this. He
will not forsake the oppressed and the innocent. Destroy that paper,
child.”
“Archibald Carlyle must first see it, mamma. I will destroy it after-
wards.”
“Then seek him to-day and show it him. I shall not be easy until
it is destroyed, Barbara."
Braving the comments of the gossips, hoping the visit would not
reach the ears or eyes of the justice, Barbara went that day to the
office of Mr. Carlyle. He was not there : he was not at West Lynne :
he had gone to Lynneborough on business, and Mr. Dill thought it
doubtful whether he would be at the office again that day. If so, it
would be late in the afternoon. Barbara, as soon as their own dinner
was over, took up he. patient station at the gate, hoping to see him
pass; but the time wen, by, and he did not do so. She had little
doubt that he had returned home without going again to West Lynne.
What should she do? Go up to East Lynne and see him, said her
conscience. Barbara's mind was in a strangely excited state. It
appeared to her that this visit of Richard's must have been especially
designed by Providence, that he might be confronted with Thorn.
That they must be confronted the one with the other, or rather, that
Richard must have the opportunity given him of seeing Thorn, was
a matter of course; though how it was to be brought about, Barbara
could not guess. For all action, all plans, she must depend upon Mr.


THE SECRET SCRAP OF PAPER.
191
Carlyle ; he ought to be put into immediate possession of the news, for
the moon was already three or four days old, and there was no know-
ing when Richard might appear.
“Mamma,” she said, returning indoors, after seeing the justice depart
upon an evening visit to the Buck's Head, where he and certain other
justices and gentlemen sometimes congregated to smoke and chat : “I
shall go up to East Lynne if you have no objection. I must see Mr.
Carlyle.”
“What objection can I have, my dear? I am all anxiety for you to
see him. It was so unfortunate that he was out to-aay when you
ventured to his office. Mind you tell him all : and ask him what is best
to be done.”
Away went Barbara. It had struck seven when she arrived at East
Lynne.
"" Is Mr. Carlyle disengaged ?"
“ Mr. Carlyle is not yet home, miss. My lady and Miss Carlyle are
waiting dinner for him.”
A check for Barbara. The servant asked her to walk in, but she
declined, and turned from the door. She was in no mood for paying
visits.
Lady Isabel had been standing at the window watching for her
husband, wondering what made him so late : she observed Barbara
approach the house, and saw her walk away again. Presently the
servant who had answered the door entered the drawing-room.
“ Was not that Miss Hare ?"
“ Yes, my lady," was the man's reply. “She wanted my master. I
said your ladyship was at home, but she would not enter.”
Isabel said no more. She caught the eyes of Francis Levison fixed on
her with as much compassionate meaning as they dared express. She
clasped her hands in pain, and turned again to the window.
Barbara was slowly walking down the avenue, Mr. Carlyle was then
in sight, walking quickly. Lady Isabel saw their hands meet in
greeting.
“Oh, I am so thankful to have met you !” exclaimed Barbara, im-
pulsively. “I actually went to your office to-day, and I have been now
to your house. We have great news!"
“Ay! What ? About Thorn ? "
“No, about Richard,” replied Barbara, taking the scrap of paper from
the folds of her dress. “This came to me this morning, from Anne.”
Mr. Carlyle took the document, and Barbara looked over him whilst
he read it : neither of them thinking that Lady Isabel's jealous eyes, and
Captain Levison's evil ones, were strained on them from the distant
windows. Miss Carlyle's also, for the matter of that.
“Archibald, it seems to me that Providence must be directing him
hither at this moment. Our suspicions, with regard to Thorn, can now
be set at rest. You must contrive that Richard shall see him. What
can he be coming again for ? "
More money, was the supposition of Mr. Carlyle. “Does Mrs. Hare
krow of this?"
She does, unfortunately. I opened the paper before her, never
dreaming it was connected with Richard. I wish I could have spared


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EAST LYNNE.
mamma the news, until he was actually here : the expectation and
suspense I fear will make her ill. It terrifies me to such an extent that
I don't know what I am about,” she continued. “Not a moment's rest
or peace shall I have until he has been and is gone again. Poor,
wandering, unhappy Richard ! and not to be guilty!"
“He acted as though he were guilty, Barbara. And that line of
conduct often entails as much trouble as real guilt.”
“ You do not believe him guilty ? " she almost passionately uttered.
“I do not. I have little doubt of the guilt of Thorn."
“Oh, if it could but be brought home to him !” reiterated Barbara ;
“ so that Richard might be cleared in the sight of day. How can you
contrive that he shall see Thorn ?
"I cannot tell ; I must think it over. Let me know the instant he
arrives, Barbara.”
“Of course I shall. It may be that he does not want money ; that
his errand is only to see mamma. He was always so fond of her."
“I must leave you,” said Mr. Carlyle, taking her hand in token of
farewell. Then, as the thought occurred to him, he turned and walked
a few steps with her, without releasing it. He was probably quite
unconscious that he retained it : she was not so.
“You know, Barbara, if he should want money and it should not be
convenient to Mrs. Hare to supply it at so short a notice, I can give it
him, as I did before."
" Thank you, thank you, Archibald. Mamma felt sure you would.”
She lifted her eyes to his with an expression of gratitude : but for
the habitual control to which she had schooled herself, a warmer feeling
might have mingled with it. Mr. Carlyle nodded pleasantly, and then
set off rapidly towards the house.
Five minutes in his dressing-chamber, and he entered the drawing-
room, apologizing for having kept them waiting, and explaining that he
had been compelled to go to his office to give some orders, after his
return from Lynneborough. Lady Isabel's lips were pressed together,
and she preserved an obstinate silence. Mr. Carlyle, in his unsuspicion,
did not notice it.
“What did Barbara Hare want ? ” demanded Miss Carlyle, during
dinner.
“ She wanted to see me on business," was his reply, given in a tone
that certainly did not invite his sister to pursue the subject. “ Will you
take some more fish, Isabel ? "
“ What was that you were reading over with her ?” pursued the
indefatigable Miss Corny. “ It looked like a note."
“Ah, that would be telling,” re-urned Mr. Carlyle, willing to turn it
off with gaiety. “If young ladies choose to make me privy to their
love-letters, I cannot betray confidence, you know."
“What rubbish, Archibald ! " quoth she. “As if you could not say
outright what Barbara wants, without making a mystery of it. And she
seems to be always wanting you now.”
Mr. Carlyle glanced at his sister, a quick, peculiar look : it seemed,
to her, to speak both of seriousness and warning. Involuntarily her
thoughts—and her fears-flew to the past.
“ Archibald! Archibald 1” she uttered, repeating the name as if she


THE SECRET SCRAP OF PAPER.
193
could not get any further, in her dread. “It-it-is never--that old
affair is never being reaped up again ?"
Now, Miss Carlyle's “ old affair” referred to one sole and sore point
- Richard Hare : and so Mr. Carlyle understood it. Lady Isabeī un-
happily believed that any “old affair” could only have reference to the
bygone loves of her husband and Barbara.
“You will oblige me by going on with your dinner, Cornelia,”
gravely responded Mr. Carlyle. Then-assuming a more laughing
tone." I tell you it is unreasonable to expect me to betray a young
lady's secrets, although she may choose to confide them professionally
to me. What say you, Captain Levison ?"
Captain Levison bowed; a smile of mockery, all too perceptible to
Lady Isabel, on his lip. And Miss Carlyle bent her head over her
plate, and went on with her dinner, as meek as a lamb.
That same evening, Lady Isabel's indignant and rebellious heart
condescended to speak of it when alone with her husband.
“What is it that she wants with you so much, that Barbara Hare ?"
“ It is private business, Isabel. She has to bring me messages from
her mother."
“ Must the business be kept from me?"
He was silent for a moment, considering whether he might tell her.
But it was impossible he could speak, even to his wife, of the suspicion
they were attaching to Captain Thorn ; it would have been unfair and
wrong: neither could he betray that a secret visit was expected from
Richard. To no one would he betray that : unless Miss Corny, with
her questioning, drew it out of him : and she was safe and true.
“ It would not make you happier to know it, Isabel. There is a
dark secret, you are aware, touching the Hare family : it is connected
with that.”
She did not put faith in a word of the reply. She believed he could
not tell her because her feelings, as his wife, would be outraged by the
confession : and it goaded her anger into recklessness. Mr. Carlyle on
his part, never gave a thought to the supposition that she might be
jealous : he had believed that nonsense at an end years ago. He was
perfectly honourable and true, giving her no shadow of cause or reason
to be jealous of him : and, being a practical, matter-of-fact man, it did
not occur to him that she could be so.
Lady Isabel was sitting the following morning, moody and out of
sorts. Captain Levison had accompanied Mr. Carlyle in the most
friendly manner possible to the park gates on his departure, and then
stolen along the hedge-walk. He returned to Lady Isabel with the
news of an “ ardent” interview with Barbara, who had been watching
for Mr. Carlyle at the gate of the Grove. She sat, sullenly digesting
the tidings, when a note was brought in. It proved to be an invita-
tion to dinner for the following Tuesday, at a Mrs. Jeafferson's—for
Mr. and Lady Isabel Carlyle and Miss Carlyle.
She drew her desk towards her petulantly, to answer it on the spur
of the moment, first of all passing the note across the table to Miss
Carlyle.
“Do you go?" asked Miss Carlyle.
“Yes," replied Lady Isabel. “Mr. Carlyle and I both want a change
East Lyapo.
13


194
EAST LYNNE.
of some sort," she added, in a mocking sort of spirit ; " it may be as
well to have it, if only for an evening." In truth, this unhappy
jealousy, this distrust of her husband, appeared to have altered Lady
Isabel's very nature.
“And leave Captain Levison alone ? ” returned Miss Carlyle.
Lady Isabel bent over her desk, making no reply,
“What will you do with him, I ask?” persisted Miss Carlyle.
“He can remain here, and dine by himself. Shall I accept the
invitation for you ?'
“No; I shall not go,” said Miss Carlyle.
“Then, in that case, there can be no difficulty with regard to
Captain Levison,” coldly spoke Lady Isabel.
6I don't want his company : I am not fond of it,” cried Miss
Carlyle. “I would go to Mrs. Jeafferson's, but that I should require
a new dress.”
“That's easily had," said Lady Isabel. “I shall want one myself.”
“ You want a new dress!” uttered Miss Carlyle. “Why, you have
dozens !”
"I don't know that I could count a dozen in all," returned Isabel,
chafing at the remark and the continual thwarting put upon her by
Miss Čarlyle, which had latterly seemed to be more than usually hard
to endure. Trifling ills try the temper more than great ones.
Lady Isabel concluded her note, folded, sealed it, and then rang the
bell. As the man left the room with it, she desired that Wilson might
be sent to her.
"Is it this morning, Wilson,' that the dressmaker comes to try on
Miss Isabel's dress ? ” she inquired.
Wilson hesitated and stammered, and glanced from her mistress to
Miss Carlyle. The latter looked up from her work.
“The dressmaker's not coming," spoke she, sharply. "I counter-
manded the order for the frock, for Isabel does not require it."
“She does require it," answered Lady Isabel, in perhaps the most
displeased tone she had ever used to Miss Carlyle. “I am a compe-
tent judge of what is necessary for my own children.”
“She no more requires a new frock than that table requires one, or
than you require the one you are longing for,” stoically persisted Miss
Carlyle. “She has ever so many lying by : and her striped silk,
turned, will make up as handsome as ever.”
Wilson backed out of the room and closed the door softly, but her
mistress caught a compassionate look directed towards her. Her
heart felt bursting with indignation and despair : there seemed to be
no side on which she could turn for refuge. Pitied by her own
servants !
She re-opened her desk, and dashed off a haughty, peremptory note
for the attendance of the dressmaker at East Lynne, commanding its
immediate despatch.
Miss Corny groaned in her wrath. “ You will be sorry for not
listening to me, ma'am, when your husband shall be brought to
poverty. He works like a horse now ; and, with all his slaving, can
scarcely, I fear, keep expenses down."
Poor Lady Isabel, ever sensitive, began to think they might, what


RICHARD HARE AT MR. DILL'S WINDOW.
195
with one thing and another, be spending more than Mr. Carlyle's
means would justify ; she knew that their expenses were considerable.
The same tale had been dinned into her ear ever since she married him.
She gave up in that moment all thought of the new dress for herself
and for Isabel : but her spirit, in her deep unhappiness, felt sick and
faint within her.
Wilson meanwhile had flown to Joyce's room, and was exercising
her dearly-beloved tongue in an exaggerated account of the matter :
how Miss Carlyle put upon my lady, and had forbidden a new dress to
her, as well as the frock to Miss Isabel.
Joyce, sitting up that day for the first time, was gazing from the
window at Captain Levison as Wilson spoke.
“He's a handsome man-to look at him from here,” she observed.
And yet a few more days passed on,
CHAPTER VIII.
RICHARD HARE AT MR. DILL'S WINDOW.
BRIGHT was the moon on that genial Monday night ; bright were the
evening stars as they shone upon a solitary wayfarer who walked on
the shady side of the road, with his head down, as though he cared
not to court observation. A labourer apparently, for he wore a smock
frock and hobnailed shoes ; but his whiskers were large and black,
hiding the lower part of his face, and his broad-brimmed wide-awake"
came far over his brows. He drew near the dwelling of Justice Hare,
plunged rapidly over some palings (after looking well to the right and
left) into a field, and thence over the side wall into Mr. Hare's garden,
where he remained amidst the trees.
Now, by some mischievous spirit of intuition or contrariety, Justice
Hare was spending this evening at home, a thing which did not happen
once in six months, unless he had friends with him. Barbara, anxious,
troubled, worn out with the suspense of watching for her brother, would
have given her head for her father to go out. But no : there sat the
stern justice in full view of the garden and the grove, his chair drawn
precisely in front of the window, his wig awry, and a long pipe in his
mouth.
“Are you not going out, Richard ?” Mrs. Ha:e ventured to say.
“No."
“Mamma, shall I ring for the shutters to be closed ?" asked Barbara,
by-and-by.
'“ Shutters closed !” said the justice. “Who'd shut out this bright
moon? You have the lamp at the far end of the room, young lady,
and can go to it.”
Barbara ejaculated an inward prayer for patience-for safety for
Richard, if he did come, and waited on, watching the grove in the
distance. The signal came; her quick eye caught it ; a movement
as if some person or thing had stepped out beyond the trees and
stepped back again. Barbara's face turned white and her lips dry.


198
EAST LYNNE.
“I am so hot !” she ejaculated, in her confused eagerness for an
excuse. “I must take a turn in the garden.”
She stole out, throwing a dark shawl over her shoulders, that it
might render her less conspicuous to the justice; and her dress that
evening was a dark silk. She did not dare to stand still when she
reached the trees, or to penetrate them, but she caught glimpses of
Richard's face, and her heart ached at the change in it. It was white,
*hin, and full of care ; and his hair, he told her, was turning grey
“Oh, Richard, darling, I may not stop and talk to you !" she wailed,
a deep whisper. “Papa is at home, you see, of all nights in the year."
“ Can't I see my mother ?”
“How can you ? You must wait until to-morrow night."
“I don't like waiting a second night, Barbara. There's danger in
every inch of ground this neighbourhood contains.”
“But you must wait, Richard ; for other reasons. That man who
caused all the mischief, Thorn "
“ Hang him!” gloomily interrupted Richard.
“Is at West Lynne. At least, there is a Thorn here whom we, I
and Mr. Carlyle, believe to be the same, and we want you to see
him."
“Let me see him,” panted Richard, whom the news appeared to
agitate. “Let me see him! Barbara-I say- "
Barbara had passed on again, returning presently. “You know,
Richard, I must keep moving, with papa's eyes there. He is a tall
man, very good-looking, very fond of dress and ornaments, especially
of diamonds."
“ That's he,” cried Richard, eagerly.
“ Mr. Carlyle will contrive that you shall see him," she continued,
stooping as if to tie her shoe. “Should it prove to be the same,
perhaps nothing can be immediately done towards clearing you, but
it will be a great point ascertained. Are you sure you should know
him again ?”
“Sure that I should know him!” uttered Richard Hare. “Should
I know my own father? Should I know you? And you are not engraven
on-my heart in letters of blood, as he is. How and when am I to see
him, Barbara ?”
“I can tell you nothing until I have consulted Mr. Carlyle. Be here
to-morrow as soon as ever the dusk will permit you : perhaps Mr.
Carlyle will contrive to bring him here. If- "
| The window was thrown open, and the stentorian voice of Justice
Hare was heard from it.
“ Barbara, are you wandering about there to take cold? Come in.
Come in, I say."
“Oh, Richard, I am so sorry!" she lingered to whisper. “But papa
is sure to be out to-morrow might : he would not stay in two evenings
running. Good night, dear.”
There must be no delay now, and the next day Barbara, braving com-
ments, appeared once more at the office of Mr. Carlyle. Terribly did
the rules of contrary seem in action just then : Mr. Carlyle was not in,
and the clerks did not know when to expect him : he had gone out for
some hours, they believed.


RICHARD HARE AT MR. DILL'S WINDOW. 19%
“Mr. Dill,” urged Barbara, as the old gentleman came to the door to
greet her, “I must see him.”
" He will not be in till late in the afternoon, Miss Barbara. I expect
him then. Is it anything I can do for you?”
“No, no," sighed Barbara.
At that moment Lady Isabel and her little girl passed in the chariot.
She saw Barbara at her husband's door ; what should she be doing
there, unless paying him a visit? A slight, haughty bow to Barbara,
a pleasant nod and smile to Mr. Dill, and the carriage bowled on.
It was four o'clock before Barbara could see Mr. Carlyle. She com-
municated her tidings, that Richard had arrived.
Mr. Carlyle held deceit and all underhand doings in especial
abhorrence : yet he deemed that he was acting right, under the circum-
stances, in allowing Captain Thorn to be secretly seen by Richard
Hare. In haste he arranged his plans. It was the evening of his own
dinner engagement at Mrs. Jeafferson's ; but that he must give up.
Telling Barbara to despatch Richard to his office as soon as he should
make his appearance in the grove, and to urge him to come boldly, for
that none would know him in his disguise, he wrote a hurried note to
Thorn, requesting him also to be at his office at eight o'clock that
evening, as he had something to communicate to him. The latter plea
was no fiction, for he had received an important communication that
morning relative to the business on which Captain Thorn had consulted
him, and his own absence from the office had alone prevented his
sending for him earlier.
Other matters were demanding the attention of Mr. Carlyle, and it
was five o'clock ere he departed for East Lynne : he would not have
gone so early, but that he must inform his wife of his inability to keep
his dinner engagement. Mr. Carlyle was one who never hesitated to
sacrifice personal gratification to friendship or to business.
The chariot was at the door, and Lady Isabel was dressed and wait-
ing for him in her dressing-room. “Did you forget that the Jeaffersons
dine at six ?” was her greeting.
“No, Isabel ; but it was impossible for me to get here before. And
I should not have come so soon, but to tell you that I cannot accom-
pany you. You must make my excuses to Mrs. Jeafferson.”
A pause. Strange thoughts were running through Lady Isabel's
mind. “Why so :” she inquired.
“ Some business has arisen which I am compelled to attend to this
evening. As soon as I have snatched my dinner at home, I must
hasten back to the office.”
Was he making this excuse to spend the hours of her absence with
Barbara Hare? The idea that it was so took firm possession of her
mind, and remained there. Her face expressed a variety of feelings,
the most prominent that of resentment. Mr. Carlyle saw it.
“ You must not be vexed, Isabel. I assure you it is no fault of
mine. It is important private business which cannot be put off, and
which I cannot delegate to Dill. I am sorry it should so have
happened.”
“You never return to the office in an evening,” she remarked, with
pale lips.


198
EAST LYNNE.
“No: because, if anything arises to take us there after hours, Dill
officiates. But the business to-night must be done by myself.”
Another pause. Lady Isabel suddenly broke it. “Shall you join us
later in the evening ?”
“I believe I shall not be able to do so."
She drew her light shawl round her shoulders, and swept down the
staircase. Mr. Carlyle followed, to place her in the carriage. When
he said farewell she never answered, but looked straight out before her
with a stony look.
“What time, my lady?” inquired the footman, as she alighted at
Mrs. Jeafferson's.
“Early. Half-past nine.”
. A little before eight o'clock, Richard Hare, in his smock frock, his
slouching hat, and his false whiskers, rang dubiously at the outer door
of Mr. Carlyle's office. That gentleman instantly opened it. He was
quite alone.
* “ Come in, Richard,” said he, grasping his hand. “Did you meet
many whom you knew?"
“I never looked whom I met, sir," was the reply. “I thought if I
looked at people, they might look at me, so I came straight ahead with
my eyes before me. How the place is altered! There's a new brick
house at the corner where old Morgan's shop used to be.”
“That's the new police station : West Lynne, I assure you, is be-
coming grand in public buildings. And how have you been, Richard ? "
“Ailing and wretched,” answered Richard Hare. “How can I be
otherwise, Mr. Carlyle, with so false an accusation attaching to me;
and working like a slave, as I have to do?”
“ You may take off that disfiguring hat, Richard. No one is here."
Richard slowly lifted it from his brows, and his fair face, so like his
mother's, was disclosed. But the moment he was uncovered, he
turned shrinkingly towards the door. “If any one should come in,
sir !”
“Impossible,” replied Mr. Carlyle. “The front door is fast, and the
office is supposed to be empty at this hour.”
“For, if I should be seen and recognized, it might come to hanging,
you know, sir. You are expecting that accursed Thorn here, Barbara
told me."
“ Directly,” replied Mr. Carlyle, observing the mode of addressing
him : “ sir." It told plainly of the scale of society in which Richard
must be mixing : that he was with those who said it habitually ; that
he used it habitually himself. “From your description of the Lieu-
tenant Thorn who destroyed Hallijohn, we believe this Captain 'Thorn
to be the same man," pursued Mr. Carlyle. “In person he appears to
tally exactly ; and I have ascertained that some years ago he was a
great deal at Swainson, and fell into some sort of scrape. He is in
John Herbert's regiment, and is here with him on a visit.”
“But what an idiot he must be to venture here ! ” uttered Richard.
“Here, of all places in the world." . '
“He counts, no doubt, upon not being known. So far as I can find
out, Richard, no one here knew him, except you and Afy. I shall put
you in Mr. Dill's room-you may remember the little window in it


RICHARD HARE AT MR. DILL'S WINDOW. 199
and from thence you can take full view of Thorn, whom I shall keep
in the front office. “ You are sure you would recognize him, at this
distance of iime ?”
“I should know him if it were fifty years to come; I should know
him if he were disguised as I am disguised. We cannot,” Richard
sank his voice," forget a man who has been the object of our frenzied
jealousy."
“What has brought you to West Lynne again, Richard ? Any
particular object?”
* “ Chiefly a hankering within me that I could not get rid of," replied
Richard." It was not so much to see my mother and Barbara-
though I have longed to see them since my illness—but a feeling was
within me that I could not rest away from it. So I said I'd risk it
again just for a day.”
“ I thought you might possibly want some assistance, as before."
“I do want that also,” said Richard. “Not much. My illness has
run me into debt, and if my mother can let me have a little I shall be
thankful.”
“I am sure she will,” answered Mr. Carlyle. “ You shall have it
from me to-night. What has been the matter with you ?”.
“The beginning of it was a kick from a horse, sir. That was last
winter, and it laid me up for six weeks. Then, in the spring, after I
had got well and was at work again, I caught some sort of fever, and
down again I was for six weeks. I have not been to say well since.”
“How is it you have never written, or sent me your address ?”
“Because I dare not,” answered Richard, timorously. “I should
always be in fear ; not of you, Mr. Carlyle, but of its becoming known
in some way or other. The time is getting on, sir : is that Thorn sure
to come ?”
“ He sent me word that he would, in reply to my note. And—there
he is !” said Mr. Carlyle, as a ring was heard at the bell.“ Now,
Richard, come this way. Bring your hat.”
Richard complied by putting the hat on his head, pulling it so low
down that it almost touched his nose. He felt himself safer in it. Mr.
Carlyle showed him into Mr. Dill's room, and then turned the key
upon him, and put it into his pocket. Whether this precautionary
measure was intended to prevent any possibility of Captain Thorn's
finding his way in, or of Richard finding his way out, was best known
to himself.
Mr. Carlyle went to the front door, opened it, and admitted Captain
Thorn. He brought him into the clerks' office, which was bright with
gas, keeping him in conversation for a few minutes standing, and then
asking him to be seated : all in full view of the little window.
“I must beg your pardon for being late," Captain Thorn observed.
“I am half an hour beyond the time you mentioned, but the Herberts
had two or three friends at dinner, and I could not get away. I hope,
Mr. Carlyle, you have not come to your office to-night purposely
for me.”
“ Business must be attended to," somewhat evasively answered
Mr. Carlyle : “I have been out myself nearly all day. We received
a communication from London this morning relative to your affair,


200
EAST LYNNE.
and I am sorry to say it is anything but satisfactory. They will not
wait."
“But I am not liable, Mr. Carlyle. Not liable in justice.”
“No-if what you tell me be correct. But justice and law are some-
times opposed to each other, Captain Thorn.”
Captain Thorn sat in perplexity. “They will not have me arrested
here, will they ?”
“They would have done it, beyond doubt; but I have caused a
letter to be written and despatched to them, which must bring forth
an answer before any violent proceedings are taken. That answer will
be here the morning after to-morrow.”
“And what am I to do then ?”
“ I think it probable there may be a way then of checkmating them.
But I am not sure, Captain Thorn, that I can give my attention further
to this affair."
“I hope and trust you will,” was the reply.
“ You have not forgotten that I told you, at first, I could not promise
to do so," rejoined Mr. Carlyle. “You shall hear from me to-morrow.
If I carry it on for you, I will then appoint an hour for you to be here
the following day : if not--why, I dare say you will find a solicitor as
capable of assisting you as I am."
* But why will you not ? What is your reason ?"
“I cannot always give reasons for what I do," was the response.
“You shall hear from me to-morrow."
He rose as he spoke ; Captain Thorn also rose. Mr. Carlyle
detained him yet a few moments, and then saw him out at the front
door and fastened it.
He returned and released Richard. The latter took off his hat as he
advanced into the blaze of light.
“Well, Richard, is it the same man?”
“No, sir. Nor in the least like him.”
Mr. Carlyle felt a strange relief; relief for Captain Thorn's sake.
He had rarely seen one whom he could so little associate with the
notion of a murderer as Captain Thorn, and he was a man who
exceedingly won upon his regard. He could heartily help him out of
his dilemma now.
“ Excepting that they are both tall, with nearly the same coloured
hair, there is no resemblance whatever between them," proceeded
Richard. “Their faces, their figures are as opposite as light is from
dark. That other, in spite of his handsome features, has the expres-
sion at times of a demon; but the expression of this one is the best part
of his face. Hallijohn's murderer had a curious look here, sir.”
“Where?” questioned Mr. Carlyle, for Richard had only pointed to
his face generally.
“Well I cannot say precisely where it lay, whether in the eyebrows
or the eyes : I could not tell when I used to have him before me : but
it was in one of them. Ah, Mr. Carlyle, I thought when Barbara told
me Thorn was here, it was too good news to be true ; depend upon it
he won't venture to West Lynne again. This man is no more like that
other viliain than you are like him.”
“Then--as that is set at rest-we had better be going, Richard.


RICHARD HARE AT MR. DILL'S WINDOW. 201
You have to see your mother, and she must be waiting in anxiety.
. How much money do you want?”
“Twenty-five pounds would do, but— " Richard stopped in hesi-
tation.
“But what ? ” asked Mr. Carlyle. “Speak out, Richard."
“Thirty would be more welcome. Thirty would put me at ease."
“You shall have thirty," said Mr. Carlyle, counting over the notes to
him. “Now—will you walk with me to the grove, or will you walk
alone? I mean to see you there in safety."
Richard thought he would prefer to walk alone : every one they met
might be speaking to Mr. Carlyle. The latter inquired why he chose
moonlight nights for his visits.
“It is pleasanter for night travelling. And, had I chosen dark
nights, Barbara could not have seen my signal from the trees," was
Richard's answer.
They went out, and proceeded unmolested to the house of Justice
Hare. It was past nine then. “I am so much obliged to you, Mr.
Carlyle,” whispered Richard, as they walked up the path.
“ I wish I could help you more effectually, Richard, and clear up the
mystery. Is Barbara on the watch ? Yes ; the door is slowly opening."
Richard stole across the hall and into the parlour to his mother.
Barbara approached and softly whispered to Mr. Carlyle, standing just
outside the portico : her voice trembled with the suspense of what the
answer might be.
“Is it the same man? The same Thorn ? "
“ No. Richard says this man bears no resemblance to the real one."
“Oh!" uttered Barbara, in her surprise and disappointment. “Not
the same! and for the best part of poor Richard's evening to have
been taken up for nothing.”
“Not quite for nothing,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The question is now
set at rest."
“Set at rest !” repeated Barbara. “ It is left in more uncertainty
than ever."
“Set at rest as regards Captain Thorn. And whilst our suspicions
were concentrated upon him, we did not look to other quarters."
When they entered the sitting-room, Mrs. Hare was crying over
Richard, and Richard was crying over her : but she seized Mr. Carlyle's
hand.
“ You have been very kind : I don't know what we should do with-
out you. And I want to tax your kindness yet further. Has Barbara
mentioned it ?"
“I could not talk in the hall, mamma : the servants might have
overheard."
“Mr. Hare is not well, and we terribly fear he will be home early in
consequence : otherwise we should have been quite safe until ten, for
he is gone to the Buck's Head, and they never leave, you know, till
that hour has struck. Should he come in and see Richard--the very
thought sends me into a fever-Barbara and I have been discussing
it all the evening, and we can only think of one plan. It is, that you
will kindly stay in the garden near the gate ; and, should he come in,
stop him and keep him in conversation. Barbara will be with you,


202
EAST LYNNE.
and will run in with the warning, and Richard can go inside the closet
in the hall, till Mr. Hare has entered and is safe in this room, and then
he can make his escape. Will you do this, Archibald ? "
“ Certainly I will.”
“I cannot part with him before ten o'clock, unless I am obliged to
do so,” she whispered, pressing Mr. Carlyle's hands in her earnest
gratitude. “You don't know what it is, Archibald, to have a lost son
home for an hour but once in seven years. At ten o'clock we will
part.”
Mr. Carlyle and Barbara began to pace the path, in compliance
with the wishes of Mrs. Hare, keeping near the entrance gate. When
they were turning the second time, Mr. Carlyle offered her his arm : it
was an act of mere politeness. Barbara took it : and there they waited
and waited, but the justice did not come.
Punctually to the minute, half after nine, Lady Isabel's carriage
arrived at Mrs. Jeafferson's, and she came out immediately, a headache
being the plea for her early departure. She had not far to go to reach
East Lynne : only about two miles ; it was a by-road nearly all the
way. They could emerge into the open road if they pleased, but it
was a little further. Suddenly a gentleman approached the carriage
as it was bowling along, and waved his hand to the coachman to pull
up. In spite of the moonlight, Lady Isabel did not at first recognize :
him, for he wore a disfiguring fur cap, the ears of which were tied
over his ears and cheeks. It was Francis Levison. She put down
the window.
“I thought it must be your carriage. How early you are returning !
Were you tired of your entertainers ?”
“ Why, he knew what time my lady was returning,” thought John to
himself; "he asked me. A false sort of chap, that, I've a notion."
"I came out for a stroll, and have tired myself," he proceeded.
“ Will you take compassion on me and give me a seat home?”
She acquiesced ; she could not well do otherwise. The footman
sprang from behind, to open the door, and Francis Levison took his
place beside Lady Isabel." “ Take the high road,” he put out his head
to say to the coachman, and the man touched his hat. The high road
would cause them to pass Mr. Hare's.
“I did not know you," she began, gathering herself into her own
corner. “What ugly thing is that you have on? It is like a disguise."
He was taking off the “ugly thing ” as she spoke, and began to twirl
it round on his hand. “Disguise? Oh no; I have no creditors in the
immediate neighbourhood of East Lynne.”
False as ever. It was worn as a disguise, and he knew it.
“Is Mr. Carlyle at home? ” she inquired.
“No.” Then after a pause-“ I expect he is more agreeably engaged.”
The tone brought the tingling blood to, the cheeks of Lady Isabel.
She wished to preserve a dignified silence; and did so for a few
moments : but the jealous question broke out.
“Engaged in what manner ?”
“As I came by Hares' house just now, I saw two people, a gentleman
and a young lady, coupled lovingly together, enjoying a tête-à-tête by
moonlight. They were your husband and Miss Hare,"


NEVER TO BE REDEEMED.
203
Lady Isabel almost gnashed her teeth : the jealous doubts which had
been tormenting her all the evening were confirmed. That the man
whom she hated-yes, ih her blind anger, she hated him then-should
so impose upon her, should excuse himself by lies, lies base and false,
from accompanying her, on purpose to pass the hours with Barbara
Hare! Had she been alone in the carriage, a torrent of passion had
probably escaped her.
She leaned back, panting in her emotion, but concealed it from
Captain Levison. As they came opposite to Justice Hare's, she
deliberately bent forward, and scanned the garden with eager eyes.
There, in the bright moonlight, all too bright and clear, slowly paced,
arm in arm, drawn close to each other, her husband and Barbara.
With a choking sob, that could no longer be controlled or hidden,
Lady Isabel sank back again.
He, that bold bad man, dared to put his arm round her; to draw
her to his side ; to whisper that his love was left her, if another's was
withdrawn.
She was most assuredly out of her senses that night, or she never
would have listened.
A jealous woman is mad ; an outraged woman is doubly mad; and
the ill-fated Lady Isabel truly believed that every sacred feeling which
ought to exist between man and wife, was betrayed by Mr. Carlyle.
“ Be avenged on that false hound, Isabel. He was never worthy of
you. Leave your life of misery, and come to happiness.”
In her bitter distress and wrath, she broke into a storm of sobs.
Were they caused by passion against her husband, or by these bold and
shameless words! Alas! alas! Francis Levison applied himself to
soothe her with all the sweet and dangerous sophistry of his crafty
nature.
CHAPTER IX.
NEVER TO BE REDEEMED.
THE minutes flew on. A quarter to ten ; ten ; a quarter past ten ; and
still Richard Hare lingered on with his mother, and still Mr. Carlyle
and Barbara paced patiently the garden path. At half-past ten Richard
came forth, having taken his last farewell. Then came Barbara's tear-
ful farewell, which Mr. Carlyle witnessed ; then a hard grasp of that
gentleman's hand, and Richard plunged into the trees, to depart the way
he had come.
“Good night, Barbara," said Mr. Carlyle.
“ Will you not come in, and say good night to mamma ? ”
“ Not now; it is late. Tell her how glad I am things have gone off
so well.” .
He set off at a rapid pace towards his home, and Barbara leaned on
the gate to indulge her tears. Not a soul passed to interrupt her, and the
justice did not return. What could have become of him? What could
the Buck's Head be thinking of, to detain respectable elderly justices
from their beds, who ought to go home early and set a good example to


204
EAST LYNNE.
the parish ? Barbara knew, the next day, that Justice Hare, with a few
more gentlemen, had been seduced from the staid old inn to a friend's
house, to an entertainment of supper, pipes, and whist, two tables, six-
penny points, and it was between twelve and one ere the party rose from
the fascination. So far, well-as it happened.
Barbara knew not how long she lingered at the gate ; ten minutes it
may have been. No one summoned her ; Mrs. Hare was indulging her
grief indoors, giving no thought to Barbara, and the justice did not
make his appearance. Exceedingly surprised was Barbara to hear fast
footsteps, and to find that they were Mr. Carlyle's.
“ The more haste, the less speed, Barbara,” he called out as he came
up. “I had reached half way home, and have had to return again.
When I went into your sitting-room, I left a small parcel, containing a
parchment, on the sideboard. Will you find it for me?"
Barbara ran indoors and brought forth the parcel; and Mr. Carlyle,
with a brief word of thanks, sped away with it.
She leaned on the gate as before, the ready tears flowing again. Her
heart was aching for Richard : it was aching for the disappointment
the night had brought forth respecting Captain Thorn. Still no one
passed; still the steps of her father were not heard, and Barbara stayed
on. But—what was that figure cowering under shadow of the hedge at
a distance, and apparently watching her ? Barbara strained her eyes,
while her heart beat as if it would burst its bounds. Surely, surely, it
was her brother! Why had he ventured there again?
It was Richard Hare. When fully assured that Barbara was standing
there, he knew the justice must be still absent, and ventured to advance.
He appeared to be in a strange state of emotion, his breath laboured,
his whole frame trembling.
“ Barbara ! Barbara !” he ejaculated, “ I have seen Thorn.”
Barbara thought him demented. “I know you saw him," she slowly
said ; “but it was not the right Thorn."
“Not he," breathed Richard : “not the man I saw to-night in
Carlyle's office. I have seen the fellow himself. Why do you stare so
at me, Barbara ?”
Barbara was in truth scanning his face keenly. It appeared to her
a strange tale that he was telling.
“When I left here, I cut across into Bean-lane, which is more
private for me than this road,” proceeded Richard. “Just as I reached
that clump of trees—you know it, Barbara-I saw somebody coming
towards me, from a distance. I stepped back behind the trees, into
the shade of the hedge, for I don't care to be seen, though I am dis-
guised. He came along the middle of the lane, going towards West
Lynne, and I looked out upon him. I knew him long before he came
up: it was Thorn."
Barbara made no comment : she was digesting the news.
“Every drop of blood within me began to tingle, and an impulse
came upon me to spring upon him and accuse him of the murder of
Hallijohn," went on Richard, in the same excited manner. “But I
restrained it : or, perhaps, my courage failed. One of the reproaches
against me used to be that I was a physical coward, you know,
Barbara,” he added, his tone changing to bitterness. “In a struggle


NÉVÉR TO BE REDEEMED.
205
Thorn would have had the best of it : he is taller and more powerful,
than I, and might have battered me to death. A man who can commit
one murder, won't hesitate at a second.”
.“ Richard, do you think you could have been deceived ?" she urged.
“ You have been talking of Thorn, and your thoughts were, naturally,
bearing upon him. Imagination-2"
“Be still, Barbara !” he interrupted, in a tone of pain. "Imagina-
tion, indeed! Did I not tell you he was stamped here?” touching his
breast. “Do you take me for a child, or an imbecile, that I should
fancy I see Thorn in every shadow, or meet people where I do not?
He had his hat off as if he had been walking fast and was hot-he was
walking fast, and he carried the hat in one hand, and what looked like
a small parcel. With the other hand he was pushing his hair from his
brow-in this way; a peculiar way,” added Richard, slightly lifting his
own hat, and pushing back his hair. “By that action alone I should
have known him, for he was always doing it in the old days. And
there was his white hand, adorned with his diamond ring, Barbara,
and the diamond glittered in the moonlight.”
Richard's voice and manner were singularly earnest, and a convic-
tion of the truth of his assertion flashed upon his sister.
“I saw his face as plainly as I ever saw it; every feature : he is
scarcely altered, except for a haggardness in his cheeks now. Barbara,
you need not doubt me: I swear it was Thorn."
She grew excited as he was. Now that she believed the news, it was
telling upon her : reason left its place, and impulse succeeded. Barbara
did not wait to weigh her actions.
“Richard, Mr. Carlyle ought to know this. He has only just gone ;
we may overtake him if we try.”
Forgetting the strange appearance it would have, at that hour of
the night, should she meet any one who knew her, forgetting what
the consequences might be, should Justice Hare return and find her
absent, Barbara set off with a fleet foot, Richard more stealthily
following her, his eyes cast in all directions. Fortunately Barbara
wore a bonnet and mantle, which she had put on to pace the garden
with Mr. Carlyle ; fortunately also, they met no one. She succeeded
in reaching Mr. Carlyle before he turned into the East Lynne gates.
“ Barbara !” he exclaimed, in the extreme of astonishment. “Bar-
bara !”
“Archibald! Archibald !” she panted, gasping for breath. "I am
not out of my mind; but do come and speak to Richard ! He has
just seen the real Thorn.”
Mr. Carlyle, amazed and wondering, turned back. They passed
over the stile nearly opposite the gates, drew behind the hedge, and
there Richard told his tale. Mr. Carlyle did not appear to doubt it, as
Barbara had done : perhaps he could not do so, in the face of Richard's
agitated and intense earnestness.
"I am sure there is no one named Thorn in the neighbourhood,
except the gentleman you saw in my office to-night, Richard," observed
Mr. Carlyle, after some deliberation. “It is very strange."
“He may be staying here under a feigned name,” replied Richard.
“ There can be no mistake that it is Thorn whom I have just met.”


206
EAST LYNNE.
“How was he dressed? As a gentleman ?”
“ Catch him dressing as anything else," returned Richard. “He
was in an evening suit, with a sort of thin overcoat thrown on, but it
was flung back from the shoulders, and I distinctly saw his clothes, As
I have told Barbara, I should have known him by this action of the
hand,” imitating it, “as he pushed his hair off his forehead : it was the
delicate white hand of the days gone by, Mr. Carlyle, and the flashing
diamond ring."
Mr. Carlyle was silent; Barbara also ; but the thoughts of both
were busy. “Richard,” observed the former, “I should advise you
to remain a day or two in the neighbourhood, and look out for this.
man. You may see him again, and may track him home; it is very
desirable to find out who he really is, if it can be done."
“ But the danger ?” urged Richard.
“ Your fears magnify that. I am quite certain that no one would
know you in broad daylight, disguised as you are now. So many
years have flown since, that people have forgotten to think about you,
Richard."
But Richard could not be persuaded; he was full of fears. He
described the man as accurately as he could to Mr. Carlyle and Barbara,
and told them they must look out. With some trouble Mr. Carlyle
drew from him an address in London to which he might write, in case
anything turned up, and Richard's presence should be needed. He
then once more said farewell, and quitted them, his way lying past
East Lynne.
“And now to see you home again, Barbara,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“ Indeed you shall not do it, late as it is, and tired as you must be.
I came here alone : Richard did not keep near me.”
“ I cannot help your having come here alone, but you may rely upon
it I do not suffer you to go back so. Nonsense, Barbara! Allow you
to go along the high road by yourself at eleven o'clock at night!
What are you thinking of ?”
He gave Barbara his arm, and they pursued their way. “How late
Lady Isabel will think you !” observed Barbara.
“ I do not know that Lady Isabel has yet returned home.' My being
late once in a way is of no consequence."
Not another word was spoken, except by Barbara. “What excuse
can I make, should papa be at home again?” Both were buried in
their own reflections." Thank you very greatly," she said as they
reached the gate, and Mr. Carlyle finally turned away. Barbara stole
in, and found the coast clear : her father had not arrived.
Lady Isabel was in her dressing-room when Mr. Carlyle entered;
she was seated at a table, writing. A few questions as to her evening's
visit, which she answered in the briefest manner possible, and then he
asked her if she was not going to bed.
“ By-and-by. I am not sleepy."
“I must go at once, Isabel, for I am dead tired."
“You can go," was her answer.
He bent down to kiss her, but she dexterously turned her face away.
He supposed she felt hurt that he had not gone with her to the party,
and placed his hand on her shoulder with a pleasant smile.


NEVER TO BE REDEEMED.
207
“You foolish child to be aggrieved at that ! It was no fault of mine,
Isabel : I could not help myself. I will talk to you in the morning :
I am too tired to-night. I suppose you will not be long."
Her head was bent over her writing again, and she made no reply.
Mr. Carlyle went into the bedroom and closed the door. Some time
after, Lady Isabel went softly upstairs to Joyce's room. Joyce, in her
first sleep, was suddenly aroused from it. There stood her mistress,
a waxlight in her hand. Joyce rubbed her eyes, and collected her
senses, and finally sat up in bed.
“ My lady! Are you ill?”
“ Ill? Yes; and wretched,” answered Lady Isabel : and ill she
looked, for she was perfectly white. “Joyce, I want a promise from
you. If anything should happen to me, remain at East Lynne with
my children.”
Joyce stared in amazement, too astonished to make any reply.
* Joyce, you promised it once before : promise it again. Whatever
betide, you will remain with my children when I am gone."
“I will stay with them. But, oh, my lady, what can be the matter
with you? Are you taken suddenly ill ?”
“Good-bye, Joyce," murmured Lady Isabel, gliding from the cham-
ber as softly as she had entered it. And Joyce, after an hour of per-
plexity, dropped asleep again.
Joyce was not the only one whose rest was disturbed that eventful
night. Mr. Carlyle himself awoke, and to his surprise found that his
wife had not come to bed. He wondered what the time was, and
struck his repeater. A quarter-past three !
Rising, he made his way to the door of his wife's dressing-room. It
was in darkness; and so far as he could judge by absence of sound,
unoccupied.
“ Isabel.”
No reply. Nothing but the echo of his own voice in the silence of
the night.
He struck a match and lighted a taper, partially dressed himself,
and went out to look for her. He feared she might have been taken
ill or else that she had fallen asleep in one of the rooms. But no-
where could he find her, and, feeling perplexed, he proceeded to his
sister's chamber door and knocked.
Miss Carlyle was a light sleeper, and rose up in bed at once.
“ Who's that?” called out she.
“ It is only 1, Cornelia,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“You ! ” ejaculated Miss Corny. “What in the name of fortune do
you want? You can come in.”
Mr. Carlyle opened the door, and met the keen eyes of his sister,
bent on him from the bed. Her head was surmounted by a remarkable
nightcap, at least a foot high.
“Is any one ill ? ” she demanded.
“I think Isabel must be. I cannot find her.”
“Not find her ! " echoed Miss Corny. “Why, what's the time? Is
she not in bed ?"
“It is three o'clock. She has not been to bed. I cannot find her
in the sitting-rooms ; neither is she in the children's room."


208
EAST LYNNE.
“Then I'll tell you what it is, Archibald ; she's gone worrying after
Joyce. Perhaps the girl may be in pain to-night."
Mr. Carlyle was in full retreat towards Joyce's room, at this sug-
gestion, when his sister called to him.
“If anything is wrong with Joyce, come and tell me, Archibald, for
I shall get up and see after her. The girl was my servant before she
was your wife's.”
He reached Joyce's room and softly unlatched the door, fully ex-
pecting to find a light there, and his wife sitting by the bedside. There
was no light, however, except that which came from the taper he held,
and he saw no signs of his wife. Where was she? Was it probable
that Joyce could tell him ? He stepped into the room and called to her.
Joyce started up in a fright, which changed to astonishment when
she recognized her master. He inquired whether Lady Isabel had
been there, and for a few moments Joyce did not answer. She had
been dreaming of Lady Isabel, and could not at first detach the dream
from the visit which had probably given rise to it.
“What did you say, sir? Is my lady worse?”
“I ask if she has been here. I cannot find her.”
“ Why, yes,” said Joyce, now fully aroused. “She came here and
woke me. That was just before twelve, for I heard the clock strike.
She did not stay here a minute, sir.”
“Woke you !" repeated Mr. Carlyle. “What did she want? what
did she come here for ?”
Thoughts are quick; imagination is quicker ; and Joyce was giving
the reins to both. Her mistress's gloomy and ambiguous words were
crowding on her brain, Three o'clock ! and she had not been in bed,
and was not to be found in the house! A nameless horror struggled
to Joyce's face, her eyes were dilating with it: she seized and threw
on a large flannel gown which lay on a chair by the bed, and forgetful
of her ailing foot, forgetful of her master who stood there, out she
sprang to the floor. All minor considerations faded to insignificance
beside the terrible dread which had taken possession of her. Clasping
the flannel gown tightly round her with one hand, she laid the other
on the arm of Mr. Carlyle.
“Oh, master, master! she has destroyed herself! I see it all now.”
“Joyce !” sternly interrupted Mr. Carlyle.
“She has destroyed herself, sir, as true as that we two are living
here ! ” persisted Joyce, her own face livid with emotion. “I can
understand her words now ; I could not before. She came here-and
her face was like a corpse as the light fell upon it-saying she had
come to get a promise from me to stay with her children when she
was gone. I asked whether she was ill, and she answered, “Yes,
ill and wretched. Oh, sir, may Heaven support you under this
dreadful trial !”
Mr. Carlyle felt bewildered ; perplexed. Not a syllable did he
believe of this. He was not angry with Joyce, for he thought she had
lost her reason.
“ It is so, sir, incredible as you may deem my words,” pursued Joyce,
wringing her hands. “My lady has been miserably unhappy : and
that has driven her to it.”


NEVER TO BE REDEEMED.
209
« Joyce, are you in your senses or out of them?” demanded Mr.
Carlyle, a certain sternness in his tone. “ Your lady miserably un.
happy ! what do you mean by such an assertion ?".
Before Joyce could answer, an addition was received to the com-
pany in the person of Miss Carlyle, who appeared in black stockings
and a shawl, and the lofty nightcap. Hearing voices in Joyce's room,
which was above her own, and full of curiosity, she ascended, not
choosing to be shut out from the conference.
“Whatever's up?" cried she. “Is Lady Isabel found?”
“She is not found, and she never will be found but in her winding-
sheet," returned Joyce, whose lamentable and unusual state of excite-
- ment completely overpowered her customary quiet respect and plain
good sense. " And, ma'am, I am glad that you have come up; for
what I was about to say to my master I would prefer to say in your
presence. When my lady is brought into this house, and laid down
before us, dead, what will your feelings be? My master has done his
duty by her in love, but you--you have made her life a misery. Yes,
ma'am, you have."
"Highty tighty !" uttered Miss Carlyle, staring at Joyce in conster-
nation. "What is all this? Where's my lady ?"
“She has gone and taken the life that was not hers to take,” sobbed
Joyce ; "and I say she has been driven to it. She has not been allowed
to indulge a will of her own, poor thing, since she came to East Lynne :
in her own house she has been less free than any one of her servants.
You have curbed her, ma'am, and snapped at her, and made her
feel that she was but a slave to your caprices and temper. All these
years she has been crossed and put upon; everything, in short, but
beaten-ma'am, you know she has !-and she has borne it all in
silence, like a patient angel, never, as I believe, complaining to my
master : he can say whether she has or not. We all loved her, we all
felt for her, and my master's heart would have bled, had he suspected
what she had to put up with day after day, and year after year.”
Miss Carlyle's tongue was glued to her mouth. Her brother, con.
founded at the rapid words, could scarcely gather in their sense.
“ What is that you are saying, Joyce?” he asked, in a low tone. “I
do not understand."
“I have longed to say it to you many a hundred times, sir : but it is
right that you should hear it, now things have come to this dreadful
ending. Since the very night Lady Isabel came home here, your
wife, she has been taunted with the cost she has brought to East
Lynne and to you. If she wanted but the simplest thing, she was for-
bidden to have it, and told that she was bringing her husband to
poverty. For this very dinner party that she went to to-night, she
wished for a new dress, and your cruel words, ma'am, forbade her
having it. She ordered a new frock for Miss Isabel, and you counter-
manded it. You have told her that master worked like a dog to support
her extravagances when you know that she never was extravagant :
that none were less inclined to go beyond proper limits than she. I
have seen her, ma'am, come away from your reproaches with the
tears in her eyes, and her hands meekly clasped upon her bosom, as
though life was heavy to bear. A gentle-spirited, high-born lady, as
East Lynna.


210
EAST LYNNE.
she was, could not fail to be driven to desperation ; and I know that
she has been.”
Mr. Carlyle turned to his sister. “ Can this be true ?” he inquired,
in a tone of deep agitation.
She did not answer. Whether it was the shade cast by the nightcap
or the reflection of the wax taper, her face looked grey and ghostly :
and for the first time probably in Miss Carlyle's life, words failed her.
"May God forgive you, Cornelia !” he murmured, as he went out of
the chamber.'
He descended to his own. That his wife had laid violent hands
upon herself, his reason utterly repudiated : she was one of the least
likely to commit so great a sin. He believed that, in her unhappiness,
she might have wandered out in the grounds, and was lingering there.
By this time the house was aroused, and the servants were astir.
Joyce-surely a supernatural strength was given her, for though she
had been able to put her foot to the ground, she had not yet walked
upon it—crept downstairs, and went into Lady Isabel's dressing-room.
Mr. Carlyle was hastily assuming the articles of attire he had not yet
put on, to go out and search the grounds, when Joyce limped in, hold-
ing out a note. Joyce did not stand on ceremony that night.
“I found this in the dressing-glass drawer, sir. It is my lady's
writing.”
He took it in his hand and looked at the address. “Archibald
Carlyle." Though a calm man, one who had his emotions under his
own control, he was no stoic, and his fingers shook as he broke the
seal.
“When years go on, and my children ask where their mother is,
and why she left them, tell them that you, their father, goaded her
to it. If they inquire what she is, tell them also, if so you will. But
tell them at the same time that you outraged and betrayed her, driving
her to the very depth of desperation, ere she quitted them in her
despair.”
The handwriting, his wife's, swam before the eyes of Mr. Carlyle.
All, except the disgraceful fact that she had flown-and a horrible sus-
picion began to dawn upon him with whom—was totally incomprehen-
sible. How had he outraged her ? in what manner had he goaded her
to it? The discomforts alluded to by Joyce, as the work of his sister,
had evidently no part in this; yet, what had he done? He read the
letter again, more slowly. No, he could not understand it: he had no
clue to the mystery.
At that moment the voices of the servants in the corrior outside
penetrated to his ears : of course they were peering about, and making
their own comments, Wilson, with her long tongue, the busiest. They
were saying that Captain Levison was not in his room ; that his bed
had not been slept in.
Joyce sat on the edge of a chair---she could not stand-watching
her master with his blanched face : never had she seen him betray
agitation so powerful. Not the faintest suspicion of the dreadful truth
had yet dawned upon her. He walked to the door, the open note in
his hand, then turned, wavered, and stood still-as if he did not know
what he was doing. Probably he did not. Then he took out his


NEVER TO BE REDEEMED.
211
pocket-book, put the note inside it, and returned it to his pocket, his
hands trembling equally with his livid lips.
“ You need not mention this,” he said to Joyce, indicating the note.
“ It concerns myself alone.”
“Sir, does it say she's dead ? ”.
“She is not dead,” he answered. “Worse than that,” he added in
his heart.
“Why—who is this?" uttered Joyce.
It was little Isabel, stealing in with a frightened face, in her white
nightgown. The commotion had aroused her.
“What is the matter ?" she asked. “Where's mamma?”
“Child, you'll catch your death of cold,” said Joyce. “Go back to
bed.”
“But I want mamma.”
“In the morning, dear,” evasively returned Joyce. “Sir, please,
must not Miss Isabel go back to bed ?".
Mr. Carlyle made no reply to the question ; most likely he never
heard it. But he touched Isabel's shoulder to draw Joyce's attention
to the child.
“ Joyce-Miss Lucy, in future."
He left the room, and Joyce remained silent from amazement. She
heard him go out at the hall door and bang it after him. Isabel-nay,
we must say “ Lucy” also-went and stood outside the chamber door :
the servants, gathered in a group, did not observe her. Presently she
came running back again, and disturbed Joyce from her reverie.
“Joyce, is it true ?"
“ Is what true, my dear?”
“ They are saying that Captain Levison has taken away mamma.”
Joyce fell back in her chair, with a scream. It changed to a long,
low moan of anguish.
“What has he taken her for ?-to kill her? I thought it was only
kidnappers who took people.”
“ Child, child, go to bed ! "
“Oh, Joyce, I want mamma! When will she come back?”
Joyce hid her face in her hands to conceal its emotion from the
motherless child. And just then Miss Carlyle entered on tiptoe and
humbly sat down on a low chair, her face, in its grief, its remorse, and
its horror, looking nearly as dark as her stockings.
She broke out into a subdued wail.
“ God be merciful to this dishonoured house !”
Mr. Justice Hare turned into his gate between twelve and one ;
turned in with a jaunty air : for the justice was in spirits, having won
nine sixpences, and his friend's tap of ale had been unusually good.
When he reached his bedroom, he told Mrs. Hare of a chaise and four
which had gone tearing past at a furious pace as he was closing the
gate, coming from the direction of East Lynne. He wondered where
it could be going at that midnight hour, and whom it contained.


212
EAST LYNNE.
CHAPTER X.
CHARMING RESULTS.
NEARLY a year went by.
Lady Isabel Carlyle had spent it on the Continent—that refuge for
such fugitives—now removing about from place to place with her
companion, now stationary and alone. Half the time-taking one
absence with another-he had been away from her, chiefly in Paris,
pursuing his own course and his own pleasure.
How fared it with Lady Isabel ? Just as it must be expected to
fare, and does fare, when a high-principled gentlewoman falls from
her pedestal. Never had she experienced a moment's calm, or peace,
or happiness, since the fatal night of quitting her home. She had
taken a blind leap in a moment of wild passion; when, instead of the
garden of roses it had been her persuader's pleasure to promise her
(but which, in truth, she had barely glanced at, for that had not been
her moving motive), she had found herself plunged into an abyss of
horror, from which there was never more any escape; never more,
never more. The very hour of her departure she awoke to what she
had done : the guilt, whose aspect had been shunned in prospective,
assumed at once its true, frightful colour, the blackness of darkness;
and a lively remorse, a never-dying anguish, took possession of her
soul for ever. Oh, reader, believe me! Lady-wife-mother ! should
you ever be tempted to abandon your home, so will you awaken !
Whatever trials may be the lot of your married life, though they may
magnify themselves to your crushed spirit as beyond the endurance of
woman to bear, resolve to bear them ; fall down upon your knees and
pray to be enabled to bear them : pray for patience ; pray for strength
to resist the demon that would urge you so to escape ; bear unto death,
rather than forfeit your fair name and your good conscience ; for be
assured that the alternative, if you rush on to it, will be found far worse
than death!
Poor thing! poor Lady Isabel ! She had sacrificed husband, children,
reputation, home, all that makes life of value to woman; she had for-
feited her duty to God, had deliberately broken His commandments,
for the one poor miserable sake of flying with Francis Levison. But,
the instant the step was irrevocable, the instant she had passed the
barrier, repentance set in. Even in the first days of her departure, in
the fleeting moments of abandonment, when it may be supposed she
might momentarily forget conscience, it was sharply wounding her with
its adder-like stings : and she knew that her whole future existence,
whether spent with that man or without him, would be one dark course
of gnawing, never-ending retribution.
It is possible remorse does not come to all erring wives so imme-
diately as it came to Lady Isabel Carlyle-you need not be reminded
that we speak of women in the higher positions of life. Lady Isabel
was endowed with sensitively refined delicacy, with an innate, lively
consciousness of right and wrong: a nature, such as hers, is one of the


CHARMING RESULTS.
213
last that may be expected to err; and, but for that most fatal misappre-
hension regarding her husband, the jealous belief, fanned by Captain
Levison, that his love was given to Barbara Hare, and that the two
were uniting to deceive her, she would never have forgotten herself.
The haunting skeleton of remorse had taken up his lodging within her ;
a skeleton of living fire, that must prey upon her heart-strings for ever.
Every taunt to be cast upon her by the world, every slight that would
henceforth be her portion, for she had earned it, must tell but too surely
upon her crushed spirit.
Nearly a year went by; all but some six or eight weeks ; when one
morning in July, Lady Isabel made her appearance in the breakfast-
room. They were staying now at Grenoble. Taking that town on
their way from Switzerland, through Savoy, it had been Captain
Levison's pleasure to halt there. He engaged furnished apartments
in the vicinity of the Place Grenette ; it was a windy old house, full of
doors and windows, chimneys and cupboards ; and there he said he
should remain. Lady Isabel remonstrated ; she wished to go farther
on, where they might receive quicker news from England; but her will
now was as nothing. She looked like the ghost of her former self. If
you thought that she looked ill when she took that voyage over the
water with Mr. Carlyle, you should have seen her now : misery marks
the countenance far more than sickness. Her face was white and
worn, her hands were thin, her eyes were sunken and surrounded by a
black circle ; care was digging hollows for them. A stranger might
have attributed these signs to her state of health ; she knew better ;
knew that they were the effects of her wretched mind and heart.
It was very late for breakfast : but why should she rise early, only to
drag through another endless day? Languidly she took her seat at the
table, just as Captain Levison's servant, a Frenchman, whom he had
engaged in Paris, entered the room with two letters.
“Point de gazette, Pierre ?" she asked.
“ Non, miladi.”
And all the while the sly fox had the Times in his coat-pocket! But
he was only obeying the orders of his master. It had been Captain
Levison's recent pleasure that the newspapers should not be seen by
Lady Isabel until he had looked over them. You will speedily learn
his motive.
Pierre departed towards Captain Levison's room, and Lady Isabel
took up the letters and examined their superscription with interest. It
was known to her that Mr. Carlyle had not lost a moment in seeking a
divorce, and the announcement, that it was granted, was now daily
expected. She was anxious for it; anxious that Captain Levison should
render her the only reparation in his power, before the birth of her
child : she little knew that there was not the least intention on his part
to make her reparation-any more than he had made it to others who
had gone before her. She had become painfully aware of the fact that
the man for whom she had sacrificed herself, was bad ; but she had
not learned all his badness yet.
Captain Levison, unwashed, unshaven, a dressing-gown loosely fung
on, lounged in to breakfast ; these decked-out dandies before the world
are frequently the greatest slovens in domestic privacy. He wished


214
EAST LYNNE.
her good morning in a careless tone of apathy, and she as apathetically
answered to it.
“Pierre says there are some letters," he began. “What a precious
hot day it is !”
“Two,” was her short reply, her tone sullen as his. For, if you
think, my good reader, that the flattering words, the ardent expressions
which usually attend the beginning of these promising unions, last out
a whole ten months, you are in egregious error. Compliments, the very
opposite to honey and sweetness, have generally set in long before.
“Two letters,” she continued ; " and they are both in the same hand-
writing : your solicitor's, I believe.”
Up went his head at the last word, and he made a snatch at the
letters ; stalked to the farthest window, opened one, and glanced over
its contents.
“SIR,—We beg to inform you that the suit, Carlyle v. Carlyle, is at
an end : the divorce was pronounced without opposition. According
to your request, we hasten to forward you the earliest intimation of
the fact.
“We are, sir, faithfully yours,
“F. Levison, Esq."
“Moss & GRAB.”
It was over, then. And all claim to the name of Carlyle was
declared to have been forfeited by the Lady Isabel for ever. Captain
Levison folded up the letter, and placed it securely in an inner pocket.
“Is there any news ?" she asked.
AK I Jews!”
“Of the divorce, I mean.”
“Tush !” was the response of Captain Levison, as if wishing to imply
that the divorce was yet a far-off affair : and he proceeded to open the
other letter.
“SIR,—After sending off our last, dated to-day, we received tidings
of the demise of Sir Peter Levison, your great-uncle. He expired
this afternoon in town, where he had come for the benefit of medical
advice. We have much pleasure in congratulating you upon your
accession to the title and estates : and beg to state that should it not
be convenient to you to visit England at present, we shall be happy to
transact all necessary matters for you, on your favouring us with in-
structions.
“And we remain, sir, most faithfully yours,
“Sir Francis Levison, Bart."
“ Moss & GRAB."
The letter was superscribed as the other, “F. Levison, Esquire :” no
doubt with a view to its more certain delivery.
"At last! thank the pigs !" was the gentleman's euphonious expres.
sion, as he tossed the letter open upon the breakfast-table.
“The divorce is granted ! ” feverishly uttered Lady Isabel.
He made no reply, but seated himself to breakfast.
“ May I read the letter? Is it for me to read ?”
“ For what else should I have thrown it there ?” he said.


CHARMING RESULTS.
215
“A few days ago, you placed a letter, open, upon the table, as I
thought, for me : but when I took it up you swore at me. Do you
remember it, Captain Levison?”
“You may drop that odious title, Isabel, which has stuck to me all
too long. I own a better one now.”
“What is it, pray ?”
“ You can look, and see."
Lady Isabel took up the letter and read it. Sir Francis swallowed
his coffee, and rang the hand-bell—the only bell you generally meet
with in France. Pierre answered it.
“Put me up a change of things,” said he, in French. “ I start for
England in an hour.”
" It was very well,” Pierre responded : and departed to do it. Lady
Isabel waited till the man was gone, and then spoke, a faint flush of
emotion appearing in her cheeks.
“ You do not mean what you say? You will not leave me yet?”
“I cannot do otherwise," he answered. “There's a mountain of
business to be attended to, now that I have come into power."
“Moss and Grab say they will act for you. Had there been a neces-
sity for your going they would not have offered to do so."
“Ay, they say so—with an eye to feathering their pockets ! Go to
England I must : it is absolutely essential. Besides, I should not
choose the old man's funeral to take place without me.”
“ Then I must accompany you,” she urged.
“I wish you would not talk nonsense, Isabel. Are you in a state to
travel night and day? Neither would England be agreeable to you at
present."
She felt the force of the objections : resuming, after a moment's
pause. “Were you to go to England, you might not be back in time.”
“In time for what?”
“Oh, how can you ask?" she rejoined in a sharp tone of reproach;
“you know too well. In time to make me your wife when the divorce
shall appear.”
“I must chance it,” coolly observed Sir Francis.
“ Chance it ! chance the legitimacy of the child ? You must assure
that, before all things. More terrible to me than all the rest would it
be, if- "
“Now, don't put yourself into a fever, Isabel. How many times am
I to be compelled to beg that of you? It does no good. Is it my fault
if I am called suddenly to England ?”
“Have you no pity for your child ? " she urged, in agitation. “No-
thing can repair the injury, if you once suffer it to come upon him.
He will be a byword amidst men throughout his life.”
“You had better have written to the law lords to urge on the
divorce," he retorted. “I cannot help the delay.”
“There has been no delay : quite the contrary. But it may be
expected hourly now."
“You are worrying yourself for nothing, Isabel. I shall be back in
time.”
He quitted the room as he spoke, and Lady Isabel remained in it,
the image of despair. Nearly an hour passed, when she rememberek


216
EAST LYNNE.
the breakfast things, and rang for them to be removed. A maid.
servant entered, and she thought how ill miladi looked.
“Where was Pierre ?” miladi asked.
“ Pierre was making himself ready to attend monsieur to England.”
Scarcely had she closed the door upon herself and her tray when
Sir Francis Levison appeared, equipped for travelling. “Good-bye,
Isabel,” said he, without further circumlocution or ceremony
Lady Isabel, excited beyond all self-control, slipped the bolt of the
door ; and, half leaning against it, half kneeling at his feet, held up her
hands in supplication.
“Francis, have you any consideration left for me--any in the
world ?"
“How can you be so absurd, Isabel ? Of course I have," he con-
tinued, in a peevish though kind tone, as he took her hands to raise her.
“No, not yet. I will remain here until you say you will wait
another day or two. You know that the French Protestant minister
is prepared to marry us, the instant news of the divorce shall arrive :
if you do care still for me, you will wait.”
"I cannot wait,” he replied, his tone changing to one of determina-
tion. “ It is useless to urge it."
“Say that you will not.”
“Well, then, I will not ; if you would prefer to have it so : anything
to please you. Isabel, you are like a child. I shall be back in time."
"Do not think I am urging it for my sake,” she panted, growing
more agitated with every fleeting moment. “You know that I am not.
I do not care what becomes of me. No; you shall not go till you
hear me! Oh, Francis, by all I have forfeited for your sake---
“Get up, Isabel,” he interrupted.
“For the child's sake! for the child's sake. A whole long life before
it; never to hold up its head, of right; the reproach everlastingly upon
it that it was born in sin ! Francis ! Francis ! if you have no pity for
me, have pity upon it !”.
“I think you are losing your senses, Isabel! There's a month yet,
and I promise you to be back ere it shall have elapsed. Nay, ere half
of it shall have elapsed : a week will accomplish all I want to do in
London. Let me pass, you have my promise, and I will keep it.”
She never moved ; only stood where she was, raising her supplicating
hands. He grew impatient, and by some dexterous sleight of hand got
the door open. She seized his arm.
“Not for my sake,” she panted still, her dry lips drawn and livid.
“Nonsense about not for your sake.' It is for your sake that I will
keep my promise. I must go. There : good-bye, Isabel, and take
care of yourself.”
He broke from her and left the room, and in another minute had
left the house, Pierre attending him. A feeling, amounting to a con-
viction, rushed over the unhappy lady, that she had seen him for the
last time until it should be too late.
She was right. It was too late by weeks and months.


