East Ltnne 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. HENRY WOO J' 
 
 Chicago 
 W. B. CONKEY COMPANY 
 
FAMOUS FICTION 
 
 IN UNIFORM STYLE 
 
 JANE EYRE, by Charlotte Bronte 
 JOHN HALIFAX, by Mrs. Craik 
 LORNA DOONE. by R. D. Blackmor 
 EAST LYNNE, by Mrs. Wood 
 FIRST VIOLIN, by Jessie Fothergill 
 SCARLET LETTER, by Nathaniel Hawthorne 
 CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, by R. M. Roche 
 THADDEUS OF WARSAW, by Jane Porter 
 SCOTTISH CHIEFS, by Jane Porter 
 
 CHICAGO 
 W. B. CONKEY COMPANY 
 
EAST LTNNE 
 
 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 gray, the smoothness of his 
 expansive brow was defaced by premature wrinkles, 
 and his once attractive face bore the pale, unmistak- 
 able look of dissipation. One of his feet was cased in 
 folds of linen, as it rested on the 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 v/as 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 in 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 spendthrifts, for the gamester 
 above all gamesters, and for a gay man outstripping 
 the gay — by these characteristics did the world know 
 Lord Mount Severn. It was said his faults were those 
 of his head; that a better heart or a 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 steadv 
 had kept his terms in the Temple, and studied ;aic 
 
 m6017{;9 
 
4 EAST LYNNE 
 
 and early. The sober application of William Vane 
 had been a by- word with the embryo barristers around; 
 Judge Vane, they ironically called him, and the) 
 strove ineffectually to allure him away to idleness and 
 pleasure. But young Vane v/as ambitious, and he 
 knew that on his own talents and exertions must 
 depend his own rising in the world. He was of excel- 
 lent family, but poor, counting a relative in the old 
 Earl of Mount Severn. The possibility of his succeed- 
 ing to the earldom never occuired to him, for three 
 healthy lives, two of them young, stood between him 
 and the title. Yet those have died off, one of apo- 
 plexy, 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 be able to 
 spend the money ; that such a sum, year by year, could 
 not be spent. It was a v/onder his head was not turned 
 by adulation at the onset, for he was courted, flattered 
 and caressed by all classes, from a royal duke down- 
 ward. He becam.e the most attractive man of his day, 
 the lion in society; for, independent of his newiy- 
 acquired wealth and title, he was of distinguished 
 appearance and fascinating manners. But unfor- 
 tunately, the prudence which had sustained William 
 Vane, the poor law student, in his solitary Temple 
 chambers, entirely forsook William Vane, the young 
 Earl of Mount Severn, and he commenced his career 
 on a scale of speed so great, that all staid people said 
 he Vv^as 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 overwhehned him. But the embar- 
 rassments which had clung to him, and been the 
 destruction of his tranquillity, the bane of his exist- 
 ence, who shall describe them? The public knew them 
 pretty wen,his private ^'riends knev/ better,his creditors 
 
EAST LYMNK 5 
 
 best ; but none, save himself, knew, or could ever know, 
 the worrying torment that was his portion, well nii^li 
 Iriving him to distraction. Years ago, b}- dint of look- 
 ing things steadily in the face, and by economizing, 
 he might have retrieved his position; but he had done 
 what most people 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 
 advancing fast. 
 
 Perhaps the earl himself was thinking so, as he sat 
 there before an enormous mass of papers which 
 strewed the library table. His thoughts were back in 
 the past. That was a foolish match of his, that 
 Gretna Green match for love, foolish so far as pru- 
 dence went; but the countess had been an affectionate 
 wife to him, had borne with his follies and his neglect, 
 had been an adm^irable mother to their only child. 
 One child alone had been theirs, and in her thirteenth 
 year the countess had died. If they had but been 
 blessed with a son — the earl groaned over the long 
 continued disappointment still — he might 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?" cried the earl, sharply, not perceiving the 
 card the man was bringing. No unknown person, 
 although wearing the externals of a foreign ambassa- 
 dor, was ever admitted unceremoniously to the pres- 
 ence of Lord Mount Severn. Years of duns had taught 
 the 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 had an awful twinge, "what does 
 he want.? Show him up." The servant did as he 
 was bid, and introduced Mr. Carlyle. Look at the 
 visitor well, reader, for he will play his part in this 
 
6 EAST LYNNE 
 
 history. 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 pos- 
 sessed 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 and his full eyelids drooped over his deep gray 
 eyes. Altogether it was a countenance that both men 
 and women liked to look upon — the index of an honor- 
 able, sincere nature — not that it would have been 
 called a handsome face, so much as a pleasing and dis- 
 tinguished one. Though but the son of a country 
 lawyer, and destined to be a lawyer himself, he had 
 received the training of a gentleman, had been edu- 
 cated at Rugby, and taken his degree at Oxford., He 
 advanced at once to the earl, in the straightforward 
 way of a man of business — of a man who has 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 can- 
 not rise, at least without great pain and inconvenience 
 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 rumor came to my ears, my 
 lord, that East Lynne was in the market. If so, I 
 should wish to be the purchaser. What does your 
 lordship expect for it — at a rough estimate?" 
 
 "For particulars I must refer you to my men of 
 business, Warburton & Ware. Not less than seventv 
 thousand pounds." 
 
EAST LYNNE 7 
 
 '^Toomuch, my lord," cried Mr. Carlyle, decisively 
 '^\nd that's not its value," returned the earl. "These 
 forced sales never do fetch their value," answered the 
 plain-speaking lawyer. "Until this hint was given me 
 by Beauchamp, 1 had thought East Lynne was settled 
 upon your lordship's daughter." 
 
 "There's nothing settled on her," rejoined the carl, 
 the contraction on his brow standing out more plainly! 
 "That comes of your thoughtless runaway marriages. 
 I fell in love with General Conway's daughter, and 
 she went away with me, like a fool; that is, we were 
 both 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 consump- 
 tion, but it was more like a wasting insensibly away, 
 and consumption never had 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. ^ly wife had possessed no 
 fortune; I was already deep in my career of extrava- 
 gance, and 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." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle bowed. 
 
8 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "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 seri- 
 ous 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, save for the mad act she was persuaded into by 
 me, was all goodness and refinement) for the first 
 twelve years of her life, and since then by an admir- 
 able 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 con- 
 founded public got an inkling of the transfer. In the 
 eyes of the world, the proprietor of East Lynne must 
 be Lord Severn — at least for some little time after- 
 ward. 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 & Ware the first thing in the 
 morning and confer v/ith 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 — a plain, 
 gentlemanly, morning attire, but certainly not a din- 
 ner 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 
 
EAST LYNNE ,, 
 
 not, we will have it by ourselves here. Oblige me by 
 touching the bell, Mr. Carlyle." 
 
 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. " 
 
 ^"Very well. Mr. Carlyle remains." At seven 
 o'clock the dinner was announced, and the carl 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 that is rarely seen, save from the imag- 
 ination of a painter, dark shining 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 h:)nt- 
 stool. And the young lady and ]Mr. Carlyle opposite 
 each other. Mr. Carlyle had not deemed himself a 
 particular admirer of woman's beauty, but the extraor- 
 dinary loveliness of the young girl before him nearly 
 took away his senses and his self-possession. Yet it 
 was not so much the perfect contour of the exquisite 
 features that struck him, the rich damask of the deli- 
 cate 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. lie could not 
 keep 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 adm:': 
 Never does this unconsciously mournful exj)rc 
 exist but it is a sure index of sorrow and suffcr::ig; 
 
10 EAST LYNNE 
 
 but Mn 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 half-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 the young 
 ladies in this fashionable v/orld of ours turn night into 
 day, it is a bad thing for their roses. What do you 
 say,' Mr. Carlyle?" 
 
 Mr Carlyle glanced at the roses on the cheeks oppo- 
 site to him ; they looked too fresh and bright to fade 
 lightly. At the conclusion of dinner a maid entered 
 the room v/ith a white cashmere mantle, placing it 
 over the shoulders of her young lady, as she said the 
 carriage was waiting. . ^ ^ n. 
 
 Lady Isabel advanced to the earl. Good-by, papa. 
 
 '*Good-night, my love," he answered, drawing her 
 toward him, and kissing her sweet face. "Tell Mrs. 
 Vane I will not have you kept out till morning hours. 
 You are but a child yet. Mr. Carlyle, will you ring? 
 I am debarred from seeing my daughter to the 
 
 carriage." .. ^ -, t i i -n 
 
 "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 car- 
 riage," was the somewhat confused answer of Mr. 
 Carlyle as he touched the bell. 
 
 The earl thanked him, and the young lady smiled, 
 and Mr. Carlyle conducted her down the broad, lighted 
 staircase, and stood bareheaded by the door of the lux- 
 urious 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. "Handsome is not 
 
EAST LYNNE U 
 
 the word for beauty such as hers," was Mr. Carlyle's 
 reply, in a low, warm tone. "I never saw a face half 
 so beautiful." 
 
 "She caused quite a sensation at the drawin^^-room. 
 last week— as I hear. This everlasting gout kept m 
 indoors all day. And she is as good as slie is beaut; 
 ful. " Could the fate that was to overtake this chil 
 have been foreseen by the earl, he would have stru. 
 her down to death, in his love, as she stood be:oi\ 
 him, rather than suffer her to enter upon it. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE BROKEN CROSS 
 
 Lady Isabel's carriage continued its way, and depos- 
 ited her at the residence of Mrs. Levison. Mrs. Lc\ ; 
 son was nearly eighty years of age, and very severe :; 
 speech and manner, or, as Mrs. Vane expressed r. 
 * 'crabbed. " She looked the image of impatience when 
 Isabel entered, with her cap pushed all awry, and 
 pulling 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 te.. 
 Emma, order it in." 
 
 At that moment a young and elegant man lounge 
 into the room. He was deemed handsome, with h: 
 clearly-cut features, his dark eyes, his raven hair, an 
 his white teeth; but to a keen observer those foatun 
 had not an attractive expression, and the dark eyes/ 
 had a great knack of looking away while he spoke to 
 you. It was Francis, Captain Levison. 
 