( 217
)
CHAPTER XI.
MUTUAL COMPLIMENTS.
DECEMBER came in. The Alps were 'covered with snow; Grenoble
borrowed the shade, and looked cold and white, and sleety and
sloppy ; the wide gutters which run through the middle of certain of
the streets, were unusually black, and people crept along, cold and
very dismal. Close to the fire, in the barn of a French bedroom, full
of windows, and doors, and draughts, with its wide hearth and its
wide chimney, shivered Lady Isabel Vane. She wore an invalid's cap,
and a thick woollen shawl, and she shook and shivered constantly;
though she had drawn so close to the wood fire that there was danger
of her dress igniting, and the attendant had frequently to spring up
and interpose between it and the crackling logs. Little did it seem to
matter to Lady Isabel : she sat in one position, her countenance the
picture of stony despair.
So had she sat, so looked, since she began to grow better. She had
had a long illness, terminating in low fever ; but the attendants whis-
pered amongst themselves that miladi would soon get about if she
would only rouse herself. She had so far done so as to sit up in the
windy chamber; and it seemed to be to her a matter of perfect indif-
ference whether she ever went out of it or not.
This day she had taken her early dinner—such as it was, for appetite
failed her--and had dozed in the arm-chair, when a noise arose from
below, as of a carriage driving into the court-yard through the porte-
cochère. It instantly aroused her. Had he come?
“Who is it?" she asked of the nurse.
“Miladi, it is monsieur : and Pierre is with him. I have begged
miladi often and often not to fret, for that monsieur would surely
come: and miladi sees I am right.”
A strangely firm expression, speaking of severe resolution, over-
spread the face of Lady Isabel. It would seem to say that she had
not “fretted” much after him who had now arrived ; or, at any rate,
that she was not fretting after him now. “ Patience and calmness!”
she murmured to herself. “Oh, may they not desert me, now the time
has come !"
“Monsieur looks so well !” proclaimed the maid, who had taken up
her station at a window that overlooked the court-yard. “He has got
out of the carriage : he is shaking himself and stamping his feet."
“ You may leave the room, Susanne," said Lady Isabel.
“But if the baby wakes, miladi ?”
“ I will ring."
The girl departed, closing the door, and Lady Isabel sat looking at it,
schooling herself to patience. Another moment and it was flung open.
Sir Francis Levison approached to greet her as he came in. She
waved him off, begging him, in a subdued, quiet tone, not to draw too
near, as any little excitement made her faint now. He took a seat
opposite to her, and began pushing the logs together with his boot, as
he explained that he really could not get away from town before.


218
EAST LYNNE.
“Why did you come now?” she quietly rejoined.
“Why did I come?” repeated he. «Are these all the thanks a
fellow gets for travelling in this inclement weather? I thought you
would at least have been glad to welcome me, Isabel.”
“Sir Francis,” she rejoined, speaking still with almost unnatural
calmness, as she continued to do throughout the interview—though
the frequent changes in her countenance, and the movement of her
hands, when she laid them from time to time on her chest to keep
down its beating, told what an effort the struggle cost her—" Sir
Francis, I am glad, for one reason, to welcome you : we must come to
an understanding one with the other; and, so far, I am pleased that
you are here. It was my intention to have communicated with you
by letter as soon as I found myself capable of exertion, but your
visit has removed the necessity. I wish to deal with you quite un-
reservedly, without concealment or deceit : I must request you so to
deal with me.”
“What do you mean by 'deal'?” he asked, settling the logs to his
apparent satisfaction.
* To speak and act. Let there be plain truth between us at this
interview, if there never has been before.”
“I don't understand you."
“Naked truth, unglossed,” she pursued, bending her eyes deter-
minately upon him. “It must be.”
“With all my heart,” returned Sir Francis. “It is you who have
thrown out the challenge, mind.”
“When you left in July you gave me a sacred promise to come back
in time for our marriage : you know what I mean when I say “in time':
but--"
“Of course I meant to do so when I gave the promise," he inter-
rupted. “But no sooner had I set foot in London than I found myself
overwhelmed with business, and away from it I could not get. Even
now I can only remain with you a couple of days, for I must hasten
back to town.”
“You are breaking faith already,” she said, after hearing him calmly
to the end. “Your words are not words of truth, but of deceit. You
did not intend to be back in time for the marriage ; or, otherwise, you
would have caused it to take place ere you went at all."
“What fancies you take up!” uttered Francis Levison.
“ Some time subsequent to your departure," she quietly went on,“ one
of the maids was setting to rights the clothes in your dressing-closet,
and she brought me a letter she found in one of the pockets. I saw, by
the date, that it was one of those two you received on the morning of
your departure. It contained the information that the divorce was
pronounced.”
She spoke so quietly, so apparently without feeling or passion, that
Sir Francis was agreeably astonished. He should have less trouble in
throwing off the mask. But he was an ill-tempered man; and, to hear
that the letter had been found, to have the falseness of his fine protesta-
tions and promises so effectually laid bare, did not improve his temper
now. Lady Isabel continued :
“ It had been better to have undeceived me then; to have told me


MUTUAL COMPLIMENTS.
219
that the hopes I was cherishing for the sake of the unborn child, were
worse than vain.”
“I did not judge so," he replied. “The excited state you then
appeared to be in, would have precluded your listening to any sort of
reason.”
Her heart beat a little quicker : but she stilled it.
“ You deem that it was not in reason I should aspire to be made the
wife of Sir Francis Levison ?"
He rose and began kicking at the logs ; with the heel of his boot this
time. “Well, Isabel-you must be aware that it is an awful sacrifice
for a man in my position to marry a divorced woman.”
The hectic flushed into her thin cheeks, but her voice sounded calm
as before.
“When I expected, or wished, for the sacrifice, it was not for my
own sake : I told you so then. But it was not made : and the child's
inheritance is that of sin and shame. There he lies.”
Sir Francis half turned to where she pointed, and saw an infant's
cradle by the side of the bed. He did not take the trouble to go to
look at it.
“I am the representative now of an ancient baronetcy,” he resumed,
in a tone as of apology for his previous heartless words, “and to make
you my wife would so offend all my family, that--"
“ Stay," interrupted Lady Isabel; “ you need not trouble yourself to
find needless excuses. Had you taken this journey for the purpose of
making me your wife, were you to propose to do so this day, and bring
a clergyman into the room to perform the ceremony, it would be futile.
The injury to the child can never be repaired : and, for myself, I cannot
imagine any worse fate in life than being compelled to pass it with
you.”
“If you have taken this aversion to me it cannot be helped,” he coolly
said ; inwardly congratulating himself at being spared the trouble he
had anticipated. “You made commotion enough once, about my
making you ' reparation."
She shook her head. “All the reparation in your power to make, all
the reparation that the whole world can invent, could not undo my sin.
It, and its effects, must lie upon me for ever."
“Oh--sin!” was the derisive exclamation. “You ladies should think
of that beforehand.”
“Yes,” she sadly answered. “May Heaven help all to do so, who
may be tempted as I was.”
"If you mean that as a reproach to me, it's rather out of place,"
chafed Sir Francis, whose fits of ill temper were under no control, and
who never, when in them, cared what he said to outrage the feelings of
another. “The temptation to sin, as you call it, lay not in my persua-
sions, half so much as in your jealous anger towards your husband.”
“Quite true,” was her reply.
“And I believe you were on the wrong scent, Isabel—if it will be any
satisfaction to you to hear it. Since we are mutually on this compli-
mentary discourse, it is useless to smooth over facts.”
“ I do not understand what you would imply,” she said, drawing her
shawl round her with a fresh shiver. “How' on the wrong scent'?"


220
EAST LYNNE.
“With regard to your husband and that Hare girl. You were blindly,
outrageously jealous of him.”
“Go on."
“And I say I think you were on the wrong scent. I do not believe
Carlyle ever thought of the girl-in that way.”
“What do you mean? ” she gasped.
“ They had a secret between them. Not of love. A secret of business :
and those interviews they had together, her dancing attendance upon
him everlastingly, related to that; and to that alone."
Her face was more flushed than it had been throughout the interview.
He spoke quietly now, quite in an equable tone of reasoning : it was his
way when his ill temper was upon him; and the calmer he spoke, the
more cutting were his words. He need not have told her this.
“What was the secret ? " she inquired in a low tone.
“ Nay, I can't explain all ; they did not take me into their confidence.
They did not even take you : better, perhaps, that they had, though,
as things have turned out--or seem to be turning. There's some
disreputable secret attaching to the Hare family, and Carlyle was
acting in it for Mrs. Hare. She could not seek out Carlyle herself, so
she sent the young lady. That's all I knew."
“ How did you know it?”
" I had reason to think so.”
“What reason? I must request you to tell me.”
“I overheard scraps of their conversation now and then in those
meetings, and so gathered my conclusions."
“ You told a different tale to me, Sir Francis," was her remark, as
she lifted her indignant eyes towards him.
Sir Francis laughed. “All stratagems are fair in love and war."
She dared not immediately trust herself to reply, and a silence
ensued. Sir Francis broke it, pointing with his left thumb over his
shoulder in the direction of the cradle.
“What have you named that young article there?"
“The name which ought to have been his by inheritance : ‘Francis
Levison,'” was her icy answer.
“ Let's see-how old is he now?”
“ He was born the last day of August."
Sir Francis threw up his arms and stretched himself, as if a fit of
idleness had overtaken him ; then advanced to the cradle and pulled
down the clothes.
“Who is he like, Isabel? My handsome self?"
“Were he like you~in spirit- I would pray that he might die, ere
he could speak or think,” she burst forth ; and then, remembering the
resolution she had marked out for herself, subsided outwardly into
calmness again.
“What else?” retorted Sir Francis. “You know my disposition
pretty well by this time, Isabel, and may be sure that if you deal out
small change to me, you will get it back again with interest."
She made no reply. Sir Francis put the clothes again over the
sleeping child, returned to the fire and stood a few moments with his
back to it.
“Is my room prepared for me, do you know ? " he presently asked.


MUTUAL COMPLIMENTS.
221
“No, it is not,” she quietly rejoined. “These apartments are mine
now : they have been transferred into my name, and they can never
again afford you accommodation. Will you be so obliging—I am not
strong—as to hand me that writing-case?"
Sir Francis walked to the table she indicated, which was at the far
end of the great barn of a room ; and, taking the writing-case from it,
gave it to her.
She reached her keys from the stand at her elbow, unlocked the
case, and took from it some bank-notes.
“I received these from you a month ago," she said. “They came
by post."
“And you never had the grace to acknowledge them,” he returned,
in a sort of mock-reproachful tone.
“Forty pounds. That was the amount, was it ? ”
“I believe so.”
“Allow me to return them to you. Count them."
“ Return them to me-why !" inquired Sir Francis in amazement.
“I have no longer anything whatever to do with you, in any way.
Do not make my arm ache, holding out the notes to you so long !
Take them !”
Sir Francis took the notes from her hand and placed them on the
stand near to her.
“If it be your wish that all relations should end between us, why,
let it be so," he said. “I must confess I think it may be the wisest
course, as things have come to this pass, for the cat-and-dog life,
which would seemingly be ours, is not agreeable. Remember, that it
is your doing ; not mine. But you cannot think I am going to see
you starve, Isabel. A sum—we will fix upon its amount amicably,
shall be placed to your credit half yearly, and "
“I beg of you to cease !" she passionately interrupted. “What do
you take me for ?"
“Take you for! Why, how can you live? You have no fortune ;
you must receive assistance from some one."
“I will not receive it from you. If the whole world denied me,
and I could find no help from strangers, or means of earning my own
bread, and it was necessary that I should still exist, I would apply to
my husband for means, rather than to you. This ought to convince
you that the topic may cease.”
“Your husband ?" sarcastically rejoined Sir Francis. “Generous
man!”
A flush, deep and painful, dyed her cheeks. “I should have said
my late husband. You need not have reminded me of the mistake.”
“If you will accept nothing for yourself, you must for the child.
He, at any rate, falls to my share. I shall give you a few hundreds a
year with him.”
She beat her hands before her, as if beating off the man and his
words. “Not a farthing, now or ever : were you to attempt to send
money for him, I would throw it into the nearest river. Whom do
you take me for what do you take me for?” she repeated, rising in
her bitter mortification. “If you have put me beyond the pale of the
world, I am still Lord Mount Severn's daughter."


222
EAST LYNNE.
“ You did as much towards putting yourself beyond its pale, as
" Do I not know it? Have I not said so ?” she sharply interrupted.
And then she sat, striving to calm herself, clasping together her
shaking hands.
“Well, if you will persist in this perverse resolution, I cannot mend
it, resumed Sir Francis. “In a little time you may probably wish
to recall it : in which case, a line, addressed to me at my bankers',
will . "
Lady Isabel drew herself up. “Put away these notes, if you please,”
she interrupted, not allowing him to finish his sentence.
He took out his pocket-book, and placed the bank-notes within it.
“ Your clothes-those you left here when you went to England--
you will have the goodness to order Pierre to take away this afternoon.
And now, Sir Francis, I believe that is all : we will part.”
“To remain mortal enemies from henceforth ?” he rejoined. “Is
that to be it ?”
“To be strangers,” she replied, correcting him. “I wish you a
good day.”
“So ! you will not even shake hands with me, Isabel !”
“ I would prefer not.”
And thus they parted. Sir Francis left the room, but not inime-
diately the house. He went into a distant apartment, and, calling the
servants before him—there were only two-gave them each a year's
wages in advance. “That they might not have to trouble miladi for
money," he said to them. Then he paid a visit to the landlord, and
handed him likewise a year's rent in advance, making the same
remark. After that, he ordered dinner at an hotel, and the same
night he and Pierre departed on their journey home again, Sir Francis
thanking his lucky star that he had so easily got rid of a vexatious
annoyance.
And Lady Isabel ? She passed her evening alone, sitting in the
same place, close to the fire and the embers. The attendant remon.
strated that miladi was remaining up too late for her strength ; but
miladı ordered her and her remonstrance into an adjoining room.
Never had her repentance been more keenly vivid to her than it was
that evening ; never had her position, present and future, loomed out
in blacker colours. The facts of her hideous case stood before her,
naked and bare. She had wilfully abandoned her husband, her
children, her home; she had cast away her good name and her posi-
tion ; and she had deliberately offended God. What had she gained
in return? What was she? A puor outcast ; one of those whom men
pity, and whom women shrink from ; a miserable, friendless creature,
who had henceforth to earn the bread she, and the other life depen-
dent on her, must eat, the clothes they must wear, the roof that must
cover them, the fuel they must burn. She had a few valuable jewels,
her mother's or her father's gifts, which she had brought away from
East Lynne : she had brought no others ; nothing given to her by Mr.
Carlyle : and these she now intended to dispose of, and live upon until
they were gone. The proceeds, with strict economy, might last her
some twelve or eighteen months she calculated : after that she must
find out some means of supply for the future. Put the child out to


MUTUAL COMPLIMENTS.
223
nurse, conceal her name, and go out as governess in a French or Ger-
man family, was one of her visions in prospective.
A confused idea of revenge had been in her mind, urging her on to
desperation, the night she quitted her home; of revenge on Mr.
Carlyle for his supposed conduct to her. But what revenge had the
step really brought to her heart ? As her eyes opened to her folly and
to the true character of Francis Levison, so in proportion did they close
to the fault by which her husband had offended her. She saw it in
fainter colours ; she began to suspect-nay, she knew—that her own
excited feelings had magnified it in length, breadth, and height-had
made a molehill into a mountain : and, long before the scandal of her
act had died away in the mouths of men, and Mr. Carlyle had legally
put her from him, she had repented of the false step for her husband's
sake, and longed-though it could never be—to be back again, his
wife. She remembered his noble qualities ; doubly noble did they
appear to her, now that her interest in them must cease ; she remem-
bered how happy they had been together, except for her own self-
torment touching Barbara Hare; and, worse than all, her esteem, her
admiration, her affection for him, had returned to her fourfold. We
never know the full value of a thing until we lose it. Health, pros-
perity, happiness, a peaceful conscience; what think we of these blessings
while they are ours? But, when we lose them, we look back in
surprise at our ungrateful apathy. A friend may be very dear ; but
we don't know how dear until he is gone : let him depart for ever, and
the sorrow is almost greater than we can bear. She had lost Mr.
Carlyle, and by her own act she had thrown him from her ; and now
she must make the best of her work, spending her whole future life
probably in one long yearning for him and for her children. The hint
thrown out by Sir Françis that afternoon, that her suspicions had been
mistaken, that her jealousy had had no foundation, did not tend to
mitigate her repentance. Whether he was right or wrong in his
opinion, she did not know; but she dwelt upon it much : it was
possible Sir Francis had merely said it to provoke her, for she knew
his temper, and that he would be capable of doing so; but, if right,
what an utterly blind fool she had been !
Her recent and depressing illness, the conviction of Sir Francis
Levison's complete worthlessness, the terrible position in which she
found herself, had brought to Lady Isabel reflection. Not the reflec-
tion, so called, that may come to us who yet live in and for the world,
but that which must, almost of necessity, attend one whose part in the
world is over, who has no interest left between this and the next. A
conviction of her sin ever oppressed her; not only of the one act of it,
patent to scandalmongers, but of the long sinful life she had led from
childhood ; sinful, insomuch as that it had been carelessly indifferent.
When thoughts of the future life, and the necessity of preparing for it,
had occasionally come over her -- there are odd moments when they
come over even the worst of us-she had been content to leave it to
an indefinite future ; possibly to a deathbed repentance. But now the
truth had begun to dawn upon her, and was growing more clear day
by day.
She leaned her aching head this night and dwelt upon these thoughts,


224
EAST LYNNE.
She stretched out her wasted hand for a book, which she had rarely
used to look into, save at stated times and periods, and more as a
forced duty than with any other feeling. Opening it at a certain
chapter, she read some verses at its commencement ; she had read
them often lately ; for she had begun to hope that the same merciful
tidings might be vouchsafed to her troubled spirit : “ Neither do I
condemn thee : go, and sin no more.”
There was much to be blotted out ; a whole life of apathy and errors
and sinfulness. Her future days, spent in repentance, could they
atone for the past ? She hunted out some other words, though she did
not know in what part they might be : “ If any man will come after
me, let him take up his cross daily, and follow me.” What a cross
was hers to take up! But she must do it ; she would do it, by God's
blessing-ah! had she got so far as to ask that? She would take it
up from henceforth daily and hourly, and bear it as she best might :
she had fully earned all its weight and its sharp pain, and must not
shrink from her burden. That night, for the first time, a momentary
vision floated before her mind's eye ; a far, far off, indistinct vision of
the shame and remorse and sorrow of her breaking heart giving place
to something like peace.
Susanne was called at last. Susanne was sleepy and cross. Miladi
surely could not know that the clock of Notre-Dame had gone mid-
night : and-well! if there wasn't miladi's arrowroot cold as ice and
good for nothing! Miladi wanted to go into her grave, that was a fact.
Miladi replied that she only wanted at present to go into her bed,
if Susanne would undress her. Susanne applied herself to the task,
indulging in sundry scraps of gossip the while : Susanne and her
fellow-servant having had their curiosity uncommonly whetted that
day.
A very miserable affair it must be, that monsieur should have had
to go back as soon as he came! All those many miles, over those cold
wretched roads, behind a shrieking steam-engine, and across that
abominable sea! She, once upon a time, when she was living with a
family in Paris, had had leave to go down by one of those Sunday
excursions to Dieppe, and she was asked to go upon the sea when she
got there, and the wicked Fates put it into her poor ignorant heart to
say “Yes.” Ah, dame ! she should never forget it! It spoiled still the
best supper ever put before her, when she thought of it. Let it be
fromage de cochon and a glass of vin de Bordeaux, or any other choice
luxuries miladi might please to picture, not a bit of appetite had she,
if those dreadful three hours on the pitching sea rose up in her mind.
And she could hear yet her own groans, and see the state of her lovely
green robe when she got back to land ; and, oh! the trimmings in her
cap! And monsieur had undergone all that, with the travelling besides,
only to stop an hour and to go again. Pauline said he must have had
bad news, to call him home, at the last post-town, and would no doubt
soon be here again. When would miladi be expecting him ?
Miladi replied by desiring her not to talk so fast, and Susanne
shrugged her shoulders in an ecstasy of disappointment. She had
boasted to Pauline that she should learn all, for certain; though
Pauline, entombed in the lower regions amidst her casseroles and


ALONE FOR EVERMORE.
225
marmites, could not of course expect to be enlightened, unless at
second hand.
When Lady Isabel lay down to rest, she sank into somewhat calmer
sleep than she had known of late ; also into a dream. She thought she
was back again at East Lynne-not back, in one sense, but that she
seemed never to have gone away from it—walking in the flower garden
with Mr. Carlyle, while the three children played on the lawn. Her
arm was within her husband's, ard he was relating something to her :
what the news was she could not remember afterwards, excepting that
it was connected with the office and old Mr. Dill, and that Mr. Carlyle
laughed when he told it. They appeared to be interrupted by the
crying of Archibald : and, in turning to the lawn to ask what was the
matter, she awoke. Alas! it was the actual crying of her own child
which awoke her ; this last child ; the ill-fated little being in the cradle
beside her. But, for a single instant, she forgot recent events and
doings; she believed she was indeed in her happy home at East Lynne,
a proud mother, an honoured wife. As recollection flashed across her
with its piercing stings, she gave vent to a sharp cry of agony and
unavailing despair.
CHAPTER XII.
ALONE FOR EVERMORE.
A SURPRISE awaited Lady Isabel Vane. It was on a windy day in the
following March that a traveller arrived at Grenoble, and inquired his
way, of a porter, to the best hotel in the place, his French being such
as only an Englishman can produce.
“Hotel ? Let's see," returned the man, politely, but with native
indifference; "there are two good hotels near to each other, and
monsieur would find himself comfortable at either. There is the
Trois Dauphins; and there is the Ambassadeurs."
“Monsieur” chose, haphazard, the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, and
was conducted to it. Shortly after his arrival there, he inquired his
road to the Place Grenette ; a guide was offered, but he preferred to go
alone. The place was found, and he thence turned to the apartments
of Lady Isabel Vane.
Lady Isabel was sitting where you saw her the previous December,
in the very same spot, courting the warmth of the fire, and it seemed
courting the sparks also, for they appeared as fond of her as formerly :
the marvel was, how she had escaped the flames. You might think
that only a night had passed when you looked at the room ; for it wore
precisely the same aspect now as then. Everything was the same, even
to the child's cradle in the remote corner, partially hidden by the bed-
curtains, and the sleeping child within it. Lady Isabel's progress
towards recovery had been lingering : as is frequently the case when
mind and body are diseased. She was sitting when Susanne entered
the room, and said that a “ Monsieur Anglais " had arrived in the town
to see her, and was waiting below, in the salon.
Lady Isabel was startled. An English gentleman-to see her!
Last Lynng.
15


2:26
EAST LYNNE.
“ English for certain,” was Susanne's answer, for she had difficulty to
comprehend his French.
Who could be desirous of seeing her ? one out of the world, and for-
gotten! “Susanne," she suddenly cried aloud, a ihought striking her :
*it is never Sir Fran-it is not monsieur ? ”
“Not in the least like monsieur,” complacently answered Susanne.
" It was a tall, brave English gentleman, proud and noble, looking
like a prince."
Every pulse within Lady Isabel's body throbbed rebelliously . her
heart bounded until it seemed about to burst her side, and she turned
sick with excitement. “Tall, brave, noble ! ” could that description
apply to any but Mr. Carlyle ? Strange that so unnatural an idea
should have occurred to her. it could not have done so in a calmer
moment. She rose, tottered across the chamber, and prepared to
descend. Susanne's tongue was let loose at the proceeding.
“Was miladi out of her senses ? To attempt to go downstairs
would be a pretty ending, for she'd surely fall by the way. Miladi
knew that the bottom step was of lead, and that no head could pitch
down upon that, without ever being a head any more, except in the
hospitals. Let miladi sit still in her place and she'd bring the
monsieur up. What did it signify? He was not a young petit-maître,
he was fifty, if he was a day ;-his hair already turned to a tine grey."
This set the question, touching Mr. Carlyle, at rest, and her heart
stilled again. The next moment she was inwardly laughing in bitter
mockery at her insensate folly. M. Carlyle come to see her. Her !
Francis Levison might be sending over some man of business, regard.
ing the question of money, was her next thought ; if so, she should
certainly not see him.
“Go down to the gentleman and ask his name, Susanne. Ask also
from whence he comes."
Susanne disappeared, and returned, and the gentleman behind her.
Whether she had invited him, or whether he had chosen to come
uninvited, there he was. Lady Isabel caught a glimpse, and flung her
hands over her burning cheeks of shame. It was Lord Mount Severn.
“How did you find out where I was?” she gasped, when some
painful words had been uttered on both sides.
“I went to Sir Francis Levison and demanded your address. Certain
recent events implied that he and you must have parted, and I there-
fure deemed it time to inquire what he had done with you."
“Since last July,” she interrupted, lifting her wan face, now colour-
less again. “Do not think worse of me than I am. He was here in
December for an hour's recriminating interview, and we then parted
for life.”
“What have you heard of him lately?”
“Not anything. I never know what is passing in the world at
home; I have no newspaper, no correspondence ; and he would
scarcely be so bold as to vrite to me again.”
“I shall not shock you, then, by some tidings I bring you regarding
him," returned Lord Mount Severn.
" The greatest shock to me would be to hear that I should ever
again be subjected to see him," she answereit,


ALONE FOR EVERMORE.
227
“He i: married.”
“ Heaven have pity on his poor wife ! ” was all the comment of Lady
Isabel,
“ He has married Alice Challoner.”
She lifted her head then, in simple surpise. “ Alice ? Noi
Blanche?”
“ The story runs that he has played Blanche very false. That he
had been with her much, leading on her expectations; and then he
suddenly proposed for her young sister. I know nothing of the details
myself it is not likely · and I had heard nothing, until one evening at
the club I saw the announcement of the marriage for the following
day at Saint George's. I was at "he church the next morning before
he was.”
“Not to intercept the marriage ! ” breathlessly uttered Lady Isabel.
“Certainly not. I had no power to attempt anything of the sort. I
went to demand an answer to my question-what he had done with
you, and where you were ? He gave me this address, but said he had
known nothing of your movements since December.”
There was a long silence. The earl appeared to be alternately
ruminating and taking a survey of the room. Isabel sat with her head
drooping.
“Why did you seek me out ? ” she presently broke forth. “I am
not worth it. I have brought enough disgrace upon your name.”
“And upon your husband's and upon your children's,” he rejoined
in his most severe manner, for it was not in the nature of the Earl of
Mount Severn to gloss over guilt. “Nevertheless, it is incumbent
upon me, as your nearest relative, to see after you, now that you are
alone again, and to take care--so far as I can-that you do not lapse
lower "
He might have spared her that stab But she scarcely understood
him She looked at him, wondering whether she did understand.
“You have not a shilling in the world,” he resumed. “How do you
propose to live?"
“I have some money still. When "
“ His money ?” sharply and haughtily interposed the earl.
“No,” she indignantly replied “I am selling my trinkets. Before
they are all gone, I shall try to earn a livelihood in some way · by
teaching, probably ”
“Trinkets !” repeated Lord Mount Severn. “Mr Carlyle told me
that you carried nothing away with you from East Lynne "
“ Nothing that he had given me. These were mine before I married.
You have seen Mr Carlyle then ? ” she faltered.
“ Seen him !" echoed the indignant earl. “When such a blow was
dealt him by a member of my family, could I do less than hasten to
East Lynne to tender him my sympathies? I went with another object,
also-to try to discover what could have been the moving springs of
your conduct · for I protest when the black tidings reached me, I be-
lieved that you must have gone mad. You were one of the last whom
I should have feared to trust But I learned nothing, and Carlyle was
ignorant as I How could you strike him such a blow ? "
Lower and lower drooped her head, brighter shone the shame on her


228
EAST LYNNE.
hectic cheek. An awful blow to Mr. Carlyle it must indeed have been :
she was feeling it in all its bitter intensity. Lord Mount Severn read
her repentant looks.
" Isabel," he said, in a tone which had lost something of its harsh-
ness—and it was the first time he had called her by her Christian
name : “ I see that you are reaping the fruit of your conduct. Tell me
how it happened. What demon prompted you to sell yourself to that
bad man ? "
“He is a bad man,” she exclaimed. “A base, heartless, bad
man."
“I warned you at the commencement of your married life, to avoid
him ; to shun all association with him ; not to admit him to your
house."
“His coming to East Lynne was not my doing,” she whispered.
“ Mr. Carlyle invited him."
“I know he did. Invited him in his unsuspicious confidence, believ-
ing his wife to be his wife, a trustworthy woman of honour," was the
severe remark.
She did not reply; she could not gainsay it: she only sat with her
meek face of shame, and her drooping eyelids.
“If ever a woman had a good husband, in every sense of the word,
you had, in Carlyle · if ever man loved his wife, he loved you. How
could you so requite him?"
She rolled, in a confused manner, the corners of her shawl over her
unconscious fingers.
“I read the note you left for your husband. He showed it to me;
the only one, I believe, to whom he did show it. It was to him utterly
inexpličable, it was so to me. A notion had been suggested to him,
after your departure, that his sister had somewhat marred your peace
at East Lynne; and he blamed you much-if it were so for not
giving him your full confidence on the point, that he might have set
matters on a right footing. But it was impossible (and there was the
evidence in the note besides) that the presence of Miss Carlyle at
East Lynne could be any excuse for your disgracing us all and ruining
yourself.”
“Do not let us speak of these things,” said Lady Isabel, faintly. “It
cannot redeem the past.”
“But I must speak of them ; I have come to speak of them," per-
sisted the earl : “ I could not do so whilst that man was here. When
these inexplicable events take place in the career of a woman, it is a
father's duty to look into motives and causes and actions; although
the events in themselves may be, as in this case, irreparable. Your
father is gone, but I stand in his place; there is no one else to stand
in it."
Her tears began to fall. And she let them fall-in silence. The
earl resumed.
“But for that extraordinary letter, I should have supposed you had
been solely actuated by a mad infatuation for the cur, Levison : its
tenor gave the affair a different aspect. To what did you allude when
you asserted that your husband had driven you to it?"
“He knew,” she answered, scarcely above her breath.
i


ALONE FOR EVERMORE.
229
"He did not know," sternly replied the earl. “A more truthful,
honourable man than Carlyle does not exist on the face of the earth.
When he told me then, in his agony of grief, that he was unable to
form even a suspicion of your meaning, I could have staked my earl-
dom on his veracity I would stake it still."
“I believed,” she began, in a low, nervous voice, for she knew that
there was no evading the questions of Lord Mount Severn, when he
was resolved to have an answer : and, indeed, she was too weak, both
in body and spirit, to resist ; “I believed that his love was no longer
mine; and that he had deserted me for another."
The earl stared at her. “What can you mean by 'deserted'? He
was with you.”
66 There is a desertion of the heart," was her murmured answer.
“Desertion of a fiddlestick !” retorted his lordship. “The interpre-
tation we gave to the note, I and Carlyle, was that you had been
actuated by motives of jealousy ; had penned it in a jealous mood. I
put the question to Carlyle--as between man and man-do you listen,
Isabel ? —whether he had given you cause; and he answered me as
with God over us. He had never given you cause : he had been faith-
ful to you in thought, word, and deed : he had never, so far as he could
call to mind, even looked upon another woman with covetous feelings,
since the hour that he made you his wife ; his whole thoughts had been
of you, and of you alone. It is more than many a husband can say,"
significantly coughud Lord Mount Severn.
Her pulses were beating wildly. A powerful conviction, that the
words were true; that her own blind jealousy had been utterly mistaken
and unfounded ; was forcing its way to her brain.
“After that, I could only set your letter down as a subterfuge,” re-
sumed the earl ; "a false, barefaced plea, put forth to conceal your real
motive. and I told Carlyle so. I inquired how it was he had never
detected any secret understanding between you and that—that beast ;
located, as the fellow was, in the house. He replied, that no such
suspicion had ever occurred to him. He placed the most implicit con-
fidence in you, and would have trusted you with the man round the
world ; or with any one else.”
She entwined her hands one within the other, pressing them to pain.
It could not deaden the pain at her heart.
“Carlyle told me he had been unusually occupied during the stay of
that man. Besides his ordinary office work, his time was taken up
with some secret business for a family in the neighbourhood, and he
had repeatedly to see them after office hours. Very old acquaintances
of his, he said, relatives of the Carlyle family, and he was as anxious
about the secret as they were. This, I observed to him, may have
rendered him unobservant to what was passing at home. He told me,
I remember, that on the evening of the--the catastrophe, he ought to
have gone with you to a dinner-party, but most important circum-
stances arose, in connection with the affair, which obliged him to meet
two gentlemen at his office, and to receive them in secret, unknown to
his clerks."
“Did he-mention the name of the family ? ” inquired I.ady Isabel.
with white lips.


230
EAST LYNNE.
“Yes, he u. i forget it, though. Rabbit ? Rabbit? some such
name as that.”
“Was it Hare?”
“ That was it. Hare. He said you appeared vexed that he did not
accompany you to the dinner ; perceiving this, he intended to go in
afterwards, but was prevented from doing so. When the interview was
over in his office, he was again detained in Mrs. Hare's house ; and by
business as impossible to avoid as the other.”
“ Important business !” she echoed, giving way for a moment to the
bitterness of former feelings. “He was pacing their garden by moon-
light with Barbara--Miss Hare. I saw them as my carriage passed.”
“And you were jealous !” exclaimed Lord Mount Severn, with mock-
ing reproach, as he detected her mood. “Listen '" he whispered,
bending his head towards her. “Whilst you thought, as your present
tone would seem to intimate, that they were there to enjoy each other's
society, know that they-Carlyle, at any rate—was pacing the walk
to keep guard. There was one within that house-for a short inter-
view with his poor mother-one who lives in danger of the scaffold;
to which his own father would be the first to deliver him up. They
were keeping the path against that father, Carlyle and the young lady.
Of all the nights in the previous seven years, that one only saw the
unhappy son at home, for a half-hour's meeting with his mother and
sister. Carlyle, in the grief and excitement caused by your conduct,
confided so much to me, when mentioning what kef him from the
dinner-party.”
Her face had become crimson ; crimson at her past lamentable folly.
And there could be no redemption !
“But he was always with Barbara Hare !” she murmured, by way of
some faint excuse.
“She had to see him upon this affair. her mother could not, for it
was obliged to be kept from the father And so you construed busi-
ness interviews into assignations !" continued Lord Mount Severn with
cutting derision. “I had given you credit for better sense. But was
this enough to hurl you on to the step you took? Surely not! You
must have yielded to the persuasions of that wicked man."
“ It is all over now," she wailed.
“ Carlyle was true and faithful to you, and to you alone. Few women
have the chance of happiness in their married life, in the degree that
you had. He is an upright and good man ; one of nature's gentlemen
one that England may be proud of, as having grown upon her soil.
The more I see of him the greater becomes my admiration of him, and
of his thorough honour. Do you know what he did in the matter of
damages?”
She shook her head.
“He did not wish to proceed for damages ; or, only for the trilling
sur demanded by law; but the jury, feeling for his wrongs, gave un-
precedently heavy ones. Since the fellow came into his baronetcy,
they have been paid · Carlyle immediately handed them over to the
county hospital. He holds the apparently obsolete opinion, that money
cannot wipe out a wife's dishonour.”
“Let us close these topics,” implored the poor invalid. “I acted


ALONE FOR EVERMORE.
231
earl.
wickedly and madly ; and I have the consequence to bear for ever.
More I cannot say.”
“Where do you intend to place your future residence ?" inquired the
“I am unable to tell. I shall leave this town as soon as I am well
enough.”
“Ay. It cannot be pleasant for you to remain under the eyes of its
inhabitants. You were here with him, were you not ? '
“ They think I am his wife," she murmured. “The servants think it."
“That's well ; so far. How many servants have you ?”
“Two. I am not strong enough yet to do much myself, so am
obliged to keep two,” she continued, as if in apology for the extravil-
gance, under her reduced circumstances. “As soon as ever the baby
can walk, I shall manage to do with one."
The earl look confounded. “The baby !” he uttered, in a tone of as-
tonishment and grief painful to her to hear. “Isabel! is there a child ? '
Not less painful was her own emotion, as she hid her face. Lord
Mount Severn rose, and paced the room with striding steps.
“I did not know it. I did not know it! Wicked, heartless villain !
He ought to have married you before its birth. Was the divorce out
previously?” he added, arresting his strides to ask it.
66 Yes."
“ Coward ! sneak! May good men shun him from henceforth! may
his Queen refuse to receive him! You, an earl's daughter! Oh,
Isabel' How utterly you have lost yourself!"
Lady Isabel started from her chair, in a burst of hysterical sobs, her
hands extended beseechingly towards the earl. “Spare me ! spare me!
You have been rending my heart ever since you entered ; indeed I am
too weak to bear it.”
The earl, in truth, had been betrayed into showing more of his senti-
ments than he intended. He summoned his recollection.
“Well, well, sit down again, Isabel,” he said, putting her into her
chair. “We will go to the point I chiefly came here to settle. What
sum will it take you to live upon ? Quietly: as of course you would
now wish to live; but comfortably ”
“I will not accept anything," she replied. “I will earn my own
living ;” and the earl's irascibility again rose at the speech. He spoke
in a sharp tone.
"Absurd, Isabel! do not add romantic folly to your other mistakes.
Earn your own living, indeed! As much as is necessary for you to live
upon, I shall supply. No remonstrance: I tell you I am acting as foi
your father Do you suppose he would have abandoned you, to starve
or to work ?"
The allusion touched every chord within her bosom, and the tears
fell fast. “I thought I could earn my living by teaching," she sobbed.
“And how much did you anticipate the teaching would bring you in ?”
“Not very much," she listlessly said. “A hundred a year, perhaps :
I am very clever at music and singing. That sum might keep us, I
fancy, even if I only went out by day
“And a grand keep'it would be ! You shall have that sum every
quarter."


232
EAST LYNNE.
“No, no! oh no! I do not deserve it ; I could not accept it. I have
forfeited all claim to assistance.”
“Not to mine. Now, it is of no use to excite yourself, for my mind
is made up. I never willingly forego a duty, and I look upon this
not only as a duty, but an imperative one. Upon my return, I shall
immediately settle four hundred a year upon you, and you can draw it
quarterly.""
“ Then half the sum,” she reiterated, knowing how useless it was to
contend with Lord Mount Severn when he mounted the stilts of " duty”
“'ndeed, two hundred a year will be abundance, it will seem like
riches to me.”
"I have named the sum, Isabel, and I shall not make it less. A
hundred pounds every three months shall be paid to you, dating from
this day. This does not count,” he continued, laying down some notes
upon the table.
" Indeed, I have some ready money by me," she urged, her cheeks
flushing at what she looked upon as unmerited kindness for none
could think worse of her than she did of herself. “Pray take it back ·
you are too good to me.”
“I don't know what you call 'ready money,'! returned the earl,
“but you have just informed me you were selling your trinkets to live
upon. Put up the notes, Isabel they are only a small amount, just to
go on with. Are you in debt ?”
« Oh 19."
" And mind you don't get into it," advised the earl, as he rose to
depart. “You can let me hear of you from time to time, Isabel.”
* What does the world say of me?” she took courage to whisper. It
was a question often in her own mind Lord Mount Severn paused
before he replied, marvelling, probably, that she could ask it.
“ Just what you may have said in the days now over, at any who had
gone the way that you have done What did you expect that it would
say?”
What indeed! She stood there with her humble face and her beat-
ing heart. The earl took her hand within his in token of farewell :
turned, and was gone.
Lord Mount Severn, stern and uncompromising as he was, had yet
a large share of kindness and conscientiousness. From the moment he
heard of the false step taken by Lady Isabel, and that it was with
Francis Levison she had flown, he cast more blame than he had ever
done before upon the conduct of his wife, in having forced her---so he
regarded it-upon Mr Carlyle. In short, he considered his wife as the
primary, though remote, cause of the present ill : not that he in the
slightest degree underrated Lady Isabel's own share in it , quite the
contrary. From this motive, no less than that he was her relative, he
deemed it his duty to see after her in her shame and sadness.
Susanne attended Lord Mount Severn to the door and watched him
down the street, thinking what a “brave Monsieur Anglais " he was,
and how delighted miladi must be at seeing a friend, to break the
monotony of her sick and lonely existence. Susanne made no doubt
that the visit must so far have aroused miladi as to set her thinking
about geiting out her smart dresses once more, and that the first words


BARBARA'S MISDOINGS.
233
she should hear, on entering miladi's presence, would touch on that
attractive point.
The Earl of Mount Sevcen returned to the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs,
dined, and slept there, and the following morning quitted it on his
return to the pleasures and bustle of civilized life. And Lady Isabel
remained in her chamber, alone.
Alone : alone! Alone for evermore.
CHAPTER XIII.
BARBARA'S MISDOINGS.
A SUNNY afternoon in summer. More correctly speaking, it may be
said a summer's evening, for the bright beams were already slanting
athwart the substantial garden of Mr, Justice Hare, and the tea-hour,
seven, was passing. Mr. and Mrs. Hare and Barbara were seated at
the meal. Somehow, meals always seemed in process at Justice Hare's.
Barbara sat in tears, for the justice was giving her a “piece of his
mind,” and poor Mrs. Hare, agreeing with her husband (as she would
have done had he proposed to set the house on fire and burn her up in
it), yet sympathizing with Barbara, moved uneasily in her chair.
Barbara had been giving mortal offence. Barbara had given the
same offence occasionally for some years past : she had just refused an
eligible offer of marriage, and the justice was storming over it. In the
abstract, it was of no moment whatever to Mr. Justice Hare whether
his daughters pined and withered out their days as fading maidens,
or whether they raced through life as bustling matrons. Neither, in
the abstract, did the justice want Barbara away from the paternal
home, or deem her an incumbrance within it on the contrary, were
Barbara absent, he might be at fault for a target at which to aim the
arrows of his hard words. Neither had money anything to do with
it whether Barbara married or whether she remained single, she had
an ample fortune, No the anger of Justice Hare at Barbara's refusing
the offers made to her, had nothing to do with ordinary causes.
How the world would get on without gossip, I will leave the world to
judge That West Lynne could not have got on without it, and with-
out interfering in every one's business but its own, is enough for me.
West Lynne had chosen to make a wonder of the fact that Barbara
Hare should remain Barbara Hare. Of all the damsels indigenous to
the soil, she, with her beauty, her attractive manners, and her fortune,
had appeared the most likely one to be appropriated And yet she was
still Barbara Hare! The gossips set their heads together to discover
why she was neglected. Neglected they considered her, for Barbara
was not one to talk of lost opportunities. The conclusion they came
to was, that the unhappy crime attaching to her brother was the sole
cause ; and, by some mishap, this nonsense reached the ears of Justice
Hare. If the justice was sensitive upon one point, it was upon that
which related to that dark and dreadful deed ; if he was bitter against
any living being, it was against his miserable son. To have it said that
Barbara remained single because no one would have her on account of


234
EAST LYNNE.
her brother, was gall and wormwood to Justice Hare, for the disgrace
seenied then to be reflected home on him and his. The justice would
have liked to lift his foot and toss West Lynne into the nearest, and
greenest, and muddiest of ponds; he would have liked to pounce on
Richard, and hand him over to the mercies of the county assize ; and
he would have been glad to marry Barbara off hand, that that part of
the scandal at any rate might be refuted. Therefore, when Barbara
refused offer after offer (she had refused four now), it may readily be
credited how greatly it aroused the ire of the justice.
“You do it on purpose ; you do it to anger me," thundered the
justice, bringing down his hand on the tea-table, and causing the cups
to rattle.
“No, I don't, papa,” sobbed Barbara.
“ Then why do you do it?”
Barbara was silent.
“No ; you can't reply : you have nothing to say. What is the matter,
pray, with Major Thorn? Come, I will be answered.”
“ I don't like him," faltered Barbara.
“You do like him ; you are telling me an untruth. You have liked
him well enough whenever he has been here.”
“I like him as an acquaintance, papa. Not as a husband."
“Not as a husband ! " repeated the exasperated justice. Why, bless
my heart and body, the girl's going mad! Not as a husband! Who
asked you to like him as a husband before he became such? Did
you ever hear that it was necessary, or expedient, or becoming for a
young lady to set on and begin to 'like' a gentleman as her
husband'?”
Barbara felt a little bewildered.
Here's the whole parish saying that Barbara Hare can't be married ;
that nobody will have her on account of-of-of that cursed stain left
by.--I won't trust myself to name him ; I should go too far. Now don't
you think that's a pretty disgrace, a nice state of things ?”
“But it is not true," said Barbara ; “ people do propose for me.”
“ But what's the use of their proposing when you say 'No'?” raved
the justice. “Is that the way to let the parish know that they propose ?
You are an ungrateful, rebellious, self-willed daughter, and you'll never
be anything else.”
Barbara's tears flowed freely. The justice gave a dash at the bell-
handle, to order away the tea-things ; and after their removal the subject
was renewed, together with Barbara's grief. That was the worst of
Justice Hare. Let him take up a grievance (it was not often he had a
real one) and he kept on at it, as a blacksmith hammering at his forge.
Ili the midst of a stormy oration, Mr. Carlyle came in.
Not much altered ; not much. A year and three-quarters had gone
by, and they had served to silver his hair upon the temples. His
manier, too, would never again be careless and light as it once had
been. He was the same keen man of business, the same pleasant,
intelligent companion : the generality of people saw no change in him.
Bai bara rose to escape.
"No," said Justice Hare, planting himself between her and the door :
“that's the way you like to get out of my reach when I am talking to


BARBARA'S MISDOINGS.
235
you. You won't go ; so sit down again. I'll tell you of all your ill-conduct
before Mr. Carlyle, and see if that will shame you."
Barbara resumed her seat, a rush of crimson dyeing her cheeks. And
Mr. Carlyle looked inquiringly, seeming to ask an explanation of her
distress. The justice gave it after his own fashion.
“You know, Carlyle, that horrible blow that fell upon us, that shame-
ful disgrace. Well, because the parish can't clack enough about the
fact itself, it must begin upon Barbara, saying that the disgrace and
humiliation are reflected upon her, and that nobody will come near her
to ask her to be his wife. One would think, rather than lie under the
stigma and afford the parish room to talk, she'd marry the first man
that appeared, if it was the parish beadle—any one else would. But
now, what are the facts? You'll stare when you know them. She has
received a bushel of good offers ; a bushel of them,” repeated the justice,
dashing his hand down on his knee," and she says 'No'to all. The last
was to-day, from Major Thorn, and my young lady takes and puts the
stopper upon it, as usual, without reference to me or her mother, without
saying with your leave or by your leave. She wants to be kept in her
room for a week upon bread and water, to bring her to her senses."
Mr. Carlyle glanced at Barbara. She was sitting meekly under the
infliction, her wet lashes falling on her flushed cheeks and shading her
eyes. The justice was heated enough, and had pushed his flaxen wig
up in the warmth of his argument.
“What do you say to her ? " snapped the justice.
“ Matrimony may not have charms for Barbara,” replied Mr. Carlyle,
half jokingly.
“Nothing has charms for her,” growled Justice Hare. “She's one of
the contrary ones. By the way, though," hastily resumed the justice,
leaving the objectionable subject, as another flashed across his memory ;
" they were coupling your name and matrimony together, Carlyle, last
night at the Buck's Head.”
A very perceptible tinge rose to the face of Mr. Carlyle, telling of
inward emotion, but his voice and manner betrayed none.
“ Indeed,” he carelessly said.
“Ah, you are a sly one : you are, Carlyle : remember how sly you
were with your first--" marriage, Justice Hare was going to bring out,
but it suddenly occurred to him that, all circumstances considered, it
was not precisely the topic to recall to Mr. Carlyle. So he stopped
himself in the utterance, coughed, and went on again. “There you go,
over to Sir John Dobede's, not to see Sir John, but paying court to Miss
Dobede.”
“So the Buck's Head was amusing itself with that !” good-humouredly
observed Mr. Carlyle. “Well, Miss Dobede is going to be married,
and I am drawing up the settlements.”
“Not she ; she marries young Somerset ; every one knows that. It's
the other, Louisa. A nice girl, Carlyle.”
“Very," responded Mr. Carlyle, and it was all the answer he gave.
The justice, tired of sitting indoors, tired, perhaps, of extracting nothing
satisfactory from Mr. Carlyle, rose, set his wig aright before the looking-
glass, and quitted the house on his usual evening visit to the Buck's
Head. Barbara, who watched him down the path, saw that he encoun-


236
EAST LYNNE.
tered some one who happened to be passing the gate. She could not
at first distinguish who it might be ; nothing but an arm and shoulder,
cased in velveteen, met her view. But as their positions changed in
conversation, she saw that it was Locksley, who had been the chief
witness (not a vindictive one ; he could not help himself) against her
brother Richard, touching the murder of Hallijohn.
“What can be the matter with papa ? " exclaimed Barbara. “Locks-
ley must have said something to anger him. He is coming in in the
greatest passion, mamma : his face crimson, and his hands and arms
working.”
“Oh dear, Barbara !” was all poor Mrs. Hare's reply. The justice's
great storms of passion frightened her.
In he came, closed the door, and stood in the middle of the room,
looking alternatel, at Mrs. Hare and Barbara.
“What is this cursed report that's being whispered in the place ? "
quoth he, in a tone of suppresed rage, but not unmixed with awe.
“ What report ?” asked Mr. Carlyle, for the justice waited for an
answer, and Mrs. Hare seemed unable to speak. Barbara took care to
keep silence : she had some misgiving that the justice's words might
refer to herself, and the recent grievance.
“A report that he-he-has been here, disguised as a labourer ! has
dared to show himself in the place, where he'll yet come to the gibbet."
Mrs. Hare's face turned white as death. Mr. Carlyle rose, and
dexterously contrived to stand before her, so that it should not be
seen. Barbara silently locked her hands, one within the other, and
turned to the window.
“Of whom do you speak?” asked Mr. Carlyle, in a matter-of-fact
tone, as if he were putting the most ordinary question. He knew too
well ; but temporized for the sake of Mrs. Hare.
“Of whom do I speak?" uttered the exasperated justice, beside him-
self with passion: “ of whom should I speak but the bastard Dick ?
Who else in West Lynne is likely to come to a felon's death?"
“Oh, Richard !” sobbed forth Mrs. Hare, as she sank back in her
chair ; “be merciful ! He is our own true son."
“Never a true son of the Hares,” raved the justice. “A true son of
wickedness, and cowardice, and blight, and evil. If he has dared to
show his face at West Lynne, I'll set the whole police of England upon
his track, that he may be brought here as he ought, if he must come.
When Locksley told me of it, just now, I raised my hand to knock him
down, so infamously false did I deem the report. Do you know any-
thing of his having been here?" continued the justice to his wife, in a
pointed, resolute tone.
How Mrs. Hare would have extricated herself, or what she would
have answered, cannot even be imagined, but Mr. Carlyle interposed.
“You are frightening Mrs. Hare, sir. Don't you see that the very
report of such a thing is alarming her into illness? But-allow me to
inquire what it may be that Locksley said.”
“I met him at the gate," returned Justice Hare, turning his attention
upon Mr. Carlyle. “He was going by as I reached it. 'Oh, justice,'
he began, 'I am glad I met you. There's a nasty report in the place,
that Richard has been seen here. I'd see what I could do towards


BARBARA'S MISDOINGS.
237
hushing it up, sir, if I were you, for it may only serve to put the police
in mind of bygone things, which it may be better they should forget.'
Carlyle, I went, as I tell you, to knock him down : I asked him how he
could have the hardihood to repeat such slander to my face. He was
on the high horse directly : said the parish spoke the slander, not he ;
and I got out of him what it was he had heard.”
“And what was it ?” interrupted Mr. Carlyle, more eagerly than he
generally spoke.
“Why, they say that the fellow showed himself here some time ago,
a year or so, disguised as a farm labourer-confounded fools ! Not but
that he'd have been the fool, had he done it."
“ To be sure he would,” repeated Mr. Carlyle, “and he is not fool
enough for that, sir. Let West Lynne talk, Mr. Hare . but do not you
put faith in a word of its gossip. I never do. Poor Richard, wherever
he may be
“I won't have him pitied in my presence,” burst forth the justice.
“Poor Richard, indeed! Villain Richard, if you please.”
“I was about to observe that wherever he may be, whether in the
backwoods of America, or digging for gold in California, or wandering
about the United Kingdom, there is little fear that he will quit his
place of safety, to dare the dangerous ground of West Lynne. Had I
been you, sir, I should have laughed at Locksley and his words."
“Why does West Lynne invent such lies?”
“Ah, there's the rub. I dare say West Lynne could not tell you
why, if it were paid for doing so. But it seems to have been a lame
story it has got up this time. If they must have concocted a report
that Richard had been seen at West Lynne, why put it back to a year
ago? why not have fixed it for to-day or yesterday? If I heard any.
thing more, I would treat it with the silence and contempt it deserves,
justice.”
Silence and contempt were not greatly in the justice's line ; noise and
explosion were more so. But he had a high opinion of the judgment
of Mr. Carlyle ; and, growling a sort of assent, he once more set forth
to pay his evening visit.
“Oh, Archibald ! " uttered Mrs. Hare, when her husband was half
way down the path, “what a mercy that you were here! I should
inevitably have betrayed myself."
Barbara turned from the window. “But what could have possessed
Locksley to say what he did ? ” she exclaimed.
“ I have no doubt Locksley spoke with a good motive," said Mr.
Carlyle. “ He is not unfriendly to Richard, and thought, probably,
that by telling Mr. Hare of the report, he might get it stopped. The
rumour has been mentioned to me.”
Barbara shivered. “How can it have come to light ?” she breathed.
“I am at a loss to know," said Mr. Carlyle. “The person to mention
it to me was Tom Herbert. He met me yesterday, and said, 'What's
this row about Dick Hare?' 'What row !' I asked him. Why,
that Dick was at West Lynne some time back, disguised as a farm
labourer.'—Just what Locksley said to Mr. Hare.. I laughed at Tom
Herbert," continued Mr. Carlyle ; "turned his report into ridicule, and
made him turn it into ridicule also, before I had done with him."


238
EAST LYNNE.
“Will it be the means of causing Richard's discovery ? ” murmured
Mrs. Hare between her dry lips.
“No, no,” warmly responded Mr. Carlyle. “Had the report arisen
immediately after he was really here, it might not have been so
pleasant : but nearly two years have elapsed since the period. Be
under no uneasiness, dear Mrs. Hare, for rely upon it there is no cause
for it."
Mrs. Hare sighed deeply, and left the room to proceed to her
chamber. Barbara and Mr. Carlyle were alone.
“Oh, that the real murderer could be discovered !” she aspirated,
clasping her hands. “To be subjected to these shocks is dreadful.
Mamma will not be herself for days to come.”
“I wish the right man could be found; but it seems as far off as
ever,” remarked Mr. Carlyle.
Barbara sat ruminating. It seemed that she had something to say
to Mr. Carlyle, but a feeling caused her to hesitate. When she did at
length speak, it was in a low, timid voice.
"You remember the description Richard gave, that last night-of
the person he had met - the true Thorn ?”
“ Yes.”
"Did it strike you then-has it ever occurred to you to think—that
it accorded with—with some one?”
“In what way, Barbara ?” he asked, after a pause. “ It accorded
with the description Richard always gave of the man Thorn.”
“ Richard spoke of the peculiar movement of throwing off the hair
from the forehead-in this way. Did that strike you as being
familiar to you-in connection with the white hand and the diamond
ring ?”
"Many have a habit of pushing off their hair : I think I do it
myself sometimes. Barbara, what do you mean? Have you a
suspicion of any one?”
“ Have you?” she returned, answering the question by asking
another.
“I have not. Since Captain Thorn was disposed of, my suspicions
have not pointed to any one."
This sealed Barbara's lips. She had hers; certain vague doubts,
bringing wonder more than anything else. At times she had thought
the same doubts might have occurred to Mr. Carlyle. She now found
that they had not done so. The terrible domestic calamity which had
happened to Mr. Carlyle the same night that Richard protested he had
seen Thorn, had prevented Barbara from discussing the matter with
him then ; and she had never done so since. Richard had not been
further heard of, and the affair had remained in abeyance.
“I begin to despair of its ever being discovered,” she observed.
“What will become of poor Richard ? ”
“The discovery that Thorn was not the Thorn completely check-
mated us,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“It would have done so, had Richard not seen the other.”
“I have had my doubts whether that was not, after all, a flight of
Rich rd's imagination. It is so extraordinary that he should meet
tne man by moonlight, and that nothing should have been seen of


BARBARA'S MISDOINGS.
239
him at any other time; before or after. Richard's mind was imbued
with the thought and image of Thorn, and fancy may have conjured
up his appearance in some ordinary passer-by.”
" That it never did !” cried Barbara. “I wish I was as sure of
heaven, as that Richard saw Thorn that night. You believed it your-
self at the time.”
“I did. His earnestness impressed me. But I had not time to
reflect upon the facts. There was no one at West Lynne then, neither
has there been since, to whom Richard's description could apply,
Captain Thorn excepted.”
"At West Lynne-no,” said Barbara.
“We can but wait, and hope that time may bring forth its own
solution,” concluded Mr. Carlyle.
“Ah, sighed Barbara, “ but it is weary waiting ; weary, weary !”
“How is it that you contrive to fall under the paternal displeasure ?”
he resumed, in a gayer tone.
She blushed vividly, and it was her only answer.
“The Major Thorn, alluded to by your father, is our old friend I
presume?”
Barbara inclined her head.
“He is a very pleasant man, Barbara. Many a young lady would
be proud to have him."
“Yes, he is a pleasant man," quietly answered Barbara, but she
spoke in a tone that did not invite further discussion.
Captain Thorn, in visiting the Herberts in times gone by, had been
much struck with Barbara. Had his circumstances allowed it, he would
then have solicited her to become his wife. Recently, he had acquired
some property by inheritance, and had also been promoted a step in
his profession. The first use he made of his case was to write both to
Barbara and her father. Barbara declined his offer, as you have seen,
and the justice would be quite sure not to let her hear the last of it for
some time to come.
“ You will do all you can to quell this rumour touching Richard,"
she said to Mr. Carlyle.
“Depend upon that. The less Richard's name is heard in West
Lynne, the better. It puzzles me to know how it can have arisen.”
There was a pause. Barbara broke it : but she did not look at Mr.
Carlyle as she spoke. “The other rumour : is it a correct one?”
“What other rumour ?"
“ That you are about to marry Louisa Dobede.”
“ It is not. I have no intention of marrying any one. Nay, I will
say it more strongly : it is my intention not to marry any one ; to
remain as I am.”
Barbara lifted her eyes to his in the surprise of the moment.
“You look amazed, Barbara.' No. She-who was my wife-lives.”
“What of that ? " uttered Barbara, in simplicity.
He did not answer for a moment, and when he did, it was in a low
tone, as he stood by the table at which Barbara sat, and looked down
upon her.
“Whosoever putteth away his wife, and marrieth another, com.
mitteth adultery:""


240
EAST LYNNE.
And before Barbara could answer—if, indeed, she had found any
answer to give-or had recovered her surprise, he had taken his hat
and was gone.
CHAPTER XIV.
AN ACCIDENT.
To return for a short time to Lady Isabel. As the year advanced she
grew stronger, and in the latter part of the summer made preparations
for quitting Grenoble. Where she would fix her residence, or what she
would do, she knew not. She was miserable and restless, and cared
little what became of her. The remotest spot on earth, one unpene-
trated by the steps of civilized man, appeared the most desirable to
her. Where was she to find this?
She set out on her search-she, the child, and a young peasant
woman whom she had engaged as bonne ; for Susanne having a lover
at Grenoble altogether declined to leave the place. All her luggage,
except the things absolutely required, Lady Isabel had forwarded to
Paris, there to be warehoused until she sent further directio. S. It
was a lovely day when she quitted Grenoble. The train travelled
safely until in the dusk of the cvening they approached a place called
Cammère, where Lady Isabel proposed to rest for a day or two.
Railway accidents are less frequent in France than they are with us,
but when they do occur they are wholesale catastrophes, the memory
of which lasts for a lifetime. The train was within a short distance of
the station when there came a sudden shock and crash as of the day
of doom : and engine, carriages, and passengers lay in one confused
mass at the foot of a steep embankment. The gathering darkness
added to the awful confusion.
The carriage in which Lady Isabel with her child and bonne
travelled, lay beneath a superincumbent mass of ruins : they were
amongst the last passengers to be extricated. The bonne and the poor
baby were quite dead. Lady Isabel was alive and conscious, but so
severely injured that the medical men who had been brought to the
spot in all haste turned from her to give their attention to other
sufferers whose case seemed less desperate—she heard them say that
she would not survive amputation, and that nothing else could be done ;
that she must die whether there was an operation or not. The in-
juries lay in one leg, and the lower part of her face. She had not
counted upon dying in this manner, and death in the guise of horrible
suffering was not the abstract thing of release and escape which it
had seemed, when she had wished for it as the end of all her wretched.
ness. She was unable to move, but the shock had deadened sensation ;
she was not yet in pain, and her mind was for a short interval pre-
ternaturally clear and lucid. A Sister of Charity approached the
stretcher on which she had been laid, and offered her some water,
Isabel drank eagerly.
“Is there ought else I can do ?” asked the sister.


AN ACCIDENT.
241
“ My baby and its nurse were with me in the carriage-tell me, have
they been found? Is my child killed ? ” asked Isabel.
The sister turned to gain intelligence, but the confusion and noise
were so great that she could scarcely hope to asceriain anything with
certainty. A poor little child, quite dead, but not much disfigured, had
been carried into the railway shed, and laid down not far from Lady
Isabel. The sister took it tenderly up.
“Was this your child ? " said she, turning to Lady Isabel. “It is a
little angel, and is beholding the face of its Father in heaven."
It was the ill-starred child of Lady Isabel. She pressed its little face
to her bosom, and her first feeling was a deep thankfulness that it had
been so soon taken away from the evil to come. She believed she was
to die also in the space of a few hours, or less ; and the dull, apathetic
indifference to all belonging to this life, which generally sets in with
the approach of death, was stealing over her. She motioned to the
sister to remove it, saying softly :
“It is thus I would have wished it to be.”
“ Have you no message or instructions for your friends? If you will
trust me, I will fulfil your wishes. Whilst your mind is clear, it will be
well to settle your duties towards those you are leaving behind.” The
sister had heard what the doctor said of Lady Isabel's condition.
“ All who ever knew me will rejoice to hear that I am no more,” said
Isabel. “My death will be the only reparation I can offer, for the
grief and shame my life has brought on all who had the evil fortune to
belong to me. You understand I have been a great sinner."
“Try to accept death as a just recompense for your sins—make in
this last moment an act of faith and obedience, by uniting your own
will with His who sends this suffering ; it is then changed from the
nature of punishment into a blessing. Our sorrows are the gifts of
Almighty God, no less than our joys."
"I will ; I have taken up my cross,” said Lady Isabel faintly, for the
pain of her injuries was beginning to make itself felt.
"Can I write to any one for you ?” asked the sister, " tell me now,
whilst you can think of it."
“Have you paper and writing things at hand ? Write then. Direct
the letter first, to the Earl of Mount-- Stay!" she interrupted, feeling
how undesirable it was to make known her private affairs, even in that
strange place. Besides, from the injury to her face, she could only
speak with the greatest difficulty. “ Could I not write a line myself?
I think I could, if you will hold the paper before me: my hands are
not injured ; my intellect is clear.”
The compassionate sister complied : and Lady Isabel eontrived to
scrawl a few words as she lay, first directing the letter to the earl's
town house. They were to the effect that she was dying from the
fatal injuries of the railway accident : that her baby was killed, and
its nurse. She thanked Lord Mount Severn for all his goodness to
her ; she said she was glad to die, to deliver him and all who belonged
to her from the disgrace and shame she had been to them. “Go to
Mr. Carlyle," she continued. “Say that I humbly beg him to forgive
me; that I also beg the forgiveness of his children when they shall be
old enough to know the crime I have committed against them. Tell
Last Lynno.
16


242
EAST LYNNE.
him I repent, and have repented bitterly-there are no words to
express that bitterness.” She had written so far, when the torture of
pain, which had begun to make itself more and more felt, was becoming
intolerable. Gathering her strength for a last effort, she wrote in cha-
racters, such as those with which one on the rack might have signed
his confession: “Forgive ; Isabel,” and whispered : “Send it when I am
dead; not before : and add a few words of confirmation."
When at length the surgeons came up to Lady Isabel, to examine
more minutely the injuries she had sustained, she was quite insensible,
and they thought she was dead. They said so to the sister, who was
then kneeling beside her, repeating the prayers appointed for the
passing soul. She finished them and retired to a distance, other
sufferers claiming her services. She did nc: return to Lady Isabel,
whom she fully believed to be dead ; and she despatched the letter,
adding to it, as requested, some words of confirmation. The dead
were buried, and a special mass was said for them. The survivors
were sent to the hospital ; all that could be done for them was done ;
neither skill nor kindness being wantvu.
Lady Isabel recovered her consciousness, and found herself lying on
a pallet in a ward in the hospital. It was long before she could recall
what had happened, or understand that she had not died. The sur-
geons, on further inspection, had found life still lingering in her
shattered frame. The injuries were terrible enough, but not of neces-
sity fatal, though the prospect of recovery was faint. It would have
been cruel to resort to an operation with such slender chances of
success, and they tried other means, which to the honour and glory
of their skill, promised to succeed. Lady Isabel was still fluctuating
between life and death ; but the tide began at length slowly to set in
towards life. She remained three months in the hospital before she
could be removed. The change that had passed over her in those
three months was little less than death itself : no one could have
recognized in the pale, thin, shattered, crippled invalid, she who had
been known as Lady Isabel Vane.
The letter was duly delivered at the town house of Lord Mount
Severn, as addressed. The countess was sojourning there for a few
days. She had quitted it after the season, but some business, or
pleasure, had called her again to town. Lord Vane was with her,
but the earl was in Scotland. They were at breakfast, she and her
son, when the letter was brought in : eightpence to pay. Its strangely
written address; its foreign aspect ; its appearance altogether, excited
her curiosity : in her own mind she believed she had dropped upon a
nice little conjugal mare's-nest.
“ I shall open this,” cried she.
“Why, it is addressed to papa !” exclaimed Lord Vane, who pos-
sessed all his father's notions of honour.
“But such an odd letter! It may require an immediate answer : or
is some begging petition, perhaps. Go on with your breakfast.”
Lady Mount Severn opened the letter, and with some difficulty spelt
through its contents. They shocked even her.
“How dreadful !” she uttered, in the impuise of the moment.
“ What is dreadful ?” asked Lord Vane, looking up rom his breakfast.


AN ACCIDENI.
243
" Lady Isabel - Isabel Vane-you have not forgotten her ? "
“Forgotten her!” he echoed. “Why, mamma, I must possess a
funny memory to have forgotten her already!”
* She is dead. She has been killed in a railway accident : *rance."
His large eyes, honest and true as they had been in childhood, tilled,
and his face flushed. He said nothing, for emotion was strong within
him.
“But, shocking as it is, it is better for her,” went on the countess;
“ for, poor creature ! what could her future life have been ?”
“Oh, don't say it !" impetuously broke out the young viscount.
“ Killed in a railway accident, and for you to say that it is better for
her !"
“ So it is better," said the countess. “Don't go into heroics, William.
You are quite old enough to know that she had brought misery upon
herself, and disgrace upon all connected with her. No one could ever
have taken notice of her again.”
“ I would,” said the boy, stoutly.
Lady Mount Severn smiled derisively.
“I would. I never liked any one in the world half so much as I
liked Isabel.”
" That's past and gone. You could not have continued to like her,
after the disgrace she wrought.”
“Some one else wrought niore of the disgrace than she did ; and,
had I been a man, I would have shot him dead," flashed the viscount.
“ You don't know anything about it.”
“ Don't I," he returned, not over-dutifully. But Lady Mount Severn
had not brought him up to be dutiful.
“May I read the letter, mamma ?” he demanded after a pause.
“ If you can read it,” she replied, tossing it to him. “She dictated
it when she was dying."
Lord Vane took the letter to a window, and stayed looking over it for
some time; the countess ate an egg and a plate of ham meanwhile.
Presently he came back with it folded, and laid it on the table.
“ You will forward it to papa to-day ?” he observed.
“I shall forward it to him But there's no hurry; and I don't
exactly know where your papa may be. I shall send the notice of her
death to the papers ; and am glad to do it, it is a blight removed from
the family."
“Mamma, I do think you are the unkindest woman that ever
breathed ! "
“ I'll give you something to call me unkind for, if you don't mind,”
retorted the countess, her colour rising. “Dock you of your holiday,
and pack you back to school to-day.”
A few mornings after this, Mr. Carlyle left East Lynne, and pro-
ceeded to his office as usual. Scarcely was he seated, when Mr. Dill
entered, and Mr. Carlyle looked at him inquiringly, for it was not
Mr. Carlyle's custom to be intruded upon by any one until he had
opened his letters: then he would ring for Mr. Dill. The letters and
the Times newspaper lay on his table before him. The old gentleman
came up in a covert, timid sort of way, which made Mr. Carlyle look
all the more.


244
EAST LYNNE.
“ I beg your pardon, sir ; will you let me ask if you have heard any
particular news?”.
“Yes, I have heard it,” replied Mr. Carlyle.
“Then, sir, I beg your pardon a thousand times over. It occurred
to me that you probably had not, Mr. Archibald ; and I thought I
would have said a word to prepare you, before you came upon it sud-
denly in the paper."
“To prepare me !" echoed Mr. Carlyle, as old Dill was turning
away. “Why, what has come to you, Dill? Are you afraid my
nerves are growing delicate, or that I shall faint over the loss of a
hundred pounds ? At the very most, we shall not suffer beyond that
extent."
Old Dill turned back again. “If I don't believe you are speaking of
the failure of Kent and Green ! It's not that, Mr. Archibald. They
won't affect us much : and there'll be a dividend, report runs." .
“What is it, then ?”
“ Then you have not heard it, sir! I am glad that I'm in time. It
might not have been well for you to have seen it without a word of
preparation, Mr. Archibald.”
“If you have not gone demented, you will tell me what you mean,
Dill, and leave me to my letters,” cried Mr. Carlyle, wondering exces-
sively at his sober, matter-of-fact clerk's words and manner.
Old Dill laid his hand upon the Times newspaper. “It's here, Mr.
Archibald, in the column of the deaths : the first on the list. Please
prepare yourself a little, before you look at it."
He shuffled out quickly, and Mr. Carlyle as quickly unfolded the
paper. It was as old Dill said, the first on the list of deaths.
“At Cammère, France, on the 18th inst., Isabel Mary, only child
of William, late Earl of Mount Severn."
Clients called ; Mr. Carlyle's bell did not ring; an hour or two
passed, and old Dill protested that Mr Carlyle was engaged, until he
could protest no longer. He went in deprecatingly. Mr. Carlyle sat
yet with the newspaper before him, and the letters unopened at his
elbow.
“There's one or two who will come in, Mr. Archibald, who will see
you : what am I to say ?”.
Mr. Carlyle stared at him for a moment, as if his wits had been in
the next world. Then he swept the newspaper from before him, and
was the calm, collected man of business again.
As the news of Lady Isabel's marriage had first come to the know-
ledge of Lord Mount Severn through the newspapers, so, singularly to
say, did the tidings of her death. The next post brought him the
letter which his wife had tardily forwarded. But, unlike Lady Mount
Severn, he did not take her death so entirely upon trust : he knew
what mistakes are often made in these reports from a distance, and he
deemed it incumbent on him to make inquiries. He wrote immediately
to the authorities of the town in the best French he could muster),
asking for particulars, and whether she was really dead.
He received, in due course, a satisfactory answer; satisfactory in so
far as that it set his doubts entirely at rest. He had inquired after
her by her proper name and title, “ La Dame Isabelle Vane," and as the


AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AT EAST LYNNE. 245
authorities could find none of the survivors owning that name, they
took it for granted she was dead. They wrote him word that the
child and nurse whom he had mentioned were killed on the spot; two
ladies, who had occupied the same compartment of the carriage, had
since died, one of whom was no doubt the mother, the lady he inquired
for. She was dead and buried, and sufficient money had been found
upon her person to defray the few necessary expenses. It will easily
be understood that the lady of whom they spoke was one of those who
had been in the same carriage as Lady Isabel's, and who had died.
Thus, through no intention of Lady Isabel, news of her death went
forth to Lord Mount Severn and to the world. Her first intimation
that she was regarded as dead, was through a copy of that very day's
Times, seen by Mr. Carlyle, seen by Lord Mount Severn. An English
traveller, who had been amongst the sufferers, and lay in the hospital,
received the English newspapers, and sometimes lent them to her to
read. She was not travelling under her own name ; she left that
behind her when she left Grenoble ; she had rendered her own too
notorious to risk the chance recognition of travellers ; and the authori-
ties did not suspect that the quiet, unobtrusive Madame Vine, slowly
recovering at the hospital, was the Dame Isabelle Vane, respecting
whom the great English Comte had written.
Lady Isabel understood at once that the despatching of her letter had
been the foundation of the misapprehension, and she began to ask
herself now, why she should undeceive Lord Mount Severn and the
world. She longed, none knew with what intense longing, to be
unknown, obscure, unrecognized by all : none can know it, until they
have placed a barrier between themselves and the world as she had
done. She had no longer the child to support, she had only herself ;
and surely she could with ease earn enough for that : or she could
starve : it mattered little which. No, there was no necessity for her
continuing to accept the bounty of Lord Mount Severn, and she would
let him and every one else continue to believe that she was dead, and
would be henceforth only Madame Vine. A resolution she adhered to.
Thus the unhappy Lady Isabel's career was looked upon as run.
Lord Mount Severn forwarded her letter to Mr. Carlyle, with the
confirmation of her death, which he had obtained from the French
authorities. It was a nine days' wonder: “That poor, erring Lady
Isabel was dead "---people did not call her names in the very teeth of
her fate and then it was over.
It was over. Lady Isabel Vane was as one forgotten.
CHAPTER XV.
AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AT EAST LYNNE.
THERE went, sailing up the avenue to East Lynne, a lady one windy
afternoon. If not a lady she was attired as one: a flounced dress, and
a stylish shawl, and a white veil. A very pretty woman, tall and
slender was she, and she ininced as she walked, and coquetted with
her head, and, altogether, coptrived to show that she had quite as


246
EAST LYNNE.
much vanity as brains in her head. She went boldly up to the front
entrance of the house, and boldly rang, drawing her white veil over her
face as she did so.
One of the men servants answered it, not Peter ; and, seeing some-
one very smart before him, bowed deferentially.
“ Miss Hallijohn is residing here, I believe. Is she within ?”
“Who, ma'am ?”
“Miss Hallijohn ; Miss Joyce Hallijohn,” somewhat sharply repeated
the lady, as if impatient of any delay. “I wish to see her."
The man was rather taken to. He had deemed it a visitor to the
house, and was prepared to usher her into the drawing-room, at least;
but it seemed it was only a visitor for Joyce. He showed her into
a small parlour, and went up to the nursery, where Joyce was sitting
with Wilson-for there had been no change in the domestic depart-
ment of East Lynne. Joyce remained as upper maid, partially super-
intending the servants, attending upon Lucy, and making Miss Carlyle's
dresses as usual. Wilson was nurse still. Miss Carlyle had once or
twice begun upon the point of extravagance of keeping both Wilson
and Joyce ; but Mr. Carlyle had wholly declined discussion upon the
subject; and somehow Miss Carlyle did not find him bend to her will
as he once had done.
“ Mrs. Joyce, there's a lady asking for you,” said the man. “I have
shown her into the grey parlour."
“ A lady for me?" repeated Joyce. “Who is it? Some one to see
the children, perhaps ? "
“It's for yourself, I think. She asked for Miss Hallijohn."
Joyce looked at the man : but she put down her work and procceded
to the grey parlour. A pretty woman, vain and dashing, threw up her
white veil at her entrance.
“Well, Joyce ! How are you?”
Joyce always pale, turned paler still, as she gazed in blank conster-
nation. Was it really Afy who stood before her ?-Afy the erring.
Afy it was. And she stood there holding out her hand to Joyce
with, what Wilson would have called, all the brass in the world.
Joyce could not reconcile her mind to link her own with it.
“Excuse me, Afy, but I cannot take your hand. I cannot welcome
you here. What could have induced you to come?”
“ If you are going to be upon the high ropes, it seems I might as
well have stayed away," was Afy's reply, given in the pert but good-
humoured manner she had ever used to Joyce. “My hand won't
danage yours. I am not poison."
“You are looked upon in the neighbourhood as worse than poison,
Afy,” returned Joyce, in a tone, not of anger, but of sorrow. “Where's
Richard Hare ?"
Afy tossed her head. “Where's who ?” asked she.
“ Richard Hare. My question was plain enough.”
“ How should I know where he is? It's like you, impudence to
meni.on nim to me. Why don't you ask me where Old Nick is, and
how he does ? I'd rather own acquaintance with him than with
Richard Hare, if I'd only niy choice between the two."
“ Then you have left Richard Hare! How long since ?"


AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AT EAST LYNNE. 247
“I have left—what do you say ?” broke off Afy, whose lips were
quivering ominously with suppressed passion. “Perhaps you'll con.
descend to explain. I odn't understand.”
“When you left here, Afy, did you not go after Richard Hare ?---dia
you not join him ?”
“ I'll tell you what it is, Joyce," flashed Afy, her face indignant and
her voice passionate ; “I have put up with some things from you in
my time, but human nature has its limits of endurance, and I won't
bear that. I have never set eyes on Ri-hard Hare since that night of
horror. I wish I could : I'd help to hang him.”
Joyce paused. The belief that Afy was with him had been long and
deeply imbued within her ; it was the long-continued and firm con-
viction of all West Lynne : and a settled belief is not easily shaken.
Was Afy telling her truth? She knew her propensity for making falsc
statements when they served to excuse herself.
“Afy,” she said at length,“ let me understand you. When you left
this place, was it not to share Richard Hare's flight ? Have you not
been living with him?"
“No," burst forth Afy, with kindling eyes. “Living with him !
with our father's murderer! Shame upon you, Joyce Hallijohn ! you
must be precious wicked yourself to suppose it.”
“If I have judged you wrongly, Afy, I sincerely beg your pardon.
Not only myself. but the whole of West Lynne believed you were with
him ; and the thought has caused me pain night and day.”
“What a cannibal-minded set you must all be, then !” was Afy's
indignant rejoinder.
“Not one in the place but thought so, with the exception of Mr.
Carlyle," proceeded Joyce. “He has said two or three times to me
that he should not think you went after Richard Hare, or were living
with him.”
“Mr. Carlyle has more sense than all the rest of West Lynne put
together," complacently observed Afy. “Living with Richard Hare !
why, I'd rather go and live with a red Indian who goes about tattooed,
and keeps sixteen wives.”
“But, Afy, where did you go, then ? Why did you leave at all ? "
“Never mind why. It was not to be supposed that I could stop at
home in the cottage with ghosts and dreams and all those sort of things
that attend a place where murder has been.”
“What have you been doing ever since? Where have you been ?”.
“Never mind, I say,” repeated Afy. “West Lynne has not been so
complimentary to me, it appears, that I need put myself out of my way
to satisfy its curiosity. I knocked about a bit at first, but I soon settled
down as steady as Old Time ; as steady as you are."
“Are you married ?” inquired Joyce, noting the word “settled."
“Catch me marrying,” retorted Afy; “I like my liberty too well.
Not but what I might be induced to change my condition, if anything
very eligible turned up : it must be very eligible, though, to tempt me.
I am what I suppose you call yourself—a lady's maid."
“Indeed!” said Joyce, much relieved. “And are you comfortable,
Afy?-are you in a good service?”.
“ Middling for that. The pay's not amiss, but there's a great deal to


248
EAST LYNNE.
do, and her ladyship's a Tartar. I had a good one with an old lady;
a sort of companion I was to her, and stopped there till she died.
What do you think? She made me go in to prayers with her, and
read the Bible night and morning."
“How very glad I am to hear this !” exclaimed Joyce. “It must
have been so good for you." .
“Very," assented Afy; and Joyce failed to detect the irony of her
tone. “She had used to read a chapter, and I used to read a chapter,
and then we went to prayers. Edifying, wasn't it? "
“Delightfully so, Afy. I am sure you must have profited by it."
“ Law, yes : never doubt that. She left me thirty pounds when she
died, over and above my salary. I used to like the Psalms best,
because they were short and comforting."
“So comforting !” echoed Joyce. – Afy, I shall love you and be
proud of you again, as I was when you first came home to us."
Afy laughed, a ringing laugh. “You and West Lynne always set me
down for worse than I was. Though it poses me to imagine what on
earth could have induced you to fancy I should go off with that Dick
Hare,” she added, for she could not forget the grievance.
“ Look at the circumstances,” argued Joyce. “You both disappeared.”
“But not together!”
“Nearly together. There were only a few intervening days. And
you had neither money nor friends."
“You don't know what I had. But I would rather have died of want
on my father's grave, than have shared his means," continued Afy,
growing passionate again. “And you and the West Lynne idiots ought
to have made sure of that."
“ If you had but dropped me a single line, Afy, it would have put
a different aspect upon the whole affair. Your silence helped to mis-
judge you.”
“ Misjudge me, indeed! Why, I never cared for Dick Hare. He
was only half baked.”
“You encouraged him to the house."
“Well—I don't deny it. He used to speak to me of marriage : and
one would put up with a man not baked at all, to be made a real lady.
Had I known he was to turn out as he did, I would have seen his coffin
walk, before I'd ever have spoken to him. Where is he? Not hung,
or I should have heard of it."
“ He has never been seen since that night, Afy."
“Nor heard of?”
“Nor heard of. Most people think he is in Australia, or some other
foreign land.”
“The best place for him ; the more distance he puts between him
and home, the better. If he ever does come back, I hope he'll get his
deserts—which is a rope's end. I'd go to his hanging."
“ You are as bitter against him as Mr. Justice Hare. He would
bring his son back to suffer, if he could.”
"A cross-grained old camel !” remarked Afy, in allusion to the
qualities, social and amiable, of the revered justice. “I don't defend
Dick Hare, I hate him too much for that, but if his father had treated
him differently, Dick might have been different also. Well, let's talk of


AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AT EAST LYNNE. 249
something else; the subject invariably gives me the shivers. Who is
mistress here?”
“Miss Carlyle."
“Oh. I might have guessed that. Is she as fierce as ever ? "
“ There is little alteration in her.”
“And there won't be on this side the grave. I say, Joyce, I don't
want to encounter her ; she might set on at me, as she has done many
a time in the old days. Little love was there lost between me and
Corny Carlyle."
“ You need not fear meeting her. She is away : gone to Lynne-
borough for a week's visit.”
“That's good news for a rainy day! Then, who acts as mistress
while she's absent ?”
“I give the orders,” said Joyce. “Master interferes very little."
“ Will he marry again ? " went on Afy.
“How can I tell ? There appears no probability of it at present. A
few weeks or months ago, a rumour arose that he was to marry Miss
Louisa Dobede ; but it died away again.”
“ Louisa Dobede ! one of that ugly old baronet's daughters ? "
“Yes. But Sir John Dobede is not ugly.”
“Not ugly! why he has a nose as long as a foundry chimney.
Well, one would think Mr. Carlyle had had enough of marrying."
“ Lady Isabel is dead," interrupted Joyce, hastily.
“So is Queen Anne. What is the good of telling me news that all
the world knows?”
“I reminded you that she was dead that you might not speak
against her,” said Joyce. “Whatever may have been Lady Isabel's
failings, they are buried in her grave.”
“Buried or not, their remembrance lasts,” cried Afy ; "and you may
as well try to stop the sun's shining, as to stop folks giving their
opinions. East Lynne must have been well rid of her!”
Joyce put up her hand. “Afy, be silent! You have no right so to
speak of Lady Isabel : you know nothing of the facts."
“I know all the facts by heart," imperturbably rejoined Afy. “You
may take your oath they were conned over and over by us at Lady
Mount Severn's ?"
Joyce looked at her in surprise.“What have you to do with Lady
Mount Severn?”
“Well, that's good. It's where I am in service.”
“At Lady Mount Severn's ? "
“Why not! I have been there two years. It is not a great deal
longer I shall stop, though ; she has too much vinegar in her for me.
It happened just after I went there, and she had a cousin visiting her,
a Miss Levison, and the two were for ever talking of it.”
“ But not in your presence?”.
“I heard,” significantly nodded Afy. “Heard just as much as they
had to tell.”
“ You must have listened at keyholes."
“ Perhaps I did," was Afy's cool response. “I had a fancy to hear
the particulars; and when I do make up my mind to know a thing,
I don't let trifles stand in my way. Tell me about her, Joycę."


250
EAST LYNNE.
Joyce shook her head. “There's nothing much to tell. She was
one of the sweetest ladies, one of the kindest mistresses- "
“Oh, I see,” interrupted Afy, with ineffable disdain. “She was one
of your angels.”
“Almost she was. Until that serpent came here to cross her path.”
“ Manners ! manners!” laughed Afy. “ It's not polite to call names.”
“I could call him names for ever," warmly answered Joyce. “And
so I would if it could bring him punishment. It will come home to
him : mark my words."
“ Lady Mount Severn throws all the blame on her.”
“It is more than Lord Mount Severn does,” angrily returned Joyce.
“ I could have told you that. He casts some share of it to Lady
Mount Severn. Sir Francis is her cousin, you know. Was she good-
looking, Joyce?"
“ Beautiful.”
“Better-looking than I am ?” cried vain Afy, glancing at herself in
an opposite mirror.
“Oh, Afy! how absurd you are !”
“Many thanks. Because she was the Lady Isabel, and I am plain
Afy Hallijohn, of course I can't be compared to her! Everybody
thinks they may lance shafts at mę: but lady angels go wrong some-
times, you see ; they are not universally immaculate. She must have
been a queer angel, rather, to leave her children.”
“Afy, do you understand that this conversation is particularly dis-
agreeable to me!” cried Joyce with spirit.
“ It's a very disagreeable topic indeed, I should say,” equably replied
Afy. “She should not have acted so as to give rise to it. He soon
tired of her, with all her beauty : he has tired-as it is said-of others.
He is married now."
“Yes,” indignantly spoke Joyce," and the wonder is, how any young
lady, with a spark of delicacy or good feeling, could bring herself to
marry so notorious a man.”
“ Ladies don't dislike that sort of notoriety,” said Afy, laughing at
Joyce's reproving face.“ That is, when the offenders are as handsome
as he is.”
“You have seen him at Lord Mount Severn's ? ”
“Not I. I have seen him, but not there. Since the Carlyle affair,
he dare not show his face within their doors : my lord would kick him
out. What an awful thing that railway accident must have been !"
Joyce shuddered. “Ay, it was an awful death."
« And quite a judgment upon her, I should say," went on Afy, pro-
bably seeing that the style of conversation aggravated Joyce.
Joyce would stand it no longer. “Listen, Afy : I loved my mistress,
and I love her memory still, in spite of what has taken place. If you
are to speak against her, it must be in some other house, for it shall
not be in Mr. Carlyle's, where she was once so honoured.”
“ Have it your own way,” indifferently rejoined Afy. “She's gone to
kingdom come, so it's not worth while disputing over it. Is Mr.
Carlvle at home?”
“ He will be home to dinner. I dare say you would like some tea :
you shall come and take it with me and Wilson in the nursery."


AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AT EAST LYNNE. 251
“I was thinking you might have the grace to offer me something,"
cried Afy. “I intend to stop till to-morrow in the neighbourhood : my
lady gave me two days' holiday—for she was going to see her dreadful
old grandmother, where she can't take a maid-and I thought I'd use
it in coming to have a look at the old place again. Don't stare at me
in that blank way, as if you feared I should ask the grand loan of a bed
here. I shall sleep at the Mount Severn Arms."
“I was not glancing at such a thought, Afy. Come and take your
bonnet off.”
“ Is the nursery full of children?”
“There's only one child in it. Miss Lucy and Master William are
with the governess.”
Wilson received Afy with lofty condescension, having Richard Hare
in her thoughts. But Joyce explained that it was all a misapprehension
-that her sister had not been near Richard Hare, but was as indignant
against him as they were. Upon which Wilson grew cordial and chatty,
rejoicing in the delightful recreation her tongue would enjoy that evening.
Afy's account of herself, as to past proceedings, was certainly not the
most satisfactory in the world, but altogether, taking in the present, it
was so great an improvement upon Joyce's conclusions, that she had
not felt so elated for many a day. When Mr. Carlyle returned home,
Joyce sought him, and acquainted him with what had happened. Aly
had turned up; was maid to Lady Mount Severn; and, above all, that
she had never been with Richard Hare.
“Ah! you remember what I said, Joyce," he remarked. “I did not
believe Afy was with Richard Hare."
“ I have been telling Afy so, sir, and she says you have more sense
than all West Lynne put together.”
Mr. Carlyle laughed.
“A terrible way she was in, to be sure, when I informed her what
people had believed," continued Joyce. “She almost went into one of
her old passions."
“Does she seem steady, Joyce?”
“I think so, sir-steady for her. Before she took Lady Mount
Severn's service, she was with an old lady, where she read her Bible
and joined in prayers night and morning.”
“ Afy at prayers !” exclaimed Mr. Carlyle, a smile crossing his lips.
“ I hope they were genuine.”
“I was thinking, sir, that as she appears to have turned out so
respectable, and is with Lady Mount Severn, you perhaps might see
ro objection to her sleeping here for to-night. It would be better than
for her to go to an inn, as she talks of doing.”
“None at all,” replied Mr. Carlyle. “Let her remain.”
As Joyce returned to the nursery, Afy and Wilson were in the full
flowing tide of talk. An unlucky sentence of Afy's caught Joyce's ears.
“It's as true as you are there, Wilson. She bothered me all day
long with her religion. I used to pick out the shortest psalm I could
find, and when she asked me why, I said I did it that I might remember
them There's one with two verses in it: I chose that as often as
I dared. And then, down I had to go on my knces, and I used to wish
my mistress and her prayers somewhere.”


252
EAST LYNNE.
Joyce groaned in spirit, and thought of the words just spoken by Mr.
Carlyle he had hoped the prayers were genuine !
Later in the evening, after Mr. Carlyle's dinner, a message came that
Afy was to go to him. Accordingly she proceeded to his presence.
“So, Afy, you have returned to let West Lynne know that you are
alive. Sit down.”
“West Lynne may go a-walking in future, sir, for all the heed I shall
take of it,” retorted Afy. “A set of wicked-minded scandalmongers,
to take and say I had gone off after Richard Hare!”.
“ You should not have gone off at all, Afy."
“Well, sir, that was my business, and I chose to go. I could not
stop in the cottage after that night's work.”
“There is a mystery attaching to that night's work, Afy,” observed
Mr. Carlyle : “a mystery that I cannot fathom. Perhaps you can help
me out with it."
“What mystery, sir ?" returned Afy.
Mr. Carlyle leaned forward, his arms on the table ; Afy had taken a
chair at the other end of it. “Who was it that committed the murder ?"
he demanded, in a grave and somewhat imperative tone.
Afy stared some moments before she replied, evidently astonished at
the question. “Who committed the murder, sir?" she uttered at
length. “Richard Hare committed it. Everybody knows that.”
"Did you see it done?”
“No," replied Afy. “If I had seen it, the fright and horror would
have killed me. Richard Hare quarrelled with my father, and drew
the gun upon him in his passion.”
" You assume this to have been the case, Afy, as others have assumed
it. I do not think it was Richard Hare who killed your father.”
“ Not Richard Hare !” exclaimed Afy, after a pause. “Then who
do you think did it, sir? I?”.
“Nonsense, Afy.”
“ I know he did it," proceeded Afy. “ It is true that I did not see it
done, but I know it, for all that. I know it, sir."
“ You cannot know it, Afy.”
“I do know it, sir; I would not assert it to you if I did not. If
Richard Hare were here present before us, and swore till he was black
in the face that it was not he, I could convict him.”
“By what means ?'
“I had rather not say, sir. But you may believe me, for I am
speaking truth."
“ There was another friend of yours present that evening, Afy.
Lieutenant Thorn.”
Afy's face turned crimson : she was evidently confused. But Mr.
Carlyle's words and manner were authoritative, and she saw that it
would be useless to attempt to trifle with him.
“I know he was, sir. A young fellow, who used to ride over some
evenings to see me. He had nothing to do with what occurred."
“Where did he ride from?"
“He was stopping with some friends at Swainson. He was noboay,
sir.”
“What was his name?" questioned Mr. Carlyle.


AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR AT EAST LYNNE. 253
" Thorn,” said Afy.
“ I mean his real name. Thorn was an assumed one."
“Oh dear, no," returned Afy. “Thorn was his name.”
Mr. Carlyle paused and looked at her.
“ Afy, I have reason to believe that Thorn was only an assumed
name. Now, I have a motive for wishing to know his real one, and
you would very much oblige me by confiding it to me. What was it?"
“I don't know that he had any other name, sir ; I am sure he had
no other," persisted Afy. “He was Lieutenant Thorn then, and he
was Captain Thorn afterwards.”
“ You have seen him since ?”
“Once in a way we have met."
“Where is he now ?”
“ Now! Oh, my goodness, I don't know anything about him now !”
said Afy. “I have not heard of him or seen him for a long while. I
think I heard something about his going to India with his regiment."
“What regiment is he in ?"
" I'm sure I don't know about that,” said Afy. “Is not one regiment
the same as another : they are all in the army, aren't they, sir ? "
“ Afy, I must find this Captain Thorn. Do you know anything of
his family ?"
Afy shook her head. “I don't think he had any. I never heard
him mention so much as a brother or a sister."
“And you persist in saying his name was Thorn!”
"I persist in it because it was his name. I am positive it was his
name.
“Afy, shall I tell you why I want to find him? I believe that it was
he who murdered your father : not Richard Hare.”
Afy's mouth and eyes gradually opened, and her face turned hot and
cold alternately. Then passion mastered her, and she burst forth.
“It's a lie ! I beg your pardon, sir, but whoever told you that, told
you a lie. Thorn had no more to do with it, than I had : I'll swear it."
“ I tell you I believe Thorn to have been the man. You were not
present : you cannot know who actually did it.”
“Yes, I can and do know,” said Afy, bursting into tears of hysterical
passion. “Thorn was with me when it happened, so it could not have
been Thorn. It was that wicked Richard Hare. Sir ! have I not
said that I'll swear it ?"
“Thorn was with you !-at the moment of the murder ?" repeated
Mr. Carlyle.
“Yes, he was,” shrieked Afy, nearly beside herself with emotion.
“Whoever has been trying to put it off Richard Hare, and on to him,
is a wicked, false-hearted wretch. It was Richard Hare and nobody
else, and I hope he'll be hung for it yet."
“You are telling me the truth, Afy?” gravely spoke Mr. Carlyle.
“ Truth !” echoed Afy, flinging up her hands. “Would I tell a lie
over my poor father's death? If Thorn had done it, would I screen
him, or shuffle it off to Richard Hare? No, no."
Mr. Carlyle felt uncertain and bewildered. That Afy was sincere
in what she said was but too apparent. He spoke again, but Afy had
risen from her chair to leave.


254
EAST LYNNE.
“ Locksley was in the wood that evening : Otway Bethel was in it.
Could either of them have Jeen the culprit ? ”
“No, sir,” firmly retorted Afy; "the culprit was Richard Hare ;
and I'd say it with my latest breath. I'd say it because I know it-
though I don't choose to say how I know it ; time enough when he
gets taken."
She quitted the room, leaving Mr. Carlyle in a state of puzzled
bewilderment. Was he to believe Afy? or was he to believe the past
assertion of Richard Hare ?
CHAPTER XVI.
A NIGHT INVASION OF EAST LYNNE.
In one of the comfortable sitting-rooms at East Lynne sat Mr. Carlyle
and his sister one inclement January night. The contrast within and
without was great. The warm, blazing fire, the handsome carpet on
which it flickered, the exceedingly comfortable arrangement of the
furniture of the room, and the light of the chandelier which fell on all,
presented a picture of home peace, though it may not have deserved
the name of luxury. Without, heavy flakes of snow were falling
thickly, rendering the atmosphere so dense and obscure, that a man
could not see a yard before him. Mr. Carlyle had driven home in the
pony-carriage, and the snow had so settled upon him, even in that
short journey, that Lucy, who happened to see him as he entered the
hall, screamed out laughingly that her papa had turned into a white
man. It was now later in the evening ; the children were in bed, the
governess was in her own sitting-room-it was not often that Miss
Carlyle invited her to theirs of an evening--and the house was quiet.
Mr. Carlyle was deep in the pages of one of the monthly periodicals;
and Miss Carlyle sat on the other side of the fire, grumbling, and
sniffing, and choking.
Miss Carlyle was one of your strong-minded ladies, who never con-
descend to be ill. Of course, had she been attacked with scarlet fever,
or paralysis, or St. Vitus's dance, she must have given in to the enemy ;
but triAing ailments, such as headache, influenza, sore-throat, which
other people have, passed her by. Imagine, therefore, her exaspera-
tion at finding her head heavy, her chest sore, and her voice going :
in short, at having, for once in her life, caught cold like ordinary
mortals.
“ It was that ale,” she groaned.
“ Ale !” echoed Mr. Carlyle, lifting his eyes from his book.
“ Yes, the ale,” she tartly proceeded. “Dear me, Archibald, you
need not stare as if I had said it was the moon gave it me.”
“But how could ale give it you? Unless you drank a great draught
of it when you were in a state of perspiration.”
Miss Carlyle lifted her hands in pitying contempt for his ignorance.
“ You'll be a baby in common sense to the end of your jife, Archi-
bald. When do I drink great draughts of ale? Pray, the last two


A NIGHT INVASION OF EAST LYNNE.
255
barrels that we have had in tap, has there not been, throughout, a
complaint that the taps leaked ?”
“Well ? ” said he.
“Well, I knew the fault lay in putting in the taps in the first instance;
servants are such incapables. So, when Peter came to me after break-
fast this morning, and said another barrel of ale had better be tapped,
for that the one in hand was stooped yesterday : Very well,' said I,
I'll come and see to it myself!' And down I went, out of these warm
rooms, and the cellar struck like an ice-house, and I stopped in it for
a good twenty minutes.”
* Does it take all that time to tap a barrel of ale?”.
“No, it doesn't take it when things are in order, but it does when you
have to bother over the taps, rejecting one, rejecting another,” responded
Miss Carlyle, in a tone of exasperation. “And a pretty state that cellar
was in ! not a thing in place. I had the cook down, and a sharp dress-
ing I gave her. If her hans had been turned for three days, I'll eat
them, uncooked as they are ! And that's how I must have caught this
cold.”
Mr. Carlyle made no observation. Had he told her that there was
no need whatever for her interference, that Peter was perfectly com-
petent to perform his duties, she would only have flown at him. He
became absorbed in his book again, while Miss Carlyle fretted and
grunted, and drew her chair to the fire and pushed it back again,
and made violent starts with her hands and feet : in short, performed
all the antics of a middle-aged gentlewoman suffering under an attack
of fidgets.
“What's the time, I wonder ?” she exclaimed, by-and-by.
Mr. Carlyle looked at his watch. “ It is just nine, Cornelia.”
“Then I think I shall go to bed. I'll have a basin of arrowroot or
gruel, or some slop of that sort, after I'm in it. I'm sure I have been
free enough all my life from requiring such sick dishes ! ”
“Do so,” said Mr. Carlyle. “It may do you good.”
“There's one thing excellent for a cold in the head, I know. It's to
double your flannel petticoat crossways, or any other large piece of
flannel you may have at hand, and put it on over your nightcap : I'll
try it."
"I would,” said Mr. Carlyle, smothering an irreverent laugh.
She sat on five minutes longer, and then left, wishing Mr. Carlyle
good night. He resumed his reading. But another page or two con-
cluded the article ; upon which Mr. Carlyle threw the book on the table,
rose, and stretched himself, as if tired of sitting.
He stirred the fire into a brighter blaze, and stood on the hearthrug.
“ I wonder if it snows still ?” he exclaimed to himself.
Proceeding to the window, one of those opening to the ground, he
partly drew aside the warm crimson curtain. It all looked dull and
dark outside : Mr. Carlyle could see little what the weather was, and he
opened the window and stepped half out.
The snow was falling faster and thicker than ever. Not at that did
Mr. Carlyle start with surprise, if not with a more unpleasant sensation ;
but, at feeling a man's hand touch his, and widing i man's face almost
in contact with his own.


256
EAST LYNNE.
“Let me come in, Mr. Carlyle, for the love of life! I see you are
alone. I'm dead beat ; and I don't know but I am dodged also."
The tones struck familiarly on Mr. Carlyle's ear. He drew back
mechanically; a thousand perplexing sensations overwhelmed him ;
and the man followed him into the room. A white man, as Lucy had
called her father. Ay, for he had been hours and hours on foot in the
snow : his hat, clothes, eyebrows, false whiskers, all were white.
“Lock the door, sir,” were his first words. Need you be told that it
was Richard Hare?
Mr. Carlyle fastened the window, drew the heavy curtain across it,
and turned rapidly to lock the two doors ; for there were two to the
room, one leading into the adjoining room. Richard, meanwhile, took
off his wet smock-frock-the old smock-frock of former memory--his
hat, and his false whiskers, shaking the snow from the latter with his
hand.
“Richard,” uttered Mr. Carlyle, “I am thunderstruck. I fear you
have done wrong to come here.”
“I cut off from London at a moment's notice,” replied Richard, who
was literally shivering with cold. “I'm dodged, Mr. Carlyle; I am
indeed ; the police are after me, set on by that wretch, Thorn.”
Mr. Carlyle turned to the sideboard and poured out a wine-glass of
brandy. “Take it, Richard : it will warm you.”
“ I'd rather have it in some hot water, sir.”
“But how am I to get hot water brought in ? Drink this now. Why,
how you tremble !"
“Ah. A few hours outside in that cold snow is enough to make the
strongest man tremble, sir. And it lies so deep in some places that you
have to come along at a snail's pace. But I'll tell you about this
business. A fortnight ago, I was at a cab-stand at the West-end, talking
to a cab-driver, when some drops of rain came down. A gentleman and
lady were passing at the time, but I had not paid any attention to them.
' By Jove !' I heard him exclaim to her, “I think we are going to have
pepper. We had better take a cab, my dear. With that, the man I
was talking to swung open the door of his cab, and she got in—such
a fair young girl! I turned to look at him, and you might just have
knocked me down with astonishment. Mr. Carlyle : it was the man
Thorn."
“ Indeed!”
“ You thought I might be mistaken in him that moonlight night ; but
there was no mistaking him in broad daylight. I looked him full in the
face, and he looked at me. He turned as white as a sheet : perhaps I
did; I don't know.”
“Was he well dressed ?”
“Very. Oh, there's no mistaking his position. That he moves in the
higher circles, is undoubted. The cab drove away, and I got up behind
it. The driver thought boys were there, and turned his head and his
whip, but I made him a sign. We didn't go much more than the length
of a street. I was on the pavement before Thorn was, and looked at
him again ; and again he went white. I marked the house, thinking it
was where he lived, and, and
“Why did you riot give him into custody, Richard ?"


A NIGHT INVASION OF EAST LYNNE. 257
Richard shook his head. “And my proofs of his guilt, Mr. Carlyle ?
I could bring none against him : no positive proofs. No, I must wait
till I can get proofs, to do that. He would turn round upon me now,
and swear my life away, to render his secure : perhaps say that he saw
me commit the murder. Well, I thought I'd ascertain for certain what
his name was, and that night I went to the house and got into conver-
sation with one of the servants, who was standing at the door. “Does
Captain Thorn live here?' I asked him. "Mr. Westerby lives here,'
said he ; 'I don't know any Captain Thorn. Then that's his name,
thought I to myself. “A youngish man, isn't he? very smart, with a
pretty wife?', 'I don't know what you call youngish,' he laughed, 'my
master's turned sixty, and his wife's as old.' That checked me. Per-
haps he has sons ?' I asked. “Not any,' the man answered ; "there's
nobody but their two selves. So, with that, I told him what I wanted
—that a lady and gentleman had alighted there in a cab that day, and
I wished to know his name. Well, Mr. Carlyle, I could get at nothing
satisfactory; the fellow said a great many had called there that day,
for his master was just up from a long illness, and people came to see
him."
“ Is this all, Richard ?”.
“All! I wish it had been all. I kept looking about for him in all
the better streets : I was half mad-
“Do you not wonder, if he is in this position of life and resides in
London, that you have never dropped upon him before ? ” interrupted
Mr. Carlyle.
“No, sir : and I'll tell you why. I have been afraid to show myself
in those better parts of the town, fearing I might meet some I used
to know at home who would recognize me; so I have kept chiefly to
obscure places : stables, and so forth. I had gone up to the West-end
this day on a matter of business.”
“Well, go on with your story.”
“In a week's time I came upon him again. It was at night. He
was coming out of one of the theatres, and I went up and stood before
him. What do you want, fellow ?' he asked. I have seen you
watching me before this.' 'I want to know your name,' I said, 'that's
enough for me at present.' He flew into a fierce passion, and swore
that if he ever caught sight of me near him again, he would hand me
into custody. And, remember, men are not given into custody for
watching others,' he significantly added. I know you, and if you have
any regard for yourself, you'll keep out of my way. He entered a
private carriage as he spoke, and it drove away. I could see that it
had a great coat-of-arms upon it.”
“When do you say this happened ?".
“A week ago. Well, I could not rest; I was half mad, I say, and I
went about still, trying if I could not discover his name and who he
was. I did come upon him once : but he was walking quickly, arm in
arm with—another man. Again I saw him standing at the entrance to
Tattersall's, talking to the same man; and his face turned savage-I
believe with fear as much as with anger-when he saw me. He seemed
to hesitate, and then as if acting in a passion-suddenly beckoned to
a policeman, pointed me out, and said something to him in a quick
East Lysne.
17


258
EAST LYNNE.
tone. That frightened me, and I slipped away. Two hours later, when
I was in quite a different part of the town, in turning my head, I saw
the same policeman following me. I bolted under the horses of a
passing vehicle, cut into turnings and passages, through into another
street, and got up beside a cabman who was on his box, driving a fare.
I reached my lodgings in safety, as I thought; but, happening to glance
into the street, there I saw the man again, standing opposite, and
reconnoitring the house. I had gone home hungry, but this took all
my hunger away from me. I opened the box where I kept my disguise,
put it on, and got out by a back way. I have been pretty nearly ever
since on my feet, coming here ; getting a lift only now and then.”
“But Richard, do you know that West Lynne is the very worst place
you could have flown to? It has come to light that you were here
before, disguised as a farm labourer."
“Who the deuce betrayed that?" ejaculated Richard.
“I am unable to tell you ; I cannot even imagine. The rumour was
rife in the place, and it reached your father's ears. That rumour may
make people's wits sharper to know you in your disguise, than they
otherwise might have been.”
“But what was I to do? I was forced to come here first, to get a
little money. I shall settle myself in some other big town, far away
from London; Liverpool, or Manchester perhaps ; and see what em-
ployment I can get into; but I must have something to live upon till I
can find it. I don't possess a penny piece," drawing out his trousers-
pockets for the inspection of Mr. Carlyle. “The last coppers I had, I
spent in bread and cheese and half a pint of beer at mid-day. I had
been outside that window for more than an hour, sir."
« Indeed ! "
• “As I neared West Lynne, I began to think what I should do. It
was of no use trying to catch Barbara's attention on such a night as
this; I had no money to pay for a lodging so I turned off here,
hoping I might, by good luck, drop upon you. There was a little
division in this window curtain ; it had not been drawn quite close ;
and through it I could see you and Miss Carlyle. I saw her leave the
roam ; I saw you come to the window and open it, and then I spoke.
Mr. Carlyle,” he added, after a pause, “is this sort of life to go on with
me for ever?”
“I am deeply sorry for you, Richard,” was the sympathizing answer.
“ I wish I could remedy it.”
Before another word was spoken, the room door was tried, and then
gently knocked at. Mr. Carlyle placed his hand on Richard, who
looked frightened out of his wits.
“Be still ; be at ease, Richard : no one shall come in. It is only
Peter."
Not Peter's voice, however, but Joyce's was heard, in response to
Mr. Carlyle's demand of who was there.
“ Miss Carlyle has left her handkerchief downstairs, sir, and has sent
me for it."
“You cannot come in ; I am busy," was the answer, delivered in a
clear and most decisive tone.
“Who was it ? ” quivered Richard, as Joyce was heard going away.


A NIGHT INVASION OF EAST LYNNE. 259
" It was Joyce."
“What, is she here still? Has anything ever been heard of Afy,
sir ?"
“ Afy was here herself two or three months ago.”
“Was she?” said Richard, beguiled for an instant from the thought
of his own danger. “What is she doing?”.
“ She is in service as a lady's-maid. Richard, I questioned Afy
about Thorn. She protested solemnly to me that it was not Thorn
who committed the deed ; that it could not have been he, for Thorn
was with her at the moment of its occurrence."
“ It's not true," said Richard. " It was Thorn."
“Richard, you cannot tell : you did not see it done."
“I know that no man could have rushed out in that frantic manner,
with those signs of guilt and fear about him, unless he had been en-
gaged in a bad deed," was Richard Hare's answer. “It could have
been no one else.”
“Afy declares he was with her,” repeated Mr. Carlyle.
“Look here, sir : you are a clever man, and folks say I am not, but
I can see things, and reason as well as others, perhaps. If Thorn were
not Hallijohn's murderer, why should he be persecuting me?what
would he care about me? And why should his face turn livid, as it
has done, each time he has seen my eyes upon him? Whether he
committed the murder or whether he didn't, he must know that I did
not, because he came upon me, waiting, as he was tearing from the
cottage.”
Dick's reasoning was not unsound.
“Another thing," he resumed. “Afy swore at the inquest that she
was alone when the deed was done : that she was alone in the wood at
the back of the cottage, and knew nothing about it till afterwards.
How could she have sworn she was alone, if Thorn was with her?”
The fact had escaped Mr. Carlyle's memory in his conversation with
Afy, or he would not have failed to point out the discrepancy, and to
inquire how she could reconcile it. Yet her assertion to him had been
most positive and solemn. There were difficulties in the matter which
he could not reconcile.
“Now that I have overcome my passion for Afy, I can see her faults,
Mr. Carlyle. She'd no more stick at an untruth than she'd stick-
A most awful thundering at the room door : loud enough to bring
the very house down. No officers of justice, searching for a fugitive,
ever made more noise. Richard Hare, his face turned white, his eyes
starting, and his own light hair bristling with horror, struggled into his
wet smock-frock, forced on his hat and its false whiskers, looked round
in a bewildered manner for some cupboard or mouse-hole to creep into,
and, seeing none, rushed to the fireplace and placed his foot on the
fender. That he purposed an attempt at chimney climbing was
evident, though how the fire would have agreed with him, poor Dick
appeared completely to ignore. Mr. Carlyle drew him back, keeping
his calm, powerful hand upon his shoulder, while certain sounds in an
angry voice were jerked through the keyhole.
“Richard, be a man; put aside this weakness, this fear. Have I
not told you that harm shall not come near you in my house ? "


A NIGHT INVASION OF EAST LYNNE. 261
in, for the door was bolted, and my master called out that he was
busy."
Food for Miss Carlyle. She, feeling sure that no visitor had come
to the house, ran her thoughts rapidly over the members of the house-
hold, and came to the conclusion that it must be the governess, Miss
Manning, who had dared to closet herself with Mr. Carlyle.' This
unlucky governess was pretty, and Miss Carlyle had been cautious to
keep her and her prettiness very much out of her brother's sight : she
knew the attraction he would present to her vision, or to those of any
other governess. Oh yes; it was Miss Manning ; she had stolen in,
believing that she, Miss Carlyle, was safe for the night; but she'd just
unearth my lady. And what in the world could possess Archibald ?-
to lock the door!
Looking round for something warm to throw over her shoulders,
catching up an article that looked as much like a green baize table-
cover as anything else, and throwing it on, down stalked Miss Carlyle.
And in this trim Mr. Carlyle beheld her when he came out.
“Who have you got in that room?" she curtly asked.
“It is some one on business," was his prompt reply. “ Cornelia, you
cannot go in.”
She very nearly laughed. “Not go in ! ”
* Indeed it is much better that you should not do so. Pray go back.
You will make your cold worse, standing here.”
“Now I want to know whether you are not ashamed of yourself ?”
she deliberately pursued. “You ! a married man, with children in
your house! I'd rather have believed anything downright wicked of
myself, than of you, Archibald."
Mr. Carlyle stared.
“ Come ; I'll have her out. And out of this house she tramps to-
morrow morning. A couple of audacious ones, to be in there with the
door locked, the moment you thought you had got rid of me! Stand
aside, I say, Archibald : I will enter.”
Mr. Carlyle never felt more inclined to laugh. And to Miss Car-
lyle's extreme discomposure, she, at this juncture, saw the governess
emerge from the grey parlour, glance at the hall clock, and retire again.
“Why: she's there!” she uttered. “I thought she was with you.”
“Miss Manning locked in with me! Is that your mare's nest, Cor-
nelia ? I think your cold must have obscured your reason."
“Well, I shall go in all the same. I tell you, Archibald, that I will
see who is there."
“If you persist in going in, you must go. But allow me to warn you
that you will find tragedy in that room, not comedy. There is no
woman in it; but there is a man; a man who came in through the
window, like a hunted stag ; a man upon whom a ban is set, and who
fears the police are upon his track. Can you guess his name?”
It was Miss Carlyle's turn to stare now. She opened her dry lips to
speak, but they closed again.
" It is Richard Hare, your kinsman. There's not a roof in the wide
world open to him this bitter night.”
She said nothing. A long pause of dismay, and then she motioned
to have the door opened.


262
EAST LYNNE.
“ You will not show yourself in-in that guise ?"
“Not show myself in this guise to Richard Hare ?-whom I have
whipped-when he was a child-ten times in a day I stand on cere-
mony with him! I dare say he looks no better than I do, But it's
nothing short of madness, Archibald, for him to come here."
He left her to enter, telling her to lock the door as soon as she was
inside, and went into the adjoining room, which, by another door,
opened to the one Richard was in. There he rang the bell. It was
answered by a footman.
“ Send Peter to me."
“ Lay supper here, Peter, for two," began Mr. Carlyle, when the old
servant appeared. “A person is with me on business. What have
you in the house?”
“ Spiced beef, sir : some home-made pork-pies, and—-"
" That will do," said Mr. Carlyle. “Put å jug of ale on the table,
and everything likely to be wanted. And then the household can go
to bed : we may be late, and the things can be removed in the morning.
Oh-and, Peter,—none of you must come near the rooms, this or the
next, under any pretence whatever, unless I ring, for I shall be too
busy to be disturbed.”
“Very well, sir. Shall I serve the ham also ?”
“ The ham?”
“I beg pardon, sir ; I guessed it might be Mr. Dill, and he is fond
of our hams."
“Ah, you were always a shrewd guesser, Peter,” smiled his master.
“ He is fond of ham, I know. Yes, you may put it on the table.
Don't forget the small kettle."
The consequence of which little finessing on Mr Carlyle's part was,
that Peter announced in the kitchen that Mr. Dill had arrived, and
supper was to be served for two. “But what a night for the old
gentleman to have trudged through on foot ! ” ejaculated he.
“And what a trudge he'll have of it back again, for it'll be worse
then ! ” chimed in one of the maids.
When Mr. Carlyle returned to the other room, his sister and Richard
Hare had scarcely finished staring at each other. Richard had no
doubt seen many a fancifully attired lady in the class amidst whom he
had recently lived, but he could scarcely have had the chance to meet
one who equalled Miss Carlyle. Sure, two such guys never stood face to
face! She: black shoes, black stockings, a flannel petticoat that
reached to her calves; the nondescript shawl, which, to crown its other
virtues, was finished off with jagged fringe ; and the unsightly head-
dress that was like nothing else on earth! He: in fustian clothes,
somewhat short of buttons; the smock-frock half on ; the battered hat
and the bushy whiskers ; with the trembling hands and the white face
of terror! I have been at many a carnival abroad, but I assure you
that I never saw amongst the maskers a couple equal to the spectacle
those two would have presented, in a triumphal carnival car, say at
Nice or Rome.
“ Please lock the door, Miss Cornelia," began poor shivering Dick,
when he had feasted his eyes upon her.
“The door's locked," snapped she. “But what on earth brought you
here, Richard? You must be worse than mad.”


A NIGHT INVASION OF EAST LYNNE.
263
“ The Bow-street officers were after me in London," he meekly re-
sponded, unconsciously using a term which had been familiar to his
boyish years. “I had to cut away without a thing belonging to me ;
without so much as a clean shirt.”
“They must be polite officers not to have been after you before,"
was the consolatory remark of Miss Carlyle. “Are you going to dance
a hornpipe through the streets of West Lynne to-morrow, and declare
yourself openly ? "
“Not if I can help it," replied Richard.
“ You might just as well do that, if you come to West Lynne at all,
for you can't be here now without being found out. There was a
bother about your having been here before : I should like to know how
it got abroad.”
“The life I lead is dreadful,” cried Richard. “I might make up my
mind to the work, though that's hard enough, after having been reared
a gentleman ; but to be in exile, banned, disgraced, afraid to show my
face in broad daylight amidst my fellow-men, in dread every hour that
the sword may fall! I would almost as soon be dead, as continue to
live such a life.”
“Well, you have no one to grumble at : you brought it upon your-
self,” philosophically returned Miss Carlyle, as she opened the door to
admit her brother. “You would go hunting after that brazen hussy,
Afy, you know, in defiance of all that could be said to you.”
6 That would not have brought it upon me,” said Richard. “ It was
through that fiend's having killed Hallijohn : that was what brought
the ban upon me.”
“ It's a most extraordinary thing, if any one else did kill him, that
the fact can't be brought to light," retorted Miss Carlyle.. “ Here you
tell a cock-and-bull story of some man having done it—some Thorn;
but no one ever saw or heard of him : at the time or since. It looks
like a made-up story, Mr. Dick, to whiten yourself.”
“ Made up!” panted Richard, in agitation, for it seemed cruel to
him, especially in his present frame of mind, to have any doubt cast
upon his tale." It is Thorn who is setting the officers upon me. I
have seen him three or four times within the last fortnight."
“And why did you not turn the tables, and set the officers upon
him ?" demanded Miss Carlyle.
“Because it would lead to no good. Where's the proof, except my
bare word, that he committed the murder ?"
Miss Carlyle rubbed her nose. “ Dick Hare,” said she.
“ Well ?”
“ You know you always were the greatest natural that ever was let
loose out of leading-strings."
“I know ; I was always told so."
“And it's what you always will be. If I were accused of committing
a crime, which I knew another had committed, and not myself, should
I be such an idiot as not to give that other into custody, if I had the
chance? If you were not in such a shivery, shaky state, I would treat
you to a bit of my mind : you may rely upon that.”
“He was in league with Afy at that period,” pursued Richard ; "a
deceitful, bad man; and he carries it in his countenance. And he


264
EAST LYNNE.
must be in league with her still, if she asserts that he was in her
company at the moment the murder was committed. Mr. Carlyle
says she does ; that she told him so the other day when she was here.
He never was; and it was he, and no other, who did the murder."
“ Yes,” burst forth Miss Carlyle, for the topic was sure to agitate
her; “ that brazen Jezebel did presume to come here! She chose her
time well : and may thank her lucky stars that I was not at home.
Archibald-he's a fool, too ; quite as bad as you are, Dick Hare, in
some things—actually suffered her to lodge here for two days ! A
vain, ill-conducted hussy, given to nothing but finery and folly!"
“ Afy said that she knew nothing of Thorn's movements now,
Richard, and had not done so for some time,” interposed Mr. Carlyle,
allowing his sister's compliment to pass in silence. “She heard a
rumour, she thought, that he had gone abroad with his regiment."
“So much the better for her, if it is true that she knows nothing of
him," was Richard's comment. “I can answer for it that he is not
abroad, but in England.”
“And where are you going to lodge to-night?" abruptly spoke Miss
Carlyle, confronting Richard.
“I don't know,' was the broken-spirited answer. “If I lie down
in a snow-drift and am found frozen in the morning, it won't much
matter."
“Was that what you thought of doing?” returned Miss Carlyle.
“No,” he mildly said. “What I had thought of doing was to ask
Mr. Carlyle for a few shillings, and then I can get a bed somewhere.
I know a place where I shall be in safety, two or three miles from this.”
“Richard, I would not turn a dog out, to go two or three miles, on
such a night,” impulsively uttered Mr. Carlyle. “ You must stay here."
“ Indeed I don't see how he is to get up to a bedroom; or how a
room is to be made ready for him, for the matter of that, without
betraying his presence to the servants," snapped Miss Carlyle. And
poor Richard Hare leaned his aching head upon his hands.
But now, Miss Carlyle's manner was more in fault than her heart.
Will it be credited that, before speaking the above ungracious words,
before Mr. Carlyle had touched upon the subject, she had been casting
about in her busy mind for the best plan of putting up Richard-how
it could be accomplished.
“One thing is certain,” she resumed. “ It will be impossible for you
to sleep here without its being known to Joyce. And I suppose you
and Joyce are upon the friendly terms of daggers drawn, for she be-
lieves you were the murderer of her father.”
“Let me disabuse her," interrupted Richard, his pale lips working as
he started up. “Allow me to see her and convince her. Mr. Carlyle,
why did you not tell Joyce the truth?”
“There's that small room at the back of mine," said Miss Carlyle,
returning to the practical part of the subject. “He might sleep there.
But Joyce must be taken into our confidence.”
“Joyce had better come in,” said Mr. Carlyle. “I will say a word
to her first.”
He unlocked the door and left the room, Miss Carlyle as jealously
locking it again ; called to Joyce, and beckoned her into the adjoining


A NIGHT INVASION OF EAST LYNNE. . 265
apartment. He knew that Joyce's faith in the guilt of Richard Hare
was confirmed and strong but he must uproot that belief, if Richard
was to be lodged in his house that night.
"Joyce," he began, “you remember how thoroughly imbued with the
persuasion you were, that Afy went off after Richard Hare, and was
living with him. I several times expressed my doubts upon the
point. The fact was, I had positive information that she was not with
him, and never had been, though I considered it expedient to keep my
information to myself. You are convinced now that she was not
with him?"
“Of course I am, sir."
“ Well, you see, Joyce, that my opinion would have been worth
listening to. Now I am going to try to shake your belief upon another
point; and if I assure you that I have equally good grounds for doing
so, you will believe me."
"I am quite certain, sir, that you would state nothing but what is
true; and I know that your judgment is sound," was Joyce's answer.
“ Then I must tell you that I do not believe it was Richard Hare who
murdered your father.”
“Sir!” uttered Joyce, amazed out of her senses.
“I believe Richard Hare to be as innocent of the murder as you or
I,” he deliberately repeated. “I have had grounds for this opinion,
Joyce, for many years."
“ Then, sir, who did do it?”
“ Afy's other lover. That dandy fellow, Thorn, as I firmly believe."
“And you say you have grounds for this belief, sir ? ” Joyce asked,
after a pause.
“Good grounds: and I tell you I have been in possession of them
for years. I should be glad for you to think as I do."
“But, sir,-if Richard Hare was innocent, why did he run away, and
keep away ?"
“Ah, why indeed ! it is that which has done the mischief. His own
weak cowardice was in fault ; he feared to return; and he felt that he
could not remove the odium of suspicion. Joyce, I should like you
to see him, and hear his story."
“There is not much chance of that, sir. I dare say he will never
venture here again.”
“He is here now.”
Joyce looked up, considerably startled.
“ Here, in this house," repeated Mr. Carlyle. “He has taken shelter
in it, and for the few hours that he will remain, we must extend our
hospitality and protection to him, concealing him in the best way
we can. I thought it well that this confidence should be reposed in
you, Joyce. Come now, and see him.”
Considering that it was a subdued interview—it was certainly a
confused one. Richard talking vehemently, Joyce asking question
after question, Miss Carlyle's tongue going as fast as theirs. The
only silent one was Mr. Carlyle. Joyce could not refuse to believe
protestations so solemn, and her suspicion veered round upon Captain
Thorn.
“And now about the bed," interjected Miss Carlyle, impatiently.


266
EAST LYNNE
“Where's he to sleep, Joyce? The only safe room, that I know of,
will be the one through mine.”
• “He can't sleep there, ma'am. Don't you know that the key of the
door was lost last week, and we cannot open it."
“So much the better. He'll be all the safer."?
“But how is he to get in ?”
“To get in? Why, through my room, of course. Does not mine
open to it, stupid ?”
“Oh, well, ma'am, if you would like hi... to go through yours, that's
different.”
“Why shouldn't he go through? Do you suppose I mind young
Dick Hare? Nut I, indeed,” she irascibly continued. “I only wish he
was young enough for me to flog him as I used to do, that's all : he
deserves it as much as any one ever did, playing the fool as he has done,
in all ways. I shall be in bed with curtains drawn, and his passing
through won't harm me, and my lying there won't harm him. Stand
on ceremony with Dick Hare! What next, I wonder ?"
This point being settled, Joyce went to put sheets upon the bed, and
Miss Carlyle returned to her own. Mr. Carlyle meanwhile took Richard
in to supper, helped him abundantly, and made him comfortable.
Under the influence of good cheer, a good fire, and a glass of hot
brandy and water, which wound up the entertainment, Richard fell
asleep in his chair. Not five minutes had he slept, however, when he
started up, wild and haggard, beating off, as it were, some imaginary
assailant.
“ It was not I !” he uttered fearfully and passionately. “It is of no
use to take me, for it was not I. It was another ; he who-
“Richard, Richard ! ” soothingly said Mr. Carlyle.
Richard cast his bewildered eyes on to the supper-table, the fire, Mr.
Carlyle, all reassuring objects to look upon. “I declare, sir, I dreamt
that they had taken me. What stupid things dreams are !”
At this moment there came a gentle knock at the door, and Mr.
Carlyle opened it. It was Joyce.
“The room is ready, sir," she whispered, “and all the household are
in bed.”
“ Then now is your time, Richard. Good night.”
He stole upstairs after Joyce, who piloted him through Miss Carlyle's
room. Nothing could be seen of that lady, though something might be
heard : one, given to truth more than politeness, might have called it
snoring. Joyce showed Richard his chamber, gave him the candle,
and closed the door upon him.
Poor hunted Richard ! good night to you
CHAPTER XVII.
BARBARA'S HEART AT REST.
MORNING dawned. The same dull weather, the same heavy fall of
snow. Miss Carlyle took her breakfast in bed, an indulgence she had
not favoured for ever so many years. Richard Hare rose, but remained
in his chamber, and Joyce carried his breakfast in to him.


BARBARA'S HEART AT REST.
267
Mr. Carlyle entered whilst he was taking it. “How did you sleep,
Richard ?"
“ I slept well. I was so dead tired. What am I to do next, Mr.
Carlyle ?" The sooner I get away from this the better. I can't feel safe
here."
“You must not think of it before evening. I am aware that you
cannot remain here, except for a few hours, as it would inevitably
become known to the servants. You say you think of going to Liver-
pool or Manchester?”
“ To any large town : they are all alike to me ; but one, pursued as I
am, is safer in a large place than a small one."
“I am inclined to think that this man, Thorn, only made a show of
threatening you, Richard. If he be really the guilty party, his policy
must be to keep all in quietness. The very worst thing that could
happen for him, would be your arrest.”
“Then why molest me? Why send an officer to dodge me ?"
“He did not like your molesting him, and he thought he would
frighten you. After that day, you would probably have seen no more
of the officer. You may depend upon one thing, Richard : had the
policeman's object been to take you, he would have done so : he would
not have contented himself with following you about from place to
place. Besides, when a detective officer is employed to watch a party,
he takes care not to allow himself to be seen : now this man showed
himself to you more than once."
“ Yes, there's a good deal in that," observed Richard. “For, to one
in his class of life, the bare suspicion of such a crime, brought against
him, would crush him for ever in the eyes of his equals.”
“It is difficult to me, Richard, to believe that he is in the class of
life you speak of,” observed Mr. Carlyle.
“ There's no doubt about it; there's none indeed. But that I did
not much like to mention the name, for it can't be a pleasant name to
you, I should have said last night who I have seen him walking with,"
continued simple-hearted Richard.
Mr. Carlyle looked inquiringly. “Say on, Richard."
“I have seen him, sir, with Sir Francis Levison : twice. Once he
was talking to him at the door of the betting-rooms, and once they
were walking arm in arm. They are apparently upon intimate terms."
At this moment, a loud, angry voice was heard calling from the
stairs, and Richard leaped up as if he had been shot. His door-not
the one leading to Miss Carlyle's room-opened upon the corridor, and
the voice sounded as if its owner were coming in with a bound. It
was the voice of Mr. Justice Hare.
“ Carlyle, where are you? Here's a pretty thing happened. Come
down.”
Mr. Carlyle for once in his life lost his equanimity, and sprang to the
door as eagerly as Richard could have done. He forgot that Joyce
had said the door was locked and the key mislaid. As to Richard, he
rushed on his hat and his whiskers, and hesitated between under the
bed and inside the wardrobe.
“Don't agitate yourself, Richard," whispered Mr. Carlyle : “ there is
no real danger. I will go and keep him safely."


268
EAST LYNNE.
But when Mr. Carlyle passed through his sister's bedroom, he found
that lady had taken the initiative, and was leaning over the balus-
trades, having been arrested in the process of dressing. Her clothes
were on, but her nightcap was not off : little cared she, however, who
saw her nightcap.
“What on earth brings you up in this weather ?" began she in a
tone of exasperation.
“I want to see Carlyle. Nice news I have had !”
“What about? Anything concerning Anne, or her family?”
“ Anne be bothered!" replied the justice, who was certainly, from
some cause, in a furious temper. “ It concerns that precious rascal,
whom I am forced to call son. I am told he is here."
Down the stairs leaped Mr. Carlyle, four at a time, wound his arm
within Mr. Hare's, and led him to a sitting-room.
“ Good morning, justice. You had courage to venture up through
the snow! What is the matter? you seem excited.”
“Excited !” raved the justice, dancing about the room, first on one
leg, then on the other, like a cat on hot bricks ; “So would you be
excited, if your life were worried out, as mine is, over a wicked scamp
of a son. "Why can't folks trouble their heads about their own busi-
ness, and let my affairs alone? A pity but what he were hanged, and
the thing done with !"
“But what has happened ?” questioned Mr. Carlyle.
“Why, this has happened,” retorted the justice, throwing a letter on
the table. “The post brought me this, just now-and pleasant infor-
mation it gives me !".
Mr. Carlyle took up the note and read it. It purported to be from
“a friend” to Justice Hare, informing that gentleman that his “ criminal
son” was likely to have arrived at West Lynne, or would arrive in the
course of a day or so : and it recommended Mr. Hare to speed his
departure from it, lest he should be " pounced upon."
* This letter is anonymous ! ” exclaimed Mr. Carlyle.
“Of course it is,” stamped the justice.
“The only notice I should ever take of an anonymous letter would
be to put it into the fire,” cried Mr. Carlyle, his lip curling with scorn.
“But who has written it ? ” danced Justice Hare. “And is Dick at
West Lynne ?-that's the question ! "
“Now, is it likely that he would come to West Lynne?” remon-
strated Mr. Carlyle. “ Justice, will you pardon me if I venture to
give you my candid opinion ?”
“The fool at West Lynne: running into the very jaws of death. By
Jupiter ! if I can drop upon him, I'll retain him in custody, and make
out a warrant for his committal! I'll have this everlasting bother over."
“I was about to give you my opinion," quietly put in Mr. Carlyle.
“ I fear, justice, you bring these annoyances upon yourself.”
“Bring them upon myself?” ranted the indignant justice. “I? Did
I murder Hallijohn? Did I fly away from the law ? Am I in hiding,
Beelzebub knows where? Do I take starts, right down into my native
parish disguised as a labourer, on purpose to worry my own father ?
Do I write anonymous letters ? Bring them upon myself? Do I?
That beats all, Carlyle.”


BARBARA'S HEART AT REST.
271
Barbara might come and stay the day with you. Only "
“ Only what, sir? cried Richard, for Mr. Carlyle had hesitated.
“I was thinking what a wretched morning it is for her to come
out in."
“She would go through an avalanche, wade through mountains of
snow, to see me,” cried Richard eagerly; "and be delighted to
do it."
“She always was a little fool,” put in Miss Carlyle, jerking some
stitches out of her knitting.
“I know she would,” observed Mr. Carlyle, in answer to Richard.
“ We will try and get her here."
“She can arrange about the money I am to have, just as well as mry
mother could, you know, sir."
“Yes. For Barbara is in receipt of money of her own now, and I
know she would wish for nothing better than to apply some of it to
you. Cornelia, as an excuse for getting her here, I must say to Mrs.
Hare that you are ill, and wish Barbara to come for the day and keep
you company. Shall I do so ?”
“Say I am dead, if you like," responded Miss Corny, who was in one
of her cross moods.
Mr. Carlyle ordered the pony-carriage, and drove forth with John.
He drew in at the Grove. Barbara and Mrs. Hare were seated to-
gether, and looked surprised at the early visit.
“ Did you want Mr. Hare, Archibald ? He is out. He went while
breakfast was on the table, apparently in a desperate hurry."
“I don't want Mr. Hare. I want Barbara. I have come to carry
her off.”
“To carry off Barbara ! " echoed Mrs. Hare.
“ Cornelia is not well. She has caught a violent cold, and wishes
Barbara to spend the day with her.”
“Oh, Mr. Carlyle, I cannot leave mamma to-day. She is not well
herself, and she would be so dull without me."
“ Neither can I spare her, Archibald. It is not a day for Barbara to
go out in."
How could he manage to say a word to Barbara alone? Whilst he
deliberated, talking the while to Mrs. Hare, a servant arrived at the
sitting-room door.
" The fishmonger's boy is come up, ma'am. His master has sent
him to say that he fears there'll be no fish in to-day in anything like
time. The trains cannot get up, with this weather.”
Mrs. Hare rose from her seat, to hold a conference at the door with
her maid ; and Mr. Carlyle seized his opportunity.
“ Barbara,” he whispered, “make no opposition. You must come.
What I really want you for is connected with Richard."
She looked up at him with a startled glance, and the crimson flew to
her face. Mrs. Hare returned to her seat. “Oh, such a day !” she
shivered. “I am sure Cornelia cannot expect Barbara.”
“But Cornelia does. And there is my pony-carriage waiting to take
her before I go to the office. Not a flake of snow can come near her,
Mrs. Hare. The large warm apron will be up, and an umbrella will
shield her bonnet and face. Get your things on, Barbara."


272
EAST LYNNE.
“ Mamma, if you would not very much mind being left, I should like
to go,” said Barbara, with almost trembling eagerness.
“But you would be sure to take cold, child.”
“Oh no. I can wrap up well.”
“And I will see that she comes home all right this evening," added
Mr. Carlyle.
In a few minutes they were seated in the pony-carriage. Barbara
was burning to ask questions, but John sat behind them, and would
have overheard. When they arrived at East Lynne, Mr. Carlyle gave
her his arm up the steps, and took her into the breakfast-room.
“ Will you prepare yourself for a surprise, Barbara ? "
Suspense—fear—had turned her very pale. “Something has hap-
pened to Richard !” she uttered.
“Nothing that need agitate you. He is here."
“ Here! Where?”
“ Here. Under this roof. He slept here last night."
" Oh, Archibald !”
“Only fancy, Barbara! I opened the window at nine last night,
to look at the weather, and in burst Richard. We could not let him
go out again in the snow; so he slept here, in that room next
Cornelia's.”
“Does she know of it?”
“Of course. And Joyce also: we were obliged to tell Joyce.
Imagine Richard's fear! Your father came this morning, calling up
the stairs after me, saying he heard Richard was here. He meant at
West Lynne. I thought Richard would have gone out of his mind
with terror."
A few more explanations, and Mr. Carlyle took Barbara into the
room, Miss Carlyle and her knitting still keeping Richard company.
In fact, that was to be the general sitting-room for the day; and a hot
luncheon, Richard's dinner, would be served in Miss Carlyle's chamber
at one o'clock, Joyce only admitted to wait upon them.
“And now I must go," said Mr. Carlyle, after chatting a few minutes.
* The office is waiting for me, and my poor ponies are in the snow.”
“But you'll be sure to be home early, Mr. Carlyle !” said Richard.
“ I dare not stop here : I must be off not a moment later than six or
seven o'clock.”
“ I will be home, Richard.”
Anxiously did Richard and Barbara consult that day, Miss Carlyle
of course putting in her word. Over and over again did Barbara ask
particulars of the slight interviews Richard had had with Thorn ; over
and over again did she openly speculate upon what his name really was.
“ If you could only discover some one whom he knows, and inquire
it !” she exclaimed.
“I have seen him with one person, but I can't inquire of him. They
are too thick together, he and Thorn, and are birds of a feather also,
I suspect. Great swells, both.”
“Oh, Richard, don't use those expressions. They are not suited to
a gentleman."
Richard laughed bitterly. “A gentleman!"
“Who is it you have seen with Thorn !" inquired Barbara.


BARBARA'S HEART AT REST.
273
“Sir Francis Levison,” replied Richard, glancing at Miss Carlyle,
who drew in her lips ominously.
“With whom?" uttered Barbara, betraying complete astonishment.
“Do you know Sir Francis Levison ? "
“Oh yes, I know him. Nearly the only man about town that I do
know."
Barbara seemed lost in a puzzled reverie, and it was some time before
she roused herself from it.
“ Are they at all alike?” she asked.
“Very much so, I suspect. Both bad men.”
“ But I meant in person."
“ Not in the least. Except that they are both tall."
Again Barbara sank into thought. Richard's words had surprised
her. She was aroused from it by hearing a child's voice in the next
room. She ran into it, and Miss Carlyle immediately fastened the
intervening door.
It was little Archibald Carlyle. Joyce had come in with the tray
to lay the luncheon, and before she could lock the door, Archibald ran
in after her. Barbara lifted him in her arms to carry him back to the
nursery.
“Oh, you heavy boy!" she exclaimed.
Archie laughed. “Wilson says that," he lisped," if ever she has to
carry me.”
“I have brought you a truant, Wilson,” cried Barbara.
“Oh, is it you, Miss Barbara ? How are you, miss? Naughty boy!
-yes; he ran away without my noticing him-he can open the door
now."
“You must be so kind as to keep him strictly in, for to-day,” continued
Barbara, authoritatively. “ Miss Carlyle is not well, and cannot be
subjected to the annoyance of his running into her room.”
Evening came, and the time of Richard's departure. It was again
snowing heavily, though it had ceased in the middle of the day. Money
for the present had been given to him ; arrangements had been discussed.
Mr. Carlyle insisted upon Richard's sending him his address, as soon
as he should own one to send, and Richard faithfully promised to do so.
He was in very low spirits, almost as depressed as Barbara, who could
not conceal the tears which dropped in silence. He was smuggled down
the stairs, a large cloak of Miss Carlyle's enveloping him, into the room
he had entered by storm the previous night. Mr. Carlyle held the
window open.
“Good-bye, Barbara dear. If ever you should be able to tell my
mother of this day, say that my chief sorrow was, not to see her.”
“Oh, Richard !” she sobbed forth, broken-hearted, “good-bye. May
God be with you and bless you !”
“Farewell, Richard,” said Miss Carlyle : “don't you be fool enough
to get into any more scrapes.”
Last of all, he wrung the hand of Mr. Carlyle. The latter went outside
with him from an instant, and their parting was alone.
Barbara returned to the chamber he had quitted. She felt that she
must indulge in a few moments' sobbing : Joyce was there, but Barbara
was trying when she entered.
East Lynn.