12 EAST LYNNE 
 
 He was grandson to the old lady, and first cousin 
 to Mrs. Vane. Few men were so fascinating in man- 
 ners (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 honored him; for, 
 though he was a graceless spendthrift, and it was 
 known that he was, he was the presumptive heir 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 way 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 vv^ere to exercise so powerful an 
 influence over her future life! 
 
 When they adjourned to the ball-room it was to 
 Isabel as an enchanting scene of dreamland, for her 
 heart was in its spring- tide of early freshness, and the 
 satiety of experience had not come. 
 
 "Halloo!" cried an Oxford student, with a long 
 rent-roll in prospective, who was screwing himself 
 against the wall, not to be in the way of the waltz- 
 ers, "I thought you had given up coming to these 
 places?" 
 
 "So I had, " replied the fast nobleman addressed, 
 the son of a marquis. "But I am on the lookout, so 
 am forced into them again. I think a ball-room the 
 greatest bore in life." 
 
 "On the lookout 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, till I reform. As a prelimi- 
 nary step toward it, he insists upon a wife, and I am 
 trying to choose one, for I am deeper in debt than you 
 imagine." 
 
 "Take the new beauty, then." 
 
EAST LYNNE 
 
 **Who is she?" 
 
 *'Lady Isabel Vane." 
 
 "Much obliged for the suggestion," replied the earl. 
 "But one likes a respectable father-in-hiw, and Mount 
 Severn is going to smash. He 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, make' up 
 to her. He fancies he can carry all before him, where 
 women are concerned." 
 
 "So he does, often," was his quiet reply. 
 
 "I hate the fellow! He thinks so much of iumscii, 
 with his curled hair and shining white teeth; and he's 
 as heartless as an owl. What was that hushed-up 
 business about ^liss 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." 
 
 "And she went abroad and died; and Levison — licre 
 he comes! And Mount Severn's daughter with him." 
 They were approaching at that moment, Francis Levi- 
 son 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 atoned 
 for," whispered he; "that the heartfelt homage of my 
 whole life would not be sufFicient compens^ition. " 
 
 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 gazing upon her with 
 the deepest tenderness — a language hers had never yet 
 encountered. A vivid blush again ro.se to her check, 
 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 fair." 
 
 "I think he is a rascal," remarked the earl. 
 
 "I know he is; I know a thing or two about him. 
 He wonld ruin her heart for the renown of the exploit. 
 
14 EAST LYNNE 
 
 because she's a beauty, and then fling it away broken. 
 He has none to give in return for the gift." 
 
 "Just as much as my new race-horse has, " concluded 
 the earl. '*She is very beautiful." 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 BARBARA HARE 
 
 West Lynne was a town of some importance, partic- 
 ularly in its own eyes, though, being neither a manu- 
 facturing one nor a cathedral one, nor even the chief 
 town of the county, it was somewhat primitive in its 
 manners and customs. Passing out at the town, toward 
 the east, you come upon several detached gentlemen's 
 houses, in the vicinity of which stood the church of 
 St. Jude, which was more aristocratic (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. 
 
 Between the gentleman's house mentioned and East 
 Lynne, the mile of road was very solitary, being much 
 overshadowed with trees. One house stood there, and 
 that was three-quarters of a mile before you came to 
 East Lynne. It was on the left side, a square, ugly, 
 red brick house with a weather-cock on the top, stand- 
 ing some little distance from the road. This place 
 was called the Grove, and was the property and resi- 
 dence of Richard Hare, Esq. , commonly called Mr. 
 Justice Hare. 
 
 Justice and Mrs. Hare had three children, a son and 
 two daughters. Annie was the elder of the girls, and 
 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 
 
EAST LYXNE 13 
 
 May, a few days subsequent to that which had wit- 
 nessed the visit of Mr. Carlyle to the Earl of Mount 
 Severn, sat Mrs. Hare, a pale, delicate woman, buried 
 in shawls and cushions; 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 so thirsty," said Mrs. Marc. "If 
 seven o'clock would but 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 
 brought in, although the customary 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; 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 chil- 
 dren, Barbara alone had inherited his will. 
 
 "Here comes papa," said Barbara presently. "Oh, 
 I am so glad," cried poor Mrs. Hare. "Perhaps he 
 will not mind having the tea in at once, if I tell him how 
 thirsty I am. " 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," spoke up Mrs. Hare, from between her 
 shawls, the instant he opened the door. 
 
 ^*Well?" 
 
16 EAST LYNNE 
 
 **Woulcl you please let me have the 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 don't know how to speak. " 
 
 "Oh, it's near seven; you won't have long to wait." 
 
 With this exceedingly gracious answer to an inva- 
 lid'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 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, Bar- 
 bara. ' ' The tea was made and partaken of, and the 
 justice departed for Mr. Beaucham.p's, Squire Pinner 
 calling for him at the gate. Mr. Beauchamp was a 
 gentleman who farmed a great deal of land, and who 
 was also Lord Mount Severn's agent, or steward for 
 East Lynjie. He lived higher up the road, some little 
 distance beyond East Lynne. 
 
 '*When will he come home?" murmured Barbara, 
 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 ! Corney said he was 
 only gone for a day. ' ' 
 
 The faint echo of footsteps in the distance stole upon 
 her ear, and Barbara drew a little back, and hid her- 
 self under the shelter of the trees, not choosing to be 
 seen by any stray passer-by. But, as they drew near, 
 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 uncon- 
 scious, was advancing rapidly toward her from, the 
 
EAST LYNNE 17 
 
 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 v/hich 
 guided itj the footsteps seemed to pass, and not to 
 have turned at all toward it. Barbara's heart sank, 
 and she stole to the gate again, and looked out with a 
 yearning look. 
 
 Yes, sure enough, he was striding on, not thinking 
 of her, not coming to her, and she, in the disappoint- 
 ment 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 got 
 beyond its time, having drawled 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 have 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. Carlylo bent his head in deliberation. 
 "Then I think it is of little use my going on," said he, 
 "for my business with Beauchamp is private. I must 
 defer it until to-morrow. 
 
 He took the ^rate out. of her hand, closed it, and 
 
18 EAST LYNNE 
 
 plax:ed the hand withio his own arm, to walk with her 
 to the house. It was done in a matter-of-fact, real 
 sort of way; nothing of romance or sentiment hallowed 
 it, but Barbara Hare felt that she was in Eden. 
 
 'Tve brought something for you," he said, as he 
 proceeded to search his pockets. Every pocket was 
 visited, apparently in vain. 
 
 '* Barbara, I think it is gone. I must have lost it 
 somehow." But, upon a second search, he came upon 
 something in the pocket of his coat-tail. "Here it is, 
 I believe; what brought it there?" He opened a small 
 box, and taking out a long, gold chain, threw it 
 around her neck. A locket was attached to it. The 
 crimson went and came on her cheeks; her heart beat 
 more rapidly. She could not speak a word of thanks. 
 
 '*What a beautiful chain!" muttered 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. "You see the 
 London shopman brought forth some lockets, and 
 enlarged upon their convenience for holding deceased 
 relatives' hair, not to speak of sweethearts, until I told 
 him he might attach one. 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 me one day when she was turning- 
 out her desk, and said it was a curl taken 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 poignant 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 it; but there lies the source of all 
 my misery, mental and bodily. Oh, Richard! 
 Richard!** 
 
EAST LYNNE i9 
 
 There was a distressing pause, for the topic admitted 
 of neither hope nor consolation. **Put your chain on 
 again, Barbara," Mr. Carlyle said, after a while, "and 
 I wish you health to wear it out. Health and refor- 
 mation, young lady!" 
 
 Barbara smiled and glanced at him with her pretty 
 blue eyes, so full of love. When he rose to go, Bar- 
 bara accompanied him to the gate. "I think your 
 mother looks unusually ill," said Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 "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 that it is a 
 warning that something bad is going to happen, and 
 she has been in the most unhappy, feverish state pos- 
 sible all day. Papa has been quite angry over 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." 
 
 "It related to— the " 
 
 Mr. Carlyle stopped, and Barbara glanced round 
 with a shudder, and drew closer to him as she whis- 
 pered. 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 was standing over him, as he lay on the floor, 
 just as he did lay 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 dis- 
 turb her peace by day," remonstrated Mr. Carlyle. 
 "It is not to be wondered at that she dreams of the 
 murder, because she is always dwelling upon it; but 
 she should strive and throw the feeling from her with 
 the night." 
 
 "You know what mamma is. Of course she ought 
 to do so, but she does not. Papa wonders what makes 
 
20 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Her get up so ill and trembling of a morning; and 
 mamma has to make all sorts of evasive 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 
 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 some way, and he haunts her 
 dreams." 
 
 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; "my tongue 
 seemed tied. Do not deem me ungrateful." 
 
 ' ' You foolish girl ! it is not worth any thanks. There ! 
 now I am paid. Good-night, Barbara." 
 
 He had bent down and kissed her cheek, swung 
 through the gate, laughing, and strode awa}^ "Don't 
 say I never gave 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 indoors, 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 get to 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 gave you any- 
 thing,' " she murmured; "did he allude to the chain 
 
EAST LYNNE 21 
 
 or to 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 Hare family. 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 them 
 to be much together. Archibald, the child of the sec- 
 ond Mrs. Carlyle, had alternately teased and petted 
 Anne and Barbara Hare, boy fashion. Sometimes he 
 quarreled with the pretty little girls, sometimes he 
 caressed them, as he would have done had the}^ been 
 his sisters; and he made no scruple of declaring pub- 
 licly to the pair that Anne was his favorite. A gentle, 
 yielding girl she was, like her mother ; whereas Bar- 
 bara displayed her own will, and it sometimes clashed 
 with young Carlyle 's. 
 
 Suddenly she started. What was that at the far end 
 of the lawn, just in advance of the shade of the thick 
 trees? Their leaves were not causing the movement, 
 for it was a still night. It had been there some min- 
 utes; it was evidently a human form. What was it? 
 Surely it was making signs to her! 
 
 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 move- 
 ments were imperative, and might not be disregarded. 
 But she possessed more innate courage than falls to 
 the lot of some young ladies. 
 