274
EAST LYNNE.
“ It is hard for him, Miss Barbara ; if he is really innocent?»
Barbara turned her streaming eyes upon her. "If! Joyce, do you
doubt that he is innocent ??
“I quite believe him to be so now, miss. Nobody could so solemnly
assert what was not true. The thing at present will be to find that
Captain Thorn.”
Joyce !” exclaimed Barbara in excitement, seizing Joyce's hands,
“ I thought I had found him ; I believed, in my own mind, that I knew
who he was. I don't mind telling you, though I have never before
spoken of it: and with one thing or other this night I feel just as if
I should die; as if I must speak. I thought it was Sir Francis
Levison.”
Joyce stared with all her eyes. “Miss Barbara !”
“I did. I have thought it ever since the night that Lady Isabel went
away. My poor brother was at West Lynne then; had come there for
a few hours; and he met the man, Thorn, walking in Bean-lane. He
was in evening dress, and Richard described a peculiar motion of his,
the throwing off his hair from his brow: he said his white hand and his
diamond ring glittered in the moonlight. The white hand, the ring, the
motion—for he was always doing it—all reminded me of Captain Levi-
son, and from that hour until to-day I believed him to be the man
Richard saw. To-day Richard tells me that he knows Sir Francis
Levison, and that he and Thorn are intimate with each other. What
I think now is, that this Thorn must have paid a flying visit to the
neighbourhood that night, to assist Captain Levison in the wicked work
he had on hand.”
“How strange it all sounds !” uttered Joyce.
“And I never could tell my suspicions to Mr. Carlyle ! I did not like
to mention Francis Levison's name to him.”
Barbara returned downstairs. “I must be going home,” she said to
Mr. Carlyle. “It is half-past seven, and mamma will be uneasy."
“Whenever you like, Barbara.”
“But can I not walk? I am so sorry to take out your ponies again,
in this storm.”
Mr. Carlyle laughed. “Which would feel the storm most, you or the
ponies?”
But when Barbara went out, she saw that it was not the pony-
carriage, but the chariot that was in waiting for her. She turned
inquiringly to Mr. Carlyle.
"Did you think I should allow you to go home in an open carriage
to-night, Barbara ?”
“ Are you coming also ?”
“I suppose I had better do so," he smiled. “To see that you and
the carriage do not come to harm."
Barbara withdrew to her corner of the chariot, and cried silently.
Very, very deeply did she mourn the unhappy situation, the privations,
of her brother : and she knew that he was one to feel them deeply :
he could not battle with the world's hardships as bravely as many
others could have done. Mr. Carlyle only detected her emotion as
they were nearing the Grove. He leaned forward, took her hand, and
held it between his.


BARBARA'S HEART AT REST.
275
“Don't grieve, Barbara. Bright days may be in store for Richard
yet.” The carriage stopped.
“You may go back," he said to the servants when he alighted. “I
shall walk home.”
“Oh," exclaimed Barbara, “I do think you intend to spend the
evening with us! Mamma will be so glad.”
Her voice showed that she was glad also. Mr. Carlyle drew her
hand within his arm as they walked up the path.
But Barbara had reckoned without her host. Mrs. Hare was in
bed, consequently could not be pleased at Mr. Carlyle's visit. The
justice had gone out, and she, feeling tired and not well, thought she
would retire to rest. Barbara stole into her room, but found her
asleep; so that it fell to Barbara to entertain Mr. Carlyle.
They stood together before the large pier-glass in front of the
blazing fire. Barbara was thinking over the events of the day. What
Mr. Carlyle was thinking of was best known to himself : his eyes,
covered with their drooping lids, were cast upon Barbara. There was
a long silence : at length Barbara seemed to feel that his gaze was on
her, and she looked up at him.
“Will you marry me, Barbara ?”
The words were spoken in the quietest, most matter-of-fact tone,
just as if he had said, Shall I give you a chair, Barbara ? But oh!
the change that passed over her countenance ! the sudden light of joy ;
the scarlet flush of emotion and of happiness. Then it all faded to
paleness and to sadness.
She shook her head in the negative. “But you are very kind to ask
me,” she added in words.
“ What is the impediment, Barbara ?”.
Another rush of colour as before, and a deep silence. Mr. Carlyle
put his arm round her, and bent his face to a level with hers.
“Whisper it to me, Barbara."
She burst into a flood of tears.
“ Is it because I once married another ?"
“No, no. It is the remembrance of that night-you cannot have
forgotten it, and it is stamped on my brain in letters of fire. I never
thought so to betray myself. But for what passed that night, you
would not have asked me now."
“Barbara !”
She glanced up at him ; his tone was so painful.
“Do you know that I love you? that there is none other in the
world whom I would care to marry, but you ? Nay, Barbara, when
happiness is within our reach, let us not throw it away for a mere
fancy.”
She cried more softly, leaning upon his arm. “ Happiness? Would
it be happiness for you ?”
“ Great and deep happiness,” he whispered.
She read truth in his countenance, and a sweet smile illumined her
sunny features. Mr. Carlyle read its signs.
“ You love me as much as ever, Barbara !”
“ Far more ; far more," was the murmured answer, and Mr. Carlyle
held her closer, and drew her face fondly to his. Barbara's heart was


276
EAST LYNNE.
at length at rest; and she had been content to remain where she was
for ever.
And Richard ? Had he escaped ? Richard was stealing along the
road, plunging into the snow by the hedge, because it was more
sheltered there than in the beaten path, when his umbrella came into
contact with another umbrella. Miss Carlyle had furnished him with
one : not to protect his battered hat, but to keep his face from being
seen by the passers-by. The umbrella he encountered was an aristo-
cratic silk one, with an ivory handle : Dick's was a democratic cotton,
with hardly any handle at all ; and the respective owners had been
bearing on, heads down and umbrellas out, until the umbrellas met
smash, right under a gas-lamp. Aside went each umbrella, and the
antagonists stared at each other.
“How dare you, fellow ? Can't you see where you are going to?"
Dick thought he should have dropped. He would have given all
the money his pockets held, if the friendly earth had opened and
swallowed him up. For he, now peering into his face, was his own
father.
Uttering an exclamation of dismay, which broke from him involun-
tarily, Richard sped away with the swiftness of an arrow. Did Justice
Hare recognize the tones ? It cannot be said. He saw a rough,
strange-looking man with bushy black whiskers, who was evidently
scared at the sight of him. That was nothing ; for the justice, being
a justice and a strict one, was regarded with considerable awe in the
parish by those of Dick's apparent calibre. Nevertheless, he stood
still and gazed in the direction, until all sound of Richard's footsteps
had died away in the distance.
CHAPTER XVIII.
FROZEN TO DEATH IN THE SNOW.
TEARS were streaming down the face of Mrs. Hare. It was a bright
morning after the snow-storm ; so bright that the sky was blue, and the
sun was shining, but the snow lay deeply upon the ground. Mrs. Hare
sat in her chair, enjoying the brightness, and Mr. Carlyle stood near
her. The tears were of mingled joy and grief : of griet at hearing that
she should at last have to part with Barbara ; of joy that she was going
to one so entirely worthy of her as Mr. Carlyle.
“Archibald, she has had a happy home here : you will render yours
as much so?"
“ To the very utmost of my power.”
“You will be ever kind to her, ever cherish her ? "
“With my whole heart and strength. Dear Mrs. Hare, I thought
you knew me too well to doubt me."
“Doubt you! I do not doubt you : I trust you implicitly, Archibald.
Had the whole world laid themselves at Barbara's feet, I should have
prayed that she might choose you."
A smile fitted over Mr. Carlyle's lips. He knew it was what
Barbara would have done.


FROZEN TO DEATH IN THE SNOW.
277
“But, Archibald, what about Cornelia ?” resumed Mrs. Hare. “I
would not for a moment interfere in your affairs, or in the arrangments
you and Barbara may agree upon : but I cannot help thinking that
married people are better alone.”
“ Cornelia will quit East Lynne,” said Mr. Carlyle. “I have not
yet spoken to her, but I shall do so now. I have long made up my
mind that if ever I married again, I and my wife should live alone. It
is said she interfered too much with my former wife : had I suspected it,
Cornelia should not have remained in the house a day. Rest assured
that Barbara shall not be subjected to the same chance."
“ How did you come over her ?" demanded the justice, who had
already given his gratified consent, and who now entered in his dressing-
gown and morning wig. “Others have tried it on, and Barbara would
not listen to any of them.”
“I suppose I must have cast a spell upon her," answered Mr.
Carlyle, breaking into a smile.
“Here she is. Barbara,” cried the unceremonious justice, “what is
it that you see in Mr. Carlyle more than in any one else?"
Barbara's scarlet cheeks answered for her. “Papa," she said,
“Otway Bethel is at the door, asking to speak to you. Jaspar says he
won't come in.”
“Then I'm sure I am not going out to him in the cold. Here, Mr.
Otway, what are you afraid of? Come in.
Otway Bethel made his appearance in his usual sporting costume.
But he did not seem altogether at ease in the presence of Mrs. Hare
and Barbara.
“The colonel wished me to see you, justice, to ask if you had any
objection to the meeting being put off from one o'clock till two,” cried
he, after nodding to Mr. Carlyle. “He has a friend coming to see him
unexpectedly, who will leave again by the two o'clock train.”
“I don't care which it is," answered Mr. Hare. “Two o'clock will
do as well as one for me."
“That's all right, then, and I'll drop in upon Herbert and Pinner,
and acquaint them with the change. Have you heard about the dead
man being found ?”
" What dead man ?” cried Justice Hare.
“Some chap who must have missed his way last night : or who perhaps
laid himself down overcome with fatigue. He was found this morning,
frozen to death. I have seen him : he is lying in that hollow, just out
of the road, as you turn down to Hallijohn's old cottage. I saw a lot
of folks making for the place, so I went too.”
“Who is he?" inquired Justice Hare.
“A stranger, I think ; I didn't recognize his face. He is in a smock-
frock; a young man with a profusion of dark whiskers."
“By George, but I shouldn't wonder but it's the fellow who last
night nearly broke my umbrella ! " ejaculated the justice. “He wore a
smock-frock, and looked young, and his whiskers were fierce enough
for an Irishman's. I thought the fellow a little cracked. He came
blundering along, his umbrella before him, seeing nothing, and ran
right against me. I blew him up naturally ; but no sooner had he
looked at me, than he uttered an exclamation of dismay, and made off


FROZEN TO DEATH IN THE SNOW.
279
about to remark, that I do not intend to fall under your displeasure
for a similar offence. I believe you have never wholly forgiven it."
“And never shall,” cried she, impetuously. “I did not deserve the
slight.”
Therefore, almost as soon as I know it myself, I acquaint you with
the fact. I am about to marry a second time, Cornelia.”
Miss Carlyle started up. Her spectacles dropped off her nose, and
a knitting-box, which she happened to have on her knee, clattered to
the ground.
“What did you say?" she uttered, aghast.
“I am about to marry.”
“ You !"
“I. Is there anything so very astonishing in it?".
“For the love of common sense don't go and make such a fool of
yourself! You have done it once : was not that enough for you, but
you must run your head into the noose again ?"
“Now, Cornelia, can you wonder that I do not speak to you of such
things, when you meet them in this way? You treat me just as you
did when I was a child. It is very foolish.”
“When folks act childishly, they must be treated as children. I
always thought you were mad when you married before, but I shall
think you doubly mad now.”
“Because you have preferred to remain single and solitary yourself,
is it any reason why you should condemn me to do the same? You
are happy alone ; I should be happier with a wife."
." That she may go and disgrace you, as the last one did ? " intempe-
rately spoke Miss Carlyle, caring not a rush what she said in her
storm of anger. Mr. Carlyle's brow flushed ; but he controlled his
temper.
“No,” he calmly replied. “I am not afraid of that, in the one I
have now chosen."
Miss Corny gathered her knitting together; he had picked up her
box. Her hands trembled, and the lines of her face were working. It
was a blow to her as keen as the other had been.
“Pray who is it that you have chosen ? " she jerked forth. “The
whole neighbourhood has been after you.”
"Let it be who it will, Cornelia, you will be sure to grumble. Were
I to say that it was a royal princess, or a peasant's daughter, you
would equally see grounds for finding fault.”
“Of course I should. I know who it is—that stuck-up Louisa
Dobede.”
“No, it is not. I never had the slightest intention of choosing
Louisa Dobede; nor she of choosing me. I am marrying to please
myself ; and, for a wife, Louisa Dobede would not please me.”
“ As you did before," sarcastically put in Miss Corny.
“ Yes; as I did before.”
“Well, can't you open your mouth, and say who it is ? " was the
exasperated rejoinder.
“ It is Barbara Hare."
“ Who?" shrieked Miss Carlyle.
“ You are not deaf, Cornelia."


280
EAST LYNNE.
eyes.
“Well, you are an idiot !” she exclaimed, lifting up her hands and
“ Thank you," he said, but without any signs of irritation.
“And so you are ; you are, Archibald. To suffer that girl who has
been angling after you so long, to catch you at last.”
“She has not angled after me : had she done so, she would probably
never have been Mrs. Carlyle. Whatever passing fancy she may have
entertained for me in earlier days, she has shown no symptoms of it of
late years : and I am quite certain that she had no more thought or
idea, that I should choose her for my second wife, than you that I
should choose you. Others have angled after me too palpably, but
Barbara has not."
“She is a little conceited minx ; as vain as she is high."
“What else have you to urge against her?”
“I would have married a girl without a slur upon her—if I must
have married,” aggravatingly returned Miss Corny.
“ Slur?”
“Slur, yes! Dear me, is it an honour—to possess a brother such as
Richard?'"
“That is no slur upon Barbara. And the time may come when it
will be taken from Richard."
Miss Corny sniffed. “Pigs may fly ; but I never saw them do so."
“The next consideration, Cornelia, is about your residence. You
will go back, I presume, to your own home."
Miss Corny did not believe her own ears. “Go back to mine own
home !" she exclaimed. “I shall do nothing of the sort. I shall stop
at East Lynne. What's to hinder me?"
Mr. Carlyle shook his head. “It cannot be,” he said, in a low,
decisive tone.
“Who says so ?" she sharply asked.
“I do. Have you forgotten that night—when she went away—the
words spoken by Joyce? Cornelia, whether they were true or false, I
will not subject another to a similar chance."
She did not answer. Her lips only parted and closed again. Some-
how Miss Carlyle could not bear to be reminded of that revelation of
Joyce's : it subdued even her.
“I cast no reflection upon you," hastily continued Mr. Carlyle.
“You have been mistress of a house for many years, and you naturally
expect to be so still ; it is right that you should be. But two mis-
tresses in a house do not answer, Cornelia : they never did and they
never will."
“Why did you not give me so much of your sentiments when I first
came to East Lynne?” she burst forth. “ I hate hypocrisy."
“They were not my sentiments then: I possessed none. I was
ignorant of the subject, as I was of others. Experience has come to
me since.”
“You will not find a better mistress of a house than I have made
you,” she said resentfully.
"I do not expect to do so. The tenants leave your house in March,
do they not?”
“Yes, they do," snapped Miss Corny. “But as we are on the subject


FROZEN TO DEATH IN THE SNOW.
281
of details, of ways and means, allow me to tell you that if you did
what is right you would move into that house of mine, and I will go
to a smaller-as you seem to think I shall poison Barbara if I re-
mained with her. East Lynne is a great deal too fine and too grand
for you.”
“I do not consider it so. I shall not leave East Lynne."
“Are you aware that, in leaving your house, I take my income with
me, Mr. Archibald !”
"Most certainly. Your income is yours, and you will require it for
your own purposes. I have neither right to it, nor wish for it.”
“ The withdrawal will make a pretty hole in your income, I can tell
you that. Take care that you and East Lynne don't go bankrupt
together."
Mr. Carlyle laughed. “I will take care of that, Cornelia. If I were
not fully justified in living at East Lynne, I should not do so. With
all my extravagance as you are pleased to term it-I am putting by
plenty of money, and you know it."
“ You might put by more, were your expenses less," rebuked Miss
Carlyle.
“I have no fancy to live as a hermit, or a miser."
“No; nor as a man of common sense. To think that you should
sacrifice yourself again !” she wailed in a tone of lamentation. “And
to Barbara Hare! an extravagant, vain, upstart little reptile."
Mr. Carlyle took the compliments to Barbara with composure. It
was useless to do otherwise. Miss Corny was not likely to regard her
with more graciousness since it was Barbara's coming there that turned
herself out of East Lynne.
At this moment the summons of a visitor was heard. Even that
excited the ire of Miss Carlyle. “I wonder who's come bothering
to-night?" she uttered.
Peter entered. “It is Major Thorn, sir. I have shown him into the
drawing-room.”
Mr. Carlyle was surprised. He proceeded to the drawing-room, and
Miss Carlyle rang for Joyce. Strange to say, she had no thought of
rebelling against the decree. An innate consciousness had long been
hers that, should Mr. Carlyle marry again, her sojourn in the house
would terminate. East Lynne was Mr. Carlyle's : she had learnt that
he could be firm upon occasions, and the tone of his voice had told that
this was one of them.
“ Joyce," beyan she, after her own unceremonious fashion, “your
master is going to make a simpleton of himself a second time, so I shall
leave him and East Lynne to it. Will you go with me, and be my upper
maid again ?"
“What, ma'am ?” exclaimed Joyce in bewilderment : “what did you
say my master was going to do ?"
"To make a simpleton of himself,” irascibly repeated Miss Carlyle.
“He is going to tie himself up again with a wife ; that's what he's going
to do. Now, do you stop here, or will you go with me?"
“I would go with you, ma'am, but—but for one thing."
" What's that?"
“The promise I gave to Lady Isabel. She exacted it from me when


282
EAST LYNNE.
she thought she was about to die-a promise that I would remain with
her children. She did not leave them by death after all : but it comes
to the same thing."
“Not exactly,” sarcastically spoke Miss Carlyle. “But there's
another side of the question, Joyce, which you may not have looked
at. When there shall be another mistress at East Lynne, will you be
permitted to remain here?”
Joyce considered : she could not see her way altogether clearly.
“Allow me to give you my answer a little later," she said to Miss
Carlyle.
“Such a journey!” Major Thorn was saying, meanwhile, to Mr.
Carlyle. “It is my general luck to get bad weather when I travel.
Rain and hail, thunder and heat, nothing comes amiss, when I am out.
The snow lay on the rails, I don't know how thick: at one station we
were detained two hours."
“Are you proposing to make any stay at West Lynne?”
“Off again to-morrow. My leave, this time, is to be spent at my
mother's. I may bestow a week of it, or so, on West Lynne, but am
not sure. I must be back in Ireland in a month. Such a horrid bog.
hole we are quartered in just now! The truth is, Carlyle, a lady has
brought me here !”
“ Indeed!”
“I am in love with Barbara Hare. The little jade has said 'No'to
me by letter ; but, as Herbert says, there's nothing like urging your
suit in person. And I have come to do so.”
Mr. Carlyle took an instant's counsel with himself, and decided that
it would be a good thing to tell the major the state of the case : far
more kind than to subject him to another rejection from Barbara, and
to suffer the facts to reach him by common report.
“Will you shoot me, major, if I venture to tell you—that any second
application to Barbara would be fútile."
**She is not appropriated, is she?" hurriedly cried Major Thorn.
“ She's not married ?"
“She's not married. She is going to be.”
“Oh! That's just like my unlucky fate. And who is the happy man?"
“ You must promise not to call me out, if I disclose his name."
“ Carlyle! It is not yourself?”
“ You have said it.”
There was a brief silence. It was Mr. Carlyle who broke it.
“ It need not make us the less good friends, Thorn. Do not allow
it to do so."
The major put out his hand, and grasped Mr. Carlyle's. “No, by
Jove, it shan't! It's all fate. And if she must go beside me, I'd
rather see her yours than any other man's upon earth. Were you
engaged when I asked Barbara to be my wife, some months ago ?”
“No. We have been engagedly very recently."
“ Did Barbara betray to you that I asked her " proceeded Major
Thorn, a shade of mortification rising to his face.
"Certainly not : you do not know Barbara, if you fancy she could
be guilty of it. The justice managed to let it out to me during an
explosion of wrath."


FROZEN TO DEATH IN THE SNOW.
283
“Wrath because I asked for his daughter ?”
“Wrath against Barbara, for refusing you. Not particularly at her
refusing you," added Mr. Carlyle, correcting himself; “but she was
in the habit of refusing all who asked her, and thereby fell under dis-
pleasure.”
“Did she refuse you?”
“No," smiled Mr. Carlyle ; "she accepted me."
“Ah, well ; it's all fate, I say. But she is an uncommon nice girl,
and I wish it had been my luck to get her.”
“To go from one subject to another,” resumed Mr. Carlyle, “ there
is a question I have long thought to put to you, Thorn, if we ever met
again. Which year was it that you were staying at Swainson?”
Major Thorn mentioned it. It was the year of Hallijohn's murder.
“As I thought-in fact, knew," said Mr. Carlyle. “Did you, while
you were stopping there, ever come across a namesake of yours, one
Thorn?”
“ I believe I did. But I don't know the man of my own knowledge,
and I saw him once only. I don't think he was living at Swainson.
I never observed him in the town.”
“Where did you meet with him ?"
“At a roadside beer-shop, about two miles from Swainson. I was
riding one day, when a fearful storm came on, and I took shelter
there. Scarcely had I entered, when another horseman rode up, and
ne likewise took shelter : a tall, dandified man, aristocratic and ex-
clusive. When he departed—for he left first, when the storm was
over-I asked the people who he was. They said they did not know,
though they often saw him ride by : but a man who was in there,
drinking, said he was a Captain Thorn. The same man, by the way,
volunteered the information that he came from a distance, somewhere
near West Lynne : I remember that.”
“ That Captain Thorn did ?”
“No: that he himself did. He appeared to know nothing of Captain
Thorn, beyond his name.”
It seemed to be ever so! Scraps of information, but nothing
tangible, nothing to lay hold of, or to know the man by. Would it
be thus always ?
“Should you recognize him again, were you to see him ?” resumed
Mr. Carlyle, awaking from his reverie.
“I think I should. There was something peculiar in his counte-
nance, and I remember it well yet.”
“Were you by chance to meet him, and discover his real name—for
I have reason to believe that Thorn, the one he went by then, was an
assumed one—will you oblige me by letting me know it?”
“ With all the pleasure in life," replied the major. “The chances
are against it, though, confined as I am to that confounded sister
country. Other regiments get the luck of being quartered in the
metropolis, or near it : ours doesn't.”
When Major Thorn had departed, and Mr. Carlyle was about to return
to the room in which he had left his sister, he was interrupted by Joyce.
“Sir,” she began, “ Miss Carlyle tells me that there is going to be a
change at East Lynne."


284
EAST LYNNE.
The words took Mr. Carlyle by surprise. “Miss Carlyle has lost
no time in telling you !” he remarked, a certain haughty displeasure in
his tone.
“ It was not for the sake of telling me, sir, but I fancy she was
thinking about her own plans. She inquired whether I would go with
her when she left, or whether I meant to remain at East Lynne. I
could not answer her, sir, until I had spoken to you.”
“Well ? ” said Mr. Carlyle.
“I gave a promise, sir, to-to-my late lady, that I would remain
with her children so long as I was permitted : she asked it of me when
she was ill; when she thought she was going to die. What I would
inquire of you, sir, is, whether the changes about to take place will
make any difference to my staying ?”
“No," he decisively replied. “I also, Joyce, wish you to remain
with the children."
“ It is well, sir,” Joyce answered ; and her face looked bright as she
quitted the room.
CHAPTER XIX.
MR. DILL IN AN EMBROIDERED SHIRT-FRONT.
It was a lovely morning in June, and all West Lynne was astir. West
Lynne generally was astir in the morning, but not in the bustling
manner that might now be observed. People were abroad in numbers,
pressing down to St. Jude's Church, for it was the day of Mr. Carlyle's
marriage with Barbara Hare.
Miss Carlyle made herself into a sort of martyr. She would not go
near it : fine weddings in fine churches did not suit her, she said ; they
could tie themselves up together fast (enough without her presence.
She had invited the little Carlyles and their governess and Joyce to
spend the day with her ; and she persisted in regarding the children
as martyrs too, in being obliged to submit to the advent of a second
mother. She was back in her old house again, next door to the office,
settled there for life now, with her servants. Peter had mortally
offended her, in electing to remain at East Lynne.
Mr. Dill committed himself terribly on the wedding morning, and
lucky was he to escape a shaking, such as the one he had received on
Mr. Carlyle's first marriage. About ten o'clock he made his appear-
ance at Miss Carlyle's : he was a man of the old school, possessing
old-fashioned notions, and he had deemed that to step in, to congratu-
late her on the auspicicus day, would be only good manners.
Miss Carlyle was seated in her dining-room, her hands folded before
her. It was rare indeed that she was caught doing nothing. She
turned her eyes on Mr. Dill as he entered.
“Why, what on earth has taken you?” began she, before he could
speak. “You are decked out like a young buck."
“I am going to the wedding, Miss Cornelia. Did you not know it?
Mrs. Hare was so kind as to invite me to the breakfast, and Mr. Archi-
bald insists upon my going to church. I am not too fine, am I?"


MR. DILL IN AN EMBROIDERED SHIRT-FRONT. 285
Poor old Dill's “finery” consisted of a white waistcoat with gold
buttons, and an embroidered shirt-front. Miss Corny was pleased to
regard it with sarcastic wrath.
“Fine !” echoed she, “ I don't know what you call it. I would not
make myself such a spectacle for untold gold. You'll have all the
ragamuffins in the street forming a tail after you, thinking you are the
bridegroom. A man of your years to deck yourself out in a worked
shirt! I would have had rosettes on my coat-tails, while I was about it."
“My coat's quite plain, Miss Cornelia,” he meekly remonstrated.
“ Plain! what would you have it?” snapped Miss Corny. “Perhaps
you would like a wreath of embroidery round it, gold leaves and scarlet
flowers, with a swansdown collar ? It would only be in keeping with
that shirt and waistcoat. I might as well go off and order a white tar-
latan dress, looped up with sweet peas, and stream through the town in
that guise. It would be just as consistent."
“People ought to dress a little out of the common at a wedding,
Miss Cornelia : it's only respectful to do so when they are invited
guests."
“I don't say people should go to a wedding in a hop-sack. But
there's a medium in all things. Pray do you know your age?”.
“I am turned sixty, Miss Corny."
“ You just are. And do you consider it decent for an old man,
turned sixty, to be decorated off, as you are now? I don't ; and so I
tell you my mind. Why, you'll be the laughing-stock of the parish!
Take care the boys don't tie a tin kettle to you!"
Mr. Dill thought he would turn the subject. His own impression
was, that he was not too fine, and that the parish would not so regard
him : still, he had a great reverence for Miss Corny's judgment, and
was not altogether easy. He had had his white gloves in his hand
when he entered, but he surreptitiously smuggled them into his pocket,
lest they also might offend. He passed to the subject which had
brought him thither.
“What I came in for, was, to offer you my congratulations on this
auspicious day, Miss Cornelia. I hope Mr. Archibald and his wife,
and you, ma'am "
“There ! you need not trouble yourself to go on," interrupted Miss
Corny, hotly arresting him. “We want condolence here to-day, rather
than the other thing. I'm sure I'd nearly as soon see Archibald go to
his hanging."
“Oh, Miss Corny !”
“I would ; and you need not stare at me as if you were choking.
What business has he to go and fetter himself with a wife again ? one
would have thought he had had enough with the other. It is as I
have always said : there's a soft place in Archibald's brain.”
Old Dill knew there was no “soft place” in Mr. Carlyle's brain, but
he thought it might be as well not to say so, in Miss Corny's present
humour. “Marriage is a happy state, as I have heard, ma'am, and
honourable ; and I am sure Mr. Archibald "
“Very happy! very honourable !” fiercely cried Miss Carlyle, sar-
casm in her tone. “ His last marriage brought him all that, did it
not?”


286
EAST LYNNE.
“That's past and done with, Miss Corny, and none of us need recall
it. It brought him some happy years before that happened. I hope
he will find in his present wife a recompense for what's gone : he could
not have chosen a prettier or nicer young lady than Miss Barbara :
and I am glad to my very heart that he has won her.”
“ Couldn't he!" jerked Miss Carlyle.
“No, ma'am, he could not. Were I young, and wanting a wife,
there's not one in all West Lynne I would so soon look out for as Miss
Barbara Not that she'd have me; and I was not speaking in that
sense, Miss Corny."
“It's to be hoped you were not,” retorted Miss Corny. “She is an
idle, insolent, vain fagot, caring for nothing but her own doll's face
and for Archibald.”
“Ah, well, ma'am, never mind that : pretty young girls know they
are pretty, and you can't take their vanity from them. She'll be a good
and loving wife to him ; I know she will; it is in her nature ; she won't
serve him as-as—that other poor unfortunate did.”
“If I feared she was one to bring shame to him as that other did,
I'd go into the church this hour and forbid the marriage ; and if that
didn't do, I'd—I'd-smother her !” shrieked Miss Carlyle. “Look at
that piece of impudence.”
The last sentence was uttered in a different tone, and concerned
some one in the street. Miss Carlyle hopped off her chair and strode
to the window. Mr. Dill's eyes turned in the same direction.
In a gay summer's dress, fine and sparkling with a coquettish little
bonnet, trimmed with pink, shaded by one of those nondescript
articles at present called veils, which article was made of white
spotted net, with a pink ruche round it, sailed Afy Hallijohn, conceited
and foolish and good-looking as ever. Catching sight of Mr. Dill,
she made him a flourishing and gracious bow. The courteous old
gentleman returned it, and was pounced upon by Miss Corny for
his pains.
“Whatever possessed you to do that?
“Well, Miss Corny, she spoke to me? You saw her."
“ I saw her ! yes, I did see her, the brazen bell-wether! And she
saw me, and spoke to you in her insolence. And you must answer
her, in spite of my presence, instead of shaking your fist and giving her
a reproving frown. You want a little sharp talking to, yourself.”
“But, Miss Corny, it's always best to let bygones be bygones," he
pleaded. “She was flighty and foolish, and all that, was Afy; but
now that it's proved she did not go with Richard Hare, as was sus-
pected, and is at present living creditably, why should she not be
noticed a little ?”
“If the very deuce himself stood there with his horns and tail, you
would find excuses to make for him," fired Miss Corny. “ You are as
bad as Archibald ! Notice Afy Hallijohn! when she dresses and flirts,
and minces, as you saw her but now! What creditable servant would
flaunt about in such a dress and bonnet as that ?—with that flimsy
gauze thing over her face! It's as disreputable as your shirt-front.”
Mr. Dill coughed humbly, not wishing to renew the point of the
shirt-front. “She is not exactly a servant, Miss Corny, she's a lady's-


MR. DILL IN AN EMBROIDERED SHIRT-FRONT. 287
maid ; and ladies'-maids dress outrageously fine. I had a great respect
for her father, ma'am : never a better clerk came into our office.”
“Perhaps you'll tell me you have a respect for her! The world's
being turned upside down, I think. Formerly, mistresses kept their
servants to work; now, it seems they keep them for play. She's
going to St. Jude's, you may be sure of it, to stare at this fine wedding,
instead of being at home in a cotton gown and white apron, making
beds. Mrs. Latimer must be a droll mistress, to give her her liberty
in this way. What's that fly for ?" sharply added Miss Corny, as one
drew up to the office door.
“Fly,” said Mr. Dill, stretching forward his bald head. “It must be
the one I ordered. Then I'll wish you good day, Miss Corny."
“Fly for you ! ” cried Miss Corny. “ Have you the gout, that you
could not walk to St. Jude's on foot ? "
“I am not going to church yet, but to the Grove, Miss Corny. I
thought it would look more proper to have a fly, ma'am ; be paying
greater respect.”
“Not a doubt but you need it, in that trim," retorted she. “ Why
didn't you put on pumps, and silk stockings, with clocks to them?”
He was glad to bow himself out. But he thought he would do it
with a pleasant remark, to show her he bore her no ill-will. “Just
look at the crowds pouring down, Miss Corny : the church will be as
full as it can hold.”
“ I dare say it will,” retorted she. “One fool makes many."
“I fear Miss Cornelia does not like this marriage, any more than
she did the last," quoth Mr. Dill to himself, as he stepped into his fly.
“Such a sensible woman as she is in other things, to be so bitter
against Mr. Archibald because he marries! It's not like her. I
wonder,” he added, his thoughts changing," whether I do look foolish
in this shirt ? I'm sure I never thought of decking myself out to
appear young—as Miss Corny said : I only wished to testify respect
to Mr. Archibald and Miss Barbara: nothing else would have made
me give five and twenty shillings for it. Perhaps it's not etiquette-
or whatever they call it-to wear them in a morning ? Miss Corny
ought to know; and there must certainly be something wrong about
it, by the way it put her up. Well, it can't be helped now; it must
go; there's no time to return home to change it."
St. Jude's Church was crowded : all the world and his wife had
flocked to see it. Those who could not get inside took up their stations
in the churchyard and in the road. Tombstones were little respected
that day, for irreverent feet stood upon them : fifty boys at least were
mounted on the railings round Lord Mount Severn's grave, holding on,
one to another. Was the bridal party never coming ? Eleven o'clock,
and no signs of it. The mob outside grew impatient; the well-dressed
mob within grew impatient too; some of them had been there for two
hours. Hark! a sound of carriages! Yes, it was coming now; and
the beadle and the pew-opener cleared the space before the altar-rails,
which had been invaded, and, until now, the invasion winked at.
Well, it was a goodly show. Ladies and gentlemen as smart as
fine feathers could make them. Mr. Carlyle was one of the first to
enter the church, self-possessed and calm, every inch a gentleman.


288
EAST LYNNE.
He was indeed noble to look upon : though when was he ever other-
wise? Mr. and Mrs. Clitheroe were there, Anne Hare in the days gone
by: a surprise for some of the gazers, who had not known they were
expected to the wedding. Gentle, delicate Mrs. Hare walked up the
church leaning on the arm of Sir John Dobede, a paler look than
usual on her sweet, sad face. “She's thinking of her wretched, ill-
doing son,” quoth the gossips, one to another. But who comes in
now, with an air as if the whole church belonged to him ? An im-
posing, pompous man, stern and grim, in a new flaxen wig, and a
white rose in his button-hole. It is Mr. Justice Hare, and he leads
in one, whom folks crane forward to get a look at.
Very lovely was Barbara, in her soft white silk robes, and her float-
ing veil. Her cheeks, now blushing rosy red, now pale as the veil that
shaded them, betrayed how intense was her emotion. The bridesmaids
came after her with jaunty steps, vain in their important office : Louisa
Dobede, Augusta and Kate Herbert, and Mary Pinner.
Mr. Carlyle was already in his place at the altar ; and as Barbara
neared him, he advanced, took her hand, and placed her on his left.
I don't think that it was quite usual ; but he had been married before,
and ought to know. The clerk directed the rest where to stand, and,
after some little delay, the service proceeded.
In spite of her emotion—and that it was great, none could doubt-
Barbara made the responses bravely. Be you very sure that a woman
who loves him to whom she is being united must experience this
emotion. “Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live
together after God's ordinance in the holy state of matrimony?" spoke
the Reverend Mr. Little. “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love,
honour, and keep him in sickness and in health ; and, forsaking all
others, keep thee only unto him, as long as ye both shall live?”
“I will."" Clearly, firmly, impressively was the answer given. It was
as if Barbara had in her thoughts one, who had not “kept only unto
him," and would proclaim her own resolution never so to betray him,
God helping her.
The ceremony was very soon over; and Barbara, the magic ring
upon her finger, and her arm within Mr. Carlyle's, was led out to his
chariot, now hers : had he not just endowed her with his worldly
goods?
The crowd shouted and hurrahed as they caught sight of her lovely
face, but the carriage was soon clear of the crowd, who concentrated
their curiosity upon the other carriages that were to follow it. The
company were speeding back to the Grove, to breakfast. Mr. Carlyle,
breaking the silence, suddenly turned to his bride and spoke, his tone
impassioned, almost unto pain.
* Barbara, you will keep your vows to me?”
She raised her shy blue eyes, so full of love, to his : earnest feeling
had brought the tears to them.
“Always : in the spirit and in the letter : until death shall claim me.
So help me Heaven "


PART THE THIRD
CHAPTER I.
STALKENBERG.
MORE than a year had gone on.
The German watering-places were crowded that early autumn. They
generally are crowded at that season, now that the English flock abroad
in shoals, like the swallows quitting our cold country, to return again
some time. Stalkenberg was that year particularly full, for its size : you
might have put it in a nutshell and it derived its importance, name,
and all else belonging to it, from its lord of the soil, the Baron von
Stalkenberg, A stalwart old man was the baron, with grizzly hair, a
grizzly beard, and manners as loutish as those of the boars he hunted.
He had four sons as stalwart as himself, and who promised to be in
time as grizzled. They were all styled the Counts von Stalkenberg, and
were distinguished by their Christian names; all except the eldest son,
and he was generally called the young baron. Two of them were away ;
soldiers; and two, the eldest and the youngest, lived with their father,
in the tumble-down castle of Stalkenberg, situated about a mile from
the village to which it gave its name. The young Baron von Stalken-
berg was at liberty to marry, The three Counts von Stalkenberg were
not-unless they could pick up a wife with enough money to keep herself
and her husband. In this creed they had been brought up; it was a
perfectly understood creed, and not rebelled against.
Stalkenberg differed in no wise from the other baths of its class in the
Vaterland. It had its linden-trees, its fair scenery, its Kursaal, its balls,
its concerts, its table d'hôte, its gaming-tables, where one everlasting
sentence dins the visitor's ear—and one to which he will do well to be
deaf—“Faites votre jeu, messieurs : faites votre jeu !” its promenades,
and its waters. The last were advertised—and some accorded their
belief-to cure every malady known or imagined, from apoplexy down
to an attack of love-fever, provided you only took enough of them.
The young Baron von Stalkenberg (who was only styled young in
contradistinction to his father, being in his forty-first year) was famous
for a handsome person, and for his passionate love of the chase : he
was the deadly enemy of wild boars and wolves. The Count Otto von
Stalkenberg (eleven years his brother's junior) was famous for nothing
but his fiercely-ringed moustache, a habit of eating, and an undue
addiction to draughts of Marcobrunner. Somewhat meagre fare, so
report ran, was the fashion in the castle of Stalkenberg ; neither the old
baron nor his heir cared for luxury; therefore Count Otto was sure to
Last Lynne
19


290
EAST LYNNE.
be seen at the table d'hôte, as often as any one would invite him. And
that was nearly every day, for the Count von Stalkenberg was a high-
sounding title, and his baronial father, proprietor of all Stalkenberg,
lorded it in the baronial castle close by ; all of which appeared very
grand and great ; and that is bowed down to with an idol's worship.
Stopping at the Ludwig Bad, the chief hotel in the place, was a
family of the name of Crosby. It consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Crosby,
an only daughter, her governess, and two or three servants. What
Mr. Crosby had done to England, or England to him, I can't say : but
he never went near his native country. For years and years he had lived
abroad: not in any settled place of residence . they would travel about,
and remain a year or two in one place, a year or two in another, as
the whim suited them. A respectable, portly man, of quiet and
gentlemanlike manners, looking as little like one who need be afraid
of the laws of his own land as could be. Neither is it said, or
insinuated, that he was afraid of them ; a gentleman who knew him,
had asserted, many years before, when it was once questioned, that
Crosby was as free to go home and establish himself in a mansion in
Piccadilly as the best of them. But he had lost fearfully by some
roguish scheme, like the South Sea bubble, and could not live in the
style he once had done, and therefore preferred to remain abroad.
Mrs. Crosby was a pleasant, chatty woman, given to taking as much
gaiety as possible, and Helena Crosby was a remarkably fine-grown
girl of seventeen. You might have given her some years more, had
you been guessing her age, for she was no child, either in appearance
or manners, and never had been. She was an heiress, too : an uncle
had left her twenty thousand pounds; and, at her mother's death, she
would have ten thousand more. The Count Otto von Stalkenberg
heard of the thirty thousand pounds, and turned his fierce moustache
and his eyes on Miss Helena.
“Tirty tousand pound and von handsome girls. ”cogitated he, for he
prided himself upon his English. “ It is just what I have been seeking
after.”
He found the rumour, touching her fortune, to be correct, and from
that time was seldom apart from the Crosbys. They were as pleased
to have his society as he was to be in theirs, for was he not the Count
von Stalkenberg ?--and the other visitors at Stalkenberg, looking on
with envy, would have given their ears to have been honoured with a
like intimacy. Whether Mr. Crosby cared so much for the distinction
as did madame and mademoiselle, must remain a question ; he was
civil to him, and made him welcome ; and Mrs. Crosby, in all things
relating to society, was the grey mare.
One day there thundered down in a vehicle the old Baron von
Stalkenberg. The like of this conveyance, for its shape and its silver
ornaments, had never been seen since the days of Adam. It had been
the pride of the baron's forefathers, but was rarely disturbed in its
repose now. Some jägers in green and silver attended it, and it drew
up at the door of the Ludwig Bad, the whole of whose inmates there-
upon flocked to the windows to feast their eyes. The old chief had
come to pay a visit of ceremony to the Crosbys; and the host of the
Ludwig Bad, as he appeared himself to marshal his chieftain to their


STALKENBERG.
291
saloon, bowed his body low with every step : “Room there, room
there, for the mighty Baron von Stalkenberg !”
The mighty baron had come to invite them to a feast at his castle
-where no feast had ever been made so grand before as this would
be; and Otto had carte blanche to engage other distinguished sojourners
at Stalkenberg ; English, French, and natives who had been civil to
him. Mrs. Crosby's head was turned.
And now, I ask you, knowing as you do our national notions, was it
not enough to turn it ? You will not, then, be surprised to hear that
when, some days after the feast, the Count Otto von Stalkenberg laid
his proposals at Helena's feet, they were not rejected.
“But she is so young,” remonstrated Mr. Crosby to his wife. “If
they would only wait a couple of years, I would say nothing against it.”
“And get the count snapped up meanwhile. No, no, Mr. Crosby.
Counts von Stalkenberg are not secured every day.”
“If he has a title and ancestry, Helena has money."
“ Then they are pretty equally balanced," returned Mrs. Crosby.
“I never thought of such a match for her : the Countess von Stalkers.
berg : only listen to the sound !”
"I wish he would cut off those frightful moustaches,” grumbled Mr.
Crosby.
“Now don't worry about minor details : Helena thinks they are
divine. The worst is about the governess."
“What about her?”
“Why, I engaged her, for certain, up to Christmas, and of course I
must pay her ; unless I can find her another place. I'll try.”
“Ah! Helena would be much better with her, than getting married.
I don't like girls to marry so young," lamented Mr. Crosby. “I don't
know what the English here will say to it !"
“If you don't let out her age, nobody need know it,” cried his wife.
“Helena looks a woman, not a child. As to the English, they are
going mad that the luck has not fallen upon them.”
Mr. Crosby's objections seemed to be met in every way, so he
relapsed into silence. He knew it was of no use carrying on the war.
Helena Crosby, meanwhile, had rushed into her governess's room.
“ Madame! madame! only think! I am going to be married ! ”
Madame lifted her pale, sad face; a very sad and pale face was hers.
“Indeed !” she gently replied.
“And my studies are to be over from to-day. Mamma says so."
“You are very young to marry, Helena.”
“Now, don't bring that up, madame. It is just what papa is harp-
ing upon,” returned Miss Helena.
“Is it to Count Otto ?” asked the governess. And it may be re-
marked that her English accent was perfect, although the young lady
addressed her as “ Madame.”
“ Count Otto, of course. As if I would marry any one else!”
Look at the governess, reader, and see whether you know her. You
will say no. But you do, for it is Lady Isabel Vane. But how
strangely she is altered! Yes; the railway accident did that for her ;
and what the accident left undone, grief and remorse accomplished.
She limps slightly as she walks, and stoops, which takes from her


STALKENBERG.
293
ave,
now, was the thought that she had abandoned them to be trained by
strangers. Would they be trained to goodness, to morality, to religion?
Careless as she herself had once been upon these points, she had learnt
better now. Would Isabel grow up to indifference, to—perhaps do
as she had done? Lady Isabel Aung her hands before her eyes, and
groaned in anguish.
Of late, the longing had become intense. It was indeed a very
fever: and a fever of the worst kind, for it attacked both mind
and body. Her pale lips were constantly parched ; her throat had
that malady in it, which those who have suffered from some hideous
burden, know only too well. She had never heard a syllable of or
from East Lynne since that visit of Lord Mount Severn's to renoble,
nearly three years ago. An English newspaper never came in her
way. Mr. Crosby sometimes had them, but they were not sent up to
the governess; and, as Lady Isabel would say to herself, what should
there be about East Lynne in a newspaper ? She might have asked
Mrs. Ducie for news, but she did not dare : what excuse could she,
Madame Vine, make, for wishing tidings of East Lynne? For all she
knew, Mr. Carlyle and the children might be dead and buried. Oh!
that she could see her children but for a day, an hour ? that she might
press one kiss upon their lips! Could she live without it? News,
however, she was soon to have.
It happened that Mrs. Latimer, a lady living at West Lynne, betook
herself about that time to Stalkenberg ; and, with her, three parts
maid, and one part companion, went Afy Hallijohn. Not that Afy
was admitted to the society of Mrs. Latimer, to sit with her or dine
with her, nothing of that sort ; but she did enjoy more privileges
than most ladies’-maids; and Afy, who was never backward at setting
off her own consequence, gave out that she was “ companion.” Mrs.
Latimer was an easy woman, fond of Afy; and Afy had made her
own tale good to her, respecting the ill-natured reports at the time
of the murder, so that Mrs. Latimer looked upon her as on one to be
compassionated.
Mrs. Latimer and Mrs. Crosby, whose apartments in the hotel
adjoined, struck up a violent friendship the one for the other. Ere the
former had been a week at the Ludwig, they had sworn something
like eternal sisterhood-as both had probably done for others fifty
times before.
On the evening of the day Helena Crosby communicated her future
prospects to Lady Isabel, the latter strolled out in the twilight and
took her seat on a bench in an unfrequented part of the gardens, where
she was fond of sitting. Now it came to pass that Afy, some few
minutes afterwards, found herself in the same walk-and a very dull
one too, she was thinking.
“Who's that ?" quoth Afy to herself, her eyes falling upon Lady
Isabel. “Oh, it's that governess of the Crosbys. She may be known
a mile off, by her grandmother's bonnet. I'll go and have a chat with
her.”
Accordingly Afy, who was never troubled with bashfulness, went
up and seated herself beside Lady Isabel. “Good evening, Madame
Vine," said she.


294
EAST LYNNE.
“Good evening," replied Lady Isabel, courteously, not having the
least idea of whom Afy might be.
“ You don't know me, I fancy,” pursued Afy, so gathering from Lady
Isabel's looks. “I am companion to Mrs. Latimer; and she is spend.
ing the evening with Mrs. Crosby. Precious dull, this Stalkenberg !”
• Do you think so ?”
“ It is for me. I can't speak German or French, and the upper
attendants of families here can't, most of them, speak English. I'm
sure I go about like an owl, able to do nothing but stare. I was sick
enough to come here, but I'd rather be back at West Lynne, quiet as
it is."
Lady Isabel had not been encouraging her companion, either by
words or manner, but the last sentence caused her heart to bound
within her. Control herself as she would, she could not quite hide her
feverish interest.
“Do you come from West Lynne ? "
“ Yes. Horrid place! Mrs. Latimer took a house there soon after
I went to live with her. I'd rather she had taken it at Botany Bay."
“ Why do you not like it ?"
“ Because I don't,” was Afy's satisfactory answer.
“Do you know East Lynne ?” resumed Lady Isabel, her heart beat-
ing and her brain whirling, as she deliberated how she could put all
the questions she wished to ask.
“I ought to know it,” returned Afy. “My own sister, Miss Halli-
john, is head maid there. Why? Do you know it, Madame Vine?”
Lady Isabel hesitated : she was deliberating upon her answer.
“Some years ago, I was staying in the neighbourhood for a little time,”
she said. “I should like to hear of the Carlyles again : they were
a nice family.”
Afy tossed her head. “Ah! but there have been changes since
that. I dare say you knew them in the time of Lady Isabel ? "
Another pause. “ Lady Isabel ? Yes. She was Mr. Carlyle's wife.”
“And a nice wife she made him !” ironically rejoined Afy. “ You
must have heard of it, Madame Vine, unless you have lived in a wood.
She eloped ; abandoned him and her children.”
“Are the children living ?”
“ Yes, poor things. But the one's on its road to consumption-if
ever I saw consumption yet. Joyce-that's my sister-is in a flaring
temper with me when I say it. She thinks it will get strong again."
Lady Isabel passed her handkerchief across her moist brow. “Which
of the children is it ?" she faintly asked. “Isabel ?”
“ Isabel !” retorted Afy. “Who's Isabel ?”
“ The eldest child, I mean ; Miss Isabel Carlyle."
“ There's no Isabel. There's Lucy. She's the only daughter."
“When-when-I knew them, there was only one daughter ; the
other two were boys : I remember quite well that she was called
Isabel.”
“Stay,” said Afy ; “now you speak of it, what was it that I heard ?
It was Wilson told me, I recollect—she's the nurse. Why, the very
night that his wife went away, Mr. Carlyle gave orders that the child
in future should be called Lucy; her second name. No wonder,"


STALKENBERG.
295
added Afy, violently indignant, " that he could no longer endure the
sound of her mother's, or suffer the child to bear it."
“No wonder,” murmured Lady Isabel. “Which child is it that is
ill ? »
“It's William, the eldest boy. He is not to say ill, but he is as
thin as a herring, with an unnaturally bright look on his cheeks, and
a glaze upon his eyes. Joyce says his cheeks are no brighter than his
mother's used to be, but I know better. Folks in health don't have
those brilliant colours."
“Did you ever see Lady Isabel ?” she asked, in a low tone.
“Not I," returned Afy; “I should have thought it demeaning. One
does not care to be brought into contact with that sort of misdoing,
you know, Madame Vine."
“There was another one, a little boy ; Archibald, I think his name
was. Is he well ? "
“Oh, the troublesome youngster! he is as sturdy as a Turk. No
fear of his going into a consumption. He is the very image of Mr.
Carlyle, is that child. I say, though, madame,” continued Afy, chang-
ing the subject unceremoniously, “if you were stopping at West Lynne,
perhaps you heard some wicked mischief-making stories concerning
me?"
“I believe I did hear your name mentioned. I cannot charge my
memory now with the particulars.”
“My father was murdered—you must have heard of that?"
“ Yes, I recollect so far.”
“He was murdered by a fellow called Richard Hare, who decamped
instanter. Perhaps you know the Hares also? Well, directly after
the funeral I left West Lynne; I could not bear the place; and I
stopped away. And what do you suppose they said of me?—that I
had gone after Richard Hare ! Not that I knew they were saying it,
or I should pretty soon have been back and given them the length of
my tongue. But now, I just ask you, as a lady, Madame Vine, whether
a more infamous accusation was ever pitched upon ?”.
“And had you not gone after him ? »
“No: that I swear,” passionately returned Afy. “Make myself a
companion of my father's murderer! If Mr. Calcraft the hangman
finished off a few of those West Lynne scandalmongers, it might be
a warning to the others. I said so to Mr Carlyle.”
“To Mr. Carlyle,” repeated Lady Isabel, hardly conscious that she
did repeat it.
“He laughed, I remember, and said that would not stop the scandal.
The only one who did not misjudge me was himself: he did not
believe that I was with Richard Hare ; but he was ever noble-judging,
was Mr. Carlyle.”
"I suppose you were in a situation ?”
Afy coughed. “To be sure. More than one. I lived as companion
with an old lady who so valued me that she left me a handsome legacy
in her will. I lived two years with the Countess of Mount Severn.”
“ With the Countess of Mount Severn ! " echoed Lady Isabel, sur.
prised into the remark. “Why, she-she-was related to Mr.
Carlyle's wife. At least Lord Mount Severn was."


296
EAST LYNNE.
“Of course : everybody knows that. I was living there at the time
the business happened. Didn't the countess pull Lady Isabel to
pieces! She and Miss Levison used to sit, cant, cant, all day over it.
Oh, I assure you I know all about it. Have you the headache, that
you are leaning on your hand ?”.
“ Headache and heartache both,” she might have answered. Miss
Afy resumed.
“So after the flattering compliment West Lynne had paid me, you
may judge I was in no hurry to go back to it, Madame Vine. And
if I had not found that Mrs. Latimer's promised to be an excellent
place, I should have left it, rather than be marshalled there. But I
have lived it down I should like to hear any of them fibbing against
me now. Do you know that blessed Miss Corny ?"
“I have seen her."
“She shakes her head and makes eyes at me still. But so she would
at an angel a cross-grained old cockatoo ! "
“Is she still at East Lynne'"
“ Not she, indeed. There would be drawn battles between her and
Mrs. Carlyle, if she were.”
A dart, as of an ice-bolt, seemed to arrest the blood in Lady Isabel's
veins. “Mrs. Carlyle ! ” she faltered. “Who is Mrs. Carlyle ?"
“ Mr. Carlyle's wife. Who should she be?”.
The rushing blood leaped on now, fast and fiery. “I did not know
he had married again."
"He has been married now-getting on for fifteen months : a twelve-
month last June. I went to the church to see them married. Wasn't
there a cram! She looked beautiful that day"
Lady Isabel laid her hand upon her beating heart. But for that
delectable “loose jacket,” Afy might have detected her bosom's rise
and fall. She steadied her voice sufficiently to speak.
“ Did he marry Barbara Hare?”
“You may take your oath of that,” said Afy. “If folks tell true,
there were love scenes between them before he ever thought of Lady
Isabel. I had that from Wilson, and she ought to know, for she lived
at the Hares?. Another thing is said- .only you must just believe one
word of West Lynne talk, and disbelieve ten ; that if Lady Isabel had
not died, Mr. Carlyle never would have married again : he had
scruples. Half a dozen were given to him by report : Louisa Dobede
for one, and Mary Pinner for another. Such nonsense! folks might
have made sure it would be Barbara Hare. There's a baby now."
“ Is there?” was the faint answer.
“A beautiful boy, three or four months old. Mrs. Carlyle is not a
little proud of him. She worships her husband.”.
“ Is she kind to the first children ? "
“ For all I know. I don't think she has much to do with them.
Archibald is in the nursery, and the other two are mostly with the
governess.”
“There is a governess ? "
“Nearly the first thing that Mr. Carlyle did, after his wife's moon-
light flitting, was to seek a governess, and she has been there ever
since. She is going to leave now : to be married, Joyce told me.”


STALKENBERG.
297
“ Are you much at East Lynne?”
Afy shook her head. “I am not going much, I can tell you, where
I am looked down upon. Mrs. Carlyle does not favour me. She knew
that her brother Richard would have given his head to marry me, and
she resents it. No such great catch, I'm sure, that Dic': Hare, even if
he had gone on right," continued Afy, somewhat after the example of
the fox and the grapes. “He had no brains to speak of; and what he
had were soft and silly. Ah me ; the cha..ges that take place in this
world! But for that Lady Isabel's mad folly in quitting him, and
leaving the field open, Miss Barbara would never have had the chance
of being Mrs. Carlyle.”
Lady Isabel groaned in spirit.
“There is one person who never will hear a word breathed against
her, and that's Joyce," went on Afy. “She was as fond of Lady Isabel,
nearly, as Mr. Carlyle was."
“Was he so fond of her ?”
“He worshipped the very ground she trod upon. Ay, up to the
hour of her departure; Joyce says she knows he did ; and that's how
she repaid him. But it's sure to be the way in this world : let a man,
or woman, make an idol of another, and see if they don't get served
out. The night that Mr. Carlyle brought his new wife home, Joyce,
who was attending on her, went into the dressing-room, leaving Mrs.
Carlyle in the bed-chamber. 'Joyce,' she called out. My lady ?!
answered Joyce-proving who was filling up her thoughts. I don't
know how Mrs. Carlyle liked it. Joyce said she felt as mad as could
be with herself.”
“I wonder,” cried Lady Isabel, in a low tone, “how the tidings of
her death were received at East Lynne ?"
“I don't know anything about that. They held it as a jubilee, I
should say, and set all the bells in the town ringing. I should, I know.
A brute animal, deaf and dumb, clings to its offspring : but she
abandoned hers. Are you going in, Madame Vine?"
“I must go in now. Good evening to you.”
She had sat till she could sit no longer; her very heart-strings were
wrung. And she might not rise up in defence of herself. Defence ?
Did she not deserve more, ten thousand times more reproach than had
met her ears now ? This girl did not say of her half what the world
must say.
To bed at the usual time, but not to sleep. What she had heard
only increased her vain, insensate longing. A stepmother at East
Lynne, and one of her children gliding on to death! Oh! to be with
them ! to see them once again ! To purchase that boon, she would
willingly forfeit all the rest of her existence.
Her frame was fevered; the bed was fevered ; and she rose and
paced the room. This state of mind would inevitably bring on bodily
illness, possibly an attack of the brain. She dreaded that ; for there
was no telling what she might reveal in her delirium. Her temples
were throbbing, her heart was beating ; and she once more threw her-
self upon the bed, and pressed the pillow down upon her forehead.
There is no doubt that the news of Mr. Carlyle's marriage helped
greatly the excitement. She did not pray to die; but she did wish
that death might come to her.


298
EAST LYNNE.
What would have been the ending it is impossible to say, but a
strange turn in affairs came : one of those wonderful coincidences
which are sometimes, but not often, to be met with. Mrs. Crosby
appeared in Madame Vine's room after breakfast, and gave her an
account of Helena's projected marriage. She then apologized (the
real object of her visit) for dispensing so summarily with madame's
services, but she had reason to hope that she could introduce her to
another situation. Would madame have any objection to take one in
England ? Madame was upon the point of replying that she did not
choose to enter one in England, when Mrs. Crosby stopped her, saying
she would call in Mrs. Latimer, who could tell her about it better than
she could.
Mrs. Latimer came in, all eagerness and volubility. “Ah, my dear
madame," she exclaimed, "you would be fortunate indeed if you were
to get into this family. They are the nicest people ; he so liked and
respected ; she so pretty and engaging. A most desirable situation.
You will be treated as a lady, and have all things in comfort. There
is only one pupil, a girl ; one of the little boys, I believe, goes in for an
hour or two, but that is not much; and the salary is seventy guineas.
The Carlyles are friends of mine ; they live at a beautiful place, East
Lynne."
The Carlyles! East Lynne! Go there as governess ? Lady
Isabel's breath was taken away.
“They are parting with their governess," continued Mrs. Latimer,
“and when I was there a day or two before I started on my tour to
Germany, Mrs. Carlyle said to me, 'I suppose you could not pick up
a desirable governess for Lucy : one who is mistress of French and
German. She spoke in a half-joking tone, but I feel sure that were I
to write word that I had found one, it would give her pleasure. Now,
Mrs. Crosby tells me your French is quite that of a native, Madame
Vine; that you read and speak German well, and that your musical
abilities are excellent. I think you would be just the one to suit ; and
I have no doubt I could get you the situation. What do you say?"
What could she say? Her brain was in a whirl.
“I am anxious to find you one if I can," put in Mrs. Crosby. “We
have been very much pleased with you, and I should like you to be
desirably placed. As Mrs. Latimer is so kind as to interest her self, it
appears to me an opportunity that should not be missed."
* Shall I write to Mrs. Carlyle ?” rejoined Mrs. Latimer.
Lady Isabel roused herself, and so far cleared her intellects as to
understand and answer the question. “ Perhaps you will kindly give
me until to-morrow morning to consider it? I had not intended to
take a situation in England.”
She battled with herself that day. Now resolving to go, and risk
it ; now shrinking from the attempt. At one moment it seemed to her
that Providence must have placed this opportunity in her way that she
might see her children, in her desperate longing ; at another, a voice
appeared to whisper that it was a wily, dangerous temptation flung
across her path, one which it was her duty to resist and flee from.
Then came another phase of the picture—how could she bear to see
Mr. Carlyle the husband of another ?—to live in the same house with


300
EAST LYNNE.
into her eyes, with a gush, as they fell on the signature, “Barbara
Carlyle.”
All ready, she sat down and waited the signal of departure : but that
was not to be yet. It was finally arranged that she should travel to
England and to West Lynne with Mrs. Latimer, and that lady would
not return until October. Lady Isabel could only fold her hands and
strive for patience.
But the day came at last ; and Mrs. Latimer, Lady Isabel, and Afy
quitted Stalkenberg. Mrs. Latimer would only travel slowly, and the
impatient, fevered woman thought the journey would never end.
You have been informed, I think, of the position of these unhappy
children to whom you are going,” Mrs. Latimer said one day. “You
must not speak to them of their mother. She left them.”
“ Yes."
" It is never well to speak to children of a mother who has disgraced
them. Mr. Carlyle would not like it. And I dare say they are taught
to forget her, to regard Mrs. Carlyle as their only mother.”
Her aching heart had to assent to all.
It was a foggy afternoon, grey with the coming twilight, when they
arrived at West Lynne. Mrs. Latimer, believing the governess was a
novice to England, kindly put her into a fly, and told the driver his
destination. “Au revoir, madame," she said, " and good luck to you!”
Once more she was rolling along the familiar road. She saw Justice
Hare's house, she saw other marks which she knew well. And once
more she knew East Lynne, the dear old house, for the fly had turned
into the avenue. Lights were moving in the windows, it looked gay
and cheerful, a contrast to herself. Her heart was sick with expecta-
tion, her throat was beating ; and as the man thundered up with all the
force of his one horse, and halted at the steps, her sight mumentarily
left her. Would Mr. Carlyle come to the fly to hand her out? She
wished she had never undertaken the project, now, in the depth of her
fear and agitation. The hall door was flung open, and there gushed
forth a blaze of light.
CHAPTER II.
CHANGE AND CHANGE.
The hall doors of East Lynne were thrown open, and a flood of golden
light streamed out upon the steps.
Two men-servants stood there. One remained in the hall, the other
advanced to the chaise. He assisted Lady Isabel to alight, and then
busied himself with the luggage. As she ascended to the hall she
recognized old Peter : strange, indeed, did it seem, not to say, "How
are you, Peter ?" but to meet him as a stranger. For a moment she
was at a loss for words : what should she say, or ask, coming to her
own home? Her manner was embarrassed, her voice low.
“Is Mrs. Carlyle within ?"
“Yes, ma'am.”
At that moment, Joyce came forward to receive her. “It is Madame


CHANGE AND CHANGE.
301
Vine, I believe ?" she respectfully said. “ Please to step this way,
madame."
But Lady Isabel lingered in the hall, ostensibly to see that her boxes
came in right : Stephen was bringing them up then : in reality to gather
a short respite, for Joyce might be about to usher her into the presence
of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle.
Joyce, however, did nothing of the sort. She merely conducted her
to the grey parlour : a fire was burning in the grate, looking cheerful
on this autumn night.
“This is your sitting-room, madame. What will you please to take ?
I will order it to be brought in, while I show you your bed-chamber.”
“A cup of tea," answered Lady Isabel.
“Tea, and some cold meat with it,” suggested Joyce. But Lady
Isabel interrupted her.
“Nothing but tea ; and a little cold toast.”
Joyce rang the bell, ordered the refreshment to be made ready, and
then preceded Lady Isabel upstairs. On she followed, her heart palpi-
tating : past the rooms that used to be hers, along the corridor, towards
the second staircase. The doors of her old bed and dressing-rooms
stood open, and she glanced in with a yearning look. No, never more,
never more could they be hers : she had put them from her by her own
free act and deed. Not less comfortable did they look now, than in
former days : but they had passed into another's occupancy. The fire
threw its blaze on the furniture : there were the little ornaments on the
large dressing-table, as they used to be in her time, and the cut glass
of the crystal essence bottles glittered in the firelight. On the sofa
lay a shawl and a book, and on the bed a silk dress, as if thrown there
after being taken off. No: these rooms were not for her now: and
she followed Joyce up the other staircase. The bedroom to which she
was shown was large and well furnished : it was the one Miss Carlyle
had occupied when she, Isabel, had been taken, a bride, to East
Lynne, though that lady had subsequently quitted it for one on
the lower floor. Joyce put down the waxlight she carried, and looked
round.
“Would you like a fire lighted here, madame, for to-night? Perhaps
it will feel welcome, after travelling.”
“Oh no, thank you," was the answer.
Stephen, with some one to help him, was bringing up the luggage.
Joyce directed him where to place it, telling him to uncord the boxes.
That done, the man left the room, and Joyce turned to Lady Isabel,
who had stood like a statue, never so much as attempting to remove
her bonnet.
“ Can I do anything for you, madame?” she asked.
Lady Isabel declined. In these, her first moments of arrival, she
was dreading detection : how was it possible that she should not ?--
and feared Joyce's keen eyes more perhaps than she feared any others.
She was only wishing that the girl would go down.
“ Should you want any one, please to ring, and Hannah will come
up,” said Joyce, preparing to retire. “She is the maid who waits upon
the grey parlour, and will do anything you like up here."
Joyce had left the room, and Lady Isabel had taken her bonnet


302
EAST LYNNE.
off, when the door opened again. She hastily thrust it on--somewhat
after the fashion of Richard Hare's rushing on his hat and his false
whiskers. It was Joyce.
“Do you think you shall find your way down alone, madame ? "
“Yes, I can do that,” she answered. Find her way !-in that house.
Lady Isabel slowly took her things off. Where was the use of
lingering ?—she must meet their eyes sooner or later. Though, in
truth, there was little, if any, fear of her detection, so effectually was
she disguised, by nature's altering hand, or by arts. It was with the
utmost difficulty she kept tranquil : had the tears once burst forth,
they would have gone on to hysterics, without the possibility of control.
The coming home again to East Lynne! Oh, it was indeed a time of
agitation; terrible, painful, agitation; and none can wonder at it.
Shall I tell you what she did ? Yes, I will. She knelt down by the
bed, and prayed for courage to go through the task she had undertaken,
prayed for self-control : even she, the sinful, who had quitted that
house under circumstances so notorious. But I am not sure that this
manner of returning to it was an expedition precisely calculated to call
down a blessing upon it.
There was no excuse for lingering longer, and she descended, the
waxlight in her hand. Everything was ready in the grey parlour ; the
tea-tray on the table, the small urn hissing away, the tea-caddy placed
beside it. A silver rack of dry toast, butter, and a hot muffin covered
with a small silver cover. The things were to her sight as old faces;
the rack, the small cover, the butter-dish, the tea-service; she remem-
bered them all. If she had reflected on the matter, she might have
known, by the signs visible in the short period she had been in the
house, that governesses at East Lynne were regarded as gentlewomen ;
treated well and liberally. Yes ; for East Lynne owned Mr. Carlyle
for its master.
She made the tea, and sat down with what appetite she might : her
brain, her thoughts, all in a chaos together. She wondered whether
Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle were at dinner she wondered in what part of
the house were the children. She heard bells ring now and then ; she
heard servants cross and recross the hall. Her meal over, she rang
her own.
A neat-looking, good-tempered maid answered it. Hannah ; who-
as Joyce had informed her-waited upon the grey parlour, and was
at her, the governess's especial command. She took away the things,
and then Lady Isabel sat on alone. For how long she scarcely knew,
when a sound caused her heart to beat as if it would burst its bounds,
and she started from her chair as one who has received an electric
shock.
It was nothing to be startled at-for ordinary people ; it was only
the sound of children's voices. Her children ! were they being brought
in to her? She pressed her hand upon her heaving bosom.
No: they were only traversing the hall, and the voices faded away
up the wide staircase. Perhaps they had been co dessert, as in the
old times, and were now going up to bed. She looked at her new
watch : half-past seven.
Her new watch. The old one had been changed away for it. All


CHANGE AND CHANGE.
303
her trinkets had been likewise parted with, sold, or changed away, lest
they should be recognized at East Lynne. Nothing whatever had she
kept, except her mother's miniature and the small golden cross, set
with its seven emeralds. Have you forgotten that cross ? Francis
Levison accidentally broke it for her the first time they ever met. If
she had looked upon the breaking of that cross, which her mother had
enjoined her to set such store by, as an evil omen, at the time of the
accident, how awfully had subsequent events seemed to have borne out
her fancy! These two articles, the miniature and the cross, she could
not bring her mind to part with. She had sealed them up, and placed
them in the remotest corner of her dressing-case, away from all chance
of public view. Peter entered.
"My mistress says, ma'am, she would be glad to see you, if you are
not too tired. Will you please to walk into the drawing-room ? '
A mist swam before her eyes. Was she about to enter the presence
of Mr. Carlyle ?-had the moment really come? She moved to the
door, which Peter held open. She turned her head from the man, for
she could feel how ashy white were her face and lips.
“Is Mrs. Carlyle alone?” she asked in a subdued voice. The most
indirect way she could put the question, as to whether Mr. Carlyle was
there.
“Quite alone, ma'am. My master in dining out to-day. Madame
Vine, I think ?” he added, waiting to announce her, as, the hall
traversed, he laid his hand on the drawing-room door.
“Madame Vine," she said, correcting him. For Peter had spoken
the name, Vine, broadly, according to its English sound; she set him
right, and pronounced it in French
“Madame Veen, ma'am," quoted Peter to his mistress, as he ushered
in Lady Isabel.
The old familiar drawing-room ; its handsome proportions, its well-
arranged furniture, its dazzling chandelier! It all came back to her
with a heart-sickness. No longer her drawing-room, that she should
take pride in it: she had flung it away from her when she flung away
the rest.
Seated under the blaze of the chandelier was Barbara. Not a day
older did she look than when Lady Isabel had first seen her at the
churchyard gates, when she had inquired of her husband who was
that pretty girl. “Barbara Hare," he had answered. Ay. She was
Barbara Hare, then, but now she was Barbara Carlyle : and she, she,
who had been Isabel Carlyle, was Isabel Vane again. Oh woe!
woe!
Inexpressibly more beautiful looked Barbara than Lady Isabel had
ever seen her--or else she fancied it. Her evening dress was of pale
sky blue-no other colour suited Barbara so well, and there was no
other she was so fond of-and on her fair neck was a gold chain, and
on her arms were gold bracelets. Her pretty features were attractive
as ever, her cheeks were flushed ; her blue eyes sparkled, and her
light hair was rich and abundant. A contrast, her hair, to that of
the worn woman opposite to her.
Barbara came forward, her hand stretched out with a kindly greet-
ing. “I hope you are not very tired after your journey ?”


CHANGE AND CHANGE.
305
tained a liking for another. She eloped with Francis Levison-Sir
Francis, he is now. He had been staying at East Lynne, but no one
detected any undue intimacy between them, not even Mr. Carlyle.
To him, as to others, her conduct must always remain a mystery."
Madame Vine appeared to be occupied with her spectacles, setting
them straight. Barbara continued.
“Of course the disgrace is reflected on the children, and always will
be; the shame of having a divorced mother- "
“Is she not dead ? " interrupted Lady Isabel.
“ She is dead. Oh yes. But they will not be the less pointed at, the
girl especially, as I say. They allude to their mother now and then,
in conversation, Wilson tells me : but I would recommend you,
Madame Vine, not to encourage them in that. They had better for-
get her."
“ Mr. Carlyle would naturally wish them to do so."
“ Most certainly. There is little doubt that Mr. Carlyle would blot
out all recollection of her, were it possible. But unfortunately she
was the children's mother, and for that there is no help. I trust you
will be able to instil principles into the little girl which will keep her
from a like fate.”
“ I will try," answered Lady Isabel, with more fervour than she had
yet spoken." Are the children much with you, may I inquire ?"
“No. I never was fond of being troubled with children. When my
own grow up into childhood, I shall deem the nursery and the school-
room the best places for them. I hold an opinion, Madame Vine, that
too many mothers pursue a mistaken system in the management of
their family. There are some, we know, who, lost in the pleasures of
the world, in frivolity, wholly neglect them : of those I do not speak;
nothing can be more thoughtless, more reprehensible ; but there are
others who err on the opposite side. They are never happy but when
with their children ; they must be in the nursery ; or, the children in
the drawing-room. They wash them, dress them, feed them ; render-
ing themselves slaves, and the nurse's office a sinecure. The children
are noisy, troublesome, cross; all children will be so ; and the mother's
temper grows soured, and she gives slaps where, when they were babies,
she gave kisses. She has no leisure, no spirits for any higher training :
and as they grow old she loses her authority. One who is wearied,
tired out with her children, cross when they play, or make a little extra
noise which jars on her unstrung nerves, who says, “You shan't do
this ; you shall be still, and that continually, is sure to be rebelled
against at last: it cannot be otherwise. Have you never observed this ?”
“I have."
“ The discipline of that house soon becomes broken. The children
run wild ; the husband is sick of it, and seeks peace and solace else-
where. I could mention instances in this neighbourhood," continued
Mrs. Carlyle, “where things are managed precisely as I have described,
even in our own class of life. I consider it a most mistaken and per-
nicious system.”
“It undoubtedly is,” answered Lady Isabel, feeling a sort of thank-
fulness, poor thing, that the system had not been hers—when she had
a home and children.
Kast Lynne


306
EAST LYNNE.
“Now, what I trust I shall never give up to another, will be the
training of my children,” pursued Barbara. “ Let the offices, properly
belonging to a nurse, be performed by the nurse-of course taking care
that she is thoroughly to be depended on. Let her have the trouble of
the children, their noise, their romping ; in short, let the nursery be
her place and the children's place. But I hope I shall never fail to
gather my children round me daily, at stated periods, for higher
purposes : to instil into them Christian and moral duties; to strive
to teach them how best to fulfil life's obligations. This is a mother's
task-as I understand the question ; let her do this work well, and the
nurse can attend to the rest. A child should never hear ought from its
mother's lips but winning gentleness; and this becomes impossible, if
she is very much with her children.”
Lady Isabel silently assented. Mrs. Carlyle's views were correct.
“When I first came to East Lynne, I found Miss Manning, the
governess, was doing everything necessary for Mr. Carlyle's children
in the way of the training that I speak of,” resumed Barbara. “She
had them with her for a short period every morning, even the little one:
I saw that it was all right, therefore did not interfere. Since she left-
it is nearly a month now I have taken them myself. We were sorry
to part with Miss Manning ; she suited very well. But she has been
long engaged to an officer in the navy, and now they are to be married.
You will have the entire charge of the little girl she will be your
companion out of school hours : did you understand that?”
“I am quite ready and willing to undertake it,” said Lady Isabel,
her heart fluttering. “ Are the children well ? Do they enjoy good
health ? "
« Quite so. They had measles in the spring, and the illness left
a cough upon William, the eldest boy. Mr. Wainwright says he will
outgrow it."
"He has it still, then?”
“At night and morning. They went last week to spend the day
with Miss Carlyle, and were a little late in returning home. It was
foggy, and the boy coughed dreadfully after he came in. Mr. Carlyle
was so concerned, that he left the dinner-table and went up to the
nursery : he gave Joyce strict orders that the child should never again
. de out in the evening air, so long as the cough was upon him. We
had never heard him cough like that."*
“Do you fear consumption ?” asked Lady Isabel in a low tone.
“I do not fear that, or any other incurable disease for them," answered
Barbara. “I think, with Mr. Wainwright, that time will remove the
cough. The children come of a healthy stock on their father's side ;
and I have no reason to think they do not on their mother's. She
died young, you will say. Ay, but she did not die of disease ; her
death was the result of accident. How many children had you ?”
pursued Mrs. Carlyle, somewhat abruptly.
At least, the question fell with abruptness upon the ear of Lady
Isabel, for she was not prepared for it. What should she answer ? In
her perplexity she stammered forth the actual truth.
"Three. "And — and a baby. That died. Died an infant, I
mean."


CHANGE AND CHANGE.
307
“To lose four dear children ! " uttered 'Barbara, with sympathizing
pity. “What did they die of?”
A hesitating pause. “Some of one thing, some of another," was the
answer, given in almost an inaudible tone.
“ Did they die before your husband? Otherwise the grief must have
been worse to bear.”
“The-baby-died after him," stammered Lady Isabel, as she wiped
the dew from her pale forehead.
Barbara detected her emotion, and felt sorry to have made the in-
quiries : she judged it was caused by the recollection of her children.
“ Mrs. Latimer wrote us word you were of gentle birth and breed-
ing," she resumed, presently. “I am sure you will excuse my asking
these particular questions," Barbara added, in a tone of apology, “but
this is our first interview ; our preliminary interview, it may in a
measure be called, for we could not say much by letter."
“I was born and reared a gentlewoman,” answered Lady Isabel.
“ Yes, I am sure of it : there is no mistaking the tone of a gentle-
woman,” said Barbara. “How sad it is when pecuniary reverses fall
upon us ! I dare say you never thought to go out as a governess."
A half smile positively crossed her lips. She, think to go out as a
governess !—the Earl of Mount Severn's only child ! " Oh no, never,"
she said, in reply.
“ Your husband, I fear, could not leave you well off. Mrs. Latimer
said something to that effect."
“When I lost him I lost all," was the answer. And Mrs. Carlyle
was struck with the wailing pain betrayed in the tone. At that moment
a maid entered.
“Nurse says the baby is undressed, and quite ready for you, ma'am,”
she said, addressing her mistress.
Mrs. Carlyle rose, but hesited as she was moving away.
“I will have the baby here to-night," she said to the girl. “Tell
nurse to put a shawl round him and bring him down. It is the hour
for my baby's supper,” she smiled, turning to Lady Isabel. “I may as
well have him here for once, as Mr. Carlyle is out. Sometimes I am
out myself, and then he has to be fed.”
“ You do not stay indoors for the baby, then?”
“ Certainly not. If I and Mr. Carlyle have to be out in the evening
baby gives way. I should never give up my husband for my baby ;
never, dearly as I love him.”
The nurse came in. Wilson. She unfolded a shawl, and placed the
baby on Mrs. Carlyle's lap. A proud, fine, fair young baby, who
reared his head and opened wide his great blue eyes, and beat his arms
at the lights of the chandelier, as no baby of nearly six months old
ever did yet. So thought Barbara. He was in his clean white night-
gown and nightcap, with their pretty crimped frills and border ;
altogether a pleasant sight to look upon. She had once jat in that
very chair, with a baby as fair upon her knee : but all that was past
and gone. She leaned her hot head upon her hand, and a rebellious
sigh of envy went forth from her aching heart.
Wilson, the curious, was devouring her with her eyes ; Wilson was
thinking she never saw such a mortal fright as the new governess.


CHANGE AND CHANGE.
309
Mr. Carlyle came forward and saw her. He looked somewhat sur-
prised. “Madame Vine," said Barbara ; and he held out his hand and
welcomed her in the same cordial, pleasant manner that his wife had
done. She put her shaking hand in his : there was no help for it :
little thought Mr. Carlyle that that hand had been tenderly clasped in
his a thousand times; that it was the one pledged to him at the altar
at Castle Marling.
She sat down on her chair again, unable to stand, feeling as though
every drop of blood within her had left her body. It had certainly
left her face. Mr. Carlyle made a few civil inquiries as to her journey,
but she did not dare to raise her eyes to him, as she breathed forth the
answers.
“ You are home soon, Archibald,” Barbara exclaimed. “I did not
expect you so early. I did not think you could get away. I know
what the justices' annual dinner at the Buck's Head is; they always
make it late.”
“As they will to-night,” laughed Mr. Carlyle. “I watched my op-
portunity, and came away when the pipes were brought in: I had
determined to do so, if possible. Dill—who means to sit it out with
the best of them-has his tale ready when they miss me: 'Suddenly
called away: important business : could not be helped.'”
Barbara laughed also. “Was papa there?"
“Of course. He took the head of the table. What would the dinner
be without the chairman of the bench, Barbara ?”
“Nothing at all, in papa's opinion,” merrily said Barbara. “Did
you ask him how mamma was?”
"I asked him," said Mr. Carlyle. And there he stopped.
“Well ?” cried Barbara. “What did he say?"
“Full of nervous fidgets,' was the answer he made me,” returned
Mr. Carlyle, with an arch look at his wife. “It was all I could get out
of him."
“That is just like papa. Archibald, do you know what I have been
thinking to-day ?".
“A great many foolish things, I dare say," he answered : but his tone
was a fond one: all too palpably so for one ear.
“No, but listen. You know papa is going to London with Squire
Pinner, to see those new agricultural implements—or whatever it is.
They are sure to be away three days. Don't you think so ?”
“And three more added to them,” said Mr. Carlyle, with a wicked
smile upon his lips. “When old gentlemen plunge into the attractions
of London, there's no answering for their getting out of them in a hurry,
country justices especially. Well, Barbara ?”
“ I was thinking if we could only persuade mamma to come to us for
the time he is away. It would be a delightful little change for her ; a
break in her monotonous life.”
“I wish you could do so," warmly spoke Mr. Carlyle. “Her life,
since you left, is a monotonous one; though, in her gentle patience, she
will not say so. It is a happy thought, Barbara, and I only hope it may
be carried out. Mrs. Carlyle's mother is an invalid, and lonely, for she
has no child at home with her now," he added, in a spirit of politeness.
addressing himself to Madame Vine.


THE YEARNING OF A BREAKING HEART. 311
“Of whom?"
“ Her face, I mean," he said, still dreaming.
“So little can be seen of it," returned Mrs. Carlyle. “Of whom does
she put you in mind ? ”
“ I don't know ; no one in particular," returned he, rousing himself.
“ Let us have tea in, Barbara.”
CHAPTER III.
THE YEARNING OF A BREAKING HEART.
At her bedroom door, the next morning, stood Lady Isabel, listening
whether the coast was clear, ere she descended to the grey parlour, for
she had a shrinking dread of encountering Mr. Carlyle. When he was
glancing narrowly at her face the previous evening, she had felt the
gaze, and it impressed upon her a dread of his recognition. Not only
that: he was the husband of another; therefore it was not expedient
that she should see too much of him, for he was far dearer to her heart
than he had ever been.
Almost at the same moment, there burst out of a remote room, the
nursery, a fair, upright noble boy of some five years old, who began
careering along the corridor, astride on a hearth-broom. She needed
not to be told that it was her boy, Archibald ; his likeness to Mr.
Carlyle would have proclaimed it, even if her heart had not done so.
In an impulse of unrestrainable tenderness, she seized the child as he
was galloping past her, and carried him into her room, broom and all.
“You must let me make acquaintance with you,” said she to him, by
way of excuse. “ I love little boys.”
Love! Down she sat upon a low chair, the child held upon her lap,
kissing him passionately, tears raining from her eyes. She could not
have helped the tears, had it been to save her life; she could as little
have helped the kisses. Lifting her eyes, there stood Wilson, who had
entered without ceremony. A sick feeling came over Lady Isabel :
she felt as if she had betrayed herself. All that could be done now,
was to make the best of it ; to offer some lame excuse. What possessed
her, thus to forget herself?
“He put me in remembrance of my own children,” she said to
Wilson, gulping down her emotion, and hiding her tears in the best
manner she could ; whilst the astonished Archibald, now released,
stood with his finger in his mouth and stared at her spectacles, his
great blue eyes opened to their utmost width. “When we have lost
children of our own, we are apt to love fondly all we come near."
Wilson, who stared only in a less degree than Archie, for she
thought the new governess had gone suddenly mad, gave some voluble
assent, and turned her attention upon Archie.
“ You naughty young monkey, how dare you rush out in that way
with Sarah's hearth-broom? I'll tell you what it is, sir ; you are get
ting too owdacious and rumbustical for the nursery ; I shall speak to
your mamma about it."


312
EAST LYNNE.
She seized the child and shook him. Lady Isabel started forward,
her hands up, her voice one of painful entreaty.
“Oh, don't, don't beat him ! I cannot see him beaten."
“ Beaten ! " echoed Wilson ;“ if he had a good beating it would be all
the better for him ; but it's what he never does have. A little shake, or
a tap, is all I must give : and it's not half enough. You wouldn't
believe the sturdy impudence of that boy, madame; he runs riot, he
does. The other two never gave a quarter of the trouble. Come
along, you figure! I'll have a bolt put at the top of the nursery door!
-And if I did, he'd be for climbing up the door-post to get at it.”
The last sentence Wilson delivered to the governess, as she jerked
Archie out of the room, along the passage and into the nursery.
Lady Isabel sat down with a wrung heart, a chafed spirit. Her own
child ! and she might not say to the servant, you shall not beat him!
She descended to the grey parlour. The two elder children, and
breakfast, were waiting : Joyce left the room when she entered it.
A graceful girl of eight years old, a fragile boy a year younger,
both bearing her own once lovely features, her once bright and deli-
cate complexion, her large, soft brown eyes. How utterly her heart
yearned to them ! but there must be no scene as there had just been
above. Nevertheless, she stooped and kissed them both; one kiss
each of impassioned fervour. Lucy was naturally silent, William some-
what talkative.
“ You are our new governess," said he.
“ Yes. We must be good friends."
“Why not?” said the boy. “We were good friends with Miss
Manning. I am to go into Latin soon; as soon as my cough's gone.
Do you know Latin ?”
“ No. Not to teach it,” she said, studiously avoiding all endearing
epithets.
“Papa said you would be almost sure not to know Latin, for that
ladies rarely did. He said he should send up Mr. Kane to teach me."
“Mr. Kane?" repeated Lady Isabel, the name striking upon her
memory. “Mr. Kane the music-master ?”
“How did you know he was a music-master ? " cried shrewd William.
And Lady Isabel felt the red blood flush to her face at the unlucky
admission she had made. It flushed deeper at her own falsehood,
and she murmured some evasive words about hearing of him from
Mrs. Latimer.
“Yes, he is a music-master ; but he does not get much money by it,
and he teaches the classics as well. He has come up to teach us music
since Miss Manning left : mamma said that we ought not to lose our
lessons."
Mamma! How the word, applied to Barbara, grated on her ear.
“ Whom does he teach ?" she asked.
“Us two,” replied William, pointing to his sister and himself.
“Do you always take bread and milk for breakfast ? ” she inquired,
perceiving it to be what they were eating,
“We grow tired of it sometimes, and then we have milk and water
and bread and butter, or honey : and then we take to bread and milk
again. It's Aunt Cornelia who thinks we should eat bread and milk


THE YEARNING OF A BREAKING HEART.
313
for breakfast: she says papa never had anything else when he was a
boy."
Lucy looked up. “Papa would give me an egg when I breakfasted
with him," cried she, “and Aunt Cornelia said it was not good for me,
but papa gave it me all the same. I always had breakfast with him
then."
“And why do you not now?” asked Lady Isabel.
“I don't know. I have not since mamma came.”
The word “stepmother” rose up rebelliously in the heart of Lady
Isabel. Was Mrs. Carlyle putting away the children from their father?
Breakfast over, she gathered them to her, asking them various
questions; about their studies, their hours of recreation, the routine
of their daily lives.
“This is not the schoolroom, you know," cried William, when she
made some inquiry as to their books.
“No?”
“The schoolroom is upstairs. This is for our meals, and for you in
an evening.”
Mr. Carlyle's voice was heard at this juncture in the hall, and Lucy
was springing towards the sound. Lady Isabel, fearful lest he might
enter, if the child showed herself, stopped her with a hurried hand.
“Stay here, Isabel."
“Her name's Lucy,” said William, looking quickly up. “Why do
you call her Isabel ? "
“I thought-thought I had heard her called Isabel,” stammered
the unfortunate lady, feeling quite confused with the errors she was
committing.
“My name is Isabel Lucy,” said the child,“ but I don't know who
could have told you, for I am never called Isabel. I have not been,
since-since-Shall I tell you? Since mamma went away," she
concluded, dropping her voice. “ Mamma that was, you know.”
“Did she go?” cried Lady Isabel, full of emotion, and possessing a
very faint idea of what she was saying.
“She was kidnapped,” whispered Lucy.
“ Kidnapped I” was the surprised answer.
“Yes; or she would not have gone. There was a wicked man on
a visit to papa, and he stole her. Wilson said she knew he was a
kidnapper, before he took mamma. Papa said I was never to be
called Isabel again, but Lucy. Isabel was mamma's name."
“How do you know your papa said it ? ” dreamily returned Lady
Isabel.
“I heard him. He said it to Joyce, and Joyce told the servants.
I put only Lucy to my copies. I did put Isabel Lucy, but papa saw
it one day, and he drew his pencil through Isabel, and told me to
show it to Miss Manning. After that, Miss Manning let me put
nothing but Lucy. I asked her why, and she told me papa preferred
the name, and that I was not to ask questions.”
She could not well stop the child, but every word was rending her
heart.
“ Lady Isabel was our very own mamma,” pursued Lucy. “This
mamma is not."


THE YEARNING OF A BREAKING HEART.
315
trepidation she entangled her feet in her petticoats ; and, in attempting
to jump, would have fallen, had not Mr. Carlyle caught her in his arms.
“ You are not hurt, I trust !” he exclaimed, in his kindly manner.
“I beg your pardon, sir ; my foot caught in my dress. Oh no, I am
not hurt. Thank you."
He walked forward and took his wife upon his arm, who had turned
to wait for him. Lady Isabel lingered behind, striving to still her
beating heart.
They were at tea in the grey parlour, she and the two children,
when William was seized with a fit of coughing. It was long and
violent. Lady Isabel left her seat ; she had drawn him to her, and
was hanging over him with unguarded tenderness, when, happening
to lift her eyes, they fell upon Mr. Carlyle. He had been descending
the stairs, on his way from his dressing-room, heard the cough, and
came in. Had Lady Isabel been killing the boy, she could not have
dropped him more suddenly
“You possess a natural love for children, I perceive,” he said, look-
ing at her with his sweet smile.
She did not know what she answered : some confused, murmured
words. If Mr. Carlyle made sense of them, he was clever. Into the
darkest corner of the room retreated she.
“What is the matter ?" interrupted Mrs. Carlyle, looking in. She
also had been descending, and was in her dinner dress. Mr. Carlyle
had the boy on his own knee then.
“William's cough is troublesome. I don't like it, Barbara. I shall
have Wainwright up again.”
“ It's nothing,” said Barbara. “He was at his tea : perhaps a crumb
went the wrong way. Dinner is waiting, Archibald.”
Mr. Carlyle put the boy down, but stood for a minute looking at
him. The cough over, he was pale and exhausted, all his brilliant
colour gone. It was too brilliant, as Afy had said. Mrs. Carlyle en-
twined her arm within her husband's, but turned her head to speak as
they were walking away.
“You will come into the drawing-room by-and-by with Miss Lucy,
Madame Vine. We wish to hear you play."
Miss Lucy! And it was spoken in the light of a command. Well ?
Barbara was Mrs. Carlyle, and she was—what she was. Once more
she drew to her her first-born son, and laid her aching forehead upon
him.
“Do you cough at night, my darling child ?”
“ Not much," he answered. “Joyce puts me some jam by the bed-
side, and if I have a fit of coughing, I eat that. It's black currant."
“He means jelly," interposed Lucy, her mouth full of bread and
butter. “ It is black currant jelly."
“ Yes, jelly," said William. “It's all the same."
“Does any one sleep in your room?" she inquired of him.
“No. I have a room to myself.”
She fell into deep thought, wondering whether they would allow a
little bed to be put into her room for him, wondering whether she might
dare to ask it. Who could watch over him and attend to him as she
would ? In this one day's intercourse with William, she had become


316
EAST LYNNE.
aware that he was possessed of that precocious intellect which too
frequently attends weakness of body. He had the sense of a boy of
fourteen, instead of one of seven : his conversation betrayed it.
“ Understands more than's good for a child,” say old wives, as they
look and listen, coupling their remark with another : “he'll never
live."
“Should you like to sleep in my room ? " asked Lady Isabel.
“I don't know. Why should I sleep in your room ?'”
“ I could attend to you ; could give you jelly, or anything else you
might require, if you were to cough in the night. I would love you,
I would be tender with you as your own mamma could have been."
“ Mamma did not love us," cried he. “ Had she loved us she would
not have left us."
“She did love us,” exclaimed Lucy, somewhat fiercely. "Joyce
says she did, and I remember it. It wasn't her fault that she was
kidnapped.”
“You be quiet, Lucy : girls know nothing about things. Mam-
ma- "
“ Child, child,” interposed Lady Isabel, the scalding tears filling her
eyes, “ your mamma did love you : loved you dearly : loved you, as
she could never love anything again."
“You can't tell that, Madame Vine," persisted William, disposed to
be resolute. “ You were not here : you did not know mamma.”
“I am sure she must have loved you,” was all Madame Vine dared
to answer. “ I have been here only a day, and I have learnt to love
you. I love you already, very, very much."
She pressed her lips to his hot cheek as she spoke, and the
rebellious tears would not be restrained, but fell on it also.
“Why do you cry?” asked William.
“I once," she answered, in a low tone, “ lost a dear little boy like
you, and I am so glad to have you to replace him: I have had
nothing to love since."
“What was his name?” cried curious William.
“William.” But the word was scarcely out of her lips before she
thought how foolish she was to say it.
“William Vine," cogitated the boy. “Did he speak French or
English ? His papa was French, was he not ?"
"He spoke English. But you have not finished your tea," she
added, finding the questions were becoming close.
It was Barbara's custom, when they were at home, to leave Mr.
Carlyle at the dessert-table and to go up for a few minutes to her
baby, before entering the drawing-room. As she was descending this
evening, she saw Lucy, who was peeping out of the grey parlour.
“May we come in now, mamma?"
“ Yes. Ask Madame Vine to bring in some music.”
Madame Vine, delaying as long as she dared, arrived at the drawing-
room door at an inopportune moment, for Mr. Carlyle was just coming
from the dining-room. She paused when she saw him : her first
impulse was to retreat ; but he looked round and appeared to wait for
her. Lucy had already gone in.
"Madame Vine," he began, his hand upon the door handle, and his


318
EAST LYNNE.
“ I know it,” bluntly replied the justice. “When our girls were young,
Anne and Barbara, my wife must needs have a French maid for 'em :
after that, she must have a French governess. I was dubious about it.
'She'll turn us all papists,' said I, 'and require frogs to be served up
for her dinner.' But Mrs. Hare represented that the girls must learn
French, like other folks, and I let one come. Two years and some
months she stopped, and— ”
“And what, sir ?"
“Well, it's not just drawing-room talk. I had a brother staying
with us most of the time, a post-captain in the navy. On the sick-list;
he was invalided for three years. And we found them out. From
nearly the first day that French madmoselle put her foot inside our
door, up to the day I cleared her out of it, a nice game they had been
carrying on. It gave Mrs. Hare a sickener for French jesuits of
governesses, and I told her she was just served right. When I heard
that Mrs. Carlyle had engaged a madmoselle for these children at East
Lynne, I said she wanted her ears boxed.”
“But, papa, I told you then that Madame Vine was English, not
French."
The justice growled some answer, and continued his narrative to
Madame Vine.
“I gave it my brother right and left ; in fact, the quarrel we had
then may be said to have lasted his life, for he never forgave me. He
returned to service, and got his flag early. But he died close upon it,
and left all his money to Barbara. Like the donkey that he was."
“The effects of the quarrel, you see, papa,” laughingly said Barbara ;
the justice thought, saucily,
“You are in Carlyle's hands now, and not in mine, or I'd ten you
what I think of that speech, ma'am," was the grim retort to Barbara,
as the justice once more turned to Madame Vine.
“You must have seen some of the pranks of these French madmo-
selles, these governesses !”
“Not very much. I have not been brought into contact with them.
I am English, as I tell you."
“And a good thing for you, ma'am, I should say,” returned the
justice, in his bluntness. “But the mistake was natural, you must
see. Being called by a French name, and living in France, or some of
those outlandish places over the water, one could only take you for
French. If I set up my quarters in France, and called myself Mosseer,
I'd forgive the verºr dickens himself if he mistook me for a French
frog."
Lucy clapped her hands, and laughed in merriment.
“ You may laugh, Miss Lucy : but I can tell you, you'd have been
changed into a frog, or something worse, if they had turned you over
to a French madmoselle. If your poor mother hadn't had a French
madmoselle of a governess in the first years of her life, she'd never
have—have--"
“Have—what?” said Lucy, who was staring with all her might at
Justice Hare.
“Done as she did. There! It's out. Barbara, what's this nonsense
that you have been putting into your mamma's head ?"


'THE YEARNING OF A BREAKİNG HEART.
319
“I don't know what you mean, papa. I and Archibald want her to
be with us while you are in London : if you allude to that.”
“And are determined to have her, justice," put in Mr. Carlyle.
“Even though we should have to make a night assault on the Grove,
and carry her off by storm."
“The Grove, yes," growled Justice Hare. “Much either Barbara or
yoy care what becomes of that. A pretty high life below stairs there
would be, with the master and mistress both away! You young ones
have no more consideration about you than so many calves."
“Oh, papa, how can you fancy such things ? " uttered Barbara.
“The Grove would be just as safe and quiet without you and mamma,
as with you. The servants are all steady, and have been with us a
long time.”
"If you want your mamma here for more than a day, why can't you
get her to come when I am at home ?"
“Because she will not leave you; you know that, papa. If you are
at home, she will be there too. I am sure there never was such a
pattern wife as mamma. If Archibald finds me only half as good a one,
in years to come, he may think himself lucky.”
The above remark was accompanied by a glance at Mr. Carlyle,
meant to express saucy independence : but her deep love shone out in
spite of herself. Mr. Carlyle lifted his drooping eyelids, and smiled
as he nodded to her.
“Papa, you always have your own way, but you must allow us to
have ours for once. Mamma wishes to come to us : she gave quite a
glad start when I proposed it to-day : and you must be kind enough
not to oppose it. The house and servants will go on swimmingly; I'll
answer for it.”
“Rather too swimmingly” cried Justice Hare.
“She requires a change, sir," said Mr. Carlyle. “Think what your
wife's inward life is.”
“Fretting after that vagabond! Whose fault is it? Why does she
do so ?"
“She has been a good and loving wife to you, sir."
“I didn't say she hadn't.”
“Then encourage her to take this little holiday. The change of
coming here for a few days will do her good ; Barbara's society will
do her good : remember how fond Mrs. Hare is of her.”
“A great deal fonder than Barbara deserves," retorted the justice.
“She's as saucy as she can be now she thinks she's beyond my
correction."
“She's not beyond mine," said Mr. Carlyle, quite gravely. “I assure
you, justice, I keep her in order."
“I know," cried the justice, his tone somewhat rough. “You'd kill her
with indulgence, before you'd keep her in order. That's you, Carlyle ?”
The justice thought ne could take a glass of ale, and some was
brought in. During the slight stir occasioned by this, Lady Isabel
slipped round to Mrs. Carlyle. “Might she retire? She believed she
was not wanted,” and Mrs. Carlyle graciously acceded to the request.
An evening to herself in the grey parlour. A terrible evening ; one
made up of remorse, grief, rebellion, and bitter repentance : repentance


THEN YOU'LL REMEMBER ME.
321
the opportunity to go and sit a few minutes with the governess. She
feared that governess must be very lonely. Miss Carlyle, scorning
usage and ceremony, had remained in the dining-room with Mr.
Carlyle, a lecture for him, upon some defalcation or other, most
probably in store. Lady Isabel was alone. Lucy had gone to keep
a birthday in the neighbourhood, and William was in the nursery.
Mrs. Hare found her in a sad attitude, her hands pressed upon hér
temples. She had not yet made acquaintance with her beyond a
formal introduction.
“I am sorry to hear you are not well this evening," she gently said.
“ Thank you. My head aches much,”—which was no false plea.
“I fear you must feel your solitude irksome. It is dull for you to be
here alone.”
“ I am so used to solitude."
Mrs. Hare sat down, and gazed with sympathy at the young, though
somewhat strange-looking woman before her; she detected the signs
of mental suffering on her face. “ You have seen sorrow,” she uttered,
bending forward and speaking with the utmost sweetness.
“Oh, great sorrow," burst from Lady Isabel, for her wretched fate
was very palpable to her mind that evening, and the tone of sympathy
rendered it almost irrepressible.
“My daughter tells me that you have lost your children ; that you
have lost your fortune and position. Indeed, I feel for you. I wish I
could comfort you !”.
This did not decrease her anguish. She completely lost all self-
control, and a gush of tears fell from her eyes. “Don't pity me! don't
pity me, dear Mrs. Hare : indeed, it only makes endurance harder.
Some of us,” she added, looking up with a sickly smile, “are born to
sorrow.”
“We are all born to it," cried Mrs. Hare. “I, in truth, have cause
to say so. Oh, you know not what my portion has been—the terrible
weight of grief that I have to bear. For many years, I can truly say
that I have not known one completely happy moment."
“All have not to bear this killing sorrow," said Lady Isabel.
“ Rely upon it, sorrow of some nature comes sooner or later to all.
In the brightest lot on earth dark days must be mixed. Not that there
is a doubt but that it falls unequally. Some, as you observe, seem born
to it, for it clings to them all their days : others are more favoured.
As we reckon favour : perhaps this great amount of trouble is no more
than is necessary to take us to heaven. You know the saying ;
'Adversity hardens the heart, or opens it to Paradise. It may be,
that our hearts are so hard, that the long-continued life's trouble is
necessary to soften them. My dear,” Mrs. Hare added, in a lower
tone, while the tears glistened on her pale cheeks, “ there will be a
blessed rest for the weary, when this toilsome life is ended : let us find
comfort in that thought.”
“Ay! ay !” murmured Lady Isabel. “It is all that is left to
me.”
“You are young to have acquired so much experience in sorrow."
“We cannot estimate sorrow by years. We may live a whole life-
time of it in a single hour. But we generally bring ill fate upon our..
Last Lynne.
21


322
EAST LYNNE.
selves,” she continued, in the desperation of remorse. “As our conduct
is, so will our happiness or misery be.”
“Not always," sighed Mrs. Hare. “Sorrow,' I grant you, comes all
too frequently from ill-doing : but the worst is, that the consequences
of this wrong doing fall upon the innocent as well as upon the guilty.
A husband's errors will involve his innocent wife; the sins of the
parents will fall upon their children ; children will break the hearts of
their parents. I can truly say-speaking in all humble submission-
that I am unconscious of having deserved the great sorrow which came
upon me; that no act of mine invited it ; but, though it has nearly
killed me, I entertain no doubt that it is lined with mercy, if I could
only bring my weak, rebellious heart to search for it. You, I feel sure,
have been equally undeserving.”
Mrs. Hare did not mark the Aush of shame, the drooping of the eye-
lids.
“ You have lost your little ones,” Mrs. Hare resumed. “This is grief :
great grief; I would not underrate it ; but believe me it is as nothing
compared with the awful fate of finding your children grow up and
become that which makes you wish they had died in their infancy.
There are times when I am tempted to regret that all my treasures are
not in the next world : that they have not gone before me. Yes ;
sorrow is the lot of all.”.
“Surely not of all,” dissented Lady Isabel. “ There are some bright
lots on earth.”
“There is not a lot, but must bear its appointed burden,” returned
Mrs. Hare. “ Bright as it may appear, ay, and as it may continue to
be for years, depend upon it some darkness must overshadow it earlier
or later."
“Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle—what sorrow can there be in store for
them ?” asked Lady Isabel, her voice ringing with a strange sound :
which Mrs. Hare noted, though she understood it not.
“Mrs. Carlyle's lot is bright,” she said, a sweet smile illumining her
features. “She loves her husband with an impassioned love; and he
is worthy of it. A happy fate indeed is hers ; but she must not expect
to be exempted from sorrow. Mr. Carlyle has had his share of it,"
concluded Mrs. Hare.
“Ah!"
“You have doubtless been made acquainted with his history. His
first wife left him ; left her home and her children. He bore it bravely
before the world ; but I know that it wrung his very heart-strings.
She was his heart's early idol."
“She! Not Barbara ?”
The moment the word “ Barbara " had escaped her lips, Lady Isabel
recollected herself. She was only Madame Vine, the governess : what
would Mrs. Hare think of her familiarity ?
Mrs. Hare did not appear to have noticed it : she was absorbed in.
the subject. “Barbara ?" she uttered : “ certainly not. Had his first
love been given to Barbara, he would have chosen her then. It was
given to Lady Isabel.”
“ It is given to his wife now."
Mrs. Hare nearly laughed. “Of course it is : would you wish it to


THEN YOU'LL REMEMBER ME.
323
be buried in the grave with the dead ?-and with one who was false
to him? But, my dear, she was the sweetest woman, that unfortunate
Lady Isabel. I loved her then, and I cannot help loving her still.
Others blamed, but I pitied her. They were well matched : he, so
good and noble; she, so lovely and endearing.”
“And she left him ; threw him to the winds, with all his nobility
and love !” exclaimed that poor governess, with a gesture of the hands,
that looked very like despair.
“Yes. It will not do to talk of it: it is a miserable subject. How
she could abandon such a husband, such children, was a marvel to
many; but to none more than it was to me and my daughter. The
false step-though I feel almost afraid to speak out the thought, lest it
may appear to savour of triumph-while it must have secured her own
wretchedness, led to the happiness of my child ; for it is pretty certain
Barbara would never have loved another as she loves Mr. Carlyle."
“ You think it did secure wretchedness to her ? " cried Lady Isabel,
her tone one of bitter mockery, more than anything else.
Mrs. Hare was surprised at the question. “No woman ever took that
step yet, without its entailing on her the direst wretchedness," she
replied.“ It cannot be otherwise. And Lady Isabel was of a nature
to feel remorse, to meet it half way. Refined, modest, with every feeling
of an English gentlewoman, she was the very last one would have
expected to act so. It was as if she had gone away in a dream, not
knowing what she was doing : I have thought so many a time. That
terrible mental wretchedness and remorse did overtake her, I know.”
“How did you know it ? Did you hear it ? " exclaimed Lady Isabel,
her tone all too eager, had Mrs. Hare been suspicious. “Did he pro-
claim that-Francis Levison? Did you hear it from him ?”
Mrs. Hare, gentle Mrs. Hare, drew herself up, for the words grated
on her feelings and on her pride. Another moment, and she was mild
and kind again, for she reflected that that poor sorrowful governess
must have spoken without thought.
“ I know not what Sir Francis Levison may have chosen to proclaim,"
she said, “but you may be sure he would not be allowed an opportunity
to proclaim anything to me, or to any other friend of Mr. Carlyle's : nay,
I should say, nor to any one good and honourable. I heard it from
Lord Mount Severn."
“From Lord Mount Severn!” repeated Lady Isabel. And she
opened her lips to say something more, but closed them again.
“ He was here on a visit in the summer; he stayed a fortnight. Lady
Isabel was the daughter of the late earl—perhaps you may not have
known that. He-Lord Mount Severn-told me, in confidence, that he
had sought out Lady Isabel when the man, Levison, left her : he found
her sick, poor, broken-hearted, in some remote French town, utterly
borne down with remorse and repentance.”
“ Could it be otherwise ?" sharply asked Lady Isabel.
“My dear, I have said it could not. The very thought of her deserted
children would entail it, if nothing else did. There was a baby born
abroad,” added Mrs. Hare, dropping her voice, “an infant in its cradle
then, Lord Mount Severn said: but that child, we know, could only
bring pain and shame.”


324
EAST LYNNE. .
" True,” issued from her trembling lips.
“ Next, came her death : and I can only think it was sent to her in
mercy. I trust she was prepared for it, and had made her peace with
God. When all else is taken from us, we turn to Him : I hope she had
learned to find the Refuge."
“How did Mr. Carlyle receive the news of her death ? " murmured
Lady Isabel, a question which had been often in her thoughts.
“ I cannot tell : he made no outward sign, either of satisfaction or
grief. It was too delicate a subject for any one to enter upon with him,
and most assuredly he did not enter upon it himself. After he was
engaged to my child, he told me that he should never have married
during Lady Isabel's life.”
“From-from-the remains of affection ?"
“I should think not. I inferred it to be from conscientious scruples.
All his affection is given to his present wife. There is no doubt that he
loves her with a true, a fervent, a lasting love : though there perhaps
was more romantic sentiment in the early passion felt for Lady Isabel.
Poor thing! she gave up a sincere heart, a happy home."
Ay, poor thing! She had very nearly wailed forth her vain despair.
“ I wonder whether the drawing-room is tenanted yet," smiled Mrs.
Hare, breaking a pause which had ensued. “If so, I suppose they will
be expecting me there."
"I will ascertain for you," said Lady Isabel, speaking in the impulse
of the moment : for she was craving an instant to herself, even though
it were but in the hall.
She left the grey parlour and approached the drawing-room. Not
a sound came from it; and believing it to be empty, she opened the
door and looked cautiously in.
Quite empty. The fire blazed, the chandelier was lighted, but no one
was enjoying the warmth or the light. From the inner room, however,
came the sound of the piano, and the tones of Mr. Carlyle's voice. She
recognized the chords of the music : they were those of the accompani-
ment to the song he had so loved when she sang it to him. Who was
about to sing it to him now?
Lady Isabel stole across the drawing-room to the other door, which
was ajar. Barbara was seated at the piano, and Mr. Carlyle stood by
her, his arm on her chair, and bending his face to a level with hers,
possibly to look at the music. So, once had stolen, so, once had peeped
the unhappy Barbara, to hear this self-same song. She had been his
wife then; she had received his kisses when it was over. Their positions
were reversed.
Barbara began. Her voice had not the brilliant power of Lady
Isabel's, but it was a sweet and pleasant voice to listen to.
“When other lips and other hearts
Their tales of love shall tell,
In language whose excess imparts
The power they feel so well.
There may, perhaps, in such a scene
Some recollection be,
Of days that have as happy been
And you'll remember me."


THEN YOU'LL REMEMBER ME.
325
Days that had as happy been! Ay. Did he remember her ?
Did a thought of her, his first and best love, flit across him, as the
words fell on his ear? Did a past vision of the time when she sat
there and sang it to him, arouse his heart to even a momentary
recollection ?
Terribly, indeed, were their positions reversed; most terribly was
she feeling it. And by whose act and will had the change been
wrought ? Barbara was now the honoured and cherished wife, East
Lynne's mistress. And what was she? Not even the welcomed
guest of an hour, as Barbara had then been : but an interloper ; a
criminal woman who had thrust herself into the house ; her act, in
doing so, not to be justified, her position a most false one. Was it
right, even if she should succeed in remaining undiscovered, that she
and Barbara should dwell in the same habitation, Mr. Carlyle being
in it? Did she deem it to be right? No, she did not : but one act of
ill-doing entails more. These thoughts were passing through her
mind as she stood there, listening to the song; stood there as one
turned to stone, her throbbing temples pressed against the pillar of the
door.
The song was over, and Barbara turned to her husband, a whole
world of love in her bright blue eyes. He laid his hand upon her head;
Lady Isabel saw that, but she would not wait to see the caress that
most probably followed it. She turned and crossed the room again,
her hands clasped tightly on her bosom, her breath catching itself
hysterically. Miss Carlyle was entering from the hall. They had
not yet met, and Lady Isabel swept meekly past her with a hurried
curtsey. Miss Carlyle spoke, but she dared not answer : to wait,
would have been to betray herself.
Sunday came, and that was the worst of all. In the old East Lynne
pew at St. Jude's, so conspicuous to the congregation, sat she, as in
former times : no excuse dared she, the governess, make, for remaining
away. It was the first time she had entered an English Protestant
church since she had last sat in it, there, wita Mr. Carlyle. That
fact alone, with all the terrible remembrances it brought in its train,
was sufficient to overwhelm her with emotion. She sat at the upper
end now, with Lucy ; Barbara occupied the place that had been hers,
by the side of Mr. Carlyle. Barbara there, in lier own right, his wife :
she, severed from him for ever and for ever!
She scarcely raised her head : she tightenec. her thick veil over her
face; she kept her spectacles bent towards the ground. Lucy thought
she must be crying : she had never seen any one so still at church
before. Lucy was mistaken : tears come not to solace the bitter
anguish of hopeless, self-condemning remorse. How she sat out the
service, she could not tell : she could not tell how she should sit out
other services, as the Sundays came round. The congregation did not
forget to stare at her : what an extraordinary-looking governess Mrs.
Carlyle had picked up!
They went out when it was over. Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle in advance ;
she, humbly following them, with Lucy. She glanced aside at the
tomb in the churchyard corner, where mouldered the remains of her
father; and a yearning cry went forth from the very depth of her


326
EAST LYNNE.
soul. “Oh, that I were laid there with him! Why did I come back
again to East Lynne?”
Why, truly? But she had never thought that her cross would be so
sharp as this.
CHAPTER V.
AN M.P. FOR WEST LYNNE.
As this is not a history of the British constitution, it is not necessary
to relate how or why West Lynne fell into hot water with the House
of Commons. The House threatened to disenfranchise it, and West
Lynne, under the fear, went in mourning for its sins. The threat
was not carried out ; but one of the members was unseated with
ignominy, and sent to the right-about. Being considerably humiliated
thereby, and in disgust with West Lynne, he retired accordingly, and
a fresh writ was issued. West Lynne then returned the Honourable
John Attley, a county nobleman's son, but he died in the very midst
of his first session, and another writ had to be issued.
Of course, the consideration now was, who should be the next can:
didate. All the notables within ten miles were discussed, not excepting
the bench of justices. Mr. Justice Hare? No; he was too uncom-
promising; would study his own will, but not that of West Lynne.
Squire Pinner? He never made a speech in his life, and had not an
idea beyond turnips and farming stock. Colonel Bethel? He had no
money to spend upon an election. Sir John Dobede? He was too
old. “By a good twenty years,” laughed Sir John himself. “But here
we stand, like a pack of noodles, conning over the incapables, and
passing over the right one,” continued Sir John. “There's only one
man amongst us fit to be our member.”
“Who's that?” cried the meeting.
“ Archibald Carlyle.”
A pause of consternation : consternation at their forgetfulness; and
then a murmur of approbation, approaching to a shout, filled the room.
Archibald Carlyle. It should be no other.
“ If we can get him,” cried Sir John. “He may decline, you know.”
All agreed that the best thing was to act promptly. A deputation,
half the length of the street-its whole length, if you include the tagrag
and bobtail that attended-set off, on the spur of the moment, to the
office of Mr. Carlyle. They found that gentleman about to leave it for
the evening, to return home to dinner. For, in the discussion of the
all-important topic, the meeting had suffered time to run on to a late
hour. Those gentiemen who dined at a somewhat earlier one, had for
once in their lives patiently allowed their dinners to wait—which is
saying a great deal for the patience of a justice.
Mr. Carlyle was taken by surprise. “Make me your member?” cried
he merrily. “How do you know I should not sell you all ? ”
“We'll trust you, Carlyle. Too happy to do it.”
“I am not sure that I could spare the time," deliberated Mr. Carlyle.
“Now, Carlyle, you must remember that you avowed to me, no longer


AN M.P. FOR WEST LYNNË.
327
ago than last Christmas, your intention of going into parliament some
time,” struck in Mr. Justice Herbert. “You can't deny it."
“Some time !-yes,” replied Mr. Carlyle. “But I did not say when.
I have no thought of doing so at present.”
“ You must allow us to put you in nomination ; you must indeed,
Mr. Carlyle. There's no one else fit for it. As good send a pig to the
House, as some of us.”
“An extremely flattering reason for proposing to shift the honour
upon me,” laughed Mr. Carlyle.
“Well, you know what we mean, Carlyle. There's not a man in
the whole county so suitable as you, search it through as we might :
you must know there is not.”
“I don't know anything of the sort,” returned Mr. Carlyle.
“At any rate, we are determined to have you. When you walk
into West Lynne to-morrow, you'll see the walls alive with placards :
• Carlyle for ever!'".
“ Suppose you allow me until to-morrow to consider it, and defer
garnishing the walls until a day later,” said Mr. Carlyle, a serious
tone peeping out in the midst of his jocularity.
“ You do not fear the expense?”
It was only a glance he returned in answer. As soon as the question
had been put-it was stupid old Pinner who propounded it-they
had felt how foolish it was. And indeed the cost would be a mere
bagatelle, were there no opposition.
“Come, decide now, Carlyle. Give us your promise.”
“If I decide now, it will be in the negative,” replied Mr. Carlyle,
“ It is a question that demands consideration. Give me until to-morrow,
and it is possible that I may accede to your request.”
This was the best that could be made of him : the deputation
backed out, and, as nothing more could be done, departed to their
several dinner-tables. Mr. Dill, who had been present, remained
rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and casting admiring glances at
Mr. Carlyle.
“What's the matter, Dill ?” asked the latter. “You look as though
you were pleased at this movement, and assumed that I should
accept it.”
“And so you will, Mr. Archibald. And as to looking pleased, there's
not a man, woman, or child in West Lynne who won't be glad.”
“Don't make too sure of it, Dill.”
“Of what, sir ?-Of your becoming our member, or of the people
looking pleased ?”
“Of either,” laughed Mr. Carlyle.
He left the office to walk home, revolving the proposition as he
did so. That he had long thought of some time entering parliament
was certain ; though no definite period of the “when” had fixed itself
in his mind. He did not see why he should confine his days entirely
to toil, to the work of his calling. Pecuniary considerations did not
require it, for his realized property, combined with the fortune brought
by Barbara, was more than sufficient to meet the expenses of their
present style of living. Not that he had the least intention of giving
up his business ; it was honourable (as he conducted it) and lucrative;


328
EAST LYNNE.
and he really liked it: he would not have been condemned to lead an
idle life for the world. But there was no necessity for his being always
at it. Mr. Dill made as good a principal as he did, and-if length
of service and experience might be counted as anything—a better.
He could safely be left to manage, during the time it would be
necessary for Mr. Carlyle to be in London. He would rather repre-
sent west Lynne than any other spot on the face of the earth, no
matte vhat might be that other's importance; and as West Lynne
was now in want of a member, perhaps his opportunity had come.
That he would make a good and efficient public servant, he believed ;
his talents were great, his oratory was persuasive, and he had the
gift of a true and honest spirit. That he would have the interest of
West Lynne at heart, was certain, and he knew that he should serve
his constituents to the best of his power and ability. They knew it
also.
Before Mr. Carlyle had reached East Lynne, he had decided that it
should be.
It was a fine spring evening, for the months had gone on. The
lilac was in bloom, the hedges and trees were clothed in their early
green, all things seemed full of promise. Even Mr. Carlyle's heart was
rejoicing in the prospect opened to it: he was sure he should like a
public life. But, in the sanguine moments of realization or of hope,
some dark shadow will step in to mar the brightness.
Barbara stood at the drawing-room window watching for him. Not
in her was the dark shadow. Her dress was a marvel of vanity and
prettiness, and she had chosen to place on her fair hair a head-dress
of dainty lace. As if her hair required such adornment! She waltzed
up to Mr. Carlyle when he entered, and saucily held up her face, the
light of love dancing in her bright blue eyes.
"What do you want ?” he provokingly asked, putting his hands
behind him, and letting her stand there.
“Oh, well-if you won't say good evening to me! I have a great
mind to say you should not kiss me for a week, Archibald.”
He laughed. “Who would be most punished by that ? " whispered
he.
Barbara pouted her pretty lips, and tears positively came to her
eyes. “Which is as much as to say it would be no punishment to you.
Archibald ! don't you care for me?"
He threw his arms round her and clasped her to his heart, taking
plenty of kisses then. “ You know whether I care or not,” he fondly
whispered.
But now, will you believe that that unfortunate Lady Isabel had
been a witness to this? Well ? it was only what his greeting to her
had once been. Her pale face flushed scarlet, and she glided out of
the room again as softly as she had entered it. They had not seen
her. Mr. Carlyle drew his wife to the window, and stood there, his
arm round her waist.
“ Barbara, what should you say to living in London for a few months
out of the twelve ?"
“London ? I am very happy where I am. Why should you ask
me that? You are not going to live in London ?"


AN M.P. FOR WEST LYNNE.
329
“I am not sure of that. I think I am, for a portion of the year. I
have had an offer made me this afternoon, Barbara.”
She looked at him, wondering what he meant ; wondering whether
he was in earnest. An offer to him? What sort of an offer ? Of what
nature could it be?
He smiled at her perplexity. “Should you like to see M.P. attached
to my name ? West Lynne wants me to become its member."
A pause to take in the news ; a sudden rush of colour ; and then
she clasped her hands round his arm, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.
“Oh, Archibald, how glad I am! I knew you were appreciated ;
and you will be appreciated more and more. This is right : it was not
well for you to remain for life a private individual, a country lawyer."
“I am perfectly contented with my lot, Barbara,” he said seriously.
“I am too busy to be otherwise.”
“I know that were you toiling daily for the bread you eat, you would
be contented, feeling that you were fulfilling your appointed duty ; but,
Archibald, could you not still be a busy man at West Lynne, although
you should become its representative ?”
“If I could not, I would not accept the honour, Barbara For
some few months of the year, I must of necessity be in town, but Dill
is an efficient substitute; and I can run down for a week or so, be-
tween times. Part of Saturday, Sunday, and part of Monday I can
always pass here, if I please. Of course, these changes have their
drawbacks, as well as their advantages."
“Where would be the drawbacks in this instance ?" she interrupted.
“Well,” smiled Mr. Carlyle, “in the first place, I suppose you could
not always be with me."
Her hands fell; her colour faded. “Oh, Archibald !”
“If I do become their member, I must go up to town as soon as
elected : and I don't think it will do for my little wife to be quitting
her home to travel about just now.”
Barbara's face wore a very blank look. She could not dissent from
Mr. Carlyle's reasoning.
“And you must remain in London to the end of the session, while I
am here! Separated! Archibald,” she passionately added, while the
tears gushed into her eyes, “I could not live without you."
“Then what is to be done? Must I decline it?"
“ Decline it! Oh, of course not. I know : we are looking on the
dark side of things. I can accompany you very well for a month,
perhaps two."
“ You think so ?”
“I am sure so. And, mind ! you must not encourage mamma to
talk me out of it. Archibald," she continued, resting her head upon
his breast, her sweet face turned up beseechingly to his, “ you would
rather have me with you, would you not ?"
He bent his own down upon it. “What do you think about it, my
darling?"
Once more, an inopportune moment for her to enter-Lady Isabel.
Barbara heard her this time, and sprang away from her husband. Mr.
Carlyle turned round at the movement, and saw Madame Vine. She
came forward ; her lips ashy, her voice subdued.


330
EAST LYNNE.
She had now been six months at East Lynne, and had hitherto
escaped detection Time and familiarity render us accustomed to
most things ; to danger amongst the rest ; and she had almost ceased
to fear recognition. She and the children were upon the best terms :
she had greatly endeared herself to them, and they loved her : perhaps
nature was asserting her own hidden claims.
What of William ? William had been better through the winter,
but with the first blush of spring he had begun to fade again. He was
constantly weary, had frequent pain in his side, and his appetite failed.
Mr. Wainright attended him daily now. In the day he looked tolerably
well, for the exceeding beauty and brightness of his complexion dis-
armed suspicion ; but towards evening, so soon as twilight came on,
his illness showed itself outwardly. His face would become pallid,
he could scarcely speak from weakness, and his favourite resting-place
was the hearth-rug in the grey parlour. There he would lie down at
full length, a cushion under his head, and his eyes closed.
“My child,” Madame Vine would say to him, “you would be better
on the sofa."
“No. I like this."
“But, if I draw it quite close to the fire for you? Try it, William."
He did so for one or two evenings : and then the old place was
resumed, and he would not leave it again. He was lying there as usual
this evening when Hannah came in with the tea-things. She gazed
down for a minute or two at the boy, whom she supposed to be sleeping,
so still and full of repose did he look, and then turned to Madame Vine.
“ Poor child! he's one that's going fast on to his grave.”
The words utterly startled her. Daily familiarity with illness some-
times renders us partially blind to its worst features, and thus it had
been with Lady Isabel. Upon her arrival at East Lynne, she had
been, if not alarmed, much concerned at the appearance of William :
the winter improvement had dispelled that concern ; while the spring
change had come on so gradually that her fears had not taken alarm.
She judged him to be a delicate boy, who required care.
“ Hannah !” she uttered, in a tone of reproof, to the servant.
“Why, ma'am, I wonder that you can't see it yourself !” returned
Hannah. “It's plain, poor lad, that he has no mother, or there would
have been an outcry over him long ago. Of course, Mrs. Carlyle
can't be expected to have the same feelings for him : and as to old
Wainwright, he's as blind as any bat.”
She took the reproach to herself, and it smote upon her heart : had
she been blind · she, his mother?
“There is nothing particularly the matter with him, Hannah. He is
only weakly.” But she spoke these words in defiance of her thoughts;
anxious, if we may so say it, to deceive herself : even as she gave
expression to them, her pulses were beating with fear, the next moment
to certainty, that there was worse the matter with him.
“Are you asleep, William ?" she softly said, bending down towards
him.
No reply. No movement in answer.
“ He might not have been asleep, Hannah. You should be more
cautious in your remarks.”


AN M.P. FOR WEST LYNNE.
331
“Anybody may see that he's asleep, ma'am, lying so still as that.
Of course I wouldn't say anything in his hearing.”
“Why do you fancy him to be in a critical state ?"
" It is not fancy," returned Hannah. “I have had experience in
fading children.”
Lucy entered at this juncture, and nothing more was said. When
Hannah left the room, Lady Isabel gazed dowa at William, as if she
would have devoured him, a yearning, famisired sort of expression
upon her features. He was white as death. The blue veins were con-
spicuous in his face, and his nostrils were slightly working with every
breath he drew, as will be the case with the sickly. From passive
security she had jumped to the other extreme, for Hannah's words had
roused every fear within her.
“Madame Vine, why are you looking like that at William ?” asked
Lucy, who was watching.
“ Hannah thinks he is ill,” she mechanically answered. Her reflec-
tions were buried five fathoms deep, and she was debating whether she
ought not on that very instant to make known these new fears to Mr.
Carlyle. To Mr. Carlyle, you observe: her jealous heart would not
recognize the right of Mrs. Carlyle over her children-although she
had to submit to its exercise.
She quitted the parlour. She had heard Mr. Carlyle come in.
Crossing the hall, she tapped softly at the drawing-room door, and
then as softly entered. It was the moment of Mr. Carlyle's fond
greeting to his wife. They stood together, heedless of her.
Gliding out again, she paced the hall, her hands pressed upon her
beating heart. How dared that heart rise up in sharp rebellion at
these witnessed tokens of love? Was Barbara not his wife? Had she
not a legal claim to all his tenderness? Who was she, that she should
resent them in her sick jealousy? What, though they had once been
hers, hers only ; had she not signed and sealed her own forfeit to them,
and so made room for Barbara ?
Back to the grey parlour, there she stood, her elbow on the mantel-
piece, her eyes hidden by her hand. Thus she remained for some
minutes, and Lucy thought how sad she looked.
But Lucy felt hungry, and was casting longing glances towards the
tea-table. She wondered how long her governess meant to keep it
waiting. “Madame Vine,” cried she, presently, “don't you know that
tea is ready ?”
This caused Madame Vine to raise her eyes. They fell upon the
pale boy at her feet. She made no immediate answer, only placed her
hand on Lucy's shoulder.
“Oh, Lucy dear, 1-I have many sorrows to bzar."
“The tea will refresh you, and there's some nice jam,” was Miss
Lucy's offered consolation.
“Their greeting, tender as it may be, is surely over by this time,”
thought Lady Isabel, an expression something like mockery curving
her lips. “I will venture again.”
Only to see him with his wife's face on his breast, and his own lips
bent upon it. But they had heard her this time, and she had to
advance, in spite of her spirit of misery and her whitened features.


332
EAST LYNNE.
“Would you be so good, sir, as to come and look at William ?" she
asked, in a low tone, of Mr. Carlyle.
“ Certainly."
" What for?" interjected Barbara.
“He looks so very ill. I do not like his looks. I fear he is worse
than we have imagined.”
They went to the grey parlour, all three of them. Mr. Carlyle was
there first, and had taken a long, silent look at William before the
others entered.
“What is he doing on the floor?” exclaimed Barbara, in her astonish-
ment. “He should not lie on the floor, Madame Vine."
“He lies down there at twilight, and I cannot get him up again.
I try to persuade him to the sofa, but it is of no use.
"The floor will not hurt him," said Mr. Carlyle. This was the dark
shadow : his boy's failing health.
William opened his eyes. “Who's that? Papa ?"
“Don't you feel well, William ? "
“Oh yes, I'm very well, but I am tired.”
“Why do you lie down here?”
“ I like lying here. Papa, that pretty white rabbit of mine is dead."
“ Indeed. Suppose you get up and tell me all about it."
“I don't know about it myself yet," said William, slowly rising.
« Blair told Lucy when she was out just now; I did not go : I was tired.
He said "
“What has tired you?" interrupted Mr. Carlyle, taking the boy's
hand.
“Oh, nothing. I am always tired!”
“Do you tell Mr. Wainwright that you are tired ?”
“No.' Why should I tell him ? I wish he would not order me to
take that nasty cod-liver oil."
“ But it is to make you strong, my boy."
“ It makes me sick. I always feel sick after it, papa. Madame
Vine says I ought to have cream. That would be nicer.”
“ Cream ? ” repeated Mr. Carlyle, turning his eyes on Madame Vine.
“I have known cream to do a great deal of good in a case such as
William's,” she observed. “I believe that no better medicine can be
given ; that it has, in fact, no substitute."
“ It can be tried,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“Pray give your orders, Madame Vine, for anything you think may
be beneficial to him," added Mrs. Carlyle. “You have had more
experience with children than I. Joyce-
* What does Wainwright say?”'interrupted Mr. Carlyle, speaking to
his wife in a low tone.
"I do not always see him when he comes, Archibald. Madame
Vine does, I believe."
“Oh dear ! ” cried Lucy, “can't we have tea? I want some bread
and jam."
Mr. Carlyle turned round, smiled, and nodded to her. “ Patience is
good for little girls, Miss Lucy. Would you like some bread and jam,
my boy ? "
William shook his head. “ I can't eat jam. I am only thirsty."


AN M.P. FOR WEST LYNNE.
333
Mr. Carlyle cast a long and intent look at him, and then left the
room. Lady Isabel followed him, her thoughts full of her ailing child.
“ Do you think him very ill, sir?” she whispered.
“ I think he looks so. What does Mr. Wainwright say ? "
“ He says nothing to me. I have not inquired his true opinion.
Until to-night it did not occur to me that there was danger."
“Does he look so much worse to-night?”
“ Not any worse than usual. Latterly he has looked just like this
of an evening. It was a remark of Hannah's that aroused my alarm :
she thinks he is on the road to death. What can we do to save him?"
She clasped her hands as she spoke, in the intensity of her emotion :
she almost forgot, as they stood there together, talking of the welfare
of the child, their child, that he was no longer her husband. Almost;
not quite ; utterly impossible would it be for her wholly to forget the
dreadful present. Neither he nor the child could belong to her again
in this world.
A strange rising of the throat in her wild despair, a meek curtsey
as she turned from him, his last words ringing in her ears. “I shall
call in further advice for him, Madame Vine."
William was clinging round Mrs. Carlyle in a coaxing attitude,
when she re-entered the grey parlour. “I know what I could eat,
mamma, if you would let me have it,” cried he, in answer to her
remonstrance that he must eat something.
“ What could you eat?"
“Some cheese."
“ Cheese! Cheese with tea ! ” laughed Mrs. Carlyle.
“For the last week or two he has fancied strange things the effect
of a diseased appetite,” exclaimed Madame Vine. "But if I allow them
to be brought in, he barely tastes them."
“I am sure, mamma, I could eat some cheese now," said William.
“ You may have it," answered Mrs. Carlyle.
As she turned to leave the room the impatient knock and ring of a
visitor was heard. Barbara wondered who could be arriving at that,
their dinner hour., Sailing majestically into the hall, her lips com-
pressed, her aspect threatening, came Miss Carlyle.
Now it turned out that Miss Corny had been standing at her own
window, grimly eyeing the ill-doings of the street, from the fine
housemaid opposite, who was enjoying a flirtation with the baker, to
the ragged urchins pitch poling in the gutter and the dust : and there
she caught sight of the string—justices and others, who came out of
the office of Mr. Carlyle. So many of them were they, that Miss
Corny involuntarily thought of a conjuror flinging flowers out of a
hat : the faster they come, the more it seems there are to come.
“What on earth's up?” cried Miss Corny, pressing her nose flat
against the pane, that she might see the better.
They filed off, some one way, some another. Miss Carlyle's
curiosity was keener than her appetite, for she remained at the window,
although just informed that her dinner was served. Presently Mr.
Carlyle appeared, and she knocked at the window with her knuckles.
He did not hear it, but had turned off at a quick pace towards his
home. Miss Corny's temper rose.


334
EAST LYNNE.
The clerks came out next, one after another; and last of all came
Mr. Dill. He was less hurried than Mr. Carlyle had been, and heard
Miss Corny's signal.
“What, in the name of wonder, did all those people want at the
office?" began she, when Mr. Dill had entered in obedience to it.
“That was the deputation, Miss Cornelia.
. “What deputation ?".
“The deputation to Mr. Archibald. They want him to become
their new member.”
“ Member of what ? ” cried she, not guessing the actual meaning.
“ Of parliament, Miss Corny; to replace Mr. Attley. The gentlemen
came to solicit him to be put in nomination."
“Solicit a donkey !” irascibly uttered Miss Corny, for the tidings did
not meet with her approbation. “Did Archibald turn them out
again ?"
" He gave them no direct answer, ma'am. He will consider of it
between now and to-morrow morning."
“ Consider of it?" shrieked she. “Why, he'd never, never be such
a flat as to comply with it! He go into Parliament! What next ? ?
“Why should he not, Miss Corny? I'm sure I should be proud to
see him there."
- Miss Corny sniffed. “You are proud of things more odd than
even, John Dill. Remember that fine shirt-front! What has become
of it? Is it laid up in lavender?”
“Not exactly in lavender, Miss Corny. It lies in the drawer; for I
have never liked to put it on since, after what you said.”
“Why don't you sell it at half price, and buy a couple of good use-
ful shirts with the money?" returned she, tartly. “Better that, than
keep the foppish thing as a witness of your folly. Perhaps he'll be
buying embroidered fronts next, if he goes into that idle, do-nothing
House of Commons. I'd rather enter myself for six months at the
treadmill.”
“Oh, Miss Corny! I don't think you have well considered it. It's
a great honour, and worthy of him : he will be raised above us all :
and he deserves to be so.”
“Raise him on to a weathercock," raged Miss. Corny. “There !
you may go. I have heard quite enough."
Brushing past the old gentleman, leaving him to depart, or not, as
he might please, Miss Carlyle strode upstairs, flung on her shawl and
bonnet, and strode down. again. Her servant looked considerably
surprised, and addressed her as she crossed the hall.
"Your dinner, ma'am ?” he ventured to say.
“What's my dinner to you?” returned Miss Corny, in her wrath.
“ You have had yours.”
Away she strode. And thus it happened that she was at East Lynne
almost as soon as Mr. Carlyle.
“Where's Archibald !” began she, without ceremony, the moment
she saw Barbara.
“He is here. Is anything the matter ?”
Mr. Carlyle, hearing the voice, came out, and she pounced upon
him.