 * 'Mamma," she said, returning to the parlor and 
 catching up her shawl, while striving to speak without 
 emotion, "I shall just walk down the path, and see if 
 papa is coming," 
 
EAST LYNNE 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 THE MOONLIGHT INTERVIEW 
 
 Cold and still looked the old house in the moon- 
 beams. Never was the moon brighter; it lighted the 
 far-stretching garden, it illuminated even the weather- 
 cock aloft, it shone upon the trees and upon one who 
 stood out from the shadow beckoning in it. ''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 sorrow than of joy, though betraying both. She 
 penetrated the trees, and burst into tears as one in 
 the dress of a farm laborer caught her in his arms. In 
 spite of his smock-frock, and his straw-wisped hat, 
 and his false whiskers, black as Erebus, she knew him 
 for her brother. 
 
 "Oh, Richard! where have you comxC from? What 
 brings you here?" 
 
 "Did you know me, Barbara?" was the rejoinder. 
 
 "How was it likely — in this disguise? A thought 
 crossed my mind that it might be some one from you, 
 and even that made me sick with terror. How could 
 you run such a risk as to come here?" she added, 
 wringing her hands. "If you are discovered, it is 
 certain death; death — upon — you know!" 
 
 "Upon the gibbet," returned Richard Hare. "I 
 do know it, Barbara." 
 
 "Then why risk it? Should mamma see )^ou it will 
 kill her outright," 
 
 "I can't live on as I have been living," he answered, 
 gloomily. "I have been working in London ever 
 since " 
 
 "In London!" interrupted Barbara. 
 
EAST LYNNK 23 
 
 "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 1 can get a little money. Perhaps 
 my mother can let me have it; it is what 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 perhaps 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 get twelve shill- 
 ings a week, and that has to find me in everything." 
 
 "Poor Richard! poor Richard!" she wailed, caress- 
 ing his hand and weeping over it. "Oh, what a mis- 
 erable night's work that was! Our only comfort is, 
 Richard, that you must have committed the deed in 
 madness." 
 
 "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, 
 1 know no more who did it than you. The guessing 
 at it is enough for me; and my guess is as sure and 
 true a one as that the moon is in the heavens. " 
 
 Barbara shivered as she drew close 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 v/ith it. He was after his gins and 
 his snares, that night, though, poacher as he is!" 
 
 "Bethel is no poacher, Richard." 
 
 "Is he not?" returned 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 impu- 
 nity till doomsday for all I care. He and Locksley " 
 
24 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "Richard," interrupted his sister, in a hushed 
 voice, ''mamma entertains one fixed idea, which she 
 cannot put from her. She is certain that Bethel had 
 something to do with the murder." 
 
 "Then she is wrong. Why should she think so?" 
 
 "How the conviction arose at first, I cannot tell 
 you; 1 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 mur- 
 der. In all these dreams Bethel is prominent; and she 
 says she feels an absolute certainty that he was, in 
 some way or other, mixed up in it." 
 
 "Barbara, he was no more mixed up in it than you," 
 
 "And — you say 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 who. I wish I did; I wish I could 
 unearth him. He was a friend of Afy's. " 
 
 Barbara threw back her head 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 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 Rich- 
 ard Hare, the younger. ' Is my father as bitter against 
 me as ever?" 
 
 "(Juite. He never mentions your name, or suffers 
 it to be mentioned; he gave orders to the servants 
 that it never was to be spoken in the house again. 
 Eliza could not, or would not remember, and she per- 
 sisted in calling your room 'Mr. Richard's.' I think 
 the woman did it heedlessly, not maliciously, to pro- 
 voke papa; she was a good servant, and had been with 
 us three years, you know. The first time she trans- 
 
EAST LYNNE 25 
 
 gressed, papa warned her ; the second, he thundered 
 at her as I believe nobody else in the world can thun- 
 der; and the thirds he turned her from the doors, 
 never allowing her to get her bonnet, one of the 
 others carrying her bonnet and shawl 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 it, though you might not turn up for 
 ten years to come. You know his disposition, Rich- 
 ard, and therefore may be sure 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 soci- 
 ety I did elsewhere. Barbara, I must be allowed an 
 interview with my mother. " Barbara Hare reflected 
 before she spoke. "I do not see how it could be man- 
 aged." 
 
 '*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 Beau- 
 champ's." 
 
 "It is hard to have been separated from her eighth 
 een 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 
 
26 EAST LYNNE 
 
 innocent," 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; nobody knew anything of him." 
 
 "Is he a myth?" said 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 circumstances to Archibald Carlyle? If any 
 one can help you, or take measures to establish youi 
 innocence, he can. And you know that he is true as 
 steel." 
 
 "There is no other man living should be trusted 
 with the secret that I am here, except Carlyle. Where 
 is it supposed that I am, Barbara?" 
 
 "Some think that 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." 
 
 "Working in a stable-yard?" 
 
 "1 could do no better. I was not brought up to 
 anything, and I did understand horses. Besides, a 
 man that the police-runners were after could be more 
 safe in obscurity, considering that he was a gentle- 
 man, 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 — those of Justice Hare and 
 Squire Pinner. The latter walked on; the former 
 came in. The brother and sister cowered together, 
 scarcely daring to breathe; you might have heard Bar- 
 bara's heart beating. Mr. Hare closed the gate, and 
 walked on, up the path. 
 
 "I must go, Richard," said Barbara, hastily; "I 
 dare Tiot stay another minute. Be here again to-mor- 
 
EAST LYNNE 27 
 
 row 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 inno- 
 cence. 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 told you the truth. 
 It was Thorn murdered Hallijohn, and I had nothing 
 whatever to do with it." 
 
 Barbara broke out of the trees and flew alonof. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 MR. CARLYLe's office 
 
 In the center of West Lynne stood two houses adjoin- 
 ing 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 country ; Carlyle & 
 Davidson were known as first-class practitioners; no 
 pettifogging lawyers were they. It was Carlyle & 
 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 was born — Archibald; 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 Mammy Corny. Mammy Corny had 
 done her duty by him, that was undoubted; but 
 Mammy 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 done 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, weak of judgment; 
 and the ruling passions of her life were love of Archi- 
 
28 EAST LYNNE 
 
 bald 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 Cor- 
 nelia and Archibald. Archibald was no blood relation 
 to him, but he loved the open-hearted boy better than 
 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 ;^2o,ooo brought to Mr. Carlyle by his second 
 wife had been chiefly instrumental in the accumula- 
 tion of his large fortune. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle was seated in his own private room in 
 his office the morning after his return from town. His 
 confidential clerk and manager stood near him. It 
 was 'Mr. Dill, a little, meek-looking irian with a bald 
 head. He was sitting at his desk this same morning, 
 when the door timidly opened, and the pretty face of 
 Barbara Hare appeared at it, rosy with blushes. 
 
 "Can I see Mr. Carlyle? 1 am here on some private 
 business for mamma, who was not w^ell enough to 
 come herself. It is a little private matter that she 
 does not wish papa to know of." 
 
 "Child," answered the manager, "a law3'er 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 my intrusion," said Barbara, with 
 a forced laugh, to hide her agitation. "I have a 
 strange thing to tell you, but — is it impossible that 
 any one car 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." 
 
 "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 
 
EAST LYNNE 25» 
 
 may imagine my alarm. He has been in London all 
 this while, half -starving, working — I feel ashamed to 
 mention it to you — in a stable-yard. And, oh, Archibald ! 
 he says he is innocent, and that the person who really 
 did it was a man of the name of Thorn. " 
 
 "What Thorn?" asked Mr. Carlyle, suppressing all 
 signs of incredulity. 
 
 "I don't know, a friend of Afy, 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 the 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 may 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 
 nobody 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 Rich- 
 ard. She bade me say that if you will kindly oblige 
 her with the money to-day, she will arrange with you 
 about the 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'm away." 
 
 "Not until evening. Can you manage to see Rich- 
 ard?" 
 
 "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 laborer'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 
 
30 EAST LYNNE 
 
 to advise me ; had I better inform mamma that Richard 
 is here, or not?" 
 
 Mr. Carlyle did not understand, and said so. 
 
 "I declare 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 has sent 
 a messenger to beg for this money. Would it be 
 advisable to acquaint her?" 
 
 "Why should you not? I think you ought to do so. " 
 
 "Then I will; I was fearing the hazard, for she is 
 sure to insist upon seeing him. Richard also wishes 
 for an interview." 
 
 "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 life 
 into her anew." 
 
 As Barbara left the office, 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 
 and the bones, there was majesty in the appearance of 
 ^liss Carlyle. 
 
 "Why — what on earth," began she, "have you been 
 with Archibald for?" 
 
 Barbara Hare, wishing Miss Carlyle over in Asia, 
 stammered out the excuse she had given Mr. Dill. 
 
 "Your mamma sent you on business! I never heard 
 of such a thing. Twice have I been to see Archibald, 
 and twice did Dill answer that he was engaged and 
 must not be interrupted. 1 shall make old Dill explain 
 his meaning for observing a mystery over it to me. " 
 
 "There is no myster}^" answered Barbara, feeling 
 quite sick lest Miss Carlyle should proclaim there was, 
 before the clerks, or 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 went straight to her brother, "I 
 
EAST LYNNE 31 
 
 should like to know what you and Barbara do with a 
 secret between you," she demanded. Mr. Carlyle 
 knew her and her resolute expression well, and he 
 took his course to tell her the truth. 
 
 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 in it? He is 
 hiding two or three miles off, disguised as a laborer, 
 and will be' at the Grove to-night to receive this money. 
 I have invited the justices 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 
 gibbeted for a willful 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." 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 RICHARD HARE, THE YOUNGER 
 
 The bench of justices met by appointment at seven 
 o'clock 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 brother's; though 
 it remained his home, as it had been in his father's 
 
32 EAST LYNNE 
 
 time, the home was among the property bequeathed 
 to Miss Carlyle. 
 
 At eight o'clock a servant entered the room and 
 addressed his master. 
 
 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 I can." 
 
 "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 will not be long." 
 
 He quitted his house, and walked with a rapid step 
 toward 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 men- 
 tioned, 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 vicinit}^ all traces of 
 which, save tradition, had 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 nobody would rent it or live in it. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle opened the gate of the Grove, and 
 glanced at the trees on either side of him, but he 
 neither saw nor heard any signs 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 the most excited state," she whis- 
 pered 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 sis'nal " 
 
EAST LYNNE 33 
 
 3lrs. Hare, feverish and agitated, with a burning 
 spot on her delicate cheeks, stood by the chair, not 
 occupying it. Mr. Carlyle placed a pocketbook 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, 
 t 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 much astir 
 this evening?" 
 