AN M.P. FOR WEST LYNNE.
335
“What's this about your becoming the new member for West
Lynne ? "
"" West Lynne wishes it,” said Mr. Carlyle. “ Sit down, Cornelia.”
“ Sit down yourself,” retorted she, keeping on her feet. “I want my
questions answered. Of course you will decline."
“ On the contrary, I have made up my mind to accept.”
Miss Corny untied the strings of her bonnet and flung them behind
her. “Have you counted the cost ? " was asked, and there was some-
thing quite sepulchral in her solemn tone.
“I have given it consideration, Cornelia : both as regards money
and time. The expense will not be worth consideration, should there
be no opposition. And if there is—-
“Ay I 5 groaned Miss Corny. If there is ?”.
“Well? I am not without some few hundreds to spare for the play-
thing," he said, turning upon her the good-humoured light of his fine
countenance.
Miss Carlyle emitted some dismal moans. “That ever I should have
lived to see this day! To hear money talked of as though it were
dirt. And what's to become of your business ?" she sharply added.
“Is that to run to rack and ruin, while you are kicking your heels in
that wicked London, under plea of being at the House, night after
night ?”
* Cornelia,” he gravely said, “ were I dead, Dill could carry on the
business just as well as it is being carried on now. I might go into a
foreign country for seven years, and come back to find the business as
flourishing as ever, for Dill could keep it together. And even were
the business to drop off—though I tell you it will not do so—I am
independent of it.”
Miss Carlyle faced tartly round upon Barbara. “Have you been
setting him on to this?"
“I think he had made up his mind before he spoke to me. But,”
added Barbara, in her truth," I urged him to accept it.”
“ Oh! you did ! Nicely moped and miserable you'll be here, if he
goes to London for months at a stretch ! You did not think of that,
perhaps.”
. “But he would not leave me here,” said Barbara, her eyelashes
becoming wet at the thought, as she unconsciously moved to her
husband's side. “He would take me with him.”
Miss Carlyle paused, and looked at them alternately.
“ Is that decided ? " she asked.
“ Of course it is,” laughed Mr. Carlyle, willing to joke the subject
and his sister into good humour. “Would you wish to separate man
and wife, Cornelia ?”
She made no reply. She rapidly tied her bonnet-strings, the ribbon
trembling ominously in her fingers.
“ You are not going, Cornelia ! You must stay dinner, now you are
here. It is ready. And we will talk this further over afterwards."
“ This has been dinner enough for me for one day," spoke she, put-
ting on her gloves. “ That I should have lived to see my father's son
throw up his business, and change himself into a lazy, stuck-up par-
liament mani"


336
EAST LYNNE.
“Do stay and dine with us, Cornelia ! I think I can subdue your
prejudices, if you will let me talk to you.”
"If you wanted to talk to me about it, why did you not come in
when you left the office ?” cried Miss Corny, in a greater amount of
wrath than she had shown yet. And there is no doubt that in his
not having done so lay one of the sorest points.
“I did not think of it,” said Mr. Carlyle. “I should have come in
and told you of it to-morrow morning."
“ I dare say you would,” she ironically answered. " Good evening
to you both.” And in spite of their endeavours, she left the house, and
went stalking down the avenue.
Two or three days more, and Mr. Carlyle's address to the inhabitants
of West Lynne appeared in the local papers, whilst the walls and posts
were embellished with various coloured placards : "Vote for Carlyle."
“ Carlyle for ever ! ”
CHAPTER VI.
SIR FRANCIS LEVISON AT HOMĖ.
WONDERS will never cease. Surprises are the lot of man. But perhaps
a greater surprise had never been experienced by those who knew him,
than when it went forth to the world that Sir Francis Levison had
converted himself from from what he was, into a red-hot politician.
Had he been offered the post of prime minister ? Or did his con-
science smite him ?-as in the case of a certain gallant captain, re-
nowned in song. Neither the one nor the other. The simple fact was,
that Sir Francis Levison was in a state of pecuniary embarrassment,
and required something to prop him up : some snug sinecure ; plenty
to earn and nothing to do.
“He, in pecuniary embarrassment !" cries the reader. “How could
that be ?" No easier thing “to be” in this world, if a man plunges
into the amusements favoured by Francis Levison. When he came
into his title, there was a weighty amount to pay for debts and
damages, a far larger amount than he had believed. Not a farthing,
beyond what was obliged to come to him by entail, did Sir Peter
leave him ; but, of that which remained, he was no sooner in possession
than he began to squander right and left. His marriage intervened,
but it did not stay him : on the contrary, it was an addition to the
outlay : and, not contented with living as was suited to his rank, he
and his wife set up housekeeping in an outrageously costly manner.
Added to this, he had, since his marriage, entered heart and soul
into the pretty little pastimes of horse-racing, betting, and gambling.
Cock-fighting he had always patronized.
The time went on : and things went on; until they could go on no
longer, and Sir Francis awoke to his condition. Every shilling of
available money was gone, every stiver of unsecured property was
parted with ; debts and duns had taken their place, and Francis
Levison, the reigning baronet, was far more worried and embarrassed
than ever had been Francis Levison, the obscure and presumptive heir.


SIR FRANCIS LEVISON AT HOME. 337
He had fallen into the condition formerly described as being that of
the late Lord Mount Severn. But, while the earl had contrived to
weather the storm for years, Francis Levison would not be able to
weather it for as many months : and he knew it.
Patch himself up, he must. - But how? He had tried the tables,
but luck was against him; he made a desperate venture upon the
turf, a grand coup; that would have set him on his legs for some time;
but the venture turned out the wrong way, and Sir Francis was a
defaulter. He began then to think there was nothing for it but to
drop into some nice government nest, where, as I have told you, there
would be plenty to gain and nothing to do. Any place with much to
do would not suit him, or he it: he was too empty-headed for work
requiring talent. You may have remarked that a man given to Sir
Francis Levison's favourite pursuits generally is so.
He dropped into something good-or, that promised to be good :
nothing less than the secretaryship to Lord Headthelot, who swayed
the ministers in the Upper House. But that he was a connection of
Lord Headthelot's, he never would have obtained it, and very dubi-
ously the minister consented to try him. Of course, one condition
was, that he should enter parliament the first opportunity, his vote to
be at the disposal of the ministry : rather a shaky ministry, and sup-
posed, by some, to be on its last legs. And this brings us to the
present time.
In a handsome drawing-room in Eaton Square, one sunny afternoon,
sat a lady, young and handsome. Her eyes were violet blue, her hair
was auburn, her complexion delicate. But there was a look of anger,
amounting to sullenness, on her well-formed features, and her pretty
foot was beating the carpet in passionate impatience. It was Lady
Levison.
The doings of the past had been coming home to her for some time
now. Past doings, be they good, or be they ill, are sure to come home,
one day or another, and to bring their fruits with them. It is the
inevitable law of nature, and none can flee from it.
In the years past, many years past now, Francis Levison had lost
his heart-or whatever the thing might be that, with him, did duty
for one-to Blanche Challoner. He had despised her once to Lady
Isabel-but that was done to suit his own purpose, for he had never,
at any period, cared for Lady Isabel as he had cared for Blanche. He
gained her affections in secret, and in secret they engaged themselves
to each other. Blanche's sister, Lydia Challoner, two years older than
herself, suspected it, and taxed Blanche with it. Blanche, true to her
•compact, denied it with many protestations. “She did not care for
"Captain Levison : rather disliked him in fact.” “So much the better,"
was Miss Challoner's reply; for she had no respect for Captain Levison,
and thought him an unlikely man to marry.
Years went on, and poor unhappy Blanche Challoner remained faith.
ful to her love. In spite of what he was—and she could not blind her
'eyes tr, the fact that he was just the opposite to what he ought to be
-her heart was true to him. She heard of his scrapes, she knew of
his embarrassments, she bore with his neglect : but she loved on.
Even the escapade with Lady Isabel Carlyle did not serve to extin-
22
مسازد اما


338
EAST LYNNE.
guish her attachment, though it shook it for a time. Upon nis return
to London, after his accession to the title, their friendship was renewed :
a cold, hollow, watery sort of friendship it had grown then on the
gentleman's side, but Blanche never doubted that he would now marry
her.
He played fast and loose with her : professing attachment for her
in secret, and visiting at the house : perhaps he feared an outbreak
from her, an exposure that might be anything but pleasant, did he
throw off all relations between them. Blanche summoned up her
courage, and spoke to him, urging the marriage : she had not yet
glanced at the fear that his intention of marrying her had he ever
possessed any) was over. Bad men are always cowards. Sir Francis
shrank from an explanation; and, so far forgot honour, as to murmur
some indistinct promise that the wedding should be speedy.
Lydia Challoner had married, and been left a well-jointured widow.
She was Mrs. Waring : and at her house resided Blanche; for the girls
were orphans. Blanche was beginning to show symptoms of her
approaching thirty years : not the years, but the long-continued dis-
appointment, the heart-b'rnings, were telling upon her. Her hair was
thin, her face was pinched, her form had lost its roundness. “Marry
her, indeed!” scoffed Sir Francis Levison to himself.
There came to Mrs. Waring's, upon a Christmas visit, a younger
sister, Alice Challoner, a fair girl of twenty years. She resided gene-
rally with an aunt in the country. Far more beautiful was she than
Blanche had ever been : and Francis Levison, who had not seen her
since she was a child, fell-as he would have called it-in love with
her. Love! He became her shadow ; he whispered sweet words in her
ear; he turned her head giddy with its own vanity; and he offered her
marriage. She accepted him, and preparations for the ceremony im-
mediately began. Sir Francis urged speed, and Alice was nothing loth.
. And what of Blanche ? Blanche was stunned. A despairing stupor
took possession of her ; and when she awoke from it, desperation set
in. She insisted upon an interview with Sir Francis; and evade it he
could not, though he tried to do so.
Will it be credited that he denied the past ?—that he met with mock-
ing suavity her indignant reminders of what had been between them.
" Love? marriage ? Nonsense!” her fancy had been too much at
work. Finally, he defied her to prove that he had regarded her with
more than ordinary friendship, or hid ever hinted at such a thing as a
union.
She could not prove it. She had not so much as a scrap of paper,
written by him ; she had not a single friend, or enemy, to come forward
and testify that they had heard him breathe to her a word of love. He
had been too wary for that. Moreover, there were her own solemn
protestations to her sister Lydia, that there was not anything between
her and Francis Levison : who would believe her if she veered round
now, and avowed that those protestations were false ? No; she found
that she was in a sinking ship, one there was no chance of saving.
But one chance she determined to try. An appeal to Alice. Bianche
Challoner's eyes were suddenly and rudely opened to the badness of the
man, and she was aware now how thoroughly unfit he was to become


SIR FRANCIS LEVISON AT HOME.
339
the husband of her sister. It struck her that only misery could result
from the union, and that, if possible, Alice should be saved from entering
upon it. Would she have married him herself then? Yes. But it was
a different thing for that fair, fresh young Alice: she had not wasted
her life's best years in waiting for him.
When the family had gone to rest and the house was quiet, Blanche
Challoner proceeded to her sister's bedroom. Alice had not begun to
undress : she was sitting in a comfortable chair before the fire, her feet
on the fender, reading a love-letter from Sir Francis.
“ Alice, I have come to tell you a story," said she, quietly. “ Will
you hear it?"
“In a minute. Stop a bit,” replied Alice. She finished reading the
letter, put it aside, and then spoke again. “What did you say, Blanche ?
A story?”
Blanche nodded. “ Several years ago, there was a fair young girl,
none too rich, in our station of life. A gentleman, who was none too
rich either, sought and gained her love. He could not marry: he was
not rich, I say. They loved on in secret, hoping for better times, she
wearing out the years and her heart in waiting.
“Oh, Alice, I cannot describe to you how she loved him ; how she
has continued to love him up to this moment! Through evil report she
clung to him tenaciously and tenderly as the vine clings to its trellis-
work, for the world spoke ill of him.”
“Who was the young lady?” interrupted Alice. “Is this a romance,
Blanche, or a real history ? "
“A real history I knew her. All those years; years and years I say;
he kept leading her on to love, letting her think that his love was hers.
In the course of time he succeeded to a fortune, and the bar to their
marriage was over. He was abroad when he came into it, but returned
home at once; their intercourse was renewed, and her fading heart
woke up once more to life. Still, the marriage did not seem to come
on ; he said nothing of it; and she spoke to him Very soon now,
should it be, was his answer, and she continued to live on-in hope."
“ Go on, Blanche,” cried Alice, who had grown interested in the tale,
never suspecting it could bear a personal interest.
“Yes, I will go on. Would you believe, Alice, that almost immediately
after this last promise, he saw one whom he fancied he should like
better, and asked her to be his wife, forsaking the one to whom he was
bound by every tie of honour ; repudiating all that had been between
them, even his own words and promises ! ”
“How disgraceful! Were they married ? "
“They are to be. Would you have such a man? "
“I!” returned Alice, indignant at the question. “ It is not likely that
I would.”
“That man, Alice, is Sir Francis Levison.”
Alice Challoner gave a start, and her face became scarlet. “How
dare you say so, Blanche? It is not true. Who was the girl, pray ?
She must have traduced him.”
“She has not traduced him," was the subdued answer. “ The gir.
was myself.”
An awkward pause. “I know !” cried Alice, throwing back her head


SIR FRANCIS LEVISON AT HOME. 341
“I can't see him, I won't see him," interrupted Sir Francis, backing
to the farthest corner of the room, in what looked very like abject
terror, as if he had completely lost his presence of mind. Lady
Levison's lips curled.
“We got rid of him, sir, after a dreadful deal of trouble, but while
the door was open in the dispute, Mr. Meredith entered. He has gone
on into the library, and he vows he won't stir till he sees you, whether
you.are ill or well.”
A moment's pause, a half-muttered oath, and then Sir Francis left
the room. The servant retired, and Lady Levison caught up her child.
“Oh, Franky, dear,” she wailed forth, burying her face in his warm
neck, “ I would leave him for good and all, if I dared : but I fear he
might keep you."
Now, the secret was, that for the last three days Sir Francis Levison
had been desperately ill, obliged to keep his bed, and could see no one :
his life depending upon quiet. Such was the report, or something
equivalent to it, which had gone into Lord Headthelot (or, rather to
the official office, for that renowned chief was, himself, out of town) :
it had also been delivered to all callers at Sir Francis Levison's house.
The real truth being, that Sir Francis was as well in health as you or
I, but from something which had transpired, touching one of his
numerous debts, did not dare to show himself. That morning the
matter had been arranged; patched up for a time.
“My stars, Levison !” began Mr. Meredith, who was a whipper-in of
the ministry, “what a row there is about you! Why, you look as well
as ever you were !”.
“A great deal better to-day," coughed Sir Francis.
“To think that you should have chosen the present moment for
skulking! Here have I been dancing attendance at your door day
after day in a state of incipient fever, and could neither get admitted
nor a letter taken up. I should have blown the house up to-day and
entered amidst the flying débris. By the way, are you and my lady
two just now?"
“Two ?” growled Sir Francis.
“She was stepping into her carriage yesterday when they turned me
from the door, and I made inquiry of her. Her ladyship's answer was,
that she knew nothing either of Sir Francis, or his illness.”
“Her ladyship is subject to flights of temper," chafed Sir Francis.
“ What desperate need have you of me, just now? Headthelot's away,
and there's nothing doing.”
“Nothing doing up here ; a deal too much doing somewhere else.
Attley's seat is in the market.”
« Well?”
“And you ought to have been down there about it three or four days
ago. Of course you must step into it.”
" Of course I shan't,” returned Sir Francis. “To represent West
Lynne will not suit me."
'“ Not suit you! West Lynne! Why, of all places, it is the most
suitable. It's close to your own property."
“ If you call ten miles close. " I shall not put up for West Lynne,
Meredith.”


342
EAST LYNNE.
“Headthelot came up this morning,” said Mr. Meredith.
The information somewhat aroused Sir Francis. “Headthelot!
What brings him back?"
“ You. I tell you, Levison, there's a row. Headthelot expected
you would be at West Lynne days ago, and he has come up in an
awful rage. Every additional vote we can count in the house is
worth its weight in gold : and you, as he says, are allowing West
Lynne to slip through your fingers! You must start for it at once,
Levison."
« No."
“Then you lose your post. Thornton goes in for West Lynne, and
takes your place with Headthelot.”
“ Did Headthelot send you here to say this?” asked Sir Francis.
“He did. And he means it, mind you ; that's more. I never saw
a man more thoroughly in earnest.”
Sir Francis mused. Had the alternative been given him, he would
have preferred to represent a certain warm place underground, rather
than West Lynne. But, to quit Headthelot, and the snug post he
anticipated, would be irretrievable ruin : nothing short of outlawry, or
the Queen's prison. It was awfully necessary to get his threatened
person into parliament, and he began to turn over in his mind whether
he could bring himself to make further acquaintance with West Lynne.
“ The thing must have blown over for good by this time,” was the
result of his cogitations, unconsciously speaking aloud.
“I can understand your reluctance to appear at West Lynne," cried
Mr. Meredith ; “the scene, unless I mistake, of that notorious affair of
yours. But private feelings must give way to public interests; and the
best thing you can do is to start at once. Headthelot is angry enough
as it is. He says, had you been down at first, as you ought to have
been, you would have slipped in without opposition : but now there will
be a contest.”
Sir Francis looked up sharply. “A contest? Who is going to stand
the funds ?”
"Pshaw! As if we should allow funds to be any barrier ! Have you
heard who is in the field ?”
“ No," was the apathetic answer.
“Carlyle.”
“ Carlyle ! ” shouted Sir Francis. “Oh, by George! I can't stand
against him.”
“ Well, there's the alternative. If you can't, Thornton will."
“ I should run no chance. West Lynne would not elect me if he is
a candidate. I'm not sure, indeed, that West Lynne would have me in
any case.”
“Nonsense ! you know our interest there. Government put in Attley,
and it can put you in. Yes or no, Levison."
“Yes,” replied Sir Francis.
An hour's time, and Sir Francis Levison went forth. On his way to
be conveyed to West Lynne ? Not yet. He turned his steps to Scot-
land-yard. In considerably less than another hour, the following
telegram, marked “ Secret," went down from the head office to the
superintendent of police at West Lynne.


A MISHAP TO THE BLUE SPECTACLES. 343
“ Is Otway Bethel at West Lynne ? If not, where is he? and when
will he be returning to it ? »
It elicited a prompt answer.
“Otway Bethel is not at West Lynne. Supposed to be in Norway.
Movements uncertain."
Lady Levison heard of the scheme that was in the wind. When Sir
Francis went to tell her (as a matter of the merest courtesy) that he
was about to go into the country for some days, she turned upon him
fiercely.
“ If you had any sense of shame in you, you would shoot yourself,
rather than go where you are going, to do what you are about to do."
That ill feeling had come to extremes between her and her husband,
and that he had been long giving her ample cause for resentment, you
may be sure : otherwise she could not so have spoken. He bent his
dark looks upon her.
“I know the errand you are bent upon. You are going forth to
enter yourself in opposition to Mr. Carlyle. You must possess a recol-
lection seared to shame, or you could not do it. Any one, but you,
would sink into the earth with humiliation, at sight of a man so injured.”
“Hold your tongue,” said Sir Francis.
. “I held it for months and months; held it because you were my
husband ; though I was nearly maddened by you. I shall never hold
it again. Night and morning one prayer goes up from me—that I may
find a way of being legally separated from you." I will find it.”
“You had better have left me to Blanche," sneered Sir Francis.
“Taking me'was a dead robbery on her, you know. You knew it then."
She sat, beating her foot on the carpet, really striving to calm down
her irritability. “Allow me to recommend you to pause and consider,
ere you enter upon this insult to Mr. Carlyle," she resumed
“What is Carlyle to you? You don't know him.”
“I know him by reputation : know him to be a noble, honourable
man, beloved by his friends, respected by every one. If ever two men
presented a contrast to each other, it is you and he. Ask your uncle's
widow what the world thinks of Mr. Carlyle.”
“ Had another been my adversary, I should not have cared to stand
the contest,” maliciously returned Sir Francis. “The thought that it is
he who is my opponent, spurs me on. I'll oppose and crush him."
“Take care that you do not get crushed yourself,” retorted Alice
Levison. “ Luck does not always attend the bad.”
“I'll take my chance," sneered Sir Francis.
CHAPTER VII.
A MISHAP TO THE BLUE SPECTACLES.
MR. CARLYLE and Barbara were seated at breakfast, when, somewhat
to their surprise, Mr. Dill was shown in. . Following upon his heels
came Justice Hare; and close upon his heels came Squire Pinner ;
while, bringing up the rear, was Colonel Bethel. All four had come up


A MISHAP TO THE BIUE SPECTACLES. 345
" There's a meeting at the Buck's Head at ten," said Mr. Carlyle,
not replying to the immediate question. “ I will be with you there."
“ Did you say he was at the Buck's Head ?” asked Squire Pinner.
“I had not heard that."
“That he was,” corrected Mr. Dill. “I expect he is ousted by this
time. I asked the landlord what he thought of himself, for taking in
such a character, and what he supposed the justices would say to him.
He vowed with tears in his eyes that the fellow should not be there
another hour, and that he never should have entered the house had he
known who he was.”
A little more conversation, and the visitors filed off. Mr. Carlyle
sat down calmly to finish his breakfast. Barbara approached him.
“ Archibald, you will not suffer this man's insolent doings to deter
you from your plans? You will not withdraw ?" she whispered.
" I think not, Barbara. He has thrust himself offensively upon me
in this measure : I believe my better plan will be to take no more
notice of him, than I should of the dirt under my feet.”
“Right, right,” she answered, a proud flush deepening the rose on
her cheeks.
Mr. Carlyle was soon walking into West Lynne. There were the
placards, sure enough, side by side with his own : bearing the name
of that wicked coward, who had done him the greatest injury one man
can do another. Verily he must possess a conscience seared to shame
to venture there ; as his wife had said, and as Mr. Carlyle was thinking.
“Archibald, have you heard the disgraceful news?"
· The speaker was Miss Carlyle, who had come down upon her
brother like a ship in full sail. Her cheeks wore a flush, her eyes
glistened, her tall form was drawn up to its most haughty height.
“I have heard it, Cornelia. And, had I not, the walls would have
enlightened me."
“ Is he out of his mind ?”.
“Out of his reckoning, I fancy,” replied Mr. Carlyle.
“You will carry on the contest now," she continued, her countenance
flushing. “I was averse to it before, but I now withdraw all my objec-
tion. You will be no brother of mine, if you yield the field to him."
“I do not intend to yield it.”
“Good. You bear on upon your course ; and let him crawl on upon
his. Take no more heed of him than if he were a viper. Archibald,
you must canvass now."
“No," said Mr. Carlyle, “I shall be elected without canvass. You'll
see, Cornelia.”
“There will be plenty who will canvass for you, if you don't con-
descend to take the trouble yourself, my indifferent brother. I will
give a thousand pounds myself for ale, to the electors.”
“ Take care," laughed Mr. Carlyle. “Keep your thousand pounds
in your pocket, Cornelia. I have no mind to be unseated, on the plea
of bribery and corruption. Here's Sir John Dobede galloping in,
with a face as red as the sun in a fog."
“Well it may be. He has heard the news. I can tell you, Archi-
bald, West Lynne is in a state of excitement greater than has been its
lot for many a day."


A MISHAP TO THE BLUE SPECTACLES. 347
. “It is true. I heard of it an hour ago. Plenty of cheek that Levison
must have."
“ Cheek!” repeated the dismayed earl, feeling as if every part of
him, body and mind, were outraged by the news ; “don't speak of it in
that way. The hound deserves to be gibbeted.”
He threw aside the paper, left the club, returned home for a carpet-
bag, and went shrieking and whistling down to West Lynne, taking
his son with him. Or, if he did not whistle and shriek, the engine did.
Fully determined was the Earl of Mount Severn to show his opinion of
the affair.
On these fine spring mornings, their breakfast over, Lady Isabel
was in the habit of going into the grounds with the children. They
were on the lawn before the house, when two gentlemen came walking
up the avenue ; or, rather, one gentleman and a handsome young
stripling growing into another. Lady Isabel thought she should have
dropped, for she stood face to face with Lord Mount Severn. The
earl stopped to salute the children; and he raised his hat to the
strange lady..
“ It is my governess, Madame Vine," said Lucy.
A silent curtsey from Madame Vine. She turned away her head
and gasped for breath.
“ Is your papa at home, Lucy?” cried the earl.
“ Yes. I think he is at breakfast. I'm so glad you have come !"
Lord Mount Severn walked on, holding William by the hand, who
had eagerly offered to “take him” to papa. Lord Vane bent over
Lucy to kiss her. A little while, a very few more years, and my young
lady would not hold up her rosy lips so boldly,
“You have grown a dearer girl than ever, Lucy. Have you for-
gotten our compact ? "
“ No,” laughed she.
“And you will not forget it?"
“ Never,” said the child, shaking her head. “You shall see if
I do."
“Lucy is to be my wife," cried he, turning to Madame Vine. “It is
a bargain, and we have both promised. I mean to wait for her till she
is old enough. I like her better than any one else in the world."
“And I like him," said Miss Lucy. “And it's all true.”
Lucy was a child ; it may almost be said an infant ; and the viscount
was not of an age to render such avowed sentiments important : never-
theless the words thrilled through the veins of the hearer. She spoke,
she thought, not as Madame Vine would have spoken and thought,
but as the unhappy mother, the ill-fated Lady Isabel.
“ You must not say these things to Lucy. It could never be."
Lord Vane laughed. “Why?” asked he.
“ Your father and mother would not approve of it.”
“My father would. I know he would. He likes Lucy. As to my
mother-oh, well, she can't expect to be master and mistress too.
You be off for a minute, Lucy : I want to say something to Madame
Vine. Has Carlyle shot that fellow ?” he continued, as Lucy sprang
away. “My father is so stiff, especially when he's put up, that he
would not sully his lips with the name, when we arrived, or make a


348
EAST LYNNE.-
1:
cov
single inquiry ; neither would he let me do so; and I walked up here
with my tongue burning to speak."
She would have responded, What fellow ? but she suspected too
well, and the words died away on her unwilling lips.
“That brute, Levison. If Carlyle riddled his body with shots for
this move, and then kicked him till he died, he'd only get his deserts ;
and the world would applaud. He oppose Carlyle! I wish I had
been a man a few years ago : he'd have had a shot through his heart
then. I say," dropping his voice,“ did you know Lady Isabel ? "
“Yes-no-yes.” She was at a loss what to say : almost as uncon-
scious what she did say.
“She was Lucy's mother, you know : and I loved her. I think
that's why I love Lucy, for she is her very image. Where did you
know her. Here?”
"I knew her by hearsay,” murmured Lady Isabel, arousing to recol.
lection.
"0_hearsay! Has Carlyle shot the beast, or is he on his legs yet?
By Jove! to think that he should sneak himself up in this way at
· West Lynne!”
“ You must apply elsewhere for information,” she gasped. “I know
nothing of these things.”
She turned away with a beating heart, took Lucy's hand and de-
parted. Lord Vane set off on a run towards the house, his heels
flying behind him.
And now the contest began in earnest—that is, the canvassing. Sir
Francis Levison, his agent, and the friend from town, who, as it turned
out, instead of being some great gun of the government, was a private
chum of the baronet's, named Drake, sneaked about the town like dogs,
for they were thoroughly alive to the odour in which they were held;
their only attendants being a few young gentlemen and ladies in rags,
who commonly brought up the rear. The other party presented a
stately crowd : county gentry, magistrates, Lord Mount Severn. Some-
times Mr. Carlyle would be with them, arm in arm with the latter. If
the contesting groups came within view of each other, and were likely
to meet, the brave Sir Francis would disappear down an entry ; behind
a hedge; anywhere : he could not meet Mr. Carlyle and that con-
demning jury around him.
One afternoon it pleased Mrs. Carlyle to summon Lucy and the
governess to accompany her into West Lynne. She was going shop-
ping. Lady Isabel had a dread and horror of appearing there, whilst
that man was in the town, but she could not help herself. There was
no pleading illness, for she was quite well ; there must be no saying
“ I will not go,” for she was only a dependent. They set off, and had
walked as far as Mrs. Hare's gate, when Miss Carlyle turned out of it.
“ Your mamma is not well, Barbara."
“Is she not?” cried Barbara, with quick concern. “I must go in
and see her.”
“She has had one of those ridiculous dreams again,” pursued Miss
Carlyle, ignoring the presence of the governess and Lucy. “I was
sure of it by her very look when I went in; shivering and shaking, and
glancing fearfully around, as if she feared a dozen spectres were about


A TREAT IN A GREEN POND.
349
to come out of the walls. So I taxed her with it, and she could make
no denial. Richard is in some jeopardy, she protests; or will be. And
there she is, shaking still, although I told her that people who put faith
in dreams were only fit for a lunatic asylum.”
Barbara looked distressed. She did not believe in dreams, any more
than did Miss Carlyle: but she could not forget how strangely peril to
Richard had followed upon some of these dreams. “I will go in now
and see mamma," she said. “If you are returning home, Cornelia,
Madame Vine can wai: with you, and wait for me there.”
“Let me go in with you, mamma,” pleaded Lucy.
Barbara mechanically took the child's hand. The gate closed on
them, and Miss Carlyle and Lady Isabel proceeded in the direction of
the town. But not far had they gone when, in turning a corner, the
wind, which was high, flew away with the veil of Lady Isabel ; and, in
raising her hands in trepidation to save it before it was finally gone, she
contrived to knock off her blue spectacles. They fell to the ground and
were broken.
“However did you manage that ?" uttered Miss Carlyle.
How indeed ? She bent her face on the ground, looking at the
damage. What should she do? The veil was over the hedge, the
spectacles were broken : how could she dare to show her unsheltered
face to the world? That face was rosy just then, as in former days,
the eyes were bright, and Miss Carlyle caught their expression, and
stared in very amazement.
“Good heavens above !" she muttered, “what an extraordinary
likeness !” And Lady Isabel's heart turned faint and sick within her.
Well it might. And, to make matters worse, bearing down upon
them, but a few paces distant, came Sir Francis Levison.
. Would he recognize her?
CHAPTER VIII.
A TREAT IN A GREEN POND.
STANDING in the high wind at the turning of the road, were Miss
Carlyle and Lady Isabel Vane. The latter, confused and perplexed,
was picking up the remnant of her damaged spectacles: the former,
little less perplexed, gazed at the face which struck her, as being so
familiar. Her attention, however, was called off to the apparition of
Sir Francis Levison.
He was close upon them, Mr. Drake and the other comrade being
with him, and some tag-rag in attendance, as usual. It was the first
time he and Miss Carlyle had met, face to face. She bent her con-
demning brow, haughty in its bitter scorn, full upon him. Sir Francis,
when he arrived opposite to her, raised his hat. Whether it was done
in courtesy, in confused unconsciousness, or in mockery, cannot be
told : Miss Carlyle assumed it to have been the latter; and her lips, in
their anger, grew almost as pale as those of the unhappy woman who
was cowering behind her.
"Did you intend that insult for me, Francis Levison ?".


350
EAST LYNNE.
“As you please to take it,” returned he, calling up insolence to
his aid.
“ You dare to lift off your hat to me? Have you forgotten that I am
Miss Carlyle ?”
“ It would be difficult for you to be forgotten, once seen.”
Now this answer was given in mockery; and his tone and manner
were most insolent. The two gentlemen looked on in discomfort,
wondering what it meant ; Lady Isabel hid her face as she best could,
terrified to death lest his eyes should fall upon her ; while the spectators
who had collected listened with interest, especially some farm-labourers
of Squire Pinner's.
“ You contemptible worm !” ejaculated Miss Carlyle. “Do you think
you can outrage me with impunity, as you are outraging West Lynne?
Out upon you for a bold, bad man !”
Now Miss Corny, in so speaking, had certainly no thought of present
and immediate punishment for the gentleman : but it appeared that
the mob around had. The motion was commenced by those stout.
shouldered labourers. Whether excited thereto by Miss Carlyle's
words—who, whatever may have been her faults of manner, had the
respect of the neighbourhood, and was looked up to only in a less
degree than her brother; whether Squire Pinner, their master, had
dropped in their hearing a word of the ducking he had hinted at when
at East Lynne; or whether their own feelings alone spurred them on,
was best known to the men themselves. Certain it is, that the ominous
sound of “ Duck him," was breathed forth by a voice, and it was caught
up and echoed around.
*« Duck him! Duck him! The pond's close at hand. Let's give
· him a taste of his deservings! What do he, the scum, turn himself
up at West Lynne for, bearding Mr. Carlyle ? What have he done
with Lady Isabel ? Put up for us others at West Lynne! West Lynne
don't want him : it have got a better man : it won't have a villain.
Now, lads !”
His face turned white, and he trembled in his shoes : worthless men
are frequently cowards. Lady Isabel trembled in hers · and, well she
might, hearing that one allusion. They set upon him, twenty pairs of
hands at least, strong, rough, determined hands ; not to speak of the
ragged element, who went in with cuffs, and kicks, and pokes, and
taunts, and cheers, and a demoniacal dance.
They dragged him through a gap in the hedge, a gap that no baby
could have passed through in a cool morient, but we most of us know
the difference between coolness and excitement. The hedge was
extensively damaged, but Justice Hare, to whom it belonged, would
forgive that. Mr. Drake and the lawyer-for the other was a lawyer
--were utterly powerless to stop the catastrophe. “If they didn't
mind their own business and keep theirselves clear, they'd get served
the same," was the promise held out in reply to their remonstrances ;
and the lawyer, who was short and fat, and could not have knocked a
man down had it been to save his life, backed out of the mêlée, and
contented himself with issuing forth confused threatenings of the
terrors of the law. Miss Carlyle stood her ground majestically, and
looked on with a grim countenance. Had she interfered for his pro-


A TREAT IN A GREEN POND.
351
tection, she could not have been heard, and it is by no means certain
that she had any wish to interfere.
On, to the brink of the pond : a green, dark, slimy pond. His coat-
tails were gone by this time, ard sundry rents and damages appeared
in-in another useful garment. One pulled him, another pushed him,
a third shook him by the collar, half a dozen buffeted him, and all
abused him.
“ In with him, boys ! ”
“ Mercy ! mercy!” shrieked the victim, his knees bending, and his
teeth chattering. " A little mercy, for the love of Heaven !”
“Heaven ! Much he knows of Heaven ! ”
A splash, a wild cry, a gurgle, and Sir Francis Levison was flounder-
ing in the water, its green poison, not to mention its adders and toads
and frogs, going own his throat wholesale. A derisive laugh, and a
hip, hip, hurrah' broke from the actors ; while the juvenile tag-rag, in
wild delight, joined hands around the pool, and danced the demon's
dance, like so many red Indians. They had never had such a play
acted for them before.
Out of the pond before he was quite dead, quite senseless. Of all
drowned rats he looked the worst, as he stood there with his white
rueful face, his shivering limbs, and his dilapidated garments, shaking
the wet off him. The labourers, their duty donc, walked coolly away ;
the tag-rag withdrew to a safe distance, waiting for what might come
next; and Miss Carlyle moved away also. Not more shivering was
that wretched man than Lady Isabel, as she walked by her side. A
sorry figure, that, for her once chosen cavalier. What did she think
of his beauty now? I know what she thought of her past folly.
Miss Carlyle did not speak a word. She sailed on, with her head
up, though it was turned occasionally to look at the face of Madame
Vine, at the deep, distressing blush which this gaze called into her
cheeks. “It's very odd,” thought Miss Corny. “The likeness, especi-
ally in the eyes, is—Where are you going, madame?”
They were passing a spectacle shop, and Madame Vine had halted
at the door, one foot on its step. “I must leave my glasses to be
mended, if you please.”
Miss Carlyle followed her in. She pointed out what she wished done
to the old glasses, and said she would buy a pair of new ones, to wear
while the others were being repaired. The man had no blue ones, no
green ; plenty of white. One ugly old pair of green things he had, with
tortoise-shell rims, left by some stranger, ages and ages ago, to be
mended, and never called for again. This very pair of ugly old green
things was chosen by Lady Isabel. She put them on there and then,
Miss Carlyle's eyes searching her face inquisitively the while.
“Why do you wear glasses ? ” began Miss Corny, abruptly, as soon
as they were within the doors of her own house.
Another deep flush, and an imperceptible hesitation. “My eyes are
not strong."
“They look as strong as eyes can be. But, why wear coloured
glasses ? White ones would answer every purpose, I should suppose.”
“I am accustomed to coloured ones. I should not like white ones
now."


A TREAT IN A GREEN POND
353
« Yes ; " was the gasping answer.
“The woman who called that noble man husband, left him for the
other ! Did she come to repentance, think you ?"
You may wonder that the submerged gentleman should be walking
through the streets, on his way to his quarters, the Raven Inn-for
he had been ejected from the Buck's Head-but he could not help
himself. As he was dripping and swearing on the brink of the pond,
wondering how he should get to the Raven, an empty fly drove past,
and Mr. Drake immediately stopped it. But when the driver saw the
passenger was Sir Francis Levison, he refused the fare. His fly was
just fresh lined with red velvet, and he wasn't a-going to have it spoilt,
he called out, as he whipped his horse and drove away, leaving the
three in wrathful despair. Sir Francis wanted another conveyance
procured : his friends urged that if he waited for that, he might catch
his death, and that the shortest way would be to hasten to the inn on
foot. He objected. But his jaws were chattering, and so they seized
him between them, and made off. Bnt they never bargained for
meeting with Mr. Carlyle and his party; Francis Levison would have
stopped in the pond, of his own accord, head downwards, rather than
face them.
Miss Carlyle went that day to dine at East Lynne, walking back
with Mrs. Carlyle, Madame Vine, and Lucy. Lord Vane found them
out and returned at the same time : of course East Lynne was the
head-quarters of himself and his father. He was in the seventh heaven,
and had been, ever since the encounter with the yellows. “ You'd
have gone into convulsions, Lucy, had you seen the drowned cur.
I'd give all my tin for six months to come, to have his photograph as
he looked then !” Lucy laughed : she was unconscious, poor child,
how deeply the “ drowned cur " had injured her.
When Miss Carlyle was in her dressing-room taking her things off-
the room where once Richard Hare had slept—she rang for Joyce.
Those two rooms were still kept for Miss Carlyle for she sometimes
visited them for a few days—and they were called “ Miss Carlyle's
rooms."
“A fine row we have had in the town, Joyce, this afternoon ! ”
“I have heard of it, ma'am. Serve him right, if they had let him
drown! White, Squire Pinner's ploughman, called in here and told
us the news. I never saw a nan so excited. Peter cried."
“ Cried !” echou Miss Carlyle.
“Well, ma'am, you know he was very fond of Lady Isabel, was
Peter, and somehow his feelings overcame him. He said he had not
heard anything to please him so much for many a day; and with that
he burst out crying, and gave White half-a-crown out of his pocket.
White said it was he who held one leg when they soused him in. Afy
saw it—if you'll excuse my mentioning her name to you, ma'am, for I
know you don't think well of her; and when she came in here she fell
into hysterics."
“How did she see it ? " snapped Miss Carlyle, her equanimity upset
by the sound of the name. “I didn't see her; and I was present."
“She was coming here with a message from Mrs. Latimer to the
governess : news that Mrs. Latimer had received from Germany, from
last Lyana
23


A TREAT IN A GREEN POND.
355
“Was it a positively ascertained fact that Lady Isabel died ? "
The earl stared with all his might : he thought it the strangest
question that was ever asked him. “I scarcely understand you, Miss
Carlyle. Died ? Certainly she died.”
“When the result of the accident was communicated to you, you made
inquiry, yourself, into its truth, its details, I believe ?”
“ It was my duty to do so. There was no one else to undertake it."
“Did you ascertain positively, beyond all doubt, that she did
die?"
“Of a surety I did. She died in the course of the same night. She
was terribly injured.”
A pause. Miss Carlyle was ruminating. But she returned to the
charge, as if difficult to be convinced.
“You think that there could be no possibility of any error ? You are
sure that she is dead ?
“I am as sure that she is dead as that we are living," decisively
replied the earl; and he spoke according to his belief. “Wherefore
should you be inquiring this?”.
“A thought came over me-only to-day-to wonder whether she
was really dead."
“Had any error occurred at the time, any false report of her death, I
should soon have found it out by her. drawing the annuity I settled upon
her. It has never been drawn since. Besides, she would have written
to me, as was agreed upon. No, poor thing! she is gone, beyond all
doubt, and has taken her sins with her.”
Convincing proofs. And Miss Carlyle lent her ear to them.
The following morning, Lord Vane, Lucy, and William were running
races on the lawn, the viscount having joined Madame Vine's breakfast-
table without the ceremony of asking. William's racing, indeed, was
more pretence than work, he and his breath were so soon exhausted ;
and Lord Vane gave Lucy "half,” and beat her then, the forfeit, if she
lost, being five kisses. Lucy told him one was enough, but he battled
it out, and took five. Lady Isabel had made prisoner of Archibald,
and was holding him on her knee in the grey parlour, clasped to her in
the impassioned manner that few, save a mother, can clasp a child,
when Mr. Carlyle entered.
“Do you admit intruders here, Madame Vine ?” cried he, with his
sweet smile and his attractive manner.
She let the boy slip to the ground, and rose; her face burning, her
heart throbbing. Archie immediately ran off to his elders on the grass.
“Keep your seat, pray,” said Mr. Carlyle, taking one opposite to her
and admiring no doubt her tortoise-shell spectacles. “How does
William seem ? for that is what I have come to ask you."
She laid her hand upon her bosom, striving to still it ; she essayed
to control her voice to calmness. Alone with him! “There was no
difference,” she murmured ; and then she took courage, and spoke
more openly.
"I understood you to say the other night, sir, that he should have
further advice."
“Ay. I intended to take him over to Lynneborough to Dr. Martin,
and the drive would have done him good; but I have been so much


356
EAST LYNNE.
engaged there has been no time to think of it. Neither do I know
when I shall be at liberty to do so."
“Let me take him, sir,” she cried, yearningly. “Indeed, I think no
time should be lost. We could go by train. What objection have
you?" she quickly added. “Surely you can trust him with me!”
Mr. Carlyle smiled. “I can trust him and you too,” cried he, “and
I think the plan would be a good one, if you do not mind the trouble.”
Mind the trouble ! when her boy's life was at stake. “Let us go
to-day,” she said, with feverish impatience.
“I will ascertain whether Mrs. Carlyle wants the pony-carriage,"
said he. “It would be better to drive over in that than to be boxed
up in the train."
Her heart rose rebelliously as he quitted the room. Were Mrs.
Carlyle's capricious “wants” to be studied before her child's life?
A moment's battle, and she clasped her hands meekly on her knee :
was that the spirit in which she had promised to take up her daily
cross ? She had put the same question to herself many times lately.
Mr. Carlyle returned. “The pony-carriage will be at your service,
Madame Vine. John will drive you to the Royal, the hotel I use in
Lynneborough, and Dr. Martin lives within a few doors of it. Order
any refreshment you please, it will be put down to my account.
Perhaps you had better dine there : it may not be well for William to
wait.”
“ Very well, sir. Thank you. What time can we start ?"
“Any time you like. Ten o'clock? Will that suit ? W
“Oh, quite well, sir. Thank you very much."
“ Thank me for what ? ” laughed Mr. Carlyle. “For giving you a
troublesome journey? Let me see—the doctor's fee will be a guinea,”
he said, taking out his purse.
“Oh, that is nothing," she hastily interrupted. “ I will pay for him
myself: I would rather do so."
Mr. Carlyle looked surprised. He said nothing ; simply laid down
the sovereign and shilling on the table. Madame Vine blushed vividly:
how could she, the governess, so have forgotten herself?
Poor, unhappy Lady Isabel! A recollection flashed over her of that
morning, years ago, when Lord Mount Severn had handed out to her
some gold, three sovereigns; and of the hundred-pound note so gener-
ously left in her hands afterwards by another. Then she was his chosen
love : ay, she was ; though it had not yet been declared. Now ?-A
pang, as of death, shot through her bitter heart.
“You can remind Dr. Martin that the child's constitution is precisely
what his mother's was,” continued Mr. Carlyle, a tinge lighting his face.
“ It may be a guide to his treatment. He said, himself, it was so, when
he attended him in an illness a year or two ago.”
“ Yes, sir."
He crossed the hall on his entrance to the breakfast-room. She tore
upstairs to her chamber, and sank down in an agony of tears and despair.
Oh! to love him as she did now ! to yearn after his affection with this
passionate, jealous longing, and to know that they were separated for
ever and for ever; that she was worse to him than nothing !
Gently, Lady Isabel! This is not bearing your cross


358
EAST LYNNE.
could advance only at a snail's pace, and now and then came to a
standstill. Sir Francis Levison's speech came to a standstill also, until
the confusion should subside. He did not bow to Barbara : he re-
membered the result of his having done so to Miss Carlyle : and the
little interlude of the pond had washed most of his impudence out of
him. He remained at his post, not looking at Barbara, not looking at
anything in particular, but waiting until the interruption should have
passed.
Barbara, under cover of her dainty lace parasol, turned her eyes upon
him. At that very moment he raised his right hand, slightly shook his
head back, and tossed his hair off his brow. His hand, ungloved, was
white and delicate as a lady's, and his rich diamond ring gleamed in
the sun. The pink flush on Barbara's cheek deepened to a crimson
damask, and her brow contracted as with a remembrance of pain.
“The very action Richard described ! the action he was always using
at East Lynne! I believe from my heart that man is Thorn. Richard
was labouring under some mistake, when he said he knew Sir Francis
Levison.”
She let her hands fall upon her knee as she spoke, heedless of the
candidate, heedless of the crowd, heedless of all, save her own troubled
thoughts. A hundred respectful salutations were uttered, she answered
them mechanically ; a shout was raised, “ Long live Carlyle! Carlyle
for ever!” Barbara bowed her pretty head on either side, and the
carriage at length went on.
The parting of the crowd brought Mr. Dill (who had come to listen
for once to the speech of the second man) and Mr. Ebenezer James
close to each other. Mr. Ebenezer James was one who for the last
twelve or fifteen years had been trying his hand at many trades, and
had not come out particularly well at any. A rolling stone gathers
no moss. First, he had been clerk to Mr. Carlyle; next he had been
seduced into joining the corps of the Theatre Royal at Lynneborough;
then he turned auctioneer; then traveller in the oil and colour line;
then a parson, the urgent pastor of some peculiar sect; then omnibus
driver; then collector of the water-rate ; and now he was clerk again ;
not in Mr. Carlyle's office, but in that of Ball and Treadman, other
solicitors of West Lynne. A good-humoured, good-natured, idle fellow
was Mr. Ebenezer James, and that was the worst that could be urged
against him, except that he was sometimes out at pocket and out at
elbows. His father was a respectable man, had made money in trade;
but he had married a second wife, had a second family, and his eldest
son did not come in for much of the paternal money ; though he did
for a large share of the paternal anger.
“Well, Ebenezer, and how goes the world with you ?” cried Mr.
Dill, by way of salutation.
“ Jogging on. It never gets to a trot.”
“ Didn't I see you turning into your father's house yesterday?"
“I pretty soon turned out of it, again. I'm like the monkey when I
venture there-get more kicks than halfpence. Hush, old gentleman!
we interrupt the eloquence.”.
Of course “the eloquence” applied to Sir Francis Levison, and they
applied themselves to listen, Mr. D:ll with a serious face, Mr. Ebenezer


APPEARANCE OF A RUSSIAN BEAR AT WEST LYNNE. 359
grinning. But, soon, a jostle and movement carried them outside the
crowd, out of sight of the speaker, though not quite out of hearing. By
these means they had a view of the street, and discerned something
advancing towards them, which they took for a Russian bear on its
hind legs.
“ I'll — be—blest,” uttered Mr. Ebenezer James, after a prolonged
pause of consternation, “if I don't believe it's Bethel !”
“Bethel !” repeated old Dill, gazing at the approaching figure.
“What has he been doing to himself?”
Mr. Otway Bethel it was, just arrived from foreign parts in his
travelling costume. Something shaggy, terminating all over in tails.
A shaggy cap surmounted his head, and the hair on his face would
have set up Mr. Justice Hare in wigs for life. He looked a wild
object, and Mr. Dill rather backed as he drew near, as if fearing he
were a real animal, and might bite him.
“What's your name ?” cried he.
“It used to be Bethel,” replied the wild man, holding out his hand
to Mr. Dill. “So you are in the world, James, and still kicking!”
“And hope to kick in it for some time to come,” replied Mr. James.
“Where did you hail from last ? A settlement at the North Pole?”
“ Didn't get quite so far. What's the row here?”
“When did you arrive, Mr. Otway?” inquired old Dill.
“Now. Four o'clock train. I say, what's up?"
“An election; that's all,” said Mr. Ebenezer. “Attley went and
kicked the bucket.”
“I don't ask about the election; I heard all that at the railway-
station,” returned Otway Bethel, impatiently. “What's this?" waving
his hand at the crowd.
“ One of the candidates, wasting breath and words. Levison.”
“I say,” repeated Otway Bethel, looking at Mr. Dill, “wasn't it
rather-rather of the ratherest, for him to oppose Carlyle ?”
“ Infamous ! contemptible !” was the old gentleman's excited answer.
“But he'll get his deserts yet, Mr. Otway; they have already begun.
He was treated to a ducking yesterday in Justice Hare's green pond.”
“And he did look a miserable devil when he came out, trailing
through the streets,” added Mr. Ebenezer, while Otway Bethel burst
into a laugh. “He was smothered into some hot blankets at the
Raven, and a pint of burnt brandy put into him. He seems all right
to-day.”
“Will he go in and win ? "
“Chut! Win against Carlyle! He has not the ghost of a chance ;
and governinent-if it is government who put him on it-must be a
pack of fools: they can't know Carlyle's influence. Bethel, is that style
of costume the fashion where you come from?”
“For cold weather and slender pockets. I'll sell 'em to you now,
James, at half price. Let's have a look at this Levison, though. I
have never seen the fellow."
Another interruption to the crowd, even as he spoke, caused by the
railway van bringing up some luggage. They contrived, in the con-
fusion, to push themselves to the front, not far from Sir Francis.
Otway Bethel stared at him in unqualified amazement.


APPEARANCE OF A RUSSIAN BEAR AT WEST LYNNE. 363
wine, and everything I liked that was good. And he said he should be
at West Lynne next Wednesday afternoon, and I am to be there, and
he would call in and see me.”
“Where are you to meet him?"
“He said either at papa's office, or at Aunt Cornelia's, as we might
decide. Madame decided for papa's office, for she thought he might
like to see Dr. Martin. I say, mamma?”
“ What?” asked Barbara.
“ Madame Vine has been crying ever since. Why should she ? "
“ I'm sure I don't know. Crying ?”.
“Yes : but she wipes her eyes under her spectacles, and thinks I
don't see her. I know I am very ill, but why should she cry for that?”
“ Nonsense, William! Who told you you were very ill ?”
“No one. I suppose I am," he thoughtfully added. “If Joyce or
Lucy cried, now, there'd be more sense in it, for they have known me
all my life.”
“ You are so apt to fancy strange things ! you are always doing so.
It is not likely that madame would be crying because you were ill."
Madame came in with the bank-note. Barbara thanked her, ran
upstairs, and in another minute or two was in her carriage.
She was back again and dressing, when the gentlemen returned to
dinner. Mr. Carlyle came upstairs. Barbara, like most persons who
do things without reflection, having had time to cool down from her
ardour, was doubting whether she had acted wisely in sending so pre-
cipitately for Richard. She carried her doubt and care to her husband :
her sure refuge in perplexity.
“ Archibald, I do fear I have done a foolish thing."
He laughed. “I fear we all do that at times, Barbara. What is it?"
He had seated himself in one of Barbara's favourite low chairs, and
she stood before him, leaning on his shoulder, her face a little behind,
so that he could not see it. In her delicacy, she would not look at
him while she spoke what she was about to say.
“ It is something that has been upon my mind for years. And I did
not like to tell it to you.”
“For years !”
“ You remember that night, years ago, when Richard was at the
Grove in disguise ?"
“Which night, Barbara ? He came more than once.”
“ The night-the night that Lady Isabel quitted East Lynne," she
answered, not knowing how otherwise to bring it to his recollection :
and she stole her hand lovingly into his as she said it. “Richard
came back after his departure, saying he had met Thorn in Bean-lane.
He described the peculiar motion of his hand as he threw back his
hair from his brow : he spoke of the white hand and the diamond ring,
how it glittered in the moonlight. Do you remember?”
“ I do.”
“The motion appeared perfectly familiar to me, for I had seen it
repeatedly used by one then staying at East Lynne. I wondered you
did not recognize it. From that night I had little doubt as to the
identity of Thorn. I believed that he and Captain Levison were one
and the same.”


A FADING CHILD.
367
“ Yes," she faintly said. “I have had more than my share of sorrow.
Sometimes I think that I cannot support it any longer.”
“Is it not past then? Have you sorrow now ?”
“I have it always. I shall have it until I die. Had I died a child,
William, I should have escaped it. Oh! the world is full of it! full
and full of it.”
“What sort of sorrow ?”
“Pain, sickness, care, trouble, sin, remorse, weariness,” she wailed
out. “I cannot tell you one half that the world brings upon us. When
you are very, very tired, William, does it not seem a luxury, a sweet
happiness, to lie down at night in your little bed, waiting for sleep?"
“ Yes. And I am often tired : as tired as that.”
“Then, just so do we, who are tired out with the world's cares, long
for the grave in which we shall lie down to rest. We covet it, William ;
long for it ; almost pray for it : but you cannot understand that.”
“ We don't lie in the grave, Madame Vine."
“No, no, child. Our bodies lie there, to be raised again in beauty at
the last day. We go to a blessed place of rest, where sorrow and pain
cannot enter. I wish I wish,” she added with a breaking heart,“ that
you and I were both there!”.
“Who says the world is so sorrowful, Madame Vine? I think it is
lovely, especially when the sun's shining on a hot day, and the butter-
Alies come out. You should see East Lynne on a summer's morning,
when you are running up and down the slopes, and the trees are waving
overhead, and the sky's blue, and the roses and flowers are all out. You
would not call it a sad world.”
“A pleasant world ; one we might regret to leave, if we were not
wearied by pain and care. But, what is this world, taken at its best, in
comparison with that other world, heaven? I have heard of people
who are afraid of death : they fear they shall not go to it: but when
God takes a little child there, it is because He loves him. It is a land,
as Mrs. Barbauld says, where the roses are without thorns, where the
flowers are not mixed with brambles-
“I have seen the flowers,” interrupted William, rising in his earnest-
ness. “They are ten times brighter than our flowers are here.”
“Seen the flowers! The flowers we shall see in heaven !” she echoed.
“ I have seen a picture of them. We went to Lynneborough to see
Martin's pictures of the Last Judgment. I don't mean Dr. Martin,"
said William, interrupting himself.
“I know.”
“ There were three large pictures. One was called the Plains of
Heaven,' and I liked that best; and so we all did. Oh, you should
have seen it ! Did you ever see them, Madame Vine ?"
“No. I have heard of them.”
“There was a river, you know, and boats, beautiful gondolas they
looked, taking the redeemed to the shores of heaven. They were
shadowy figures in white robes, myriads and myriads of them, for they
reached all up in the air to the holy city : it seemed to be in the clouds,
coming down from God. The flowers grew on the banks of the river,
pink and blue and violet ; all colours, but so bright and beautiful;
brighter than our flowers are here."


368
EAST LYNNE.
“ Who took you to see the pictures ?"
“Papa. He took me and Lucy : and Mrs. Hare went with us, and
Barbara-she was not our mamma then. But, madame”-dropping
his voice-"what do you think Lucy asked papa ?”
“What did she ask him?"
“She asked whether mamma was amongst that crowd in the white
robes ; whether she was gone up to heaven? Our mamma that was,
you know; Lady Isabel. We were in front of the picture at the time,
and lots of people heard what she said." .
Lady Isabel dropped her face upon her hands. “What did your
papa answer ?” she breathed.
* I don't know. Nothing, I think : he was talking to Barbara. But
it was very stupid of Lucy, because Wilson has told her over and over
again that she must never talk of Lady Isabel to papa. Miss Manning
has told her so too. When we got home and Wilson heard of it, she
said Lucy deserved a good shaking.”
“Why must Lady Isabel not be talked of to him?" A moment after
the question had left her lips she wondered what possessed her to give
utterance to it.
“I'll tell you,” said William, in a whisper. “She ran away from papa.
Lucy talks nonsense about her having been kidnapped, but she knows
nothing. I do; though they don't think it perhaps.”
“She may be among the redeemed some time, William, and you
with her.”
He fell back on the sofa pillow with a weary sigh and lay in silence.
Lady Isabel shaded her face and remained in silence also. Soon she
was aroused from it : William was in a fit of loud, sobbing tears.
“Oh, I don't want to die ! I don't want to die! Why should I go,
and leave papa and Lucy?"
She hung over him ; she clasped her arms around him ; her tears,
her sobs mingled with his. She whispered to him sweet and soothing
words: she placed him so that he might sob out his grief upon her
bosom : and in a little while the paroxysm had passed.
“Hark!” exclaimed William. “What's that?”
A sound of talking and laughter in the hall. Mr. Carlyle, Lord
Mount Severn, and his son were leaving the dining-room. They had
some committee-meeting that evening at West Lynne, and were depart-
ing for it. As the hall door closed upon them, Barbara came into the
grey parlour. Up rose Madame Vine, hastily assumed her spectacles,
and took her seat soberly upon a chair.
“All in the dark ! And your fire going out !” exclaimed Barbara, as
she hastened to stir the latter into a blaze. “Who is that on the sofa ?
William ! you ought to be in bed.”
“Not yet, mamma. I don't want to go yet.”
“But it is quite time that you should go,” she returned, ringing the
bell. “To sit up at night is not the way to make you strong."
William was dismissed. And then she turned to Madame Vine and
inquired what Dr. Martin had said.
“He said the lungs were undoubtedly affected ; but, like all doctors,
he would give no decisive opinion. I could see that he had formed
one."


A FADING CHILD.
371
supposed but that he was guilty—of the act, mind you ; not of the
intention. Even mamma, who so loved him, believed he had done it ;
but she believed it was the result of accident, not design. Oh, the
trouble that has been the lot of my poor mother ! ” cried Barbara,
clasping her hands. “And she had no one to sympathize with her, no
one, no one! I, as I tell you, was little more than a child ; and papa,
who might have done it, took part against Richard. The sorrow went
on for three or four years, without mitigation. At the end of that period
Richard came for a few hours to West Lynne, came in secret, and we
learnt for the first time that he was not guilty. The man who did the
deed was Thorn; Richard was not then present. The next question
was, how to find Thorn. No one knew anything about him : who he
was, what he was ; where he came from, where he went to : and thus
more years passed on. Another Thorn came to West Lynne ; an officer
in her Majesty's service ; and his appearance tallied with the description
Richard had given. I assumed it to be the one : Mr. Carlyle assumed
it also; but, before anything could be done, or even thought of, Captain
Thorn was gone again.”
Barbara paused. Madame Vine sat, listlessly enough. What was
this tale to her ?
“ Again, years went on. The period came of Francis Levison's
sojourn at East Lynne. Whilst he was there Captain Thorn arrived
once more, on a visit to the Herberts. We then strove to find out his
antecedents, Mr. Carlyle and I, and we became almost convinced that
he was the man. I had to come here often to see Mr. Carlyle, for
mamma did not dare to stir in the affair, papa was so violently against
Richard. Thus I often saw Francis Levison : but he was visible to no
other visitor, being at East Lynne en cachette: He intimated that he
was afraid of encountering creditors : I now begin to doubt whether
that was not a false plea; and I remember Mr. Carlyle said at the time,
that he had no creditors in or near West Lynne."
“ Then, what was his motive for shunning society, for never going
out?” interrupted Lady Isabel. Too well she remembered that bygone
time. Francis Levison had told her that the fear of his creditors kept
him up so closely; though he had once said to her they were not in the
immediate neighbourhood of East Lynne.
“He had a worse fear upon him than that of creditors," returned
Mrs. Carlyle. “Singularly to say, during this visit of Captain Thorn to
the Herberts, we received an intimation from my brother that he was
once more about to venture for a few hours to West Lynne. I brought
the news to Mr. Carlyle ; I had to see him and consult with him more
frequently than ever : mamma was painfully restless and anxious, and
Mr. Carlyle was as eager as we were for the establishment of Richard's
innocence : for Miss Carlyle and papa are related, and the disgrace
may be said to be reflected on the Carlyle name.”
Back went Lady Isabel's memory and her bitter repentance. She
remembered how jealously she had attributed these meetings between
Mr. Carlyle and Barbara to another source. Oh, why had she suffered
her mind to be so falsely and fatally perverted ?
“ Richard came. It was hastily arranged that he should go privately
to Mr. Carlyle's office, after the clerks had left for the night, be con-


372
EAST LYNNE.
cealed there, have an opportunity given him of seeing Captain Thorn.
There was no difficulty to be overcome, for Mr. Carlyle was transacting
some matter of business for the captain, and appointed him to be at
the office at eight o'clock. A memorable night, that, to Mr. Carlyle,
for it was the one of his wife's elopement."
Lady Isabel looked up with a start.
“ It was, indeed. She, Lady Isabel, and Mr. Carlyle were engaged
to a dinner-party : and Mr. Carlyle had to give it up, otherwise he
could not have served Richard. He is always considerate and kind,
thinking of others' welfare ; never of his own gratification. Oh, it was
an anxious night! Papa was out. I waited at home with mamma,
doing what I could to soothe her restless suspense : for there was
hazard to Richard in his night walk through West Lynne to keep the
appointment: and, when it was over, he was to come home for a short
interview with mamma, who had not seen him for several years."
Barbara Bpped, lost in thought. Not a word spoke Madame Vine.
She still vaondered what this affair, touching Richard Hare and Cap-
tain Thorn, could have to do with Francis Levison.
“I watched from the window, and saw them come in at the garden
gate, Mr. Carlyle and Richard I think it must have been between
nine and ten o'clock. The first words they said to me were, that it was
not the Captain Thorn spoken of by Richard, I felt a shock of dis-
appointment, which was wicked enough of me, but I had been so sure
he was the man; and, to hear that he was not the man after all, seemed
to throw us further back than ever. Mr. Carlyle, on the contrary, was
glad, for he had taken a liking to Captain Thorn. Well, Richard went
in to mamma, an 1 Mr. Carlyle was so kind as to accede to her request
that he would remain and pace the garden with me. We were so
afraid of papa's coming home : he was bitter against Richard, and
would inevitably have delivered him up at once to justice. Had he
come in, Mr. Carlyle was to keep him in the garden by the gate, whilst
I ran in to give notice and conceal Richard in the hall. Richard
lingered ; papa did not come; and I cannot tell how long we paced
there. It was a lovely moonlight night.”
That unhappy listener clasped her hands to pain. The matter-of-
fact tone, the unconscious mention of commonplace trifles, proved
that they had not been pacing about in disloyalty to her, or for their
own gratification. Why had she not trusted her noble husband ?
Why had she listened to that false man, as he pointed them out to
her, walking there in the moonlight ? Why had she given vent in the
chariot to that burst of passionate tears, of angry reproach? Why, oh
why had she hastened to be revenged? But for seeing them together,
she might not have done as she did.
“ Richard came forth at last, and departed ; to be again an exile.
Mr. Carlyle also departed ; and I remained at the gate, watching for
papa. By-and-by Mr. Carlyle came back again : he had nearly reached
home when he remembered that he had left a parchment at our house.
It seemed to be nothing but coming back, for, just after he had gone
a second time, Richard returned in a state of excitement, stating that
he had met Thorn-Thorn, the murderer, I mean-in Bean-lane. For
a moment I doubted him, but not for long, and we ran after Mr. Car-


A FADING CHILD.
373
Iyle. Richard described Thorn's appearance ; his evening dress, his
white hands, and his diamond ring; more particularly he described a
peculiar motion of his hand as he threw back his hair. In that
moment it flashed across me that Thorn must be Captain Levison ; the
description was exact. Many and many a time since, have I wondered
that the thought did not strike Mr. Carlyle also.”
Lady Isabel sat with her mouth open, as if unable to take in the
sense of the words : and when it became clear to her, she utterly
rejected it.
"Francis Levison a murderer! Oh no. Bad man as he is, he is not
that.”
“Wait,” said Mrs. Carlyle. “I did not speak of this doubt-nay,
this conviction-which had come to me: how could I mention to
Mr. Carlyle the name of the man who did him that foul wrong ?-and
Richard has remained in exile, with the mark of guilt upon him. To-
day, as I passed through West Lynne in the carriage, Francis Levison
was haranguing the people. I saw that very same action—the throw-
ing back of the hair with his white hand : I saw the self-same diamond
ring; and my conviction, that he was the man, became more firmly
seated than ever.”
“It is impossible," murmured Lady Isabel.
“Wait, I say," said Barbara. “When Mr. Carlyle came home this
evening to dinner, I, for the first time, mentioned this to him. It was
no news—the fact was out. This afternoon, during that same harangue,
Francis Levison was recognized by two witnesses as the man Thorn
the man who went after Afy Hallijohn. It is horrible.”
Lady Isabel sat, and looked at Mrs. Carlyle. Not yet did she
believe it.
“Yes, it does appear to me as perfectly horrible," continued Mrs.
Carlyle. “He murdered Hallijohn: he, that bad man; and my poor
brother has suffered all these years of odium. When Richard met him
that night in Bean-lane, he was sneaking to West Lynne in search of
the chaise that afterwards bore away him and his companion, Papa
saw them drive away. Papa stayed out late, and, in returning home,
a chaise and four tore past, just as he was coming in at the gate. If
that miserable Lady Isabel had only known with whom she was flying !
A murderer! In addition to his other achievements! It is a mercy
for her that she is no longer living. What would her feelings be now ?"
What were they then, as she sat there ? A murderer! And she
had In spite of her caution, of her strife for self-command, she
turned of a deadly whiteness, and a low sharp cry of horror and despair
burst from her lips.
Mrs. Carlyle was astonished. Why should her communication have
produced this effect upon Madame Vine? A renewed suspicion that
she knew more of Francis Levison than she would acknowledge stole
over her.
“Madame Vine, what is he to you ? " she asked, bending forward.
Madame Vine, doing fierce battle with herself, recovered her out-
ward equanimity. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Carlyle," she shivered :
"I am given to picturing things too vividly. It is, as you say, so very
horrible.”


374
EAST LYNNE.
“Is he nothing to you? Do you know him ?”
“He is nothing to me ; less than nothing. As to knowing him-I
saw him yesterday when they put him into the pond. A man like that!
I should shudder to meet him.”
“Ay, indeed,” said Barbara, reassured. “ You will understand,
Madame Vine, that this history has been given you in confidence. I
look upon you as one of ourselves."
There was no answer. Madame Vine sat on, with her white face.
It wore altogether a ghastly look.
“ It relates as a romance,” resumed Mrs. Carlyle. “Well for him if
the romance be not ended with the gibbet. Fancy what it would be —
for him, Sir Francis Levison, to be hanged for murder !”
“ Barbara, my dearest !”
The voice was Mr. Carlyle's, and she flew off on the wings of love.
It appeared that the gentlemen had not yet departed, and now thought
they would take coffee first.
Flew off to her idolized husband, leaving her who had once been
the idolized, to her loneliness. She sank down on the sofa : she threw
her arms up in her heart-sickness; she thought she should faint ; she
prayed to die. It was horrible, as Barbara had called it. For that
man, with the red stain upon his hand and soul, she had flung away
Archibald Carlyle.
If ever retribution came home to woman, it came home in that hour
to Lady Isabel.
CHAPTER XI.
MR. CARLYLE INVITED TO SOME PÂTÉ DE FOIE GRAS.
A SIGHING, moaning wind swept round the domains of East Lynne,
bending the tall poplar-trees in the distance, swaying the oaks and
elms, rustling the fine old chestnuts in the park: a melancholy, sweeping,
fitful wind. The weather had changed, gathering clouds seemed to
threaten rain. So, at least, thought one wayfarer, who was journeying
on a solitary road, that Saturday night.
He was on foot. A man in the garb of a sailor, with black curling
hair and whiskers : a prodigious pair of whiskers, hiding his neck above
his blue collar, partially hiding his face. The glazed hat, brought low
upon the brows, concealed it still more ; and he wore a loose, rough
pea-jacket, and wide rough trousers, secured by a belt. Bearing steadily
on, he struck into Bean-lane, a by-way already mentioned in this history,
and from thence, passing through a small, unfrequented gate, he found
himself in the grounds of East Lynne.
“Let's see,” mused he, as he closed the gate behind him, and slipped
its boit. “The covered walk ? That must be near the acacia-trees.
Then I must wind round to the right. I wonder if either of them will
be there, waiting for me?”
Yes. Pacing the covered walk in her bonnet and mantle, as if taking
an evening stroll-had any one encountered her, which was very un-


RICHARD HARE.
375
22
likely, for it was the most retired spot in the grounds-was Mrs.
Carlyle.
“Oh, Richard ! my poor brother ! "
Locked in a yearning embrace, emotion overpowered both. Barbara
sobbed like a child. A little while, and then he put her from him, to
look at her.
“So, Barbara, you are a wife now !”
“Oh, the happiest wife! Richard, sometimes I ask my'; :If what I
have done, that God should have showered anwn blessings so great
upon me. But for the sad trouble when I think of you, my life would
be as one long summer's day. I have the sweetest baby; he is now
nearly a year old-I shall have another soon, God willing. And
Archibald-oh, I am so happy."
She broke suddenly off with the name “ Archibald :" not even to
Richard could she speak of her intense love for her husband.
“How is it at the Grove ? " he asked.
“Quite well ; quite as usual. Mamma has been in better health
lately. She does not know of this visit, but
“I must see her," interrupted Richard. “I did not see her last time,
you remember.”
“All in good time. How are you getting on in Liverpool ? What
are you doing?”
“Don't inquire too closely, Barbara. I have no regular work, but I
get a turn at the docks, now and then, and rub on. It is seasonable
help, that, which comes to me from you. Is it from you or Carlyle?”
Barbara laughed. “How are we to distinguish? His money is
mine now, and mine is his. We have not separate purses, Richard ;
we send it to you jointly."
“Sometimes I have fancied it came from my mother.”
Barbara shook her head. “We have never allowed mamma to know
that you left London, or that we hold an address where we can write to
you. It would not have been wise.”
“Why have you summoned me here, Barbara? What has turned
* « Thorn has—I think. You would know him again, Richard ?”
“Know him!” passionately echoed Richard Hare.
“Were you aware that a contest for the membership is now going on
at West Lynne?”
“I saw it in the newspapers. Carlyle against Sir Francis Levison.
I say, Barbara, how could he think of coming here, to oppose Carlyle ?"
“ I don't know," said Barbara. “I wonder that he should come here
for other reasons also. First of all, Richard, tell me how you came to
know Sir Francis Levison. You said you knew him, and that you had
seen him with Thorn.”
“So I do know him," answered Richard. “And I saw him with
Thorn twice.”
“Know him by sight only, I presume. Let me hear how you came
to know him.”
“He was pointed out to me. I saw Thorn walking arm in arm with
a gentleman, and I showed him to the waterman at the cab-stand hard
by. “Do you know that fellow?' I asked him, indicating Thor 2, lai
up?"


370
EAST LYNNE.
I wanted to come at who he really is. 'I don't know that one,' the old
man answered, “but the one with him is Levison the baronet. They
are often together ; a couple of swells, both.' And a couple of swells
they looked.
“And that was how you knew Levison ?"
“ That was it,” said Richard Hare.
“ Then, Richard, you and the waterman made a mistake between
you. He pointed out the wrong, or you did not look at the right one.
Thorn is Sir Francis Levison.”
Richard stared with all his eyes. “Nonsense, Barbara !”
“ He is. I have suspected it ever since the night you saw him in
Bean-lane. The action you described, of his pushing back his hair, his
white hands, his sparkling diamond ring, could only apply to one
person ; Francis Levison. On Thursday I drove by the Raven when
he was addressing the people, and I noticed the self-same action. In
the impulse of the moment I wrote off for you, that you might come
and set the doubt at rest. I need not have done so · for when Mr.
Carlyle returned home that evening, and I acquainted him with what I
had done, he told me that Thorn and Francis Levison are one and the
same. Otway Bethel recognized him that same afternoon; and so did
Ebenezer James."
“They would both know him," cried Richard, eagerly. “James, I
am positive, would, for he was skulking down to Hallijohn's often then,
and saw Thorn a dozen times. Otway Bethel must have seen him also
—though he protested he had not - Barbara !”
The name was uttered in affright, and Richard plunged amidst the
trees, for some one was in sight: a tall, dark form, advancing from
the end of the walk. Barbara smiled; it was only Mr. Carlyle ; and
Richard emerged again.
“Fears still, Richard !” Mr. Carlyle exclaimed, as he shook Richard
cordially by the hand. “So! you have changed your travelling
costume !"
“I couldn't venture here again in the old suit ; it had been seen, you
said,” returned Richard. “I bought this rig-out yesterday, second-
hand. Two pounds for the lot : I think they shaved me."
“Ringlets and all ? ” laughed Mr. Carlyle.
“ It's the old hair, oiled and curled” ried Dick. “The barber
charged a shilling for doing it, and cut my hair into the bargain. Mr.
Carlyle, Barbara says that Levison and that brute Thorn have turned
out to be one and the same.”
“ They have, Richard ; as it appears. Nevertheless, it may be as
well for you to take a private view of Levison before anything is done
-as you once did of the other Thorn. It would not do to make a stir,
and then discover that there was a mistake, and he was not Thorn."
“ When can I see him ?” asked Richard eagerly.
" It must be contrived, somehow. Were you to hang about the doors
of the Raven-this evening-you'd be sure to have an opportunity, for
he is always passing in and out. No one will know you; or think of
you either; their heads are turned with the election.”
“I shall look odd in people's eyes. You don't see many sailors in
West Lynne,"


RICHARD HARE.
377
« Not odd at all. We have a Russian bear here at present; and
you'll be nobody, beside him.”
“A Russian bear !” repeated Richard, while Barbara laughed.
"“Mr. Otway Bethel has returned in what is popularly supposed to be
a bear's skin; hence the new name he is greeted with. Will it turn
out, Richard, that he had anything to do with the murder ? "
Richard shook his head. “It was not possible, Mr. Carlyle : I have
said so all along. But, about Levison ? If I find him to be the man
Thorn-what steps can then be taken ? "
" That's the difficulty," said Mr. Carlyle.
“ Who will set it going? Who will move in it ? *
“ You must, Richard.”
“I?” uttered Richard Hare, in consternation, “ I move in it?".
“ You, yourself. Who else is there? I have been thinking it well
over."
“Will you not take it upon yourself, Mr. Carlyle ?"
“No. Being Levison," was the quiet answer.
“Curse him!” impetuously retorted Richard. “But why should you
scruple, Mr. Carlyle ? Most men, wronged as you have been, would
leap at the opportunity for revenge."
"For the crime perpetrated upon Hallijohn, I would pursue him to
the scaffold. For my own wrong, no. But the negative has cost me
something. Many a time, since this appearance of his at West Lynne,
have I been obliged to exercise violent control upon myself, or I should
have horsewhipped him within an ace of his life.”
“If you horsewhipped him to death he would only meet with his
deserts."
“ I leave him to a higher retribution : to One who says “Vengeance
is mine.' I believe him to be guilty of the murder : but if lifting my
finger would send him to his disgraceful death, I would cut off my hand,
rather than lift it. For I could not, in my own mind, separate the man
from my injury. Though I might ostensibly pursue him as the
destroyer of Hallijohn, to me he would appear ever as the destroyer
of another; and the world, always charitable, would congratulate
Mr. Carlyle upon having gratified his revenge. I stir in it not,
Richard."
“ Couldn't Barbara do so ? " cried Richard.
Barbara was standing with her arm entwined within her husband's,
and Mr. Carlyle looked down at her as he replied.
“ Barbara is my wife.” It was a sufficient answer.
. “Then the thing's again at an end,” said Richard, gloomily, "and I
must give up all hope of ever being cleared.”
“By no means," said Mr. Carlyle. “The one who ought to act in
this is your father, Richard : but we know he will not. Your mother
cannot : she has neither health nor energy for it; and if she had a full
supply of both, she would not dare to brav, her husband and use them
in this cause. My hands are tied : Barbara's equally so, as part of me.
There only remains yourself.”
" And what can I do?" wailed poor Dick. “ If your hands are tied,
I am sure my whole body is; hands, legs, and neck. The latter is in
jeopardy every hour.”
re


378
EAST LYNNE.
“Your acting in this affair need not put it into further jeopardy. You
must remain in the neighbourhood for a few days -
“I dare not,” interposed Richard, in a fright. “Stay in the neigh-
bourhood for a few days! No; that I never may.”
“ Listen, Richard. You must put away these fears; or else you must
make up your mind to remain under the cloud for good : and, remem-
ber, your mother's happiness is at stake equally with yours-I could
almost say her life. Do you suppose I would advise you to danger?
You used to say there was some place, a mile or two from this, where
you could sojourn in safety.”
“And so there is. But I always feel safer when I am away from it."
“ There your quarters must be, for two or three days, at any rate. I
have turned matters over in my own mind, and will tell you what I think
should be done, so far as the preliminary step goes.”
“Only the preliminary step! There must be a good many to follow
it, sir, if it's to come to anything. Well, what is it?"
“Apply to Ball and Treadman; and get them to take it up."
They were now slowly pacing the covered walk, Barbara on her
husband's arm; Richard by the side of Mr. Carlyle. Dick stopped
when he heard the last words.
“I don't understand you, Mr. Carlyle. You might as well advise
me to go before the bench of magistrates at once. Ball and Treadman
would walk me off there as soon as I showed myself.”
“Nothing of the sort, Richard. I do not tell you to go openly to
their office, as another client would do. What I would advise, is this :
make a friend of Mr. Ball; he can be a good man and true, if he
chooses : tell the whole story to him privately, and ask him whether he
will carry it through. If he is as fully impressed with the conviction
that you are innocent and the other guilty, as the facts appear to warrant,
he will undertake it. Treadman need know nothing of the affair at
first; and when Ball puts things in motion he need not know where you
are to be found.”
“ I don't dislike Ball,” mused Richard ; “and if he would only give
his word to be true, I know he would be so. The difficulty will be, who
is to get the promise from him ?”
“I will,” said Mr. Carlyle. “I will so far pave the way for you.
That done, my interference is over.”
“How will he go to work, think you—if he does take it up?"
“That is his affair. I know how I should.”
“ How, sir?”
“ You cannot expect me to say, Richard. I might as well act for you."
“I know. You'd go at it slap dash, and arrest Levison off-hand, on
the charge.”
A smile parted Mr. Carlyle's lips, for Dick had guessed the truth.
A thought flashed across Richard's mind ; a thought which almost
rose up on end even his false hair. “Mr. Carlyle," he uttered, in an
accent of horror, “if Ball should take it up in that way, against Levison,
he must apply to the bench for a warrant ! ”
“Well ? ” quietly returned Mr. Carlyle.
“ And they'd send and clap me into prison! You know the warrant
is always out against me.”


380
EAST LYNNE.
ring. By the hand and ring alone, Richard could have sworn to the
man, had it been needful.
“ Who is the other one ?” he continued.
“Some gent who has come down from London with him. His
name's Drake. Be you yellow, sailor? or be you scarlet-and-purple ! ”
“I am neither. I am only a stranger, passing through the town."
“On the tramp?”
“Tramp !-no." And Richard moved away, to make the best of his
progress to East Lynne, and report to Mr. Carlyle.
Now it happened, on that windy night, that Lady Isabel, her mind
disordered, her brow fevered with its weight of care, stole out into
the grounds, after the children had left her for the night ; courting the
boisterous gusts, courting any discomfort she might meet with. As if
they could, even for a moment, cool the fire within! To the solitude of
this very covered walk bent she her steps ; and, not long had she paced
it, when she descried some man advancing, in the garb of a sailor.
Not caring to be seen, she turned off amidst the trees, intending to
come out again when he had passed. She wondered who he was, and
what brought him there.
But he did not pass. He lingered in the walk, keeping her a prisoner.
A minute more, and she saw him joined by Mrs. Carlyle. They met
with a loving embrace.
Embrace a strange man! Mrs. Carlyle! All the blood in Lady
Isabel's body rushed to her brain. Was she, his second wife, false to
him ?-more shamelessly false than even herself had been, inasmuch as
she had had the grace to quit him and East Lynne. The positive con-
viction that such was the case seized upon her fancy : her thoughts
were in a tumult, her mind was a chaos. Was there any small corner
of rejoicing in her heart that it was so ? And yet—what was it to her ?
It could not alter by one iota her own position : it could not restore to
her the love she had forfeited.
Coupled lovingly together, they were now sauntering up the walk,
the sailor's arm thrown round the waist of Mrs. Carlyle. “Oh! the
shameless woman !” Ay; she could be bitter enough upon graceless
doings when enacted by another.
But, what was her astonishment when she saw Mr. Carlyle advance,
and that it caused not the slightest change in their gracelessness, for
the sailor's arm was not withdrawn. Two or three minutes they stood,
the three, talking together in a group. Then, good nights were
exchanged, the sailor left them, and Mr. Carlyle, his own arm lovingly
pressed where the other's had been, withdrew with his wife. . The truth
—that it was Barbara's brother-flashed to the mind of Lady Isabel.
“Was I mad ?" she cried, with a hollow laugh. “She false to him!
No, no : that fate was reserved for me alone.”
She followed them to the house ; she glanced in at the windows of
the drawing-room. Lights and fire were in the room, but the curtains
and windows were not closed for the night, for it was through those
windows that Mr. Carlyle and his wife had passed in and out, on their
visits to the covered walk. There they were, alone in their happiness,
and she stayed to glance in upon it. Lord Mount Severn had departed
for London, to be down again early in the week. Tea was on the table,


RICHARD HARE.
381
but Barbara had not begun to make it. She sat on the sofa by the
fire, her face, with its ever-loving gaze upon it, turned up to her hus-
band's. He stood talking with apparent earnestness, and looking down
at Barbara. Another moment, and a smile crossed his lips, the same
sweet smile so often bent upon her in the bygone days. Yes, they
were together in their unclouded happiness; and she-sħe turned away
towards her own lonely sitting-room, sick and faint at heart.
Ball and Treadman-as the brass plate on their office doors intimated
-were conveyancers and attorneys-at-law. Mr. Treadman, who
attended chiefly to the conveyancing, lived at the office with his
family ; Mr. Ball, a bachelor, lived away ; Lawyer Ball, West Lynne
styled him. Not a young bachelor; midway, he may have been,
between forty and fifty. A short, stout man, with a keen face and
green eyes. He took up any practice that was brought to him, dirty
odds and ends that Mr. Carlyle would not have touched with his foot;
but, as that gentleman had remarked, he could be honest and true upon
occasions, and there was no doubt that he would be so to Richard Hare.
To his house on Monday morning, early enough to catch him before he
went out, proceeded Mr. Carlyle. A great respect for Mr. Carlyle had
Lawyer Ball, as he had had for his father before him : many a good turn
had the Carlyles done him, if only in helping him and his partner to
clients whom they were too fastidious to take up. But the two, Mr.
Carlyle and Lawyer Ball, did not rank alike, though their profession
was the same : Lawyer Ball knew that they did not, and was content
to be humble. The one was an acknowledged gentleman : the other
merely a country attorney
Lawyer Ball was at breakfast when Mr. Carlyle was shown in.
“Halloa, Carlyle ! You are here betimes."
“Sit still, don't disturb yourself. Don't ring : I have breakfasted."
“The most delicious páté de foie gras,” urged Lawyer Ball, who was
a regular gourmand. “I get 'em direct from Strasburg.”
Mr. Carlyle resisted the offered dainty with a smile. “I have come
on business," said he. “Before I enter upon it, you will give me your
word, Ball, that my communication shall be held sacred, in the event
of your not consenting to pursue it further."
“Certainly I will. What business is it? Something that offends
the delicacy of the Carlyle office ?” he added, with a laugh. “A would-
be client, whom you turn over to me, in your exclusiveness ?”.
“It is a client for whom I cannot act. But not from the motives
you assume. It concerns that affair of Hallijohn's,” Mr. Carlyle con-
tinued, bending forward and somewhat dropping his voice. “The
murder."
Lawyer Ball, who had just taken in a delicious bonne bouche of the
foie gras, bolted it in his surprise. “Why, that was enacted ages and
ages ago! It is past and done with,” he exclaimed.
“Not done with,” said Mr. Carlyle. “Circumstances have come to
light which tend to indicate that Richard Hare was innocent : that
it was another who committed the murder.”
“In conjunction with him ?" interrupted the attorney.
“No: alone. Richard Hare had nothing whatever to do with it.
He was not present at the time.”


382
EAST LYNNE.
“Do you believe that ?” asked Lawyer Ball.
“I have believed it for years."
“ Then who did commit that murder?”
“Richard accuses one of the name of Thorn. Several years ago, I
had a meeting with Richard Hare, and he disclosed certain facts to me
which, if correct, could not fail to prove that he was innocent. Since
that period this impression has been gradually confirmed, by little
and by little, trifle upon trifle; and I would now stake my life upon
his innocence. I should long ago have moved in the matter, hit or
miss, could I have lighted upon Thorn, but he was not to be found,
nor any clue to him, and we now know that this name Thorn was an
assumed one."
“Is he to be found ?”
“He is found. He is at West Lynne. · Mark you, I don't accuse
him : I do not offer an opinion upon his guilt : I only state my belief
in Richard's innocence : it may have been another who did it ; neither
Richard nor Thorn. It was my firm intention to take Richard's cause
up the instant I saw my way clearly in it : and now that that time has
come, I am debarred from doing so.”
“What debars you ?” asked Lawyer Ball.
“ Hence I come to you," continued Mr. Carlyle, disregarding the
question. “I come on the part of Richard Hare. I have seen him
lately, and conversed with him. I gave him my reasons for not per-
sonally acting for him, advised him to apply to you, and promised to
come here and open the matter. Will you see Richard, in good faith,
and hear his story?-giving the promise that he shall depart in secret and
unmolested, as he came, if you do not decide to undertake the business."
"I'll give it with all the pleasure in life,” freely returned the attorney.
“I am sure I don't want to harm poor Dick Hare. And if he can
convince me of his innocence, I'll do my best to establish it."
“ Of his own tale you must be the judge. I do not wish to bias you.
I have stated my belief in his innocence, but I repeat that I give no
opinion, myself, as to who else may be guilty. Hear his account, and
then take up the affair, or not, as you may think well. He would not
come to you without your promise to hold him harmless; to be his
friend, in short, for the time : when I bear this promise to him from
you, my part is done.”
"I give it you in all honour, Carlyle. Tell Dick he has nothing to
fear from me. Quite the contrary; for if I can befriend him I shall
be glad to do it, and I won't spare trouble. What can possibly be
your objection to act for him ?”.
“My objection applies not to Richard ; I would willingly appear for
him : but I will not take proceedings against the man he accuses. If
that man is to be denounced and brought to justice, I will hold neither
act nor part in it.”.
The words aroused the curiosity of Lawyer Ball, and he began to
turn over all persons, likely and unlikely, in his mind : never, accord-
ing to usage, giving a suspicion to the right one. “I cannot fathom
you, Carlyle.”
' “You will do that better, possibly, when Richard shall have made
his disclosure.”


AN APPLICATION TO THE BENCH. 383
" It's—it's-never his own father that he accuses ?—Justice Hare?”
“ Your wits must be wool-gathering, Ball."
“ Well, so they must, to give utterance to so preposterous a notion,”
acquiesced the attorney, pushing back his chair, and throwing down
his breakfast napkin. “But I don't know a soul you could object to
go against, except the justice. What's anyone else in West Lynne,
to you, in comparison with restoring Dick Hare to his fair fame? I
give it up.”
“So do I, for the present,” said Mr. Carlyle, as he rose. “And now,
about the ways and means for your meeting this poor fellow. Where
can you see him ?”
“ Is he at West Lynne?”
“No. But I can have a message conveyed to him, and he could
come.”
“When ? "
“ To-night, if you liked.”
“ Then let him come here, to this house. He will be perfectly safe.”
“So be it. My part is now over,” concluded Mr. Carlyle. And
with a few more preliminary words, he departed. Lawyer Ball looked
after him.
“ It's a queer business. One would think Dick accuses some old
flame of Carlyle's ; some demoiselle or dame he daren't go against."
CHAPTER XII.
AN APPLICATION TO THE BENCH.
On Monday evening the interview between Lawyer Ball and Richard
Hare took place. With some difficulty would the lawyer believe his
tale : not as to its broad details ; he saw that he might give credit to
them • but as to the accusation against Sir Francis Levison. Richard
persisted ; mentioning every minute particular he could think of : his
meeting him the night of the elopement in Bean-lane ; his meetings
with him again in London, and Sir Francis's evident fear of him ;
and the previous Saturday night's recognition at the door of the
Raven ; not forgetting to mention the anonymous letter received by
Justice Hare, the morning that Richard was in hiding at Mr. Carlyle's.
There was no doubt in the world it had been sent by Francis
Levison to frighten Mr. Hare into despatching him out of West Lynne,
had Richard taken refuge in his father's house. None had more cause
to keep Dick from falling into the hands of justice than Francis
Levison.
“I believe what you say, I believe all you say, Mr. Richard, touching
Thorn,” debated the attorney, “but it's next to impossible to take in so
astounding a fact, as that he is Sir Francis Levison."
“ You can satisfy yourself of the fact from other lips than mine," said
Richard. “ Otway Bethel could testify to it if he would, though I
doubt his willingness. But there's Ebenezer James.”
“What does he know about it?” asked the attorney, in surprise.
“Ebenezer James is in our office at present.”


384
EAST LYNNE.
" He saw Thorn often enough in those days, and has, I hear, recog.
nized him as Levison. You had better inquire of him. Should you
object to take cause against Levison ?"
“Not a bit of it. Let me be assured that I am upon safe grounds, as
to the identity of the man, and I'll proceed in it forthwith. Levison is
an out-and-out scoundrel, as Levison, and deserves hanging. I will
send for James at once, and hear what he says,” he concluded after a
pause of consideration.
Richard Hare started up wildly. “Not while I am here : he must
not see me. For Heaven's sake, consider the peril to me, Mr. Ball ! ”
“Pooh, pooh !” laughed the attorney. “Do you suppose I have
only this one reception-room? We don't let cats into cages where
canary-birds are kept."
Ebenezer James returned with the messenger despatched after him.
You'll be sure to find him at the singing club,” Mr. Ball had said :
and there the gentleman was found.
“Is it any copying, sir, wanted to be done in a hurry ? " cried James,
as he came in.
"No," replied the attorney. “I wish you to answer a question or
two; that's all. Did you ever know Sir Francis Levison to go by any
name but his own ?".
“Yes, sir, he has gone by the name of Thorn."
A pause. “When was this?”
“ It was the autumn that Hallijohn was killed. Thorn used to be
prowling about there in an evening : in the wood and at the cottage, I
mean."
“What did he prowl for ?”
Ebenezer James laughed. “For the same reason that several more
prowled. L; for one. He was sweet upon Afy Hallijohn.”
“Where was he living at the time? I never remember him at West
Lynne.”
"" He was not at West Lynne, sir. On the contrary, he seemed to
take precious good care that West Lynne and he kept apart. A
splendid horse he rode, thoroughbred, and he used to come galloping
into the wood at dusk, get over his chat with Miss Afy, mount, and
gallop away again.”
" Where to? Where did he come from?”
“From somewhere near Swainson : a ten miles' ride, Afy used to say,
Now that he has appeared here in his own plumage, of course I can
put two and two together, and not be at much fault for the exact spot."
“And where's that?" asked the lawyer.
“Levison Park,” said Mr. Ebenezer. “There's little doubt he was
stopping at his uncle's ; and you know that is close to Swainson."
Lawyer Ball thought things were becoming clearer-or darker,
whichever you may please to call it. He paused again, and then put
a question impressively.
"James, have you any doubt whatever, or shadow of doubt, that Sir
Francis Levison is the same man you knew as Thorn?”
“Sir, have I any doubt that you are Mr. Ball, or that I am Eb.
James ? " retorted Mr. Ebenezer. “I am as certain of that man's
identity as I am of yours.”


AN APPLICATION TO THE BENCH. 385
“Are you ready to swear to that fact in a court of justice?"
“Ready and willing ; in any court in the world. To-morrow, if I am
called upon.”
“Very well. You may go back to your singing club now. Keep a
silent tongue in your head.”
“All close, sir,” answered Mr. Ebenezer James.
Far into the middle of the night sat Lawyer Ball and Richard Hare,
the former chiefly occupied in taking notes of Richard's statement.
“ It's half a crotchet, this objection of Carlyle's to interfere with Levi-
son!” said Richard, suddenly, in the midst of some desultory conver-
sation. “Don't you think so, Mr. Ball ?”.
The lawyer pursed up his lips. “Um-a delicate point. Carlyle
was always fastidiously honourable. I should go at him, thunder and
fury, in his place; but I and Carlyle are different.”
The following day, Tuesday, Mr, Ball was much occupied in putting,
to use nearly Ebenezer James's words, that and that together. Later
in the day, he took a journey to Levison Park, ferreted out some
information, and came home again. In the evening of that same
day, Richard departed for Liverpool; he was done with for the
present ; Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle being, as before, alone cognizant of his
address.
Wednesday morning witnessed the return of the Earl of Mount
Severn. Lord Vane came also. The latter ought to have gone back
to Eton, but he had teased and prayed to be allowed to see the fun
out,” meaning the election. “And that devil's discomfiture when he
finds himself beaten," he surreptitiously added, behind his father's
back, who was a great stickler for the boy's always being “gentleman-
like.” So the earl had yielded. They arrived, as before, about break:
fast-time, having travelled at night. Subsequently they and Mr.
Carlyle walked into West Lynne together.
West Lynne was alive and astir. The election was to come off that
week, and people made it their business to be in a bustle over it, col-
lectively and individually. Mr. Carlyle's committee sat at the Buck's
Head, and the traffic in and out was enough to wear away the stones.
The bench of justices were remarkably warm over it, neglecting the
judicial business, and showing themselves at the Buck's Head windows
in purple-and-scarlet streamers.
I will be with you in ten minutes,” said Mr. Carlyle, withdrawing
his arm from Lord Mount Severn's, as they approached his office;
“ but I must go in and read my letters.”
So the earl went on to the Buck's Head, and Lord Vane took a foot
canter down to the Raven, to reconnoitre outside. He was uncom-
monly fond of planting himself where Sir Francis Levison's eyes were
sure to fall upon him, which eyes were immediately dropped, while
the young gentleman's would be fixed in an audacious stare. Being
Lord Vanemor, it may be more correct to say, being the Earl of
Mount Severn's son, and under control-he was debarred from dancing
and jeering after the yellow candidate, as did the unwashed gentry of
his own age, but his tongue and his feet longed to do it.
Mr. Carlyle took his seat in his private room, opened his letters,
sorted them, marked on the back of some what was to be the purport
Kast Lynna.


386
EAST LYNNE.
of their answers, and then called in Mr. Dill. Mr. Carlyle put the
letters in his hand, gave some rapid instructions, and rose.
• You are in a hurry, Mr. Archibald.”
“ They want me at the Buck's Head. Why?”
“A curious incident occurred to me last evening, sir. I overheard
a dispute between Levison and Otway Bethel.”
“Indeed,” carelessly replied Mr. Carlyle, who was busy at the time,
looking for something in the deep drawer of his desk.
“And what I heard would go far to hang Levison, if not Bethel. As
sure as we are here, Mr. Archibald, they hold the secret of Hallijohn's
murder. It appears that Levison "
“Stop," interposed Mr. Carlyle. “I would prefer not to hear this.
Levison may have murdered him, but it is no affair of mine : neither
shall I make it such."
Old Dill felt checkmated. “Meanwhile, Richard Hare suffers, Mr.
Archibald,” he observed in a remonstrating tone.
“I am aware he does."
“Is it right that the innocent should suffer for the guilty ?”
“No. Very wrong. But the case is all too common.”
“If some one would take up Richard Hare's cause now, he might
be proved innocent," added the old man, with a wistful look at Mr.
Carlyle.
“It is being taken up, Dill.”
A pause and a glad look. “That's the best news I have heard for
many a day, sir. But my evidence will be necessary to the case.
Levison "
“I am not taking up the case. You must carry your news elsewhere.
It is no affair of mine, I say."
“Then who is taking it up? " echoed Mr. Dill, in astonishment.
“ Ball. He has had a meeting with Richard, and is now acting for
him."
Mr. Dill's eyes sparkled. “Is he going to prosecute, Mr. Archibald?"
“I tell you I know nothing. I will know nothing."
“Ah well! I can understand. But I shall go on to their office at
once, Mr. Archibald, and inform them of what I overheard,” said old
Dill, in vehement decision.
“That is not my affair, either," laughed Mr. Carlyle; “it is yours.
But remember--if you do go4it is Ball, not Treadman.”
Waiting only to give certain orders to the head clerk, Mr. Dill pro-
ceeded to the office of Ball and Treadman. A full hour was he closeted
there with the senior partner.
Not until three o'clock that afternoon did the justices take their
seats on the bench. Like renegade schoolboys, they had been playing
truant, conjugating the verb s'amuser, instead of travailler, and now
scuffled in to their duties at the tenth hour. It was scarcely to be
called coming in, either, for there were only two of them, one slinking
in after the other, with conscious faces of neglect : Justice Herbert
and Squire Pinner.
Two important cases were disposed of, both arising out of the pre-
sent rollicking state of West Lynne. Two ladies, one declaring for
the purple-and-scarlet, the other for the yellow, had disputed in a


THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN.
387
public-house over the merits of the respective candidates, winding it
up with a pewter-pot fight. The second case was that of a knot of
boys, who had carried Sir Francis Levison (in straw) through the
town, and then burnt him on a convenient grass-plot, to the exceeding
terror of the grass-plot's owners, and the destruction of certain linen of
theirs, which, lying out there to dry, was burnt. The two ladies were
condemned to a week's imprisonment; and the boys were ordered the
treat of a private whipping.
Scarcely had the latter case been disposed of, and the boys removed,
howling, when Lawyer Ball bustled in and craved a secret hearing.
His application was of the last importance, he premised, but, that the
ends of justice might not be defeated, it was necessary that their wor-
ships should entertain it in private; he therefore craved the bench to
accord it to him.
The bench consulted, looked wise, and-possibly possessing some
latent curiosity themselves upon the point-graciously acceded. They
adjourned to a private room, and it was half-past four before they
came out of it. Very long faces, scared and grim, wore their worships,
as if Lawyer Ball's communication had both perplexed and confounded
them.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN.
“This is the afternoon we are to meet Dr. Martin at papa's office,"
William Carlyle had exclaimed that same day at dinner. “Do we
walk in, Madame Vine?”
“ I do not know, William. Mrs. Carlyle is going to take you."
“ No, she is not. You are to take me."
A flush passed over Lady Isabel's face at the bare thought : though
she did not believe it. She go to Mr. Carlyle's office! “Mrs. Carlyle
told me herself that she should take you," was her reply.
“All I know is, that mamma said this morning you would take me in
to West Lynne to-day,” persisted William
The discussion was interrupted by the appearance of Mrs. Carlyle :
interrupted and decided also. “Madame Vine,” she said, “ you will be
ready at three o'clock to go in with William.”
Lady Isabel's heart beat. “I understood you to say that you should
go with him yourself, madam.”
“I know I did. Í intended to do so. But I heard Chis morning
that some friends from a distance are coming this afternoon to call
upon me. Therefore I shall not go out."
How she, Lady Isabel, wished that she dared say also, “I shall not
go out either.” But that might not be. Well-she must go through
with it, as she had to go through with the rest.
William rode his pony into West Lynne, the groom attending to
take it back again. He was to walk home with Madame Vine ; who
walked both ways.
Mr. Carlyle was not in when they arrived at the office. The boy


388
EAST LYNNE.
went boldly on to the private room, leaving Madame Vine to follow
him. Mr. Dill came in.
“Well, Master William! Have you come here to give instructions
in a lawsuit, or to file a bill in Chancery?” laughed he. “Take a seat,
pray, ma'am.”
* “I have come here to wait for Dr. Martin. He's coming to see me.
I say, Mr. Dill, where's papa gone?"
“How should I know ? " said Mr. Dill, pleasantly “But now, what
do you want with Dr. Martin ? I am sure you must be getting better
--with that rosy colour ! ”
“ I wish I could get better !” responded the boy. “Its so nasty,
having to take that cod-liver oil! Mamma was coming in with me,
but she can't now.”
“ How is your mamma, Master William ? "
“Oh, she's very well. What a shouting there was, down by the
police-station! It frightened my pony, and I had to hold him in, and
give him a little taste of the whip. They were kicking a yellow rosette
about.”
“Ah! There'll be no peace till this election's over,” responded old
Dill. “I wish it was over : and the fellow clear of the town.”
“Do you mean that Levison ?" asked William, who of course took
the tone of his politics from those around him.
“Yes, I do. The extraordinary thing is,” he continued, speaking to
himself and not to his auditors, “what could have possessed the fool to
venture here."
A hot glow illumined the face of Lady Isabel. What possessed
“the fool” to do many things that he had done ? A fool in the extreme
sense of the term, he verily and indeed was.
“Of course he could not expect to stand against papa ! ” oracularly
spoke William.
“He'll never stand against any good man," warmly returned old Dill.
“ No: God would never suffer it."
“ Do you mean for the election ?" quoth William.
“No, my dear. I was not thinking of elections just then."
A clerk appeared, showing in a stranger a client. The clerk might
have thought that Mr. Carlyle was in his room. Old Dill took the
client out again, into his own little private sanctum ; but not before
the governess had been honoured with a curious stare. She was dressed,
as she ever was, in black silk. Sometimes her dresses were rich,
sometimes plain and quiet ; but the material was invariably the same :
black silk. As indoors, the make of the upper part was the same-
the loose jacket. The one she wore to-day was a handsome robe with
embossed flounces ; a mantle to match. And there was the large
straw bonnet, with its concealing veil. The old blue spectacles were
home again, and on. Lady Isabel wished herself anywhere else : she
did not like strange eyes to look upon her.
Presently Mr. Carlyle appeared. He was talking to Mr. Dill, who
followed him.
“Oh-are you here, Madame Vine? I left word that you were to
go in to Miss Carlyle's. Did I not leave word, Dill ?”
“Not with me, sir.”


THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN. 389
“ I forgot it then. I meant to do so. What is the time?" He
looked at his watch. Ten minutes to four. “Did the doctor say at
what hour he should call ? ” Mr. Carlyle added to Madame Vine.
“Not precisely. I gathered that it would not be very early in the
afternoon."
They went into Miss Carlyle's, Lady Isabel and William. That lady
was out. Not expected in until dinner-time, the man said. William
took up a comfortable position on the sofa, and, remaining quiet, dropped
asleep.
How slowly the minutes seemed to fit past ! how still the house
seemed to be ? You may have noticed that yourselves, when waiting
long for anything. Lady Isabel sat on, listening to the silence; me-
chanically watching the passers-by through the Venetian blinds;
glancing at the child's white face—white now; wishing the physician
would come. It struck half-past five.
“ Here he is !” she thought. An entrance at the hall door ; and now
advancing footsteps. Not physician's footsteps. Her heart would not
have fluttered at them.
“Dr. Martin is late," observed Mr. Carlyle, as he came in. “I fear
your patience will be tired, Madame Vine."
“ It is of no consequence, sir,” she replied, in that indistinct, whis-
pered tone, above which her voice was scarcely, if ever, raised.
“How pale he looks !” involuntarily exclaimed Mr. Carlyle, glancing
from Madame Vine to the boy. “And this inclination to sleep! Is it
good, I wonder ?”
" I thought that Mrs. Carlyle would come in with him," said madame,
at a loss for something to say.
“Mrs. Carlyle is expecting friends. And I do not know that she
would have come, had it not been so. She has not felt well the last
day or two, and I could not allow her to be fatigued, in her present
state of health.”
A sharp pang. The time had been when it was she-she-whom he
would not allow fatigue to touch. Oh! to be his once more ; his, with
the past blotted out.
“ Here he is !” exclaimed Mr. Carlyle with alacrity, as he went into
the hall. She supposed he alluded to the physician ; supposed he had
seen him pass the window. Their entrance together woke up William.
“Well," said the doctor, who was a little man with a bald head,
“and how fares it with my young patient ? Bon jour, madame.”
“ Bon jour, monsieur,” responded she. She wished every one would
address her in French, and take her for French : it would lessen the
chance of recognition. She would have to speak in good plain English,
however, if she must carry on a conversation with the doctor, who,
like Justice Hare, knew nothing of French beyond a familiar phrase
or two.
“And how does the cod-liver oil get on?” asked he of William, as
he drew him to the light. “ It is nicer now than it used to be, eh?”
“No," said William,“ it's nastier than ever.”
Dr. Martin looked at the boy : felt his pulse, his skin, listened to his
breathing. “There,” said he, presently, “you may sit down again, and
have your nap out."


390
EAST LYNNE.
“I wish I might have something to drink : I am very thirsty. May
I ring for some water, papa ?”.
“Go and find your aunt's maid, and ask her for some,” said Mr.
Carlyle.
“ Ask her for milk,” called out Dr. Martin. “Not water.".
Away went William. Mr. Carlyle was leaning against the side of
the window ; Dr. Martin folded his arms before it : Lady Isabel stood
near the latter. The broad, full light was cast upon all, but the thick
veil hid Lady Isabel's face. It was not often she could be caught
without that veil, for she seemed to wear her bonnet at all sorts of
seasonable and unseasonable times.
“What is your opinion, doctor ? ” asked Mr. Carlyle.
“Well,” began the doctor, in a very professional tone," the boy is
certainly delicate. But
“Stay, Dr. Martin," was the interruption, spoken in a low impressive
voice; “ you will deal candidly with me. I must know the truth,
without disguise. Tell it me, freely."
Dr. Martin paused. “The truth is not always palatable, Mr.
Carlyle."
" True. But for that very reason, all the more necessary. Let me
hear the worst. And the child has no mother, you know, to be shocked
with it."
“I fear that it will be the worst."
“ Death ?"
“Ay. The seeds of consumption must have been inherent in him.
They are showing themselves all too plainly."
What Mr. Carlyle felt was not suffered to appear: his feelings were
entirely under his own control. That he was tenderly and sincerely
attached to his children, there was no doubt. He remained quite still,
his eyes shaded by their drooping lids. A few minutes, and he broke.
the silence.
“How can consumption have come to him? It is not in the family :
on my side, or-or on his mother's.”
“ Pardon me," said the doctor. “The child's grandmother died of
consumption; the Countess of Mount Severn."
“They did not call it consumption,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“I don't care what they called it. It was consumption. Very slow
and lingering ; mild, too; I grant you that.”
“ Is there no hope for the child ? "
Dr. Martin looked at him. “ You bade me give you the truth.”
“Nothing else ! nothing but the truth,” returned Mr. Carlyle, his
tone one of mingled pain and command.
“ Then there is none : no hope whatever. The lungs are extensively
diseased.”
“And how long---"
“ That I cannot say,” interrupted the doctor, divining what the next
question was to be. “He may linger on for months; for a year, it may
even be; or, a very short period may see the end. Don't worry him
with any more lessons : he'll never want them."
The doctor cast his eyes upon the governess as he spoke; the
injunction concerning her as much as it did Mr. Carlyle. And the doctor


392
EAST LYNNE.
be run after! There's hidden mercy, remember, in the darkest cloud.
Farewell, my friend." .
Mr. Carlyle returned to the room. He approached Lady Isabel,
looking down upon her as she sat : not that he could see much of her
face.“ These are grievous tidings. But you were more prepared for
them, I fancy, than I was.”
She started suddenly up, approached the window, and looked out; as
if she saw some one passing whom she would gaze at. All of emotion
was stirred up within her; her temples throbbed, her throat beat, her
breath became hysterical. Could she bear thus to hold confidential
converse with him, over the state of their child ? She pulled off her
gloves from her burning hands, she wiped the moisture from her pale
forehead, she struggled for calmness. What excuse could she offer to
Mr. Carlyle ?
"I love the boy so very much, sir,” she said, half turning round.
“ And the doctor's fiat, too plainly pronounced, has given me pain-
pain to agitation.”
Again Mr. Carlyle approached her, following close up to where
she stood. “You are very kind, thus to feel an interest in my
child."
She did not answer.
“Do not acquaint Mrs. Carlyle with this," he resumed. “I would
prefer to tell her myself. She must not be suddenly grieved or alarmed
just now.”
“Why should she be either grieved or alarmed? She is not his
mother." Passionately, fiercely, resentfully, were the words spoken, as
if she would cast contempt to Barbara. But recollection returned to
her before they had all left her lips, and the concluding sentence was
wonderfully toned down. Mr. Carlyle raised his eyelids, and the tones
of his voice rang haughtily on her ear.
“You speak hastily, madame.”
The reproof beat upon her heart, and she remembered who she was ;
remembered it with shame and humiliation. She, the governess! Mr.
Carlyle must have deemed her worse than mad, so to speak of his wife.
He was moving from her, when she suddenly turned to him, a yearning
petition on her lips.
“ It appeared if I understood aright—that there might be a difficulty
about William's going to a warmer climate, no one being at hand to
take him. Sir! let me do it. Confide him to my charge.”
“He is not to go. You heard what Dr. Martin said that it could
not materially prolong his life.”
“Only for a few weeks,” she said. “But are not those of value?”
“That it might. Where would be the use ? They would be weeks
of isolation from his family. No, Madame Vine. If my boy is to
leave me, I must have him with me to the last.”
William's head appeared, pushed in at the door to reconnoitre. “He's
gone, isn't he? I would not come back while he was here, for fear he
should give me some cod-liver oil now.”
Mr. Carlyle sat down and lifted William on his knees, his forehead
pressed lovingly against the boy's silky hair. “My darling child, the
cod-liver oil is to do you good, you know ; to make you strong."


THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN. 393
“But I don't think it does make me strong, papa. Does Dr. Martin
say I shall die ?"
( Who told you anything about dying?"
“Oh-some of them talk of it."
“We must see what we can do towards curing you, instead of letting
you die," responded Mr. Carlyle, almost at a loss what answer to make,
and suppressing the emotion of his own aching heart. “But, whether
we live or die, we are in the hands of God: you know that, William,
and whatever God wills is always for the best.”
“ Yes, I know that, papa.”
Mr. Carlyle rose and lifted the boy towards Madam: Vine. “Take
care of him, madame,” he said, and passed in to the hall.
“Here, papa, papa! I want you," cried William, breaking from
Madame Vine's hand and running after him. “Let me walk home
with you! Are you going to walk ?”
How could he find in his heart to deny anything to the child, then?
“Very well,” he said. “Stay here until I come for you."
“We are going home with papa," proclaimed William to Madame
Vine.
Madame Vine did not relish the news. But there was no help for
it. In a very short time Mr. Carlyle appeared, and they set off : he
holding William's hand; Madame Vine walking alone, on the other
side of the child.
“Where's William Vane, papa ?” asked the boy.
“ He has gone on with Lord Mount Severn."
Scarcely had the words been spoken, when some one came bolting
out of the post-office, and met them face to face : almost ran against
them, in fact, creating a slight hindrance. The man looked confused,
and slunk off into the gutter. And you will not wonder that he did so,
when you hear that it was Francis Levison. William, child-like,
turned his head to gaze at the intruder.
“I would not be an ugly, bad man like him for the world," quoth he,
as he turned it back again. “Would you, papa ?”.
Mr. Carlyle did not answer, and Madame Vine cast an involuntary
glance upon him from her white face. His was impassive : save that
a curl of ineffable scorn was upon his lips.
At Mr. Justice Hare's gate they encountered that gentleman, who
appeared to be standing there to give himself an airing. William
caught sight of Mrs. Hare seated on the garden-bench, outside the
window, and ran to kiss her. All children loved Mrs. Hare. The
justice was looking—not pale ; that would not be a term half strong
enough ; but yellow. The curls of his best wig were limp, and all his
pomposity appeared to have gone out of him.
" I say, Carlyle, what on earth is this?” cried he, in a tone that, for
him, was wonderfully subdued and meek. “I was not on the bench
this afternoon, but Þinner has been telling me of-of an application
that was made to them in private. It's not true, you know ; it can't be
true ; it's too far-fetched a tale. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing," said Mr. Carlyle. “I have been privy to no appli-
" It seems they want to make out now that Dick never murdered
cation.”


394
EAST LYNNE.
Hallijohn," proceeded the justice, in a half whisper, glancing round as
if to be sure that there were no eavesdroppers amidst the trees.
“Oh !” said Mr. Carlyle,
“But that Levison did. Levison!”
Mr. Carlyle made no reply, save by a gesture : his face more im-
passive than before. Not so another face beside him.
“ But it can't be, you know. It can't, I say."
“So far as Richard's innocence goes, of that I have long been con-
vinced,” spoke Mr. Carlyle.
“And that Levison's guilty ?" returned the justice, opening his eyes
in puzzled wonderment.
"I give no opinion upon that point," was the cold rejoinder.
“It's impossible, I say. Dick can't be innocent. You may as well
tell me the world's turned upside down.”
“ It is sometimes, I think. That Richard was not the guilty man
will be proved yet, justice, in the broad face of day.”
“If-if-that other did do it, I should think you'd take the warrant
out of the hands of the police, and capture him yourself.”
“I would not touch him with a pair of tongs," spake Mr. Carlyle, his
lip curling again. “If the man goes to his punishment, he goes ; but
I do not help him on his road thither.”
“Can Dick be innocent ? ”mused the justice, returning to the thought
which so troubled his mind. “Then, why has he kept away? Why
did he not come back and say so ?”
“That you might deliver him up, justice? You know you took an
oath to do it.”
The justice looked remarkably humble.
“Oh, but, Carlyle,” impulsively said he, the thought occurring to
him, “what an awful revenge this would have been for you on-some-
body-had she lived. How her false step would have come home to
her now !”
“False steps come home to most people," responded Mr. Carlyle, as
he took William by the hand, who then ran up. And, lifting his hat
to Mrs. Hare in the distance, he walked on.
She, Lady Isabel, walked on too, by the side of the child, as before ;
walked on with a shivering frame, and a heart sick unto death. The
justice looked after them, his mind preoccupied, bewildered. Richard
innocent! Richard, whom he had striven to pursue to a shameful end !
And that other the guilty one? The world was turning upside down.
CHAPTER XIV.
MISS CARLYLE IN FULL DRESS. AFY ALSO.
MERRILY rose West Lynne on the Thursday morning ; merrily rang
out the bells, clashing and chiming. The street was alive with people;
the windows were crowded with heads; something unusual was astir.
It was the day of nomination of the two candidates, and every one took
the opportunity to make it a holiday.
Ten o'clock was the time named; but, before that hour struck, West


396
EAST LYNNE.
Barbara's tears were falling ; but she smiled through them at one pair
of loving eyes which sought out hers.
“A galaxy of beauty !” whispered Mr. Drake, in the ear of Sir
Francis. “How the women rally round him! I tell you what, Levison ;
you and the government were stupid, to go on with the contest : and
I said so, days ago. You have no more chance against Carlyle than
that bit of straw in the air has against the wind. You ought to have
withdrawn in time.”
" Like a coward !” angrily retorted Sir Francis. “No. I'll go on
with it to the last.”
“How lovely his wife is !" resumed Mr. Drake, his admiring eyes
cast up at Barbara. “I say, Levison, was the first one as charming?"
Sir Francis looked perfectly savage : the allusion did not please him.
But, ere another word could be spoken, some one in the garb of a
policeman, who had wound his way through the crowd, laid his hand
on the baronet.
“Sir Francis Levison, you are my prisoner."
Nothing worse than debt occurred at the moment to the mind of Sir
Francis. But that was quite enough, and he turned purple with rage.
“Your hands off, vermin! How dare you?”
A quick movement, a slight click, a hustle from the wondering crowd
more immediately around, and the handcuffs were on. Utter amaze-
ment alone prevented Mr. Drake from knocking down the policeman.
A dozen vituperating tongues assailed him.
“ I'm sorry to do it in this public place and manner," said the officer,
partly to Sir Francis, partly to the gentlemen around; "but I couldn't
come across him last night, do as I would. And the warrant has been
in my hands since five o'clock yesterday afternoon. Sir Francis
Levison, I arrest you for the wilful murder of George Hallijohn.”
The crowd fell back; the crowd was paralyzed with consternation;
the word was passing from one extreme to the other, and excitement
grew high. The ladies, looking from Miss Carlyle's windows, saw
what had happened, though they could not divine the cause. Some
of them turned pale at the sight of the handcuffs, and Mary Pinner, an
excitable girl, screamed.
Pale? What was their gentle paleness, compared with the fright-
fully livid hue that disfigured the features of Francis Levison ? His
agitation was pitiable to witness, his face a terror to look upon : once
or twice he gasped, as if in an agony; and then his eyes happened to
fall on Otway Bethel, who stood near him. Shorn of its adornments,
the following was the sentence that burst involuntarily from his lips :
“ You hound! It is you who have done this!"
“No! by " Whether Mr. Otway Bethel was about to swear by
Jupiter, or Juno, never was decided, the sentence being cut ignomini-
ously short at the above words. Another policeman, in the summary
manner exercised towards Sir Francis, had clapped a pair of handcuffs
upon him.
" Mr. Otway Bethel, I arrest you as an accomplice in the murder of
George Hallijohn."
You may be sure, the whole assembly was arrested too-figuratively
speaking ; and stood with eager gaze and open ears. Colonel Bethel,


MISS CARLYLE IN FULL DRESS. AFY ALSO. 397
quitting the scarlet-and-purple ranks, flashed into those of the yellows.
He knew his nephew was graceless enough ; but-to see him with a
pair of handcuffs on!
“What does all this mean!” he authoritatively demanded of the
officers.
“It's no fault of ours, colonel ; we have only executed the warrant,”
answered one of them. “The magistrates issued it yesterday against
these two gentlemen, on suspicion of their being concerned in the
murder of Hallijohn."
“In conjunction with Richard Hare?” cried the astounded colonel,
gazing from one to the other, prisoners and officers, in bewilderment.
“It's alleged now, that Richard Hare had nothing to do with it,"
returned the man. “It's said he is innocent. I'm sure I don't
know."
“I swear that I am innocent,” passionately uttered Otway Bethel.
“Well, sir, you have only to prove it,” civilly rejoined the policeman.
Miss Carlyle and Lady Dobede leaned from the window; their
curiosity too excited to remain silent longer. Mrs. Hare was standing
by their side. “What is the matter ? ” both asked of the upturned faces
immediately beneath.
“They two, the fine member, as wanted to be, and young Bethel,
are arrested for murder," spoke a man's clear voice in answer. “The
tale runs as they murdered Hallijohn, and then laid it on the shoulders
of young Dick Hare, who didn't do it, after all.”
A faint cry of startled pain, and Barbara flew to Mrs. Hare, from
whom it proceeded. “Oh, mamma, take comfort! Do not suffer this
to agitate you to illness. Richard is innocent, and it will surely be
proved so. Archibald,” she added, beckoning to her husband, in her
alarm, “come, if you can, and say a word of assurance to mamma.”
It was impossible that Mr. Carlyle could hear the words : but he
could see that his wife was agitated, and wanted him. “I will be with
you in a few moments,” he said to his friends, as he began to elbow his
way through the crowd ; which made way, when they saw who the
elbower was.
Into another room, away from the gay visitors, they led Mrs. Hare :
and Mr. Carlyle locked the door to keep them out, unconsciously taking
out the key Only himself and his wife were with her, except Madame
Vine, who had been despatched by some one with a bottle of smelling
salts. Barbara knelt at her mother's feet ; Mr. Carlyle leaned over her,
her hands sympathizingly held in his Madame Vine would have
escaped, but the key' was gone.
"Oh, Archibald, tell me the truth! You will not deceive me," she
gasped, in earnest entreaty, the cold dew gathering on her pale, gentle
face. “Is the time come to prove my boy's innocence ??
“ It is.”
• Is it possible that it can be that false, bad man who is guilty ?”
“From my soul I believe him to be so," replied Mr. Carlyle, glancing
round to make sure that none could hear the assertion, except those
present. “But what I say to you and Barbara, I would not say to the
world. Whatever be the man's guilt, I am not his Nemesis. Dear
Mrs. Hare, take courage ; happier days are coming to you.”


MR. JIFFIN.
399
“ Levison was the man who did it, he says,” continued the servant,
bending her ear to listen. “And young Richard Hare has been
innocent all along."
Afy slowly gathered in the sense of the words ; she gasped twice, as
if her breath had gone for ever ; and then, with a stagger and a shiver,
fell heavily to the ground. Afy Hallijohn was in a fainting fit.
CHAPTER XV.
MR. JIFFIN.
AFY HALLIJOHN, recovered from her fainting fit, had to be smuggled
out of Miss Carlyle's, as she had been smuggled in. She was of an
elastic nature, and the shock, or the surprise, or the heat—or whatever
it might have been-once over, Afy was herself again. She minced
along, in all her vanity, on her return to Mrs. Latimer's : her laced
handkerchief flourishing from one hand, and her flounces jauntily
raised with the other, to the display of her worked petticoat, and her
kid boots, the heels several inches high. Trust Afy for following the
fashion, however preposterous it might be.
Not very far removed from Miss Carlyle's residence was a shop in
the cheese and ham and butter line. A respectable shop, too, and kept
by a respectable man. A young man of mild countenance, who had
purchased the goodwill of the business; and came down from London
to take possession of it. His predecessor had saved enough to retire
upon, and people predicted that Mr. Jiffin would do the same. To say
that Miss Carlyle patronized the shop, will be sufficient to proclaim the
excellent quality of its articles.
When Afy arrived opposite the shop, Mr. Jiffin was standing at the
door ; his shopman, inside, being at some urgent employment over the
contents of a butter-cask. Afy stopped. Mr. Jiffin admired her un-
commonly, and she, always ready for anything in that way, had already
enjoyed several passing Airtations with him.
“Good day, Miss Hallijohn," cried he, warmly, tucking up his white
apron and pushing it out of sight, in the best manner he could, as he
held out his hand to her. For Afy had once hinted in terms of dis-
paragement at that very apron.
“Oh-how are you, Jiffin ?” cried Afy, loftily, pretending not to have
seen him standing there. And she condescended to put the tips of her
white gloves into the offered hand, as she coquetted with her handker-
chief, her veil, and her ringlets. “I thought you would have shut up
your shop, to-day, Mr. Jiffin, and taken a holiday.”
"Business must be attended to," responded Mr. Jiffin, quite lost in
the contemplation of Afy's numerous attractions, unusually conspicuous
as they were. “Had I known that you were abroad, Miss Hallijohn,
and enjoying a holiday, perhaps I might have taken one, too, in the
hope of coming across you somewhere or other."
His words were as bona fide as his admiration ; Afy saw that. “And
he's as simple as a calf,” thought she.
“The greatest pleasure I have in life, Miss Hallijohn, is to see you


400
EAST LYNNE.
go by the shop window," continued Mr. Jiffin. “I'm sure it's as if the
sun itself passed."
“Dear me !" bridled Afy, with a simper, “I don't know any good
that can do you. You might have seen me go by, an hour or two ago
-if you had possessed eyes. I was on my way to Miss Carlyle's," she
continued, with the air of one who proclaims the fact of a morning call
upon a duchess.
“Where could my eyes have been !” ejaculated Mr. Jiffin, in an
agony of regret. “In some of those precious butter-tubs, I shouldn't
wonder! We have had a bad lot in, Miss Hallijohn, and I'm going to
return them.”
“Oh,” said Afy, conspicuously resenting the remark, “I don't know
anything about that sort of thing. Butter-tubs are beneath me.”
“Of course, of course, Miss Hallijohn," deprecated poor Jiffin. “They
are very profitable, though, to those who understand the trade.”
“What is all that shouting!” cried Afy, alluding to a tremendous
noise in the distance, which had continued for some little time.
“It's the voters cheering Mr. Carlyle. I suppose you know that he's
elected, Miss Hallijohn ?”
“No, I don't.”
“ The other was withdrawn by his friends, so they made short work
of it; and Mr. Carlyle is our member. God bless him! there is not
many like him.”
“Are all these customers ? Dear me, you'll have enough to do to
attend to them; your man can't do it all ; so I won't stay talking any
longer.”
With a gracious flourish of her flounces, and a wave of the hand-
kerchief, Afy sailed off. And Mr. Jiffin, when he could withdraw his
fascinated eyes, turned into his shop, to assist in serving sundry
customers, who had entered it.
“ It wouldn't be such a bad catch, after all,” soliloquized Afy, as she
and her crinoline swayed along. “Of course I'd never put my nose in-
side the shop--unless it was to order things, like any other customer.
There's a private entrance, thank goodness! And they say he has the
room over the shop beautifully fitted up as a drawing-room, with a plate-
glass chiffonier, and Brussels carpet, and rosewood chairs and sofa, and
all the rest of it. The parlour, too, behind the shop, is comfortable,
and I'd take care it was well furnished, if it isn't already. I'd make him
buy a piano for the drawing-room : it looks stylish, even if one doesn't
play upon it. And I'd keep two servants, cook and housemaid : it isn't
I that would marry, to be waited upon by a black tinker of a maid-of-
all-work. Jiffin is such a soft, he'd agree to anything. I'm sure he'd
let me turn the house into a theatre, if I liked, so that I left him the
shop free for his business. He is welcome to that : the shop shall be
his department, and the rest of the house mine. What's the good of a
husband, except to work for you? They are only a worry, looked at in
any other light. I wonder how many bedrooms there are? If there's
none in the house of a good size, I'll have two rooms knocked into one,
I never could sleep in a closet of a place. And I'll have a handsome
bed with damask moreen hangings, one of those new Arabians, and a
large mahogany wardrobe with wings, and a handsome glass and toilette,


MR. JIFFIN.
401
and a cheval-glass—besides the other necessary furniture. I'm not sure
that I won't have a little iron bed up for him, in a corner. Separate
beds are quite the fashion now, amongst the nobility. I'll see.
Yes; take it for all in all, it wouldn't be so bad a catch. The worst
is the the name. Jiffin. Joe Jiffin ! How could I ever bear to be
called Mrs. Joe Jiffin. Not but- Goodness me! what do you
want ! ”
The interruption to Afy's aerial castle was caused by Mr. Ebenezer
James. That gentleman, who had been walking with quick steps to
overtake her, gave her flounces a twitch behind, to let her know some
one had come up.
“How are you, Afy? I was going after you to Mrs. Latimer's, not
knowing but you had returned home. I saw you this morning at Miss
Corny's windows."
“Now, I don't want any of your sauce, Ebenezer James. Afy-ing
me! The other day, when you were on with your nonsense, I said you
should keep your distance. You told Mr. Jiffin that I was an old
sweetheart of yours. I heard of it !”
. “So you were,” laughed Mr. Ebenezer.
“I never was," flashed Afy. “I was the company of your betters in
those days : and if there had been no betters in the case, I should have
scorned you. Why, you have been a strolling player !”
“And what have you been ?" returned Mr. Ebenezer, a quiet tone
running through his good-humoured laughter.
Afy's cheeks flushed scarlet, and she raised her hand with a quick,
menacing gesture. But that they were in the public street, Mr.
Ebenezer might have found his ears boxed. Afy dropped her hand
again, and made a dead standstill.
“ If you think any vile, false insinuations, that you may concoct, will
injure me, you are mistaken, Ebenezer James. I am too much respected
in the place. So don't you try it on."
“Why, Afy, what has put you out? I don't want to injure you.
Couldn't do it, if I tried, as you say," he added, with another quiet
laugh. “I have been in too many scrapes myself, to bring other
folks into one.”
“There, that's enough. Just take yourself off. It's not over-repu-
table to have you at one's side in public."
“Well, I will relieve you of my company, if you'll let me deliver my
commission. Though as to 'reputable'-however, I won't put you out
further. You are wanted at the justice-room at three o'clock this
afternoon. And don't fail, please.”
“Wanted at the justice-room !” retorted Afy. “I! What for ?"
“And must not fail, as I say," repeated Mr. Ebenezer. “ You saw
Levison taken up; your old flame-
Afy stamped her foot in indignant interruption. “Take care what
you say, Ebenezer James! Flame! He? I'll have you up for defa-
mation of character.”
“Don't be a goose, Afy. It's of no use riding the high horse with
me. You know where I saw you; and saw him. People here said
you were with Dick Hare : I could have told them better : but I did
not. It was no affair of mine, that I should proclaim it, neither is it
Last Lyndo.


MR. JIFFIN.
403
An uncommonly good hand at an impromptu tale was Afy. And
Mrs. Latimer consented to her demand. Afy flew upstairs, attired
herself once more, put up one or two things in a small leather bag,
placed some money in her purse, and left the house.
Sauntering idly on the pavement on the sunny side of the street,
was a policeman. He crossed over to Afy, with whom he had a slight
acquaintance.
“Good day, Miss Hallijohn. A fine day, is it not ? ”
:"Fine enough,” returned Afy, provoked at being hindered. “I can't
talk to you now, for I am in a hurry."
The faster she walked, the faster he walked, keeping at her side.
Afy's pace increased to a run. His increased to a run too.
“Why are you in such haste ? " asked he.
“Well, it's nothing to you. And I'm sure I don't want you to dance
attendance upon me just now. There's a time for all things. I'll have
some chatter with you another day.”
“One would think you were hurrying to catch a train.”
“So I am—if you must have your curiosity gratified. I am going
on a little pleasure excursion, Mr. Inquisitive.”
“ For long?"
“U-m. Home to-morrow, perhaps. Is it true that Mr. Carlyle's
elected ?"
“Oh yes. Don't go up that way, please.”
“Not up this way?” repeated "Afy. “It's the nearest road to the
station. It cuts off all that corner."
The officer laid his hand upon her gently. Afy thought he was
venturing it in sport-as if deeming her too charming to be parted with.
“What do you mean by your nonsense ? I tell you I have no time
for it now. Take your hand off me,” she added angrily-for the hand
was clasping her closer.
“I am sorry to hurt a lady's feelings, especially yours, Miss Halli-
john: but I daren't take it off, and I daren't part with you. My
instructions are to take you on at once to the witness-rooni. Your
evidence is wanted this afternoon."
If you ever saw a ghost more livid than ghosts in ordinary, you may
picture to your mind the appearance of Afy Hallijohn just then. She
did not faint, as she had done once before that day, but she looked as
if she should die. One sharp cry, instantly suppressed, for Afy did
retain some presence of mind, and remembered that she was in the
public road : one sharp tussle for liberty, and she resigned herself,
perforce, to her fate.
* “ I have no evidence to give,” she said, in a calmer tnne. “I know
nothing of the facts.”
“I'm sure I don't know anything of them,” returned the man. “I
don't know why you are wanted. When instructions are given us, we
can't ask what they mean. I was bid to watch that you didn't go off
out of the town, and to bring you on to the witness-room, if you
attempted it, and I have tried to do it as politely as possible.”
* You don't imagine I am going to walk through West Lynne with
your hand upon me.”
“I'll take it off, Miss Hallijohn, if you'll give a promise not to bolt.


404
EAST LYNNE.
You see, it would come to nothing, if you did ; for I should be up with
you in a couple of yards. Besides, it would be drawing folks' attention
on you. You couldn't hope to outrun me, or to be a match for me in
strength.”
“I will go quietly,” said Afy. “Take it off.”
She kept her word. Afy was no simpleton, and knew that she was
no match for him. She had fallen into the hands of the Philistines,
and must make the best of it. So they walked through the streets as
if they were only taking a quiet stroll ; he gallantly bearing the leather
bag. Miss Carlyle's shocked eyes happened to fall upon them as they
passed her window : she wondered where could be the eyes of the
man's inspector.
Afy was lodged in the witness-room ; a small room with a skylight.
She passed her time pretty agreeably, considering all things : partly in
concocting a tale to tell Mrs. Latimer; partly in deliberating how
much she might admit before the justices, without compromising
herself. But, in using the word “compromising," you must not
suppose it refers to the murder. Afy was as innocent of that as you
or I: she firmly believed in Levison's innocence, and in the guilt of
Richard Hare. Still Afy was aware that her doings at that period
would not shine out clearly in the full light of day, or in the gossip of
West Lynne.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE JUSTICE-ROOM.
THE magistrates took their seats on the bench. The bench could not
licld them : all in the Commission of the Peace flocked in. Any other
clay, they would nct have been at West Lynne. As to the room, the
wonder was, how it was ever emptied again, so densely was it packed.
Sir Francis Levison's friends were there in a body. They did not
believe a word of the accusation : a scandalous affair, cried they, got
up probably by some of the scarlet-and-purple party. Lord Mount
Severn, who chose to be present, had a place assigned him on the
bench, Lord Vane took the best place he could fight for amidst the
crowd. Mr. Justice Hare sat as chairman, unusually stern, unbending,
and grim. No favour would he show; but no unfairness : had it been
to save his son from hanging, he would not adjudge guilt to Sir Francis
Levison against his conscience. Colonel Bethel was likewise on the
bench; stern also.
In that primitive place-primitive in what related to the justice.
room and the justices—things were not conducted with the regularity
of the law. The law there was often a dead letter. No very grave
cases were decided there : they went to Lynneborough : a month at
the treadmill, or a week's imprisonment, or a whipping for juveniles,
were pretty nearly the harshest sentences pronounced. In this exami-
nation, as in others, evidence was advanced that was inadmissible—at
least that would have been inadmissible in a more orthodox court;


THE JUSTICE-ROOM.
407
“ Aphrodite Hallijohn. You all know my name as well as I do.
Where's the use of asking useless questions? "
“Swear the witness,” said Mr. Justice Hare. The first word he had
uttered.
“ I won't be sworn,” said Afy.
“ You must be sworn,” said Mr. Justice Herbert.
“But I say I won't,” repeated Afy.
“ Then we must commit you to prison for contempt of court."
There was no mercy in his tone, and Afy turned white. Sir John
Dobede interposed.
“Young woman, had you a hand in the murder of your father?”
“I!” returned Afy, struggling with passion, temper, and excitement.
“ How dare you ask me so unnatural a question, sir ? He was the
kindest father!” she added, battling with her tears. “I loved him
dearly. I would have saved his life with mine."
“And yet you refuse to give evidence that may assist in bringing
his destroyer to justice !”
“No; I don't refuse on that score. I should like his destroyer to be
hanged, and I'd go to see it. But who knows what other questions
you may be asking me about things that concern neither you nor
anybody else? That's why I object.”
• We have only to deal with what bears upon the murder. The
questions put to you will relate to that."
Afy considered. “Well, you may swear me, then," she said. Little
notion had she of the broad gauge those questions would run upon.
And she was sworn accordingly. Very unwillingly still. For Afy, who
would have told lies by the bushel unsworn, did look upon an oath as
a serious matter, and felt herself compelled to speak the truth when
examined under it.
“How did you become acquainted with a gentleman you often saw
in those days—Captain Thorn?”
“There !” uttered the dismayed Afy. “You are beginning already.
He had nothing to do with it. He did not do the murder.”
“ You have sworn to answer the questions put," was the uncompro-
mising rejoinder. “How did you become acquainted with Captain
Thorn?”
"I met him at Swainson,” šoggedly answered Afy. “I went over
there one day, just for a spree, and I met him at a pastrycook's."
“And he fell in love with your pretty face?” said Lawyer Ball,
taking up the examination.
In the incense to her vanity, Afy nearly forgot her scruples. “ Yes,
he did," she answered, casting a smile of general fascination round
upon the court.
*" And got out of you where you lived ; and entered upon his court-
ing; riding over nearly every evening to see you?”
“ Well," acknowledged Afy, “there was no harm in it.”
“Oh, certainly not, acquiesced the lawyer, in a pleasant, free tone,
to put the witness at her ease. “Rather good, I should say: I wish
I had had the like luck. Did you know him at that time by the name
of Levison ?”
“No. He said he was Captain Thorn, and I thought he was.”


408
EAST LYNNE.
• Did you know where he lived ? "
“No. He never said that. I thought he was stopping temporarily
at Swainson." ....
“And-dear me ! what a sweet bonnet that is you have on!”.
Afy-whose egregious vanity was her besetting sin, who possessed
enough of it for any ten pretty women going-cast a glance out of the
corners of her eyes at the admired bonnet, and became Mr. Ball's
entirely.
“And how long was it, after your first meeting with him, before you
discovered his real name?"
“ Not for a long time. Several months."
“ Subsequent to the murder, I presume?"
“Oh yes."
Mr. Ball's eyes gave a twinkle, and the unconscious Afy surrepti-
tiously smoothed, with one finger, the glossy parting of her hair.
“Besides Captain Thorn, what gentlemen were in the wood, the
night of the murder ? ”
« Richard Hare was there. Otway Bethel and Locksley also. Those
were all I saw until the crowd came.”
“ Were Locksley and Mr. Otway Bethel martyrs to your charms
as the other two were?”
“No indeed," was the witness's answer, with an indignant toss of
the head. “A couple of poaching fellows, like them! They had
better have tried it on!”
“Which of the two, Hare or Thorn, was inside the cottage with you
that evening ?”
Afy came out of her vanity and hesitated. She was beginning to
wonder where the questions would lead to.
“You are upon your oath, witness,” thundered Mr. Justice Hare.
“ If it was my--if it was Richard Hare who was with you, say so. But
there must be no equivocation here.”
Afy was startled. “ It was Thorn,” she answered to Mr. Ball.
“And where was Richard Hare?”
“I don't know. He came down, but I sent him away: I would not
admit him. I dare say he lingered in the wood."
“Did he leave a gun with you?”
“ Yes. It was one he had promised to lend my father. I put it
down just inside the door : he told me it was loaded.”
“How long after this was it, before your father interrupted you?”
“ He didn't interrupt us at all," returned Afy. “I never saw my
father until I saw him dead.”
“ Were you not in the cottage all the time?"
“No. We went out for a stroll at the back. Captain Thorn wished
me good-bye there, and I stayed out."
“ Did you hear the gun go off?”
“I heard a shot, as I was sitting on the stump of a tree, and think-
ing. But I attaclied no importance to it, never supposing it was in
the cottage.”
“What was it that Captain Thorn had to get from the cottage after
he left you? What had he left there?”
Now this was a random shaft. Lawyer Ball, a keen man, who had


THE JUSTICE-ROOM.
413
him unexpectedly. Words ensued. Bethel accused Sir Francis of
“shirking” him ; Sir Francis answered angrily—that he knew nothing
of him, and nothing he wanted to know.
“You were glad enough to know something of me the night of Halli-
john's murder," retorted Bethel to this. “Do you remember that I
could hang you ? One little word from me, and you would stand in
Dick Hare's place.”
“You fool I” passionately cried. Sir Francis. “ You could not hang
me without putting your own head in the noose. Had you not your
hush-money? Are you wanting to do me out of more?”
“A cursed paltry note of fifty pounds ! ” foamed Otway Bethel,
“ which, many a time since, I have wished my fingers had been blown
off before they touched. I never should have touched it, but that I
was altogether overwhelmed with the moment's confusion. I have not
been able to look Mrs. Hare in the face since-knowing I hold the
secret that would save her son from the hangman.”
“And put yourself in his place,” sneered Sir Francis.
“No. Put you."
“That's as it might be. But if I went to the hangman, you would
go with me. There would be no excuse or escape for you. You
know it."
The warfare continued longer, but this was the cream of it. Mr.
Dill heard the whole, and repeated it now to the magistrates. Mr.
Rubiny protested that it was “inadmissible ;” “hearsay evidence ;"
º contrary to law :" but the bench oracularly put Mr. Rubiny down,
and told him they did not require any stranger to come there and
teach them their business.
Colonel Bethel had leaned forward at the conclusion of Mr. Dill's
evidence, dismay on his face, agitation in his voice. “Are you sure
that you made no mistake?-that the other in this interview was Otway
Bethel ?”
Mr. Dill sadly shook his head. “Am I one to swear to a wrong
man, colonel ? I wish I had not heard it--save that it may be the
means of clearing Richard Hare.”
Sir Francis Levison had braved out the proceedings with a haughty,
cavalier air, his delicate hands and his diamond ring remarkably con-
spicuous. A derisive smile crossed his features at parts of the evidence,
as much as to say, “ You may convict me as to Mademoiselle Afy ; but
you cannot, as to the murder.” When, however, Mr. Dill's testimony
was given, what a change was there! His mood tamed down to what
looked like abject fear.
“Of course your worships will take bail for Sir Francis,” said Mr.
Rubiny, at the close of the proceedings.
Bail | The bench looked at one another.
“Your worships will not refuse it-a gentleman in Sir Francis
Levison's position ! "
The bench thought they had never had so insolent an application
made to them. Bail for him on this charge ! No; not if the Lord
Chancellor himself came down to offer it.
Mr. Otway Bethel, conscious, probably, that no one would offer bail
for him, not even the colonel, did not ask the bench to take it. So the


414
EAST LYNNE.
two were fully committed to take their trial for the “Wilful murder,
otherwise the killing and slaying, of George Hallijohn.”
And that vain, ill-starred Afy? What of her? Well, Afy had
again retired to the witness-room, after giving evidence, and there she
remained until the close, agreeably occupied in mental debate. What
would they make out from her admissions regarding her sojourn in
London and the morning calls ? How would that precious West Lynne
construe it? She did not much care; she should brave it out, and
assail them with towering indignation, did any dare to cast a stone
at her.
Such was her final decision, arrived at just as the proceedings termi-
nated. Afy was glad to remain where she was until some of the bustle
had ceased.
“How has it ended ?” asked she of Mr. Ball, who, being a bachelor,
was ever regarded vith much graciousness by Afy, for she kept her
eyes open to contingencies : although Mr. Joe Jiffin was held as a
reserve.
“They are both committed for wilful murder. Off to Lynneborough
in an hour.”
Afy's choler rose. “What a shame! To commit two innocent men
upon such a charge !”
“ I can tell you what, Miss Afy, the sooner you disabuse your mind
of that prejudice the better. Levison has been as good as proved
guilty to-day: but, if proof were wanting, he and Bethel have crimi-
nated each other. When rogues fall out, honest men get their own.'
Not that I can quite fathom Bethel's share in the exploit : though I
can pretty well guess at it. And, in proving themselves guilty, they
have proved the innocence of Richard Hare."
Afy's face was changing to whiteness; her confident air to one of
dread; her vanity to humiliation.
“It-can't-be-true !" she gasped.
" It's true enough. The part you have hitherto ascribed to Thorn,
was enacted by Richard Hare. He heard the shot from his place in
the wood, and saw Thorn run, ghastly, trembling, horrified, from his
wicked work. Believe me, it was Thorn who killed your father.”
Afy grew cold as she listened. That one awful moment, when con-
viction, that his words were true, forced itself upon her, was enough to
sober her for a whole lifetime. Thorn! Her sight failed; her head
reeled ; her very heart turned to sickness. One struggling cry of pain ;
and for the second time that day, Afy Hallijohn fell forward in a
fainting fit.
Shouts, hisses, execrations, yells! The prisoners were being brought
forth to be conveyed to Lynneborough. A whole po: se of constables
was necessary to protect them against the outbreak ot the mob, which
outbreak was not directed against Otway Bethel, but against Sir
Francis Levison. Cowering, like the guilty culprit that he was, he
shivered, and hid his white face, wondering whether it would be a
repetition of Justice Hare's green pond, or the tearing him asunder
piece-meal ; and cursing the earth because it did not open and let
him in !