 "Things seemed to have turned out quite kindly," 
 spoke up Barbara. "It happens to be Annie's birth- 
 day, so mamma sent me just now into the kitchen with 
 a cake and a bottle of wine, desiring them to drink 
 liei health. I shut the door and told them to make 
 themselves comfortable; that if we wanted anything 
 we would ring," 
 
 "Then they are safe," observed Mr, Carlyle, "and 
 Richard may come in," 
 
 "I will go and ascertain whether he is come," 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 opposite this window." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle turned to Mrs. Hare. "I shall not bring 
 him in immediately ; for if I am to have an interview 
 with him, it must be got over first, that I may go 
 back home to the justices, and keep Mr. Hare all safe. " 
 
 He proceeded on his way, gained the trees, and 
 plunged into them; and, leaning against one, stood 
 Richard Hare. Apart from his disguise, and the false 
 and fierce black whiskers, he was a blue-eyed, fair, 
 pleasant-looking young man, slight and of middle 
 height, and quite as yielding and gentle as his mother. 
 Brains he certainly had. but they were not sharp ones. 
 
 3 Lynne 
 
^4 £-Abi IwIAiNC 
 
 *'Is my mother coming out to me^" asked Richard, 
 after a /ew interchanged 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 herself 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 1 should 
 get no relief — 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 Hallijohn's. The governor and my mother 
 thought I went after Afy ; perhaps I did, and perhaps 
 I didn't. Hallijohn had asked me to lend him my 
 gun, and that evening, when I went to see Af— when 
 1 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 
 until I was my own master to make 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 sup- 
 pose I meant anything else! I wouldn't have been 
 such a blackguard." 
 
 *'Well, go on, Richard. Did she return your love?" 
 
EAST LYNNE 35 
 
 "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 would think her 
 capricious — telling me I must not come this evening, 
 and I must not come the other; but 1 found out they 
 were the evenings when she was expecting him. We 
 were never there together." 
 
 "You forgot 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 anybody else, I expect, in West Lynne. 
 He took precious good care of that. He lives 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. 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; roam- 
 ing about the woods 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 opposi- 
 tion; and the lie told against me at the inquest. When 
 1 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, that 1 
 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; but it ended in my giving 
 
36 EAST LYNNE 
 
 way. 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 indoors, 
 shutting me out. I did not go away; I had a suspi- 
 cion that she had got Thorn there, though she denied 
 it to me ; and I hid myself in some trees near the house. 
 Again Locksley came in view and saw me there, and 
 called out to know why I was hiding. I shied further 
 off and did not answer him — what were my private 
 movements to him? — and that also told against me at 
 the inquest. Not long afterward — twenty minutes, 
 ])er:iaps — 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 the moment I saw Bethel emerge from 
 the trees, and run in the direction of the cottage. That 
 was the shot that killed Hallijohn." 
 
 Th. re was a pause. Mr. Carlyle looked keenly at 
 Richard Hare in the moonlight. "Very soon, almost 
 in the same minute, as it seemed, some one cam.e 
 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 but 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 afterward heard tne sound of his horse's 
 hoofs galloping away. I wondered what was up that 
 he should look so scared, and scatted away as though 
 the deuce was after him ; I wondered whether he had 
 quarreled with Af5^ 1 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 37 
 
 my gun, just discharged, was thrown near. 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 room, 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 m.aking off, when " 
 
 *'Why did you catch up the gun?" interrupted Mr. 
 Carlyle. 
 
 "Ideas pass through our minds quicker than v/e can 
 speak them, especially in those 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, full in view ; and what possessed me I 
 can't tell, but I did the worst thing I could — flung the 
 gun indoors again, and got away, although Locksley 
 called after me to stop." 
 
 "Nothing told against you so much 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 sav/ him you hesi- 
 tated, as from fear; flung 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 the half-circle where the trees have been cut. Now 
 I knew that Bethel, if he had gone straight in the 
 direction of the cottage, must have met Thorn quit- 
 ting it. 'Did you encounter that hound?' 1 asked 
 him. 'What hound?' returned Bethel. 'That fine fel- 
 low, that Thorn, who comes after Afy,' I answered, 
 for I did not mind mentioning her name in my pas- 
 sion. *I don't know any Thorn,' returned Bethiel, 
 
38 EAST LYNNE 
 
 'and I did not know anybody was after Afy but your- 
 self.' *Did you hear a shot?' I went on. 'Yes, I did/ 
 he replied; 'I suppose it was Locksley, for he's about 
 this evening.' 'And 1 saw you,' I continued, 'just at 
 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- 
 body's about but ourselves and Locksley.' 1 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, 1 was a fool. I thought I'd wait quiet, and 
 see how things turned out; but you don't know all. 
 Three or four hours later I went to the cottage again, 
 and I 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 she 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 stop 
 in hiding for a day or two, till I saw my way clear. 
 It never came near; the coroner's inquest sat, and 
 the verdict floored me over. And Afy — but I won't 
 accuse her — fanned the flame against me by denying 
 that any one had been there that night. 'She had 
 been at home,' she said, 'and had strolled out at the 
 back door, to the path that led from West Lynne, and 
 was lingering there when she heard a shot. Five min- 
 utes afterward 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 com- 
 munication. "Four of you, as I understand it, were 
 in the vicinity of the cottage that night, and from one 
 
EAST LYNNE 3& 
 
 or the 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 was an impossibility. 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., Carl3^1e, 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," said Mr. 
 Carlyle, in his straightforward manner. "The most 
 singular thing is, if you witnessed this Thorn running 
 from the cottage in the manner 5^ou describe, that you 
 did not come forward and denounce him." 
 
 "I didn't do it, because I was a fool, a weak 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 my word have availed 
 that it was Thorn, when there was nobody to corrob- 
 orate it? And the discharged gun mine, was damna- 
 tory proof against me." 
 
 "Another thing strikes me as curious, " cried Mr. 
 Carlyle. "If this man. Thorn, was in the habit of 
 coming to West Lynne, evening after evening, how 
 was it that he never was 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, save 
 that once, but at dusk and dark. It was evident to 
 me at the time that he was striving to do it on the 
 secret. I told Afy so, and that it augured no good for 
 her. You are not attaching credit to what I say, and 
 it is only as I expected; nevertheless, I swear that I 
 have related the facts. As surely as that we — I, 
 
40 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 remained silent, his thoughts full. 
 
 "To what end, else, should I say this?" went on 
 Richard. "It can do me no service; all the assertion 
 I could put forth would not go a jot toward 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 be three or four-and-twenty, tall 
 and slender; an out-and-out aristocrat." 
 
 "And his connections? Where did he live?" 
 
 "I never knew. Afy, in her boasting way, would 
 say he had to come from Swainson, a ten-mile ride." 
 
 "From Swainson?" quickly interrupted Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 "Could it be one of the Thorns of Swainson?" 
 
 "None of the Thorns that I know. He was a totally 
 different sort of 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 jewelry." A half smile flitted 
 over IMr. Carlyle's face. 
 
 "Was it real, Richard?" 
 
 "It was. He would wear diamond shirt studs, 
 diamond rings, diamond 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 ladyon^ the cross,' I answered, 'but never on 
 the squareT^riiofn was not a man to entertain honest 
 intentions to one in the station of Afy Hallijohn; 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 Dutch- 
 men, staid and most respectable. Very unlikely men 
 are they to run into an expedition of that sort." 
 
EAST Li^NNE 41 
 
 *'What expedition?" questioned Richard. "The 
 murder?" 
 
 *'The riding after Afy. Richard, where is Afy?" 
 
 Richard Hare lifted his eyes 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 
 neighborhood gave her credit for having gone after 
 and joined you." 
 
 "No! did they? What a pack of idiots! I have 
 never seen or heard of her, Carlyle, since that unfortu- 
 nate night. If she went after anybody, 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 shiny black hair and whiskers, dark 
 eyes and handsome features. But his vain dandyism 
 spoilt him; would you believe that his handkerchiefs 
 were soaked in scent? They were of the finest cam- 
 bric, silky as a hair, as fine as the one Barbara bought 
 at Lynneborough and gave a guinea for; only hers had 
 a wreath of embroidery around it." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle could ascertain no more particulars, and 
 it was time Richard Vv^ent indoors. 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. 
 
 The magistrates made a good evening of it, Mr. 
 Carlyle entertaining them to supper, mutton chops 
 and bread and cheese. They took up their pipes for 
 another whiff when the meal was over, but Miss Car- 
 lyle 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. AlDOUt 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 
 
42 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 1 estimate age differ- 
 ently, Mr. Archibald. They have no nephew; the old 
 man never had but those two 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 v/hether he had anything to do with 
 the murder. " 
 
 Mr. Dill opened his eyes. "But his flight, Mr. 
 Archibald? And his stopping 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 respected gentlemen, with their wives and 
 babies, would come sneaking after that flyaway 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 rela- 
 tive. " 
 
 "I have repeatedly heard them say that they are 
 alone in the world; that they are the two last of the 
 name. Depend upon it, it was nobody connected with 
 them," and wishing Mr. Carlyle good-night, he 
 departed. 
 
EAST LYNNE 43 
 
 The servant came in to remove the glasses and the 
 obnoxious pipes. Mr. Carlyle sat in a brown study; 
 presently he looked round at the man. 
 
 "Is Joyce gone to bed?" 
 
 "No, sir. She is 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 forehead was broad, her gray 
 eyes were deeply set, and her face was pale. Alto- 
 gether she was plain, but sensible-looking. Shgj^a^ 
 tJie-half-^isleiLi^i-Af y^ Halli j oh n . 
 
 "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, somevv^hat abruptly. ' ' No, sir, ' * was 
 the reply; "I think it would be a wonder if I did hear. " 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "If she could go off with 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 color mantled in Joyce's cheeks, and she 
 dropped her voice. 
 
 "Sir! did you hear of him?" 
 
 "Not at that time. Since. He came from Swain- 
 son, did he not?" 
 
 "I believe so, sir. Afy never would say much about 
 him. We did not agree upon the point. I said a per- 
 son 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 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 sat him and Afy. His white 
 
44 l^AST LYNNE 
 
 hands were all 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 once; and I don't think I 
 should know him if 1 did see him. He got up, sir, as 
 soon as I went into the parlor, shook hands with Afy, 
 and left. A fine, upright man he was, nearly as tall as 
 you are, sir, but very slim. Those soldiers always 
 carry themselves well." 
 
 "How do you know he was a soldier?" quickly 
 rejoined Mr. Carlyle. "Afy told me so. *The captain,' 
 she used to call him ; but she said he was not a captain 
 yet awhile — the next grade to it — a— a " 
 
 "Lieutenant?" suggested Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 "Yes, sir, that was it — Lieutenant Thorn." 
 
 "Joyce," said Mr. Carlyle, "has it never struck you 
 that Afy is more likely to have followed Lieutenant 
 Thorn than Richard Hare?" 
 
 "No, sir," answered Joyce. "I have felt certain 
 always that she is 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 her 
 belief." He dismissed 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 but a quarter of an 
 hour, both dreading interruptions from the servants; 
 and with a hundred pounds in his pocket, and desola- 
 tion at his heart, the ill-fated young man once more 
 quitted his childhood's home. Mrs. Hare and Barbara 
 watched him steal down the path in the tell-tale moon- 
 light, and gain the road, both feeling that those fare- 
 well kisses they had pressed upon his lips would not be 
 renewed for years, and might not be forever. 
 
EAST LYNNE 45 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 EAST LYNNE 'S GUEST 
 
 The church clocks at West Lynae struck eight one 
 lovely morning in July, and then the bells chimed 
 out, giving token that it was Sunday. 
 
 East Lynne had changed owners, and now it was 
 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 
 save those engaged in the negotiations. Whether 
 Lord Mount Severn thought it might prevent any one 
 getting on the scent, or whether he wished to take 
 farewell of a place he had formerly been fond of, cer- 
 tain it is that he craved a week or two's visit to it. 
 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 it indulged hopes that the earl 
 might be intending to confer permanently the light of 
 his presence by taking up his residence again at East 
 Lynne. The toilets prepared to meet his admiring 
 eyes were prodigious, and pretty Barbara Hare was 
 not the only young lady who had thereby to encounter 
 the paternal storm. 
 
 Barbara was to sit in the Carlyle pew that day, for 
 she thought the further she was off the justice the 
 better; there was no knowing but he might take a 
 sly, revengeful cut at the feather in the middle of serv- 
 ice, and so dock its beauty. Scarcely were they 
 seated when some strangers came quietly up the aisle 
 — a gentleman who limped as he walked, with a fur 
 rowed brow and gray hair, and a young lady. Bar 
 bara looked round with eagerness, but looked away 
 again; they could not be the expected slrargers, the 
 
46 EAST LYNNE 
 
 young lady's dress was too plain — a clear-looking 
 muslin dress with some lilac sprigs upon it, and a 
 straw bonnet. Miss Corny might have dressed herself 
 so on a week day, and not have found herself too 
 smart; but it was a pleasant dress for a hot summer's 
 day. But the old beadle, in his many-caped coat, was 
 walking before them sideways with his marshaling 
 baton, and he marshaled them into the East Lynne 
 pew, unoccupied for so many years. 
 
 "Who in the world can they be?" whispered Barbara 
 to Miss Carlyle. "That old stupid is always making 
 a mistake and putting people into the wrong places." 
 
 "The earl and Lady Isabel." 
 
 The color flushed into Barbara's face, and she stared 
 at Miss Corny. "Why, she has no silks and no 
 feathers, and no anything!" cried Barbara. "She's 
 plainer than anybody in the church!" 
 
 "Plainer than any of the fine ones — than you, for 
 instance. The earl is much altered, but I should have 
 known them both anywhere. I should have knov/n 
 her from her likeness to her poor mother — just the 
 same eyes and sweet expression." 
 
 Ay, those brown eyes, so full of sweetness and mel- 
 ancholy; few who had once seen could mistake or for- 
 get 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 deem 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 47 
 
 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 noth- 
 ing 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 is 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, Bar- 
 bara." 
 
 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 astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 "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 hers is!" Barbara 
 made no reply. She returned home with Miss Car- 
 lyle, but her manner was as absent as her heart, and 
 that had nm away to East Lynne. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 MR. Kane's concert 
 
 Before Lord Mount Severn had completed the fort- 
 night of his proposed stay, the gout came on seriously. 
 It was impossible for him to move away from East 
 Lynne. Mr. Carlyle assured him he v/as only too 
 pleased that he should remain as long as might be 
 convenient, and the earl expressed his acknowledg- 
 ments; 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 
 
48 EAST LYNNE 
 
 him unable to leave his rooms; and this continued till 
 October, when he grew mmch better. 
 
 The county families had been neighborly, 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 com.- 
 mon degree, and was disappointed if Mr. Carlyle spent 
 an evening away from him, so that he became, as it 
 were, quite domesticated with the earl and Isabel. 
 
 '•I am not quite 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 kmd," said Isabel. "I like him very 
 much, papa." 
 
 "I don't know anybody that 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 any 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-morrov/?" 
 
 "I should be glad, if it would not be giving you too 
 much trouble. Not that tuning will benefit it greatly, 
 old thing that it is. Were we to be much at East 
 Lynne I should get papa to exchange it for a good 
 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 embarrassment and sorrow, who had long had 
 a sore fight with the world. When he arrived at East 
 Lynne, the following day, dispatched by Mr. Carlyle, 
 Lady Isabel happened 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, 
 
EAST LYNNE 49 
 
 and to prefer a 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 
 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. 
 
 She agreed not only to be present, but to try to get 
 others as well. Next day she was driving to West 
 Lynne, when she overtook Mr. Carlyle. "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. 1 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 to the 
 carriage to drive on. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE SONG AND THE DIRGE 
 
 Lady Isabel went alone to the entertainment, 
 decked out like a beauteous queen. During the con- 
 cert a message came that the earl had grown alarm- 
 ingly worse. She left the hall and hastened home in 
 company with Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 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 that he 
 was quiet and senseless. She moved hastily toward 
 the chamber. Mr. Carlyle drew the housekeeper aside. 
 
 4 Tynne 
 
50 EAST LYNNE 
 
 *'Is there any hope?'* 
 
 "Not the slightest, sir— he is dying." 
 
 The earl knew no one; pain was gone for the pres- 
 ent, 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 — 
 gray; I never saw anybody else look so." 
 
 "He has been in great pain, my lady; and pain 
 leaves its traces on the countenance." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle, who had come, 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 Lynneborough — 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 adorn- 
 ing the young girl watching at his side. They com- 
 prehended the case without difficulty; that she had 
 been suddenly called from some scene of gayety. 
 
 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 had stood back 
 to give them place, but her anxious eyes follov/ed 
 
EAST LYNNE 51 
 
 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 
 suggestion 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," said one of the 
 physicians, in a low tone. Isabel heard the words, 
 and, turning, asked: 
 
 "Is it really necessary that I should leave the room 
 — necessary for him?" 
 
 "It is necessary, my lady — absolutely essential." 
 
 She broke into a passion of tears and sobs as Mr. 
 Carlyle led her to another apartment. "He is my dear 
 father; I have but him in the wide world!" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "I know — I know; I feel for you all that you are 
 feeling. Twenty times this night I have wished — for- 
 give me the thought — that you were my sister, so that 
 I might express my sympathy more freely and com- 
 fort you. ' ' 
 
 "Tell me the truth, then, why I am kept away. If 
 you can show me a sufficient cause, I will be reason- 
 able and obey ; but do not say again I should be dis- 
 turbing him, for it is not true." 
 
 "He is too ill for you to see him — his symptoms are 
 too painful. In fact, it would not be proper; and 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 
 
52 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 sud- 
 den 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 soft pillow. 
 
 "Going forever from me — going forever! Oh, Mr. 
 Carlyle, let me see him for a minute — just one fare- 
 well! Will you not try for me?" He knew how hope- 
 less 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, shrink- 
 ing from his task. "I wish I could comfort you!" he 
 exclaimed, in a tone of deep emotion. 
 
 Her face turned 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 broke from her, telling its own tale of 
 despair. 
 
 The gray dawn of morning was breaking over the 
 world, advent of another bustling day in life's historv; 
 but the spirit of William Vane, Earl of Mount Severn, 
 had soared away from it forever. 
 
EAST LYNNE 63 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 THE KEEPERS OF THE DEAD 
 
 Events between the death of Lord Mount Severn 
 and his interment occurred quickly; and 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, but must be a wild creation of the author's 
 brain. He would be wrong. The author is no more 
 fond of wild creations than the reader. The circum- 
 stance did take place. 
 
 The earl died on Friday morning at daylight. The 
 news spread rapidly — it generally does on the death of 
 a peer, if he has been of note (whether good or bad), 
 in the world — and 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 peer 
 would have called harpies, had arrived, to surround 
 East Lynne. There were creditors of all sorts; for 
 small sums and for great, for five or ten pounds up to 
 five or ten thousand. Some were civil, some impa- 
 tient, some loud and rough and angry; some came to 
 put in executions on the effects, and some — to arrest 
 the body! 
 
 This last act was accomplished cleverly. Two men, 
 each with a remarkable hooked nose, stole away from 
 the hubbub of the clamorous, and peering cunningly 
 about, made their way to the side or tradesman's 
 entrance. A kitchen-maid answered their gentle 
 appeal at the bell. 
 
 ''Is 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 the road. 
 
54 EAST LYNNE 
 
 We'll go up to his lordship's room, please, and be 
 getting ready for it." 
 
 The girl called the butler. "Two men from Jones, 
 the undertaker's, sir," announced she. *'The shell's 
 coming on, and they want to go up and make ready 
 for it." 
 
 The butler marshaled 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 of 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 ! 
 
 The loud talking of a crowd of creditors reached 
 Lady Isabel from the room below. Repressing her 
 rebellious emotions, she glided partly down the stair- 
 case, 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 can't do any good; pray go back before they see 
 you. I have sent for Mr. Carlyle, and expect him here 
 momentarily." 
 
 "Did papa owe them all money?" she said, shivering. 
 "1 am afraid he did, my lady." 
 