( 415 )
CHAPTER XVII.
FIRE!
Miss LUCY was en pénitence. She had been guilty of some childish
fault that day at Aunt Cornelia's, which, coming to the knowledge of
Mrs. Carlyle after their return home, the young lady was ordered to
the nursery for the rest of the day, to be regaled upon bread and water.
Barbara was in her pleasant dressing-room. There was to be a
dinner-party at East Lynne that evening, and she had just finished
dressing. Very lovely she looked in her dinner-dress, with purple and
scarlet flowers, just plucked from the conservatory, in her hair, and a
bouquet of scarlet and purple flowers in her bosom. She glanced at her
watch somewhat anxiously, for the gentlemen had not made their
appearance. Half-past six! and they were to dine at seven.
"Madame Vine tapped at the door. Her errand was to beg grace for
Lucy, who had been promised half an hour in the drawing-room, when
the ladies entered it from the dessert-table, and was now in an agony
of grief at the disappointment. Would Mrs. Carlyle pardon her and
allow her to be dressed ?
“You are too lenient to that child, madame,” said Barbara. “I
don't think you ever would punish her at all. But when she commits
faults, they must be corrected.”
“She is very sorry for her fault ; she promises not to be rude again.
She is crying as if she would break her heart."
“Not for her ill-behaviour, but because she is afraid of missing the
drawing-room to-night,” cried Barbara.
“Do pray restore her to favour,” pleaded madame.
“I shall see. Just look, Madame Vine! I broke this, a minute or
two ago. Is it not a pity ?”.
Barbara held in her hand a beautiful toilet ornament, set in gold.
One of the petals had come off.
Madame Vine examined it. “I have some cement upstairs that
would join it,” she exclaimed. “I could do it in two minutes."
“Oh, I wish you would," was Barbara's delighted response. “Do
bring the cement here and join it now. Shall I bribe you ?” she added,
laughing. “You make this all right, and then you shall bear back
grace to Lucy-for I perceive that is what your heart is set upon."
Madame Vine went, and returned with her cement. Barbara watched
her, as she took the pieces in her hand, to see how the one must fit on
to the other.
“ This has been broken once before, Joyce tells me," Barbara said.
“ But it must have been imperceptibly joined, for I have looked in vain
for the damage. Mr. Carlyle bought it for his first wife when they
were in London after their marriage. She broke it. You will never
do it, Madame Vine, if your hand shakes like that. What is the
matter?"
A great deal was the matter. First, the ominous words had been
upon her tongue. “ It was broken here, where the stem joins the


416
EAST LYNNE.
flower :" but she recollected herself in time. Next, came up the past
vision of the place and hour when the accident occurred. Her sleeve
had swept it off the table ; Mr. Carlyle was in the room, this very room,
and he had soothed her sorrow, her almost childish sorrow, with kisses
sweet. Ah me! poor thing! I think our hands would have shaken as
hers did. The ornament and the kisses were Barbara's now.
“I ran quickly up the stairs and back again," was the explanation
she offered to Mrs. Carlyle for her shaking hands.
At that moment Mr. Carlyle and their guests were heard to return,
and to ascend to their respective apartments, Lord Vane's bright voice
echoing through the house. Mr. Carlyle came into his wife's dressing-
room, and Madame Vine would have made a precipitate retreat.
“No, no,” said Barbara, “finish it now you have begun. Mr. Carlyle
will be going to his own room. Look at the misfortune I have had,
Archibald ! I have broken this."
Mr. Carlyle glanced carelessly at the trinket, and at Madame Vine's
white fingers. He crossed to the door of his dressing-room and opened
it, then held out his hand in silence for Barbara to approach, and drew
her in with him. Madame Vine went on with her work.
Presently Barbara returned : and approached the table, where stood
Madame Vine, while she drew on her gloves. Her eyelashes were wet.
“I could not help shedding a few tears for joy,” said Barbara,
perceiving that Madame Vine observed the signs.“ Mr. Carlyle has
been telling me that my brother's innocence is now all but patent to the
world. Lord Mount Severn was present at the proceedings, and says
they have criminated each other. Papa sat in his place as chairman :
I wonder that he liked to do so!”.
Lower bent the head of Madame Vine over her employment. “Has
anything been proved against them?” she asked, in her usual soft tone,
almost a whisper.
“There is not the least doubt of the guilt of Levison, but Otway
Bethel's share in the affair is still a puzzle," replied Mrs. Carlyle.
“ Both are committed for trial. Oh, that man, that man, how his sins
come out !” she continued, in excitement.
Madame Vine glanced up through her spectacles.
“Would you believe," continued Barbara, dropping her voice," that
while West Lynne, and I fear we ourselves, gave that miserable Afy
credit for having gone away with Richard, she was, all the time, with
Levison ? Ball, the lawyer made her confess to it to-day. I am
unacquainted with the details : Mr. Carlyle would not give them to me.
He said the bare fact was quite enough.'
Mr. Carlyle was right.
“ Out it all seems to come, little by little ! one wickedness after
another !” resumed Barbara. “I do not like Mr. Carlyle to hear it.
Of course there is no help for it; but he must feel it terribly; as must
Lord Mount Severn. She was his wife, you know, and the children
are hers : and to think that sheI mean he must feel it for her," went
on Barbara after her sudden pause, and there was some hauteur in her
tone, lest she should be misunderstood. “Mr. Carlyle is one of the
very few men, so entirely noble, whom the sort of disgrace, reflected
from Lady Isabel's conduct, cannot touch.”


FIRE!
417
The carriage of the first guest. Barbara ran across the room and
knocked at Mr. Carlyle's door. “Archibald ! do you hear ?"
Back came the laughing answer. “I shan't keep them long. But
they may surely accord a few minutes' grace to a man who hast just
been converted into an M.P.”
Barbara descended into the drawing-room, leaving that unhappy
lady to the cement and the broken ornament and to battle as she best
could with her breaking heart. Nothing but stabs ; nothing but stabs!
Was her punishment ever to end ? No. The step she had taken in
coming back to East Lynne precluded that.
The guests arrived. . All, except Mr. and Mrs. Hare. Barbara re-
ceived a note from her mother instead. The justice did not feel well
enough to join them.
I should think he did not. If retribution came home sharply to
Lady Isabel, it was coming home in some degree to him also. Richard,
his own unoffending son-unoffending in every sense of the term, until
that escapade of falling in love with Afy-had been treated by him
with unnatural harshness. West Lynne and the public would not fail
to remember it-and the justice was remarkably alive to West Lynne
and the public's opinion. The affection for Richard, which the justice
had been pressing down and keeping under, and turning into all possible
channels of hate, was now returning in unpleasant force. Unpleasant
in so far as that it did savage war with his conscience.
“1-1-might have hunted him to death, you know, Anne," said the
justice, sitting in his chair, and wiping his brows, and eating humble
pie for perhaps the first time in his life.
“But it is over now, Richard dear,” said gentle, loving Mrs. Hare,
happy tears coursing down her cheeks.
* But I might have done so—had he made his appearance here. In
fact I should have done so.”
“Do not grieve, Richard ; it will not recall the past. In a little time
we may have him at home again with us; and then we can both make
it up to him.”
“And how are we to find him? He may be dead. Who knows
where he is? He may be dead, I say."
“No, he is not. We shall find him when the time comes. Mr.
Carlyle knows where he is; has known a long while, he told me to-
day : even sees him sometimes. A true friend to us all, Richard, is
Archibald Carlyle.”
“Ay. That jade, Barbara, is in luck. I shouldn't be surprised but
that she knows too, if he does. A good girl, a good girl, though she
puts up at times for saucy independence.”
Mrs. Hare could scarcely make her husband out, his tone and manner
were so thoroughly changed from what she had ever known them.
“But I can't believe it's true yet, Anne. I can't indeed. If he is
innocent, why couldn't he have been cleared before? It is so many
years ago, you know ! Do you think he is innocent ?”.
“Dear Richard, I know he is,” she answered, with a happy smile.
“ I have been sure of it a long, long while. And so has Mr. Carlyle."
“ Well, that's something. Carlyle's judgment is good. Is his room
aired—and all that?"
Last Lyane.


FIRE!
419
must please make haste, sir, if you want to see him alive.” Miss
Barbara! It was more familiar to Jasper, in a moment of excitement,
than the new name.
6 You, Jasper! Is the house on fire? This house?”
“Well, I don't know, sir. I can hear a dreadful deal of screeching
in it."
Mr. Carlyle closed the window. He began to suspect that the
danger lay in fear alone. “Who told you there was fire ?” he
demanded of Wilson.
“That man ringing at the door,” sobbed Wilson. “Thank goodness,
I have saved the children.”
Mr. Carlyle felt somewhat exasperated at the mistake. His wife
was trembling from head to foot ; and he knew that she was not in a
condition to be alarmed, necessarily or unnecessarily. She clung to
him in terror.
“My darling, be calm! There is no fire. It is a stupid mistake.
You may all go back to bed and sleep in peace,” he added to the rest.
“ And the next time that you alarm the house in the night, Wilson,
have the goodness to make sure, first of all, that you have cause for it."
Barbara, still frightened, bewildered, and uncertain, escaped to the
window, and threw it open. But Mr. Carlyle was almost as quick as
she : he caught her to him with one hand, and drew the window down
with the other. To have these tidings told to her abruptly, would be
worse than all. By this time, some of the servants had descended the
other staircase, with a light, and, hastening to open the hall-door, Jasper
entered. The man had probably waited to help put out the “fire."
Barbara caught sight of him ere Mr. Carlyle could prevent it, and
grew sick with fear, believing some ill had happened to her mother.
Drawing her inside their chamber, he broke the news to her sooth-
ingly and tenderly, making light of it. She burst into tears. “You
are not deceiving me, Archibald ? Papa is not dead ?"
“Dead ! ” cheerily echoed Mr. Carlyle, in the same tone he might
have used had Barbara wondered whether the justice was taking a
night airing in a balloon. “Wilson has indeed frightened you, love.
Dress yourself, and we will go and see him.”
At that moment, Barbara recollected William. Strange that she
should be the first to do so; before Lady Isabel, before Mr. Carlyle.
She ran out again to the corridor, where the boy stood shivering
“He may have caught his death !” she uttered, snatching him up in
her arms. “Oh, Wilson ! what have you done? His night-gown is
damp and cold.”
Unfit as she was for the burden, she bore him to her own bed.
Wilson was not at leisure to attend to reproaches just then. She was
engaged in wordy war with Jasper, leaning over the balustrades to
carry it on.
“ I never told you there was a fire !” indignantly denied Jasper.
“ You did. I opened the nursery window, and called out, ‘Is it fire ?'
and you answered, “Yes.'”
“ You called out, “Is it Jasper?' What else should I say but, 'Yes,
to that? Fire! Where was the fire likely to be? In the park?”.
“Wilson, take the children back to bed,” authoritatively said Mr,


THREE MONTHS LONGER.
423
done. There are certain wrongs which bring out human nature in
high and low alike. “Still, he is your husband," was all Barbara
could, with deprecation, again plead.
“He made himself my husband by deceit, and I will throw him off
in the face of day,” returned Lady Levison. “There is no moral
obligation to debar my doing so. He has worked ill and ruin, ill and
ruin upon me and my child; and the world shall not think that I have
borne my share in it. How was it that you kept your hands off him,
when he reappeared, to brave you, in West Lynne ? ” she added, in a
changed tone, turning to Mr. Carlyle.
“I cannot tell you. It was a marvel oftentimes to myself.”
He quitted the room as he spoke, adding a few kindly words about
leaving her with Mrs. Carlyle. When they were alone, Barbara
yielded to Lady Levison's request, and gave her the outline of the dark
tale. Its outline only : generously suppressing Afy's name beyond the
evening of the fatal event. Lady Levison listened without interruption.
“Do you and Mr. Carlyle believe him to have been guilty ?”
“ Yes."
“Was his first wife, Isabel Vane, mad ? "she presently asked.
“ Mad ?" echoed Barbara, in surprise.
“When she left him for the other. It could have been nothing less
than madness. I could understand a woman's flying from Francis
Levison for love of Mr. Carlyle ; but, now that I have seen your
husband, I cannot understand the reverse."
And, without another word, Alice Levison left the room as abruptly
as she had entered it.
Barbara's stay in London was little more than three weeks, for it was
necessary that she should be safe at home again.
Mr. Carlyle, however, remained in town until the session was nearly
over, though he made hurried visits down to East Lynne. In July, he
returned home for good. There was another baby at East Lynne then,
a lovely little lady-pretty as Barbara herself had been at a month old.
But William was rapidly falling away. The London physician had
confirmed Dr Martin's opinion; and it was evident to all that the end
could not be long in coming.
Some one else was fading-Lady Isabel. The cross had been too
heavy, and she was sinking under its weight. Can you wonder at it?
It might have been different had she yielded to its weight ; striven to
bear it in patience and in silence, after the manner she had carved out
for herself. But she did not do so. She rebelled against it : and it
was costing her her life. The hourly and daily excitement, arising from
the false position in which she had placed herself by returning to East
Lynne, calmed down with the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle for
town. Then a reaction set in. The incessant irritation of the mind,
the feelings, and the nerves was gone ; but in its place had settled the
no less dangerous apathy, the dull quiet of despair. Excitement had
kept her up : and, that over, she began to sink with alarming rapidity.
There appeared to be no ostensible disease, but she was wasting away
day by day, as her mother had done before her. Her fading was
observed by none ; and she still discharged her duties as Lucy's
governess : though she snatched portions of her time to spend it with


426
EAST LYNNE.
shall keep two good servants, and do nothing myself but dress, and
subscribe to the library. He makes plenty of money."
“A very tolerable settlement, I should say," returned Mr. Carlyle :
and Afy's face fell before the glance of his eye, merry though it was.
“ Take care you don't spend all his money for him, Afy."
“ I'll take care of that,” nodded Afy, significantly. “ Sır,” she some-
what abruptly added, " what is it that's the matter with Joyce ?”
“ I do not know," said Mr. Carlyle, becoming serious. “There does
appear to be something the matter with her, ior she is much changed."
“ I never saw anybody so changed in my life," exclaimed Afy. “I
told her, the other day, that she was just like one who had some dread-
ful secret upon the mind."
“ It is really more like that than anything else,” observed Mr. Carlyle.
“But she's one of the close ones, is Joyce, continued Afy. “No
fear that she'll give a clue, if it does not suit her to do so. She told
me, in answer, to mind my own business, and not to take absurd fancies
in my head. How is the baby, sir ? And Mrs. Carlyle ?”
“All well. Good day, Afy."
CHAPTER XIX.
THE TRIAL.
SPACIOUS were the assize courts at Lynneborough. And it was well
they were so, otherwise more people had been disappointed, of hearing
the noted trial of Sir Francis Levison for the murder of George
Hallijohn.
The circumstances attending the case caused it to bear for the
public an unparalleled interest. The rank of the accused, and his
antecedents, more especially that local antecedent touching the Lady
Isabel Carlyle ; the verdict still out against Richard Hare; the length
of time which had elapsed ; the part played in it by Afy; the intense
curiosity as to the part taken in it by Otway Bethel ; the speculation
as to what had been the exact details, and the doubt of a conviction ;
all contributed to fan the curiosity of the public. People came from
far and near to be present. Friends of Mr. Carlyle, friends of the
Hares, friends of the Challoners, friends of the prisoner ; besides the
general public. Colonel Bethel and Mr. Justice Hare occupied con-
spicuous seats.
At a few minutes past nine the judge took his place on the bench.
But not before a rumour had gone through the court; a rumour that
seemed to shake it to its centre, and which people craned their necks
to hear. Otway Bethel had turned Queen's evidence, and was to be
admitted as witness for the Crown.
Thin, haggard, pale, looked Francis Levison as he was placed in the
dock. His incarceration had not in any way contributed to his per-
sonal advantages : and there was an ever-recurring expression of dread
upon his countenance, not pleasant to look upon. He was dressed in
black, and his diamond ring shone conspicuous still on his white hand,


428
EAST LYNNE.
“A moment,” interrupted the counsel. “Was your visit that evening
made in secret?”
“Partially so. My father and mother were displeased at my in-
timacy with Afy Hallijohn: therefore I did not care that they should
be cognizant of my visits there. I am ashamed to confess that I told
my father a lie over it that very evening. He saw me leave the dinner-
table to go out with my gun, and inquired where I was off to. I
answered that I was going out with young Beauchamp.*
“When, in point of fact, you were not?”
“No. I took my gun, for I had promised to lend it to Hallijohn,
while his own was being repaired. When I reached the cottage, Afy
refused to admit me : she was busy, she said. I felt sure she h-d
Thorn with her. She had, more than once before, refused to act it
me when I had gone there by her own appointment; and I alvrays
found that Thorn's presence in the cottage was the obstacle.”
“I suppose you and Thorn were jealous of each other?”
“I was jealous of him : I freely admit it. I don't know whether he
was of me.”
“May I inquire what was the nature of your friendship for Miss
Afy Hallijohn"
“ I loved her with an honourable love : as I might have loved any
young lady in my own station of life. I would not have married her
in opposition to my father and mother : but I told Afy that if she was
content to wait for me, until I was my own master, I would then make
her my wife.”
“ You had no views towards her of a different nature ?"
“None. I cared for her too much for that. And I respected her
father. Afy's mother had been a lady, too ; although she had married
Hallijohn, who was only a clerk to Mr. Carlyle. No: I never had a
thought of wrong towards Afy."
“Now relate the occurrences of the evening."
“ Afy would not admit me, and we had a few words over it. But
at length I went away ; first giving her the gun and telling her it was
loaded. She lodged it against the wall, just inside the door, and I
went into the wood and waited, determined to see whether, or not,
Thorn was with her, for she had denied that he was. Locksley saw
me there, and asked why I was hiding. I did not answer ; but I went
farther off, out of view of the cottage. Some time afterwards, less
than half an hour, I heard a shot in the direction of the cottage.
Some one was having a late shot at the partridges, I thought. Just
then, I saw Otway Bethel emerge from the trees not far from me, and
run towards the cottage. My lord,” added Richard Hare, looking at
the judge, “that was the shot that killed Hallijohn."
“ Could the shot,” asked the counsel, “ have been fired by Otway
Bethel ?”
“It could not. It was much farther off. Bethel disappeared : and,
in another minute, there came one, flying down the path leading from
the cottage. It was Thorn : in a state of intense terror. His face
was livid, his eyes were staring, and he panted and shook as one with
ague. Past me he tore, on down the path, and I afterwards heard the
sound of his horse galloping away. It had been tied in the wood." .


430
EAST LYNNE.
might as well acknowledge it. "I did not admit Richard Hare, for
fancied they might get up a quarrel if they were together.”
“For what purpose did Richard Hare bring down his gun? Do you
know?”
“ It was to lend to my father. My father's gun had something the
matter with it, and was at the smith's. I had heard him the previous
day ask Mr. Richard to lend him one of his, and Mr. Richard said he
would bring one. As he did.”
“ You lodged the gun against the wall. Safely ? "
“Quite safely."
“ Was it touched by you after placing it there? Or by the prisoner?"
“ I did not touch it. Neither did he, that I saw. It was the same
gun which was afterwards found near my father, and had been dis-
charged."
The next witness called was Otway Bethel. He held share also in
the curiosity of the public ; but not in an equal degree with Afy : still
less with Richard Hare. The substance of bis testimony was as
follows:
“On the evening that Hallijohn was killed, I was in Abbey Wood,
and I saw Richard Hare come down the path with a gun as if he had
come from his own home.” –
“Did Richard Hare see you?”
“No: he could not see me: I was right in the thicket. He went to
the cottage door, and was about to enter, when Afy Hallijohn came
hastily out of it, pulled the door to behind her, and held it in her hand,
as if afraid he would go in. Some colloquy ensued, but I was too far
off to hear it, and then she took the gun from him and went in. Some
time after that, I saw Richard Hare amid the trees at a distance,
farther from the cottage then, than I was, and apparently watching the
path. I was wondering what he was up to, hiding there, when I heard
a shot fired; close to the cottage as it seemed, and "
“Stop a bit, witness. Could that shot have been fired by Richard
Hare?"
“ It could not. He was nearly a quarter of a mile from it. I was
much nearer the cottage than he.”
“ Go on."
“I could not imagine what that shot meant, or who could have fired
it. Not that I suspected mischief. n. I knew that poachers did not
congregate so near to Hallijohn's cottage. I set off to reconnoitre,
and as I turned the corner which brought the house within view, I saw
Captain Thorn-as he was called—come leaping out of it. His face
was white with terror, his breath was gone-in short, I never saw any
living man betray so much agitation. I caught his arm as he would
have passed me. "What have you been about?' I asked. “Was it
you who fired ?' He--"
“ Stay. Why did you suspect him ?”.
“From his state of excitement ; from the terror he was in. - That
some ill had happened, I felt sure—and so would you, had you seen
him as I did. My arresting him increased his agitation : he tried to
throw me off, but I am a strong man : and I suppose he thought it
best to temporize. Keep dark upon it, Bethel,' he said, 'I will make


THE TRIAL.
431
it worth your while. The thing was not premeditated : it was done in
the heat of passion. What business had the fellow to abuse me? I
have done no harm to the girl.' As he thus spoke, he took out a
pocket-book with the hand that was at liberty; I held the other ."
“As the prisoner thus spoke, you mean?"
“ The prisoner. He took a bank-note from his pocket-book, and
thrust it into my hands. It was a note for fifty pounds. “What's done
can't be undone, Bethel,' he said, “and your saying that you saw me
here can serve no good turn. Shall it be silence?' I took the note
and answered that it should be silence. I had not the least idea that
anyone had been killed.”
“What, then, did you suppose had happened ?”
“I could not suppose anything ; I could not think; it all passed in
the haste and confusion of a moment, and no definite ideas occurred to
me. Thorn flew on, down the path, and I stood looking at him. The
next was, I heard footsteps, and slipped within the trees. They were
those of Richard Hare, who took the path to the cottage. Presently,
he returned, little less agitated than Thorn had been. I had gone into
an open space then, and he accosted me, asking if I had seen that
hound' fly from the cottage? What hound ?' I asked him. “That
fine fellow, that Thorn, whọ comes after Afy,' he answered, but I
stoutly denied that I had seen any one. Richard Hare continued his
way, and afterwards found that Hallijohn was killed.”
“And so, you took a bribe to conceal one of the foulest crimes that
ever man committed, Mr. Otway Bethel ?”
“ I took the money : and am ashamed to confess it. But it was
done without reflection. I swear that had I known what crime it was
intended to hush up, I never would have touched it. I was hard up
for funds, and the amount tempted me. When I discovered what had
really happened, and that Richard Hare was accused, I was thunder-
struck at my own deed ; many a hundred times since have I cursed
the money ; and the fate of Richard has been as a heavy weight upon
my conscience.”
* You might have lifted the weight by confessing."
“To what end ? It was too late. Thorn had disappeared. I never
heard of him, or saw him until he came to West Lynne, this last
spring, as Sir Francis Levison, to oppose Mr. Carlyle. Richard Hare
had also disappeared ; had never been seen or heard of; and most
people supposed he was dead. To what end, then, should I confess ?
Perhaps only to be suspected myself. Besides, I had taken the money
upon à certain understanding, and it was only fair that I should keep
to it.”
If Richard Hare was subjected to a severe cross-examination, one
far more severe awaited Otway Bethel. The judge spoke to him only
once, his tone ringing with reproach.
“ It appears, then, witness, that you have retained within you, all
these years, the proofs of Richard Hare's innocence?”
“I can only acknowledge it with contrition, my lord.”
“What did you know of Thorn in those days ?” asked the counsel.
“Nothing ; except that he frequented the Abbey Wood, his object
being Afy Hallijohn. I had never exchanged a word with him until


432
EAST LYNNE.
this night; but I knew his name, Thorn-at least, the one he went by.
And by his addressing me as Bethel, it appeared that he knew mine."
The case for the prosecution closed. An able and ingenious speech
was made for the defence, the learned counsel who offered it contend-
ing that there was still no proof that Sir Francis Levison was the
guilty man. Neither was there any proof that the catastrophe was not
the result of pure accident. A loaded gun, standing against the wall in
a small room, was not a safe weapon; and he called upon the jury not
rashly to convict in the uncertainty, but to give the prisoner the benefit
of the doubt. He should call no witnesses, he observed, not even as to
character. Character ! for Sir Francis Levison! The court burst into
a grin, the only sober face being that of the judge.
The judge summed up. Certainly not in the prisoner's favour ; but
-to use the expression of some amongst the audience-dead against
him. Otway Bethel came in for a side shaft or two from his lordship;
Richard Hare for sympathy. The jury retired about four o'clock, and
the judge left the bench.
A very short time were they absent. Scarcely a quarter of an hour.
His lordship returned into court, and the prisoner was again placed in
the dock. He was the hue of marble, and, in his nervous agitation,
kept incessantly throwing back his hair from his forehead—the action
so often spoken of. Silence was proclaimed.
“How say you, gentlemen of the jury ? Guilty or not guilty ?”
“ GUILTY." It was a silence to be felt : and the prisoner gasped
once or twice convulsively. “But," added the foreman, “ we wish to
recommend him to mercy.”
“On what grounds?” inquired the judge.
“Because, my lord, we believe that it was not a crime planned by
the prisoner beforehand; but arose out of the bad passions of the
moment, and was so committed.”
The judge paused : and drew something black from the receptacle
of his pocket, buried deep in his robes.
“Prisoner at the bar ! Have you anything to urge why sentence of
death should not be passed upon you ?"
The prisoner clutched the front of the dock. He threw up his head
as if shaking off the dread fear which had oppressed him, and the
marble of his face changed to scarlet.
“ Only this, my lord. The jury in giving their reason for recom-
mending me to your lordship's mercy, have adopted the right view of
the case, as it actually occurred. That the man's (Hallijohn's) life was
taken by me, it will be useless for me to deny, in the face of the evidence
given this day. But it was not taken in malice. When I left the girl,
Afy, and went to the cottage for my hat, I no more contemplated
injuring mortal man than I contemplate it at this moment. He, the
father, was there ; and in the dispute that ensued, the catastrophe
occurred. My lord, it was not wilful murder."
The prisoner ceased. And the judge, the black cap upon his head,
crossed his hands one upon the other.
“Prisoner at the bar. You have been convicted, by clear and un-
doubted evidence, of the crime of wilful murder. The jury have pro-
nounced you guilty : and in their verdict I entirely coincide. That


434
EAST LYNNE.
none the less ready to cast stones at him, and to thunder down their
denunciations when the time came. In proportion to their fierceness
then, was their contrition now : Richard had been innocent all the
while ; they had been more guilty than he.
An English mob, gentle or simple, never gets up its excitement by
halves. Whether its demonstration be of a laudatory or a condemna.
tory nature, the steam is sure to be put on to bursting point. With
one universal shout, with one bound, they rallied round Richard : they
congratulated him, they overwhelmed him with good wishes, they
expressed with shame their repentance, they said that the future
should atone for the past. Had he possessed a hundred hands, they
would have been shaken off. And when Richard extricated himself,
and turned, in his pleasant forgiving, loving nature to his father, the
stern old justice, forgetting his pride and his pomposity, burst into
tears, and sobbed like a child, as he murmured something about he,
also, needing forgiveness.
“Dear father, cried Richard, his own eyes wet with tears, “it is
forgiven and forgotten already. Think how happy we shall be again
together ! you and I, and my mother."
The justice's hands, which had been wound round his son, relaxed
their hold. They were twitching curiously; the face was twitching
also ; and he fell upon the shoulder of Colonel Bethel, in a second
stroke of paralysis.
CHAPTER XX.
THE DEATH CHAMBER.
By the side of William Carlyle's dying bed knelt the Lady Isabel.
The time was at hand, and the boy was quite reconciled to his fate.
Merciful indeed is God to dying children! It is astonishing how
very readily, where the right means are taken, they may be brought
to look with pleasure, rather than fear, upon their unknown journey.
The brilliant hectic flush had gone from his cheeks, his features
were white and wasted, his eyes large and bright. His silky brown
hair was pushed from his temples, and his little hot hands were thrown
outside the bed.
“ It won't be so very long to wait, you know, will it, Madame Vine?”
“For what, darling ?”
“Before they all come. Papa, and mamma, and Lucy, and all of
them.”
A jealous feeling shot across her wearied heart. Was she nothing
to him? “Do you not care that I should come to“you, William ? "
“Yes, I hope you will. But, do you think we shall know everybody
in heaven? Or will it be only our own relations ?”
“Oh, child! I think there will be no relations, as you call them, up
there. We can trust all that to God-however it may be.”
William lay looking upwards at the sky, apparently in thought.
A dark blue, serene sky, from which shone the hot July sun. His


THE DEATH CHAMBER.
435
bed had been moved near the window, for he liked to sit up in it and
look at the landscape. The window was open now, and the butterflies
and bees sported in the summer air.
“I wonder how it will be ?” pondered he, aloud. “There will be
the beautiful city, with its gates of pearl, and its shining precious
stones, and its streets of gold ; and there will be the clear river, and
the trees with their fruits and their healing leaves, and the lovely
flowers : and there will be the harps, and music, and singing ; and
what else will there be ?”
“ Everything that is desirable and beautiful, William.”
Another pause. “Madame Vine, will Jesus come for me, do you
think, or will he send an angel ?”
“ Jesus has promised to come for his own redeemed; for those who
love him and wait for him.”
“ Yes, yes. And then I shall be happy for ever. It will be so
pleasant to be there ; never to be tired or ill again.”
“Pleasant ? Ay! Oh, William ! would that the time were come !"
She was thinking of herself; her freedom ; though the boy knew it
not. She buried her face in her hands and continued speaking :
William had to bend his ear to catch the faint whisper.
" " And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying ;
neither shall there be any more pain : for the former things are passed
away.'»
“ Madame Vine, do you think mamma will be there?” he presently
asked. “I mean mamma that was."
“Ay. Ere long."
“But how shall I know her? You see, I have nearly forgotten what
she was like.”
She leaned over him, laying her forehead upon his wasted arm ; she
burst into a flood of impassioned tears. “You will know her ; never
fear, William, she has not forgotten you."
“But how can we be sure that she will be there ?" debated William,
after a pause of thought. “You know " sinking his voice, and
speaking with hesitation—" she was not quite good. She was not
good to papa or to us. Sometimes I think, suppose sbe did not grow
good, and did not ask God to forgive her ?”
“Oh, William," sobbed the unhappy lady, "her who, life, after she
left you, was one long scene of repentance, of seeking forgiveness.
Her repentance, her sorrow was greater than she could bear, and "
“ And what ? ” asked William, for there was a pause.
“ Her heart broke ir, it ; yearning after you and your father.”
“What makes you think it ?”
“ Child, I know it."
William considered. Then-had he been strong enough—he would
have started up with energy : “Madame Vine, you could only know
that, by mamma's telling you! Did you ever see her? Did you know
her abroad?”
Lady Isabel's thoughts were far away ; up in the clouds, perhaps.
She reflected not on the possible consequences of her answer : or she
had never given it.
“ Yes : I knew her abroad.”


THE DEATH CHAMBER.
439
“Wilson mentioned it, sir," was the low answer.
“Oh, papa, what will he do? Will Jesus forgive him?"
“We must hope so."
“Do you hope it, papa?”
“Yes. I wish that all the world may be forgiven, William : what.
ever may have been their sins. My child, how restless you seem ! ”
“I can't keep in one place. The bed gets wrong. Pull me up on
the pillow, will you, Madame Vine ?”.
Mr. Carlyle gently lifted the boy himself. “Madame Vine is an
untiring nurse to you, William," he observed, gratefully casting a
glance towards her in the distance, where she had retreated, and was
shaded by the window-curtain.
William made no reply. He seemed to be trying to recall some-
thing. “I forget; I forget ! ”
“Forget what ?” asked Mr. Carlyle.
“ It was something I wanted to ask you ; or tell you. Isn't Lucy
come home?”
“I suppose not.”
“Papa, I want Joyce.”
“I will send her home to you. I am going for your mamma after
dinner.”
“For mamma ?-oh, I remember now. Papa, how shall I know
mamma in heaven ? Not this mamma.”
Mr. Carlyle did not immediately reply. The question may have
puzzled him. William continued hastily : possibly mistaking the
motive for the silence.
“ She will be in heaven, you know."
“Yes, yes, child,” speaking hurriedly.
“Madame Vine knows she will. She saw her abroad : and mamma
told her that-what was it, madame?"
Madame Vine grew sick with alarm. Mr. Carlyle turned his eyes
upon her scarlet face-as much as he could see of it. She would have
escaped from the room if she could.
“Mamma was more sorry than she could bear,” went on William,
finding he was not helped. “She wanted you, papa, and she wanted
us, and her heart broke, and she died.”
A Aush rose to Mr. Carlyle's brow. He turned inquiringly to
Madame Vine.
“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir," she murmured, with desperate energy,
“I ought not so to have spoken : I ought not to have interfered in
your family affairs. I spoke only as I thought it must be, sir. The
boy seemed troubled about his mother.”
Mr. Carlyle was at sea. “Did you meet his mother abroad? I
scarcely understand.”
She lifted her hand and covered her glowing face. “No, sir."
Surely the recording angel blotted out the words! If ever a prayer for
forgiveness went up from an aching heart, it must have gone up then,
for the equivocation uttered over her child's death-bed !
Mr. Carlyle went towards her. “Do you perceive the change in his
countenance ?” he whispered.
“Yes, sir, yes. He has looked like this since a strange fit of trem-


440
EAST LYNNE.
bling came on in the afternoon. Wilson thought he might be taken
for death. I fear some four and twenty hours will end it.”
Mr. Carlyle rested his elbow on the window-frame, his hand upon
his brow, his drooping eyelids falling over his eyes. “It is hard to lose
him."
“Oh, sir, he will be better off !” she wailed, choking down the sobs
and emotion, that arose threateningly. “We can bear death; it is not
the worst parting that the earth knows. He will be quit of this cruel
world : sheltered in heaven. I wish we were all there!”
A servant came to say that Mr. Carlyle's dinner was served, and he
proceeded to it with what appetite he had. When he returned to the
sick-room, daylight had faded, and a solitary candle was placed where
its rays could not fall upon the child's face. Mr. Carlyle took the light
in his hand to scan that face again. He was lying sideways on the
pillow, his hollow breath echoing through the room. The light caused
him to open his eyes.
“Don't papa, please. I like it dark.”
“Only for one moment, my precious boy.” And, not for more than
a moment did Mr. Carlyle hold it. The blue, pinched, ghastly look
was there still. Death was certainly coming on quickly.
At that moment Lucy and Archibald came in, on their return from
their visit to Miss Carlyle. The dying boy looked up eagerly.
“ Good-bye, Lucy,” he said, putting out his cold, damp hand.
“I am not going out,” replied Lucy. “We have only just come
home.”
“ Good-bye, Lucy,” repeated he.
She took the little hand then, leaned over, and kissed him. “Good-
bye, William : but indeed I am not going out anywhere."
“I am,” said he. “I am going to heaven. Where's Archie ?"
Mr. Carlyle lifted Archie on to the bed. Lucy looked frightened.
Archie surprised.
“ Archie, good-bye ; good-bye, dear. I am going to heaven : to that
bright blue sky, you know. I shall see mamma there, and I'll tell her
that you and Lucy are coming soon.”
Lucy, a sensitive child, broke into a loud storm of sobs : enough to
disturb the equanimity of any sober sick-room. Wilson hastened in at
the sound, and Mr. Carlyle sent the two children away, with soothing
promises that they should see William in the morning, if he continued
well enough.
Down on her knees, her face buried in the counterpane, a corner of
it stuffed into her mouth that it might help to stifle her agony, knelt
Lady Isabel. The moment's excitement was well-nigh beyond her
power of endurance. Her own child ; his child ; they alone around
its death-bed, and she might not ask or receive from him a word of
comfort, of consolation !
Mr. Carlyle glanced at her as he caught her choking sobs ; just as
he would have glanced at any other attentive governess. Feeling her
sympathy, doubtless; but nothing more ; she was not heart and part
with him and his departing boy. Lower and lower bent he over that
boy, for his eyes were wet.
“Don't cry, papa," whispered William, raising his feeble hand caress-


THE DEATH CHAMBER.
443
herself to the child's death, that she could part with him without too
great emotion. But she had not anticipated that it would be quite so
soon; she had thought that some hours more would at least be given
him; and now the storm overwhelmed her. Crying, sobbing, calling,
she flung herself upon him ; she clasped him to her ; she dashed off
her disguising glasses ; she laid her face upon his. Beseeching him to
come back to her that she might say farewell ; to her, his mother; her
darling child, her lost William.
Joyce was terrified ; terrified for consequences. With her full strength
she pulled her from the boy, praying her to consider, to be still. “Do
not, do not, for the love of Heaven! My lady! my lady!”
It was the old familiar title that struck upon her fears and induced
calmness. She stared at Joyce, and retreated backwards ; after the
manner of one receding from some hideous vision.
“My lady, let me take you to your room. Mr. Carlyle has come ;
he is bringing up his wife. Only think if you should give way before
him ! Pray come away!”
“ How did you know me?” she asked, in a hollow voice.
“My lady, it was that night when there was an alarm of fire. I
went close up to you to take Master Archibald from your arms; and,
as sure as I am now standing here, I believe that for the moment my
senses left me. I thought I saw a spectre ; the spectre of my dead
lady. I forgot the present; I forgot that all were standing round me;
that you, Madame Vine, were alive before me. Your face was not dis-
guised then : the moonlight shone full upon it, and I knew it, after the
first few moments of terror, to be, in dreadful truth, the living one of
· Lady Isabel. My lady, come away! we shall have Mr. Carlyle here."
Poor thing ! she sank upon her knees, in her humility, her dread.
“Oh, Joyce, have pity upon me! don't betray me! I will leave the
house ; indeed, I will. Don't betray me while I am in it!"
“ My lady, you have nothing to fear from me. I have kept the secret
buried within my breast since then. Last April ! It has nearly been
too much for me. By night and by day I have had no peace, dreading
what might come out. Think of the awful confusion, the consequences,
should it come to the knowledge of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle. Indeed, my
lady, you never ought to have come.”
“ Joyce,” she said, hollowly, lifting her haggard face, “I could not
keep away from my unhappy children. Is it no punishment to me, think
you, to be here ?" she added, vehemently. “To see him-my husband
-the husband of another! It is killing me.”
“Oh, my lady, come away! I hear him ; I hear him!”
Partly coaxing, partly dragging her, Joyce took her into her own
room, and left her there. Mr. Carlyle was at that moment at the door
of the sick one. Joyce sprang forward. Her face, in her emotion and
fear, was one of livid whiteness, and she shook as William had shaken,
poor child, in the afternoon. It was only too apparent in the well-lighted
corridor.
“ Joyce ?” he exclaimed in amazement, “what ails you ?”.
“Sir !” she panted, “be prepared. Master William-Master
Williams
"Joyce ! Not dead?”
H


446
EAST LYNNE.
the chords of life were snapping : the wonder would have been had they
remained unstrained.
“She brought it upon herself ! she ought not to have come back to
East Lynne !groans our moralist again. Do I not say so? Of course
she ought not. Neither ought she to have suffered her thoughts to
stray in the manner they did, towards Mr. Carlyle. She qught not to
have done so ; but she did. If we all did just as we “ought,” his lower
world would be worth living in. You must just sit down and abuse her,
and so calm your anger. I agree with you that she ought never to have
returned ; that it was an act little short of madness : but are you quite
sure that you would not have done the same, under the facility and the
temptation ? And now you can abuse me for saying so, if it will afford
you any satisfaction.
She was nearer to death than she imagined. She knew-judging by
her declining strength and her inner feelings—that it could not be far
off; but she did not deem it was coming so very soon. Her mother
had died in a similar way. Some said of consumption-Dr. Martin
said so, you may remember ; some said of “waste ;” the earl, her
husband, said of a broken heart—you heard him say so to Mr. Carlyle
in the first chapter of this history. The earl was the one who might
be supposed to know best. Whatever may have been Lady Mount
Severn's malady, she—to give you the phrase that was in people's
mouths at the time—“went out like the snuff of a candle.” It was now
the turn of Lady Isabel. She had no decided disorder, yet Death had
marked her. She felt that it was so : and in the approach of Death she
dreaded not, as she had once done, the consequences that must ensue,
should discovery arise. And this brings us back to the point whence
ensued this long digression. I dare say you are impatient with it, but
it is not often I trouble you with one.
But she would not willingly allow discovery to come ; neither had
she the least intention of remaining at East Lynne to die. Where she
should take refuge, was quite a secondary consideration : only let her
get smoothly and plausibly away. Joyce, in her dread, was for ever
urging it. Of course the preliminary step was, to arrange matters with
Mrs. Carlyle, and in the afternoon of the day following the funeral,
Lady Isabel proceeded to her dressing-room, and craved an interview.
Mr. Carlyle left the room as she entered it. Barbara, fatigued with
a recent drive, was lying on the sofa.
“We shall be so sorry to lose you, Madame Vine! You are all we
could wish for Lucy : and Mr. Carlyle feels truly grateful for your love
and attention to his poor boy."
“To leave will give me pain also," Madame Vine answered, in a
subdued tone. Pain ? Ay. Mrs. Carlyle little guessed its extent.
All she cared for on earth, she should leave behind her at East
Lynne.
" Indeed you must not leave," resumed Barbara. “ It would be unjust
to allow you to do so. You have made yourself ill, waiting upon poor
William, and you must remain here and take holiday until you are
cured. You will soon get well, if you will only suffer yourself to be
properly waited on and taken care of.”
“You are very considerate. Pray do not think me insensible if I


LORD VANE DATING FORWARD.
449
his lips. He laughed and told me I did not know half the wickedness
of the world. Thank you," again repeated Mrs. Carlyle, taking her
child from Lady Isabel. “Is she not a pretty baby? Do you like the
name : Anna ?”
" It is a simple name,” replied Lady Isabel. “And simple names are
always the most attractive."
“That is just what Archibald thinks. But he wanted this child to
be Barbara. I would not have had it Barbara for the world. I re-
member his once saying, a long, long time ago, that he did not like
elaborate names : they were mouthfuls ; and he instanced mine, and
his sister's, and his own. I recalled his words to him, and he said he
may not have liked the name of Barbara then, but he loved it now.
So we entered into a compromise ; Miss Baby was named Anna Bar-
bara, with an understanding that the first name was to be for use, and
the last for the registers."
“ It is not christened," said Lady Isabel.
“Only baptised. We should have had it christened before now, but
for William's death. Not that we give christening dinners; but I
waited for the trial at Lynneborough to be over, that my dear brother
Richard might stand to the child.”
“Mr. Carlyle does not like christenings made into festivals,” Lady
Isabel dreamily observed, her thoughts buried in the past.
“How did you know that ?" exclaimed Barbara, opening her eyes.
And poor Madame Vine, her pale face flushing, had to stammer forth
some confused words that “she had heard so somewhere."
“It is quite true," said Barbara. “He has never given a christening
dinner for any of his children. He cannot understand the analogy
between a solemn religious rite, and the meeting together afterwards to
eat and drink and make merry, according to the fashion of this world."
As Lady Isabel left the room, young Vane was careering through
the corridor, throwing his head in all directions, and calling out :
“Lucy! I want Lucy.”
“What do you want with her ? " asked Madame Vine.
“ Il m'est impossible de vous le dire, madame," responded he. Being,
for an Eton boy, wonderfully up in French, he was rather given to
showing it off, when he had the chance. He did not owe it to Eton :
Lady Mount Severn had taken better care than that. Better care ?
What could she want? There was one whole real live French tutor
-and he an Englishman-for the eight hundred boys. Very un-
reasonable for her ladyship to disparage that ample provision !
“Lucy cannot come to you just now. She is practising."
“ Mais, il le faut. J'ai le droit de demander après elle. Elle
m'appartient, vous comprenez, madame, cette demoiselle-là."
Madame could not forbear a smile. “I wish you would speak
English sense, instead of French nonsense."
“Then the English sense is, that I want Lucy, and I must have her.
I am going to take her for a drive in the pony-carriage if you must
know. She said she would come, and John is getting it ready."
“I could not possibly allow it," said Madame Vine. “You would be
sure to upset her.”
“The idea !” he returned, indignantly. “As if I should upset Lucy!
East Lynne
29


452
EAST LYNNE.
« Certainly not—so long as you will not consult one."
“ Indeed, sir, doctors could not cure me. Nor—as I believe-pro-
long my life.”
Mr. Carlyle paused. “Do you believe yourself to be in danger ?”
“ Not in immediate danger, sir. Only in so far as that I know I
shall not live long."
“And yet you will not see a doctor! Madame Vine, you must be
aware that I could not permit such a thing to go on in my house.
Dangerous illness and no advice !"
She could not say to him, “My malady is on the mind ; it is a
breaking heart, and therefore no earthly doctor could serve me.” That
would never do. She had sat with her hand across her face, between
her spectacles, and her wrapped-up chin. Had Mr. Carlyle possessed
the eyes of Argus, he could not have made anything of her features in
the broad light of day. But she did not feel so sure of it. There was
always an undefined terror of discovery when in his presence, and she
wished the interview at an end.
“I will see Mr. Wainwright, if it will be any satisfaction to you, sir."
“Madame Vine, I have intruded upon you here to say that you must
see him. And, should he deem it necessary, Dr. Martin also.”
“Oh, sir,” she rejoined with a curious smile, “ Mr. Wainwright will be
quite sufficient. There will be no need of another. I will write a note
to him to-morrow."
“Spare yourself the trouble. I am going into West Lynne, and will
send him up. You will permit me to urge that you spare no pains
or care—that you suffer my servants to spare no pains or care to re-
establish your health. Mrs. Carlyle tells me that the question of your
leaving remains in abeyance until her returns
“Pardon me, sir. The understanding with Mrs. Carlyle was, that I
should remain here until her return, and should then be at liberty at
once to leave.”
“Exactly. That is what Mrs. Carlyle said. But I must express a
hope that by that time you may be feeling so much better as to recon-
sider your decision, and continue with us. For my daughter's sake,
Madame Vine, I trust it will be so."
He rose as he spoke, and held out his hand. What could she do but
rise also, drop hers from her face, and give it him in answer? He
retained it, clasping it warmly.
“How shall i repay you ; how thank you for your love to my poor
lost boy?"
His earnest, tender eyes were on her double spectacles ; a sad smile
mingled with the sweet expression of his lips, as he bent towards her-
lips that had once been hers! A faint exclamation of despair ; a vivid
glow of hot crimson ; and she caught up her new black silk apron, so
deeply bordered with crape, in her disengaged hand, and flung it up to
her face. He mistook the sound ; mistook the action.
“Do not grieve for him. He is at rest. Thank you, thank you
greatly for all your sympathy.”
Another wring of her hand, and Mr. Carlyle had quitted the room.
She laid her head upon the table, and thought how merciful would be
Death when he should come.


( 453 )
CHAPTER XXII.
IT WONT DO, AFY.
MR. JIFFIN was in his glory. Mr. Jiffin's house was the same. Both
were in apple-pie readiness to receive Miss Afy Hallijohn, who was, in
a very short time indeed, to be converted into Mrs. Jiffin.
Mr. Jiffin had not seen Afy for some days : had never been able to
come across her since the trial at Lynneborough. Every evening had
he danced attendance at her lodgings, but could not get admitted.
“Not at home; not at home," was the invariable answer, though Afy
might be sunning herself at the window in his very sight. Mr. Jiffin,
throwing off as he best could the temporary disappointment, was in an
ecstasy of admiration, for he set it all down to Afy's retiring modesty
on the approach of the nuptial day. “And they could try to calumniate
her !” he indignantly breathed.
But now, one afternoon, when Mr. Jiffin, and his shopman, and his
shop, and his wares were all set out to the best advantage, and very
tempting they looked as a whole, Mr. Jiffin, happening to cast his eyes
to the opposite side of the street, beheld his beloved sailing by. She
was got up in the fashion. A mauve silk dress with eighteen flounces,
and about eighteen hundred steel buttons that glittered your sight
away; a “zouave" jacket, worked with gold ; a black straw hat with
no visible brim perched on the top of her skull, garnished in front with
what court milliners are pleased to call a “plume de coq," but which,
by its size and height, might have been taken for a “coq” himself,
while a white ostrich feather was carried round and did duty behind,
and a spangled hair-net hung down to her waist. Gloriously grand was
Afy that day; and if I had only a photographic machine at hand-or
whatever may be the scientific name for the thing-you should certainly
have been regaled with the sight of her. Joyce would have gone down
in a fit, had she encountered her by any unhappy chance. Mr. Jiffin,
dashing his apron anywhere, tore across.
“Oh, is it you ? ” said Afy, freezingly, when compelled to acknowledge
him, but his offered hand she utterly repudiated. “Really, Mr. Jiffin,
I should feel obliged if you would not come out to me in this offensive
and public manner."
Mr. Jiffin grew cold. “Offensive! Not come out ! ” gasped he. “I
do trust I have not been so unfortunate as to offend you, Miss Afy!”
“Well-you see,” said Afy, calling up all her impudence to say what
she had made up her mind to say: “ I have been considering it well
over, Jiffin, and I find that to carry out the marriage will not be for my
-for our happiness. I intended to write and inform you of this ; but I
shall be spared the trouble—as you have come out to me."
Perspiration, cold as ice, began to pour off Mr. Jiffin in his agony and
horror. You might have wrung every thread he had on. “You-don't
-mean-to-imply—that-you-give-me-up,– Miss Afy?” he jerked
out, unevenly.
“Well; yes I do," replied Afy. “It's as good to be plain; and then


456
EAST LYNNE.
“Faint-heat of the sun-walked too fast-allowed to sit down for
five minutes ! ” gasped Afy, in disjointed sentences.
Mr. Jiffin tenderly conducted her through the shop—to his parlour.
Afy cast half an eye round, saw how comfortable were its arrange-
ments, and her symptoms of faintness increased. Gasps and hysterical
sobs came forth together. Mr. Jiffin was as one upon thorns.
“She'd recover better there than in the public shop-if she'd only
excuse his bringing her in, and consent to stop in it a few minutes.
No harm could come to her, and West Lynne could never say it. He'd
stand at the far end of the room, right away from her: he'd prop open
the two doors and the window : he'd call in the maid-anything she
thought right. Should he get her a glass of wine ?"
Afy declined the wine by a gesture, and sat fanning herself, Mr.
Jiffin looking on from a respectful distance. Gradually she grew com-
posed ; grew herself again. As she gained courage, Mr. Jiffin lost it,
and he ventured upon some faint words of reproach and remonstrance,
touching her recent treatment of him.
Afy burst into a laugh. “Did I not do it well ?” she exclaimed.
“I thought I'd play off a joke upon you, so I came out this afternoon
and did it.”
Mr. Jiffin clasped his hands. « Was it a joke?” he returned, trem-
bling with agitation, uncertain whether he was in paradise or not.
“Are you still ready to let me call you mine?”.
“ Of course it was a joke,” said Afy. “What a soft you must have
been, Mr. Jiffin, not to see through it! When young ladies engage
themselves to be married, you can't suppose they run back from it,
close upon the wedding-day!”
“Oh, Miss Afy!” and the poor little man actually burst into delicious
tears, as he caught hold of Afy's hand and kissed it.
“A great green donkey!” thought Afy to herself, bending on him,
however, the sweetest smile.
Mr. Jiffin is not the only green donkey in the world.
Richard Hare, meanwhile, had entered his mother's presence. She
was sitting at the open window, the justice opposite to her, in an
invalid chair, basking in the air and the sun. This last attack of the
justice's had affected mind more than body. He was brought down
to the sitting-room that day for the first time; but, of his mind, there
was little hope. It was in a state of half imbecility: the most won-
derful characteristic being, that all its self-will and surliness had gone.
Tractable almost as a little child was Justice Hare.
Richard came up to his mother, and kissed her. He had been to
East Lynne. Mrs. Hare took his hand and fondly held it. The
change in her was wonderful : she was a young and happy woman
again.
" Barbara has decided to go to the seaside, mother. Mr. Carlyle
takes her on Monday.”
“ I am glad, my dear. It will be sure to do her good. Richard”
bending over to her husband, but still retaining her son's hand-
“ Barbara has agreed to go to the seaside. It will set her up."
“Ay, ay,” nodded the justice, “set her up. Seaside ? Can't we go?”.
“ Certainly, dear, if you wish it, when you shall be a little stronger.” .


IT WON'T DO, AFY.
457
“Ay, ay,” nodded the justice again. It was his usual answer now.
“ Stronger. Where's Barbara ? "
“She goes on Monday, sir,” said Richard, likewise bending his head.
“ Only for a fortnight. But they talk of going again later in the
autumn.”
“ Can't I go too ?” repeated the justice, looking pleadingly in
Richard's face.
“You shall, dear father. Who knows but a month or two's bracing
will bring you quite round again ? We might all go together, ourselves
and the Carlyles. Anne comes to stay with us next week, you know,
and we might go when her visit is over."
“Ay, all go together. Anne coming ?”.
“ Have you forgotten, dear Richard? She comes to stay a month
with us, with her husband and children. I am so pleased she will
find you better,” added Mrs. Hare, her gentle eyes filling. “Mr.
Wainwright says you may go out for a drive to-morrow.”
“And I'll be coachman," laughed Richard. “It will be the old
times come round again. Do you remember, father, my breaking the
pole one moonlight night, and your not letting me drive for six months
afterwards ?”
The poor justice laughed in answer to Richard, laughed till the tears
ran down his face, probably not knowing in the least what he was
laughing at.
“Richard,” said Mrs. Hare to her son, almost in an apprehensive
tone, her hand pressing his, nervously: "was that not Afy Hallijohn I
saw you speaking with at the gate ? "
“Did you see her? What a spectacle she had made of herself! I
wonder she is not ashamed to go through the streets in such a guise !
Indeed, I wonder she shows herself at all.”
“Richard, you-you-will not be drawn in again ?" were the next
whispered words.
“Mother !” There was a sternness in his mild blue eyes as he cast
them upon his mother. Those beautiful eyes ! the very counterpart
of Barbara's ; both his and hers the counterpart of Mrs. Hare's. The
look had been sufficient refutation without words.
“Mother mine, I am going to belong to you in future, and to no one
else. West Lynne is already busy for me, I understand, pleasantly
carving out my destiny. One, marvels whether I shall lose myself
again with Miss Afy; another, that I shall set on, off-hand, and pay
court to Louisa Dobede. They are all wrong: my place will be with
my darling mother-at least, for several years to come.”
She clasped his hand to her bosom in her glad delight.
“We want happinesss together, mother, to enable us to forget the
past : for upon none did the blow fall as upon you and upon me. And
happiness we shall find, in this our own home, living for each other,
and striving to amuse my poor father.”
“Ay, ay," complacently put in Justice Hare.
So it would be. Richard had returned to his home, had become, to
all intents and purposes, its master : for the justice would never be in
a condition to hold sway again. He had reassumed his position : had
regained the favour of West Lynne, which, always in extremes, was


458
EAST LYNNE.
now wanting to kill him with kindness. A happy, happy home, from
henceforth : and Mrs. Hare lifted up her full heart in thankfulness to
God. Perhaps Richard's went up also.
One word touching that wretched prisoner in the condemned cell at
Lynneborough. As you may have anticipated, the extreme sentence
was not carried out. And little favourite as Sir Francis is with you
and with me we can but admit that justice did not demand that it
should be. That he had wilfully killed Hallijohn, was certain ; but
the act was committed in a moment of wild rage : it had not been pre-
meditated. The sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life.
A far more disgraceful one in the estimation of Sir Francis: a far
more unwelcome one in the eyes of his wife. It is of no use to mince
the truth. One little grain of comfort had penetrated to Lady Levison :
the anticipation of the time when she and her ill-fated child should be
alone, and could hide themselves in some hidden nook of the wide
world : he, and his crime, and his end gone; forgotten. But it seemed
he was not to go, and be forgotten : she and the boy must be tied to
him still : and she was lost in horror and rebellion.
That man envied the dead Hallijohn, as he looked forth on the
future. A cheering prospect, truly ? The gay Sir Francis Levison
working in chains with his gang! Where would his diamonds and his
perfumed handkerchiefs and his white hands be then? After a time
he might obtain a ticket of leave. He groaned in agony as the turnkey
suggested it to him! A ticket of leave for him! Oh, why did they
not hang him ? he wailed forth as he closed his eyes to the dim light:
to the light of the cell, you understand : he could not close them to
the light of the future. No; never again : it shone out all too plainly,
dazzling his brain as with flames of living fire.
CHAPTER XXIII.
UNTIL ETERNITY.
BARBARA was at the seaside ; and Lady Isabel was in her bed, dying.
You remember the old French saying, “ L'homme propose, et Dieu
dispose.” An exemplification of it was here.
She, Lady Isabel, had consented to remain at East Lynne during
Mrs. Carlyle's absence, on purpose that she might be with her children.
But the object was frustrated; for Lucy and Archibald had been
removed to Miss Carlyle's. It was Mr. Carlyle's arrangement. He
thought the governess ought to have entire respite from all charge :
and that poor governess dared not say, Let them stay with me. Lady
Isabel had also purposed to be safely away from East Lynne before
the time came for her to die : but that time had advanced with giant
strides, and the period for removal was past. She was going out as
her mother had done, rapidly, unexpectedly. Wilson was in attendance
on her mistress : Joyce remained at home.
Barbara had chosen a watering-place not thirty miles away, so
that Mr. Carlyle went there most evenings, returning to his office in


UNTIL ETERNITY.
. 461
surprise, her tone one of quiet power. “Move away, girl. Joyce, I
think your brain must be softening. What will you try at next ? ”
Joyce was powerless, both in right and strength, and she knew it.
She knew there was no help, that Miss Carlyle would, and must, enter.
She stood aside, shivering, and passed out of the room as soon as Miss
Carlyle was within it.
Ah! there could no longer be concealment now! There she was,
her pale face lying against the pillow, free from its disguising trappings.
The band of grey velvet, the spectacles, the wraps for the throat and
chin, the huge cap, all were gone. It was the face of Lady Isabel :
changed, certainly, very, very much; but still hers. The silvered hair
fell on either side her face, as the silky curls had once fallen; the sweet,
sad eyes were the eyes of yore.
“Mercy be good to us !” uttered Miss Carlyle.
They remained gazing at each other, both panting with emotion : yes,
even Miss Carlyle. Though a wild suspicion had once crossed her
brain that Madame Vine might be Lady Isabel, it had died away
again, from the sheer improbability of the thing, as much as from the
convincing proofs offered by Lord Mount Suvern. Not but that Miss
Carlyle had borne in mind the suspicion, and had been fond of tracing
the likeness in Madame Vine's face.
“How could you dare come back here?” she asked, her tone one of
sad, soft wailing ; not of reproach.
Lady Isabel humbly crossed her attenuated hands upon her chest.
“My children," she whispered : “how could I stay away from them?
Have pity, Miss Carlyle! Don't reproach me! I am on my way to
God, to answer for all my sins and sorrows."
“I do not reproach you,” said Miss Carlyle.
“I am so glad to go," she continued to murmur, her eyes full of
tears. “ Jesus did not come, you know, to save the good, like you :
He came for the sake of us poor sinners. I tried to take up my cross,
as He bade us, and bear it bravely for His sake ; but its weight has
killed me."
The good, like you! Humbly, meekly, deferentially was it ex-
pressed, in all good faith and trust, as though Miss Corny were a sort
of upper angel. Somehow the words grated on Miss Corny's ear :
grated fiercely on her conscience. It came into her mind, then, as
she stood there, that the harsh religion she had through life, professed,
was not the religion that would best bring peace to her dying bed.
“Child,” said she, drawing near to and leaning over Lady Isabel,
“had I anything to do with sending you from East Lynne?"
Lady Isabel shook her head and cast down her gaze, as she whis-
pered : “You did not send me : you did not help to send me. I was
not very happy with you, but that was not the cause of-of my going
away. Forgive me, Miss Carlyle, forgive me !"
“Thank God ! ” inwardly breathed Miss Corny. “Forgive me," she
said, aloud and in agitation, touching her hand. “I could have made
your home happier, and I wish I had done so. I have wished it ever
since you left it.”
Lady Isabel drew the hands in hers. “I want to see Archibald,"
she whispered, going back, in thought, to the old time and the old


462
EAST LYNNE.
2
0
0
0
name. “I have prayed Joyce to bring him to me, and she will not.
Only for a minute ! just to hear him say he forgives me! What can
it matter, now that I am as one lost to this world ? I should die
easier.”
Upon what impulse, or grounds, Miss Carlyle saw fit to accede to
the request, cannot be told. Possibly she did not choose to refuse a
death-bed prayer, possibly she reasoned as did Lady Isabel—what
could it matter? She went to the door. Joyce was in the corridor,
leaning against the wall, her apron up to her eyes. Miss Carlyle
beckoned to her.
“ How long have you known of this ? "
“Since that night in the spring, when there was an alarm of fire. I
saw her then, with nothing on her face, and knew her; though, at
the first moment, I thought it was her ghost. Ma'am, I have just
gone about since, like a ghost myself, from the fear.”
“ Go and request your master to come up to me.”
“Oh, ma'am! Will it be well to tell him ? ” remonstrated Joyce.
“ Well that he should see her?”
“Go and request your master to come to me," unequivocally repeated
Miss Carlyle. “ Are you mistress, Joyce, or am I?"
Joyce went down, and brought Mr. Carlyle up from the dinner-table.
“Is Madame Vine worse, Cornelia ? Will she see me?"
“ She wishes to see you."
Miss Carlyle opened the door as she spoke. He motioned to her to
pass in first.“ No,” she said, “ you had better see her alone.”
He was going in, when Joyce caught his arm.“ Master ! master!
you ought to be prepared. Ma'am, won't you tell him ?”
He looked at them, thinking they must be moon-struck, for their
conduct seemed inexplicable. Both were in evident agitation; an
emotion Miss Carlyle was not given to. Her face and lips were
twitching, but she kept a studied silence. Mr. Carlyle knitted his
brow, and went into the chamber. They shut him in.
He walked gently at once to the bed, in his straightforward manner.
“I am grieved, Madame Vine-
The words faltered on his tongue. Did he think, as Joyce had
once done, that it was a ghost he saw ? Certain it is, that his face
and lips turned the hue of death, and he backed a few steps from the
bed : though he was as little given to show emotion as man can well
be. The falling hair, the sweet, mournful eyes, the hectic which his
presence brought to her cheeks, told too plainly of the Lady Isabel,
“ Archibald ! ”
She put out her trembling hand. She caught him ere he had drawn
quite beyond her reach. He looked at her, he looked round the room,
as does one awaking from a dream.
“I could not die without your forgiveness," she murmured, her eyes
falling before him as she thought of her past sin. “Do not turn from
me! bear with me a little minute! Only say you forgive me, and I
shall die in peace.”
“ Isabel ! Are you—are you—were you Madame Vine?” he cried,
scarcely conscious of what he said.
“Oh, forgive, forgive me! I did not die. I recovered from that


464
EAST LYNNE.
Ay. He did remember it. He took that poor hand into his, retain-
ing there its wasted fingers.
“ Have you any reproach to cast to me?” he gently said, bending his
head a little.
“Reproach to you! To you who must be almost without reproach
in the sight of Heaven ! you, who were ever loving to me, ever anxious
for my welfare! When I think of what you were, and are, and how I
requited you, I could sink into the earth with remorse and shame. My
own sin I have surely expiated : I cannot expiate the shame I entailed
upon you and upon our children.”
Never. He felt it as keenly now, as he had felt it then.
“Think what it has been for me!” she resumed ; and he was obliged
to bend his ear to catch her gradually weakening tones. “To live in
this house with your wife; to see your love for her ; to watch the
envied caresses that once were mine! I never loved you so passion-
ately as I have done since I lost you. Think what it was to watch
William's decaying strength; to be alone with you in his dying hour,
and not be able to say, He is my child as well as yours! When he
lay dead, and the news went forth to the household, it was her petty
grief you soothed; not mine ; mine, his mother's. God alone knows
how I have lived through it all : it has been to me as the bitterness
of death.”
“Why did you come back?" was the response of Mr. Carlyle.
“I have told you. I could not live, away from you and my children.”
" It was wrong. Wrong in all ways."
“Wickedly wrong. You cannot think worse of it than I have done.
But the consequences and the punishment would be mine alone, so
long as I guarded against discovery. I never thought to remain here
to die : but death seems to have come upon me with a leap, as it came
to my mother.”
A pause of laboured breathing. Mr. Carlyle did not interrupt it.
“ All wrong, all wrong," she resumed : “this interview, with you,
amongst the rest. And yet-I hardly know : it cannot hurt the new
ties you have formed, for I am as one dead now to this world, hovering
on the brink of the next. But you were my husband, Archibald ; and,
the last few days, I have longed for your forgiveness with a fevered
longing. Oh, that the past could be blotted out! that I could wake up
and find it all a hideous dream ; that I were here, as in the old days,
in health and happiness, your ever-loving wife! Do you wish it ?-that
the dark past had never had place ?"
She put the question in a sharp, eager tone, gazing up to him with
an anxious gaze, as though the answer must be one of life or death.
“For your sake I wish it.” Calm enough were the words spoken;
and her eyes fell again, and a deep sigh came forth.
“I am going to William. But Lucy and Archibald will be left. Oh,
be ever kind to them! I pray you, visit not their mother's sin upon
their heads! do not, in your love for your later children, lose your love
for them!”
“Have you seen anything in my conduct that could give rise to fears
of this?” he returned, reproach mingling in his sad tone. “The children
are dear to me as you once were.”


1. M. v.
471
it was, and I have tried earnestly to subdue it. I have indeed, and I
think it is nearly gone. I”-her voice sank lower—“constantly pray
to be helped to do it; to love them and care for them as if they were
my own. It will come with time.”
"Every good thing will come with time that we earnestly seek,” said
Mr. Carlyle. “Oh, Barbara, never forget-never forget that the only
way to ensure peace in the end, is to strive always to be doing right,
unselfishly, under God.”
THE END
ONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS


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