 She went swiftly on ; and passing through the fev/ 
 stragglers in the hall, entered the dining-room, where 
 the chief mass had congregated, and the hubbub was 
 loudest. All anger, at least external anger, was 
 hushed at her sight. She looked so young, so innocent, 
 so childlike in her pretty morning dress of peach-col- 
 ored muslin, her fair face shaded by its falling curls, 
 so little fit to combat with, or understand their busi- 
 ness, that instead of pouring forth complaints, they 
 hushed them in silence. 
 
 "I heard some one calling out that 1 ought to see 
 you," she began, her agitation causing the words to 
 come forth in a jerking manner. "What did you want 
 with me?" 
 
EAST LYNNE 65 
 
 "The fact is, young lady," spoke up one, *'we should 
 not have come down troubling you — at least, I can 
 answer for myself — but his lordship's men of business, 
 Warburton & Ware, to whom many of us hastened 
 last evening, told us there would not be a shilling for 
 anybody unless it could be got from the furniture. 
 When it comes to that, it is 'first come, first served,' 
 and I got down by morning light, and levied an execu- 
 tion." 
 
 "Which was levied before you came, ' ' put in another. 
 "But what's such furniture as this to our claims — if 
 you come to combine '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 " 
 
 But another person had entered the room- — Mr. 
 Carlyle. He caught sight of the white face and trem- 
 bling hands of Isabel, and interrupted the last speaker 
 with scant 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 coming here, flocking in in this extraor- 
 dinary manner, will do no good. You must go to 
 Warburton & Ware." 
 
 "We have been to them and received their answer 
 — a cool assurance that there'll be nothing for any- 
 body." 
 
 "At any rate, you'll get nothing here," observed 
 Mr. Carlyle, to the assembly, collectively. "Allow 
 me to request that you leave the house at once." It 
 was little likely that they would for him, and they said 
 it. 
 
 "Then 1 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 
 
56 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Mount Severn's; he sold it some time back." They 
 knew better. Some laughed, and said these tricks 
 were stale. 
 
 "Listen, gentlemen/' rejoined Mr. Carlyle, in the 
 plain, straightforward manner that carried its own 
 truth. "To make an assertion that could be disproved 
 when the earl's affairs came to be investigated, would 
 be simply foolish. I give you my word of honor as a 
 gentleman —nay, as a fellow man — that this estate, 
 with the house and all it contains, passed legally 
 months ago from the hands of Lord Mount Severn; 
 and, during his recent sojourn here he was but a vis- 
 itor in it. Go and ask his men of business." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "1 am he," proceeded Mr. Carlyle; 'and being a 
 'cute lawyer,' as you do me the honor 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." 
 
 "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 \vasn't 
 his!" 
 
 "It may appear so to you; but allow me to explain," 
 returned Mr. Carlyle. "The earl expressed a w^ish to 
 pay East Lynne a few days' visit, by way of farewell, 
 and I acceded. Before the few days were over he was 
 taken ill, and remained, from that time, too ill to quit 
 
EAST LYNNE 67 
 
 it. This very day — this very day, gentlemen, as we 
 stand here — was at length fixed for his departure." 
 
 "I am so grieved, Lady Isabel," he said, as he closed 
 the door upon the noisy crowd. "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 fright- 
 ened and sick. This is not the worst," she shivered. 
 "There are two men up — up — with papa. 
 
 "Up with papa," she repeated. 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, attempting 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. 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 back to the dining-room, "and then 
 join you upstairs." 
 
 "Two ruffians, sir, and they have got possession of 
 the body, " whispered the butler in 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 all our stomachs, sir; Mrs. Mason, while 
 telling me — for she was the first one to know it — was 
 as sick as she could be." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle proceeded to the death chamber, and 
 examined the authority of the custodians of the dead. 
 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. 
 
68 EAST LYNNE 
 
 sitting over Lord Mount Severn, enforced heavy claims; 
 and there they must sit imtil 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 sur- 
 prise, that there was no arrival. Isabel sat in the 
 breakfast room alone, the meal on the table untouched, 
 and she shivering — as it seemed — 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 
 so terrified." 
 
 "Terrified at what?" he asked. 
 
 ' ' At those men, ' ' she whispered. " It is strange that 
 Mr. Vane has not come. ' ' 
 
 "Is the post in?" 
 
 "I don't know," she apathetically replied. "I have 
 received nothing." 
 
 She had scarcely spoken when the butler entered 
 with his silver salver full of letters, most of them bear- 
 ing condolence with Lady Isabel. She singled out 
 one, and hastened to open it, for it bore the Castle 
 Marling post-mark. "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 for Sunday, and as he is pretty punctual in keep- 
 ing 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 
 bouleversce to write more. Try and keep up your 
 spirits, and believe me, dear Isabel, with sincere sym- 
 pathy and regret, faithfully yours, 
 
 "Emma Mount Severn." 
 
EAST LYNNE 69 
 
 The color came to Isabel's pale cheek when ane read 
 the signature. She thought, had she been the writer, 
 she would, in that first, early 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 allowed him, and drew in his lips in 
 a peculiar manner 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 diffi- 
 culties and embarrassments of her position came crowd- 
 ing on her mind. No orders had been given in prep- 
 aration 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? 
 
 "Mr. Carlyle, how long has this house been yours?" 
 she asked, breaking the silence. 
 
 "It was in June that the purchase was completed. 
 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 
 on the breakfast table; "not the plate and linen." 
 
 "Not the plate and linen ! Then these 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 consequence either v/ay. " 
 
 "Are m}^ clothes my own?" 
 
 He smiled as he looked at her, smiled at her simplic- 
 ity, and assured her that they were nobody's else. "I 
 did not know," she replied; "I did not understand. 
 
60 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 defi- 
 nite ideas on the subject of this transfer of East Lynne 
 to Mr. Carlyle; plenty of indefinite 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, perhaps only partial, 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 eligible estate to invest money in, a,nd East 
 Lynne suited me." 
 
 "I feel my position, Mr. Carlyle," she resumed, the 
 rebelliouo tears forcing themselves to her eyes; "thus 
 to be intruding upon you for shelter. And I cannot 
 help myself." 
 
 "You can help grieving me," he gently answered, 
 "which you do much 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, however prolonged that 
 period may be, 1 assure you, I say it in all sincer- 
 ity.- 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "I fear things are not very bright," he answered. 
 "That is, so far as we can see at present. But there 
 may have been some settlement effected for 3^ou that 
 you do not know of. Warburton & Ware " 
 
 "No," she interrupted; "1 never heard of a settle- 
 ment, and I am sure there is none. I see the worst 
 plainly. I have no home — no home and no money. 
 
EAST LYNNE 61 
 
 This house is yours; the town house and Mount 
 Severn go to Mr. Vane; and 1 have nothing." 
 
 "But surely Mr. Vane will be delighted to welcome 
 you to your old home. The houses pass to him — it 
 almost seems as though you had the greater right in 
 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 not make my home with Mrs. Vane." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle rose. He could do no good by remain- 
 ing, 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 will- 
 ing to come, and she was a kind, 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 yes- 
 terday, 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." 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE NEW^ PEER — THE BANK-NOTE 
 
 A post-chaise was discerned thundering up the 
 avenue that Sunday afternoon. It contained the new 
 peer, Lord Mount Severn. The more direct line of rail 
 from Castle Marling brought him only to within five 
 miles of West Lynne, and thence he had traveled 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. 
 
62 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 in contact. As the various items of news 
 were now detailed to him — the wasteful expenditure, 
 the disastrous ruin, the total absence of provision for 
 Isabel — he stood petrified and aghast. He was a tall, 
 stout man, of three-and-forty years, his nature honor- 
 able, 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 vSevern must have been the 
 worst!" 
 
 "Unpardonably improvident as regards his 
 daughter," was the assenting remark. 
 
 "Improvident! 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 
 there 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 housekeep- 
 ing purposes. If the girl wants a yard of ribbon for 
 herself she has not the pence to pay for it! Can you 
 realize such a case to the mind?" continued the excited 
 peer. "I will stake m}^ veracity that such a one never 
 occurred yet." 
 
 "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." 
 
 "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 w^ith me," replied his 
 lordship, "and I should hope, a better one than this. 
 With all these debts and duns at his elbow. Mount 
 Severn's house could not have been a bower of roses. ' ' 
 
 "I fancy she knew nothincr of the state of affairs; 
 
EAST LYNNE 63 
 
 had seen little, if anything, of the circumstances," 
 returned Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 Two mourners only attended the funeral — the earl 
 and Mr. Carlyle. The latter was no relative of the 
 deceased, and but a very recent friend; but the earl 
 had invited him, probably not liking the parading, 
 solus, his trappings of woe. Some of the county aris- 
 tocracy 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 chaise to convey him to the railway station at 
 West Lynne was already at the door when Mr. Carlyle 
 arrived. 
 
 "1 was getting fidgety, fearing you would not be 
 here, for 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," replied the earl. "Mason 
 privately told me that she was in a convulsion of grief. 
 A bad man, a bad man, was Mount Severn," he 
 emphatically 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 serv- 
 ant who answered it. "And while she is coming, Mr. 
 Carlyle," he added, "allow me to express my obliga- 
 tions to you. How I should have got along in this 
 worrying business without you, 1 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 
 neighborhood," 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. 
 
64 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "iviy time is up, Isabel, and I must go. Is there any- 
 thing you wish to say to me?" She opened her lips to 
 speak, but glanced at Mr. Carlyle, and hesitated. He 
 was standing at the window, his back toward them. 
 
 "I suppose not," said the earl, answering himself, 
 for he was in a fever of hurry to be off, like many 
 others are when starting on a journey. "You will 
 have no trouble whatever, my dear; only mind you get 
 some refreshments 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, but will do so from town." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle took her hand to conduct her to the car- 
 riage. The servants were gathered in the hall, wait- 
 ing for her. Some had grown gray in her father's 
 service. She put out her hand, she strove to say a 
 word of thanks and farewell, and she thought she would 
 choke at the effort of keeping dov/n the 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 
 postboys were waiting the signal to start, but Mr. Car- 
 lyle 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 very 
 labored. "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 aeain " 
 
 "Oh, but we shall meet again," she interrupted. 
 "You promised Lord Mount Severn." 
 
 "True, we ma}'' so meet casually — once in a way; 
 but our ordinary paths in life lie far and wide apart. 
 God forever bless you, dear Lady Isabel!" 
 
 The postboys touched their horses, and the carriage 
 sped on. She drew down the blinds, and leaned back 
 in an agony of tears — tears for the house she was leav- 
 ing, for the father she had lost. Her last thoughts had 
 
EAST LYNNE 65 
 
 been of gratitude to Mr. Carlyle ; but she had more 
 cause to be grateful to him than she yet knew of. 
 Emotion soon spent 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. Mechanically 
 she took it up and opened it; it was a bank-note for 
 one hundred pounds. 
 
 Ah, reader! you will say this is a romance of fiction, 
 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 have 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 rose 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, save what 
 would be given her in charity? 
 
 There was an angry scene when the news was con- 
 veyed to Lady Severn that Isabel had gone to Castle 
 Marling as her home. The earl, however, was firm, 
 and she was obliged to give way. 
 
 5 Lynne 
 
66 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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, nearly contiguous 
 to which was their residence, a small estate. Lord 
 Mount Severn welcomed Isabel; Lady Mount Severn 
 also, after a fashion; but her manner was so repellant, 
 so insolently patronizing, that it brought the indignant 
 crimson to the cheeks of Lady 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 the very length 
 of their tether; she would wring her hands when 
 alone, and passionately wish that she could find another 
 refuge. 
 
 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 till May. The 
 earl had passed part of the winter at Mount Severn 
 looking after the repairs and renovations 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 uncon- 
 cealed dismay of Lady Mount Severn, her grand- 
 mother, 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. 
 
EAST LYNNE 67 
 
 what Isabel had worn. On the Monday in Passion 
 Week the old lady arrived, and with her Francis Levi- 
 son. They had no other guests. Things went on 
 pretty smoothly till Good Friday. 
 
 On Good Friday afternoon, Isabel strolled out with 
 little William Vane; Captain Levison joined them, 
 and they never came in till 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. Iler dress was off, her dressino-.o-own on. 
 Marvel was busj' with her hair, and u'illiam chattering 
 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 5^ou so 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 it, they neither know nor care what 
 they say. Lady Mount Severn broke into a torrent 
 of reproach and abuse, most degrading and unjustifi- 
 able. 
 
 "Is it not sufficient that yoi" are allov/ed 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 v/ith him 
 from the moment became; you did nothing else at 
 Christmas. " 
 
 The attack was longer and broader, but that was 
 the substance of it, and Isabel was goaded to resist- 
 ance, to anger little less 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 
 
38 EAST LYNNE 
 
 of Marvel, rose up and confronted the countess, 
 constraining her voice to calmness 
 
 "I do nofflirt," 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 venal in them than 
 in single ones. There is but one inmate of this house 
 who flirts, so far as 1 have seen since I have lived in 
 it; is it you or I, Lady Mount Severn?" 
 
 The home truth told on her ladyship. She turned 
 v/hite with rage, forgot her manners, 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 him- 
 self. The boy — he was of a sensitive nature — was 
 frightened. 
 
 Isabel Vane lay through the livelong night, weeping 
 tears of anguish and indignation. She could not remain 
 at Castle Marling — who would, after so great an out- 
 rage? Yet where was she to go? Fifty times in the 
 course of the night did she wish 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. 
 
 She rose on the Saturday morning weak and languid, 
 the effects of the night of grief, and iMarvel brought 
 her breakfast up. William Vane stole into her room 
 afterward; he was attached to her in a remarkable 
 degree. 
 
 "Mamma is 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. 
 
EAST LYNNE 69 
 
 "We can go down now, Isabel, nobody 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 a1 
 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;^ 
 traveling 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. A very simple occurrence it 
 appeared to Mr. Carlyle, this journey, 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 betraying her pleasure. 
 "This is indeed unexpected, " she exclaimed. "How 
 very pleased 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 replied. "I said we should 
 be sure to meet again; do you remember, Mr. Carlyle? 
 You " 
 
 Isabel suddenly stopped, for with the word "remem- 
 ber" she also remembered something — the hundred 
 pound note — and what she v^ras saying faltered on her 
 tongue. Confused, indeed, grew she; for, alas! she 
 had changed and partly spent it. How was it possible 
 
70 EAST LYNNE 
 
 to 9.sk Lady Mount Severn for money? and the earl 
 was nearly always away. Mr. Carlyle saw her embar- 
 rassment, though he may not have detected 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 contin- 
 ued, gazing at his open countenance. "How old are 
 you, my Uttle man?" 
 
 "I am six, sir; and my brother was four." 
 
 Isabel bent over the child — an excuse to cover her 
 perplexity. "You do not know this gentleman, Wil- 
 liam. 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 Lady 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 I — 
 I " 
 
 "Hush!" he interrupted, laughing at her confusion. 
 "Let's talk of Castle Marling. I trust it is a happy 
 home to you." 
 
 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 can- 
 not remain in it. I have been awake all night, think- 
 ing where I can go, but 1 cannot tell; I have not a 
 friend in the wide world." 
 
 Never let people talk secrets before children, for be 
 assured that they comprehend a vast deal more than 
 is expedient; 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 angfry, " 
 
EAST LYNNE 71 
 
 "Be quiet, William," interrupted Lady Isabel, her 
 face in a flame. 
 
 **Two great slaps upon her cheeks," continued the 
 young viscount; *'and Isabel cried so, and 1 screamed, 
 and then mamma hit me. But boys are made to be 
 hit; nurse says so. 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 of the 
 bell, and marched him to the door, dispatching 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 me; but with Lady Mount 
 Severn I cannot and Vv^U 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, 1 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." 
 
 ' * Not a pleasant home ! ' ' she echoed, its reminiscences 
 appearing delightful in that moment, for it must be 
 remembered that all things are estimated by compar- 
 ison. "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 
 fev\^ months but a hideous dream! — that I could find 
 
72 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 pre- 
 sume, 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 presumption deserves, and pardon me. May 
 I — dare I — offer you to return to East Lynne as its 
 mistress?" She did not comprehend him in the slight- 
 est 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 misunderstandiag him now, and the 
 shock and surprise were great. She had stood there by 
 Mr. Carlyle 's side conversing confidently with him, 
 esteeming him greatly, feeling as if he were her truest 
 friend on earth, clinging to him in her heart as to a 
 powerful 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 pre- 
 sented itself to her in any shape until this moment, 
 and her mind's first emotion was one of entire opposi- 
 tion, her first movement to express it, as she essayed 
 to withdraw herself and her hand away from him. 
 
 But not so; 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, such as somebody else might 
 have given utterance to, but earnest-hearted words of 
 
EAST LYNNE 73 
 
 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 "somebody else," she would have said 
 "Yes," there and then. 
 
 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 demanded an explanation, as plainly as 
 looks can do it. 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 honor 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 to himself, "we have 
 never yet been on terms of extraordinary intimacy. I 
 was begging the Lady Isabel to grant that we might 
 be; I was asking her to become my wife." 
 
 The avowal was a shower of incense to the countess, 
 and her ill-humor melted into sunshine. It was a 
 solution to her great difficulty, a loophole by which 
 she might get rid of her bete 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, because I know that you were 
 cognizant of the unprotected state in which she was 
 left by the earl's improvidence, putting marriage for 
 her, at any rate, a high marriage, nearly out of the 
 
74 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 countess, 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 considera- 
 tion?" 
 
 "I am only too happy that you should accord it con- 
 sideration, for it speaks to me of hope," was the 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 shal- 
 low, palpable aspect of affairs alone presenting itself 
 to her view. That Mr. Carlyle was not of equal rank 
 to her own, she scarcely remembered; East Lynne 
 seemed a very fair settlement in life, and in point of 
 size, beauty and importance it was far superior to the 
 house she was now in. She forgot that her position in 
 East Lynne as Mr. Carlyle's wife would not be what it 
 had been as Lord Mount Severn's daughter; she forgot 
 that she would 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; she experienced 
 pleasure in conversing with him ! she liked to be 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 forever from the bitter dependences 
 on Lady Mount Severn — East Lynne would, in truth, 
 after that seem what she had called it, Eden. 
 
 "So far it looks favorable," mentally exclaimed poor 
 
EAST LYNNE 75 
 
 Isabel J "but there is the other side of the question. It 
 is not only that 1 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 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 she had 
 never been introduced to any one she was so much 
 taken with (and Mrs. Levison was incapable of assert- 
 ing what was not true) ; 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. Car- 
 lyle's approach from her window, and went down to 
 the drawing-room, not in the least knowing what her 
 answer 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 v/ildly; which said beating might have con- 
 vinced 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. 
 So 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." 
 
 "What!" she uttered. 
 
 "Don't start. We are all in the family, and my lady 
 told me; I don't betray it abroad. She says East 
 
76 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Lynne is a place to be coveted. I wish you happiness 
 Isabel." 
 
 "Thank yon," she returned, in a sarcastic tone, 
 though her heart beat and her lips quivered. "You 
 are premature in your congratulations, Captain Levi- 
 son. " 
 
 "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. "1 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, showing 
 in Mr. Carlyle ; nothing false or heartless about him. 
 He closed the door, and approached her, but 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 con- 
 quering her emotion. "But — I was going to tell 
 you " 
 
 "Presently," he whispered, leading her to a sofa; 
 "we can both afford to wait now. Oh, 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 to 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 77 
 
 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 the 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. **1 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 mischief and dreads detec- 
 tion. Always open as to his own affairs, for he had 
 nothing to conceal, he yet deemed it expedient to dis- 
 semble now. He felt that his sister would be bitter at 
 the prospect of his marrying ; instinct had taught him 
 that, years past; 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 
 sympathy nor admiration for the beautiful. He was not 
 sure but she might be capable of endeavoring to frustrate 
 the marriage, should news of it reach her ears, and her 
 indomitable will had carried many strange things in her 
 life; therefore you will not blame Mr. Carlyle for 
 observing entire reticence as to his future plans. 
 
78 EAST LYNNE 
 
 A family by the name of Carew had been about tak- 
 ing East Lynne; they wished to rent it, furnished, for 
 three years. Upon some of the minor arrangements 
 they and Mr. Carlyle v/ere opposed, but the latter 
 declined to give way. During his absence at Castle 
 Marling, news had arrived from them— that they 
 acceded to all his termxs, 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, three maids and two men 
 servants hired and sent there, upon board wages, until 
 the family should arrive. 
 
 One evening, three weeks subsequent to Mr. Car- 
 lyle'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 the dinner went away. Otherwise 
 Archibald would have taken none." 
 
 "I am as well without tea," said he. "I have a 
 mass of business to get through yet." 
 
 "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 nobody 
 else; he is off to Castle Marling to-morrow, and never 
 could open his lips till just now that he was going." 
 
 "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 protest- 
 ing 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 
 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 portemanteau in my room. The large one." 
 
EAST LYNNE 79 
 
 "The large one!" echoed Miss Corny, who never 
 could 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 a small 
 one," persisted Miss Corny. "I'll try. You only tell 
 me what you want put in. Take the small porteman- 
 teau to 5^our 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." 
 
 Barbara sprang up the moment the tea was over. 
 "1 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 
 would make. 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 
 yet, and they took 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 visits to East 
 Lynne when she inhabited it. She returned to the 
 subject now. "Archibald, is Lady Isabel likely to 
 marry?" 
 
 "My memory cannot carry all I hear." 
 
 "But is she?" persisted Barbara. 
 
 "You are persevering," he smiled. "I believe 
 Lady Isabel is likely to marry." 
 
 Barbara drew a relieved sigh. "Whom?" 
 
 The same amused smile played on his lips. '* Do you 
 
80 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 
 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," he warmly continued; 
 "open-tempered, generous-hearted, earnest-spirited. 
 Should I have children of my own," he added, switch- 
 ing 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," gayly returned Bar- 
 bara. "After contriving to impress West Lynne with 
 the conviction that you would be an old bachelor." 
 
 "I don't know that I ever promised West Lynne 
 anvthing of the sort," cried Carlyle. 
 
 Barbara laughed now. "I suppose West Lynne 
 judges by appearances. When a man owns to thirty 
 years " 
 
 "Which I don't do," interrupted Mr. Carlyle, con- 
 siderably damaging the hedge and the parasol. "I 
 may be an old married man before I count thirty; the 
 chances are that I shall be." 
 
 "Then you must have fixed upon 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 pretense of repinning her 
 shawl. Her heart was beating, her whole frame 
 trembling, and she feared he might detect her emo- 
 tions. She never thought he could allude to any one 
 but herself. Poor Barbara! 
 
 "How flushed you look, Barbara!" he exclaimed. 
 "Havel walked too fast?" She seemed not to hear, 
 
EAST LYNNE 81 
 
 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." 
 
 "I will bring you another to replace it. What is the 
 color? Brown. I won't forget. Hold the relics a 
 minute, Barbara." 
 
 He put the pieces in 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 note-case: "Piano." "Plate." "I jot 
 down the things as they occur to me, that I must get 
 in London," he explained. "Otherwise I should for- 
 get half." 
 
 "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?" 
 
 "Oh, for the Carews. " And her interest in the 
 items was gone. 
 
 "Archibald, I have long wished to ask you some- 
 thing," said Barbara at the gate. "You will not deem 
 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 in it, and a bit 
 
82 EAST LYNNE 
 
 of Anne's, and of mamma's; a tiny little bit of each. 
 And there is room for more, you see." 
 
 She held it out 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. " 
 
 "My hair!" returned 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 flushed painfully; her heart beat. "I like 
 to have a remembrance of the friends I — I care for," 
 she stammered. "Nothing more, Archibald." 
 
 He detected neither the emotion nor the depth of feel- 
 ing, 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 Welling- 
 ton, 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 reiterated aloud. "Is it in 
 his nature to be thus indifferent — 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, t)eautiful in its radi- 
 ance, and gazed at the deepening moonlight, then 
 turned away and pursued her path up the garden-walk, 
 
EAST LYNNE 83 
 
 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 to the interview. 
 
 It was three mornings after the departure of ]\Ir. 
 Carlyle that Mr. Dill appeared before Miss Carlyle, 
 bearing a letter. She was busy regarding 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 got to write to me about?" 
 retorted Miss Corny. "Does he say when he is com- 
 ing 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 down 
 on 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-mor- 
 row 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 came 
 to her. 
 
 Mr. Dill only stood like a stone image. 
 
 "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 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 
 
84 EAST LYNNE 
 
 thought of being- married when he left here, thret* days 
 ago, than I have." 
 
 "How can we tell that. Miss Corny? How are we to 
 know he did not go to be married? I fancy he 
 did." 
 
 "Go to be married!" shrieked Miss Corny, in a pas- 
 sion, "he would not be such a fool. And to that fine 
 lady-child! No, no." 
 
 "He has sent this to be put 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 if 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." 
 
 "I will never forgive him, " she deliberately uttered, 
 "and I will never forgive or tolerate her. The sense- 
 less 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 midway state between rage and tears. "He 
 must have been stark, staring mad to go and do it ; 
 and had 1 gathered an inkling of the project I would 
 have taken out a commission of lunac}^ against him. 
 Ah, you may stare, old Dill, but I v/ould, 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 eoing mad, too, I 
 think." 
 
 "The negotiation with the Carews is off. Miss Cor- 
 nelia. When Mr. Archibald returned from Castle 
 Marling, at Easter, he wrote to decline them. I saw 
 the copy of the letter in the cojpying-book. I expected 
 
EAST LYNNE 85 
 
 he had settled matters then with Lady Isabel, and had 
 decided to keep East Lynne for himself." 
 
 Miss Carlyle's month had opened with consternation. 
 Recovering partially, she rose from her seat, and draw- 
 ing herself to her full and majestic height, she 
 advanced behind the astonished 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 forever. 
 
 "I would have had 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," gasped the ill-tempered man, when he could 
 gather speech. ''I am as innocent as a baby, Miss 
 Corny. When I got the letter just now in the office, 
 you might have knocked me down with a feather." 
 
 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 herself 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. 
 
86 EAST LYNNE 
 
 *'What brings Cornelia here?" thought Barbara. 
 
 Miss Carlyle came in and emitted a few dismal 
 groans, by way of preliminary. 
 
 Barbara turned to her quickly. "Are you ill? 
 Has anything upset you?" 
 
 "Upset me! you may say that!" ejaculated Miss 
 Corny, in wrath. "It has turned my heart and my 
 feelings inside out. My wise brother Archibald has 
 gone and made a fool of himself, Barbara, and now 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 grat- 
 ification that rose to her cheek and dyed it with 
 blushes. "You are going to be taken down a notch 
 or two, my lady," thought the 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. 
 
 "1 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, all amazement, without the faintest 
 idea of what Miss Corny could be driving at. 
 
 "You remember that child. Mount Severn's daugh- 
 ter? I think I see her now, coming into the concert- 
 room in her white robes and her jewels and her flow- 
 ing 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 before the penetrating 
 eyes of Miss Corny, and in spite of her own efforts for 
 calmness, every feature in her face turned of a ghastly 
 whiteness. But, like Miss Carlyle. she at first took 
 refuge in disbelief. 
 
 "It is not true, Cornelia." 
 
EAST LYNNE SI 
 
 **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, "1 forgot to give an order mamma left for tne 
 servants." 
 
 An order for the servants I She swiftly passed up- 
 stairs to her own room, and flung herself down on the 
 floor in 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 fantasy — 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE earl's astonishment 
 
 The announcement of the marriage in the news- 
 papers 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 further. 
 Isabel was alone when the earl was announced. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this, Isabel?" began he, 
 
88 EAST LYNNE 
 
 without circumlocution of 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 you 
 are so wise in the distinction between 'liking' and 
 *love?' It cannot be that you love anybody 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. 
 
EAST LYNNE 89 
 
 **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 with him?" 
 
 The question was so pointed, so abrupt, and Isabel's 
 self-consciousness 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, dis- 
 possess your mind of that idea, and hold him at arm's 
 distance. Drop his acquaintance, encourage no inti- 
 macy 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 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 unac- 
 countable. 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 quitted them, 
 and the earl wheeled round and faced Mr. Carlyle, 
 speaking in a stern, haughty tone: "How came this 
 mxarriage about, sir? Do you possess so little honor, 
 that, taking advantage of my absence, you must 
 intrude yourself into my family, and clandestinely 
 espouse Lady Isabel Vane?" 
 
 "There has been nothing clandestine in my conduct 
 
^ EAST LYNNE 
 
 toward Lady Isabel Vane ; there shall be nothing but 
 honor in my conduct toward Lady Isabel Carlyle. 
 Your lordship has been misinformed." 
 
 "I 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." 
 
 "When I proposed for Lady Isabel " 
 
 **But a month ago," sarcastically interrupted the 
 earl. 
 
 "But a month ago," calmly repeated Mr. Carlyle, 
 "my first action, after Isabel accepted me, was to 
 write to you. Lady Mount Severn could not give me 
 your 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 
 yoi} had returned no reply, you of course approved." 
 
 "Is this the fact?" cried the earl, 
 
 "My lord!" coldly replied Mr. Carlyle. "Whatever 
 ma}'' 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 unseemly 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 made 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 pos- 
 session 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 91 
 
 Friday. On the following- day I called at your house; 
 after your own and Isabel's invitation, it was natural 
 I should call; in fact, it would have been a breach of 
 good feeling not to do so. I found Isabel ill-treated 
 and miserable; far from enjoying a happy home in 
 your house " 
 
 "What, sir?" 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 learnt 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 irresistible desire to emancipate her 
 from this cruel life, and take her where she would find 
 affection and — I hope — happiness. There was 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 Lynne. " 
 
 The earl was slowly recovering from his petrification. 
 "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, the circumstances 
 under which I found her calling it forth." 
 
 The earl paced the room, perplexed still, and evi- 
 dently 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 
 ac!k;nowledges 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 
 
92 EAST LYNNE 
 
 wife had not previously occurred to me as practicable, 
 it was that 1 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 homxC. 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 pounds per annum. 1 gave 
 these details in the letter which appears to have mis- 
 carried. " 
 
 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 
 my hand when you 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 honorably." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle smiled and put his hand into the earl's. 
 The latter retained it, while he spoke in a whisper. 
 "Of course 1 cannot be ignorant that, in speaking of 
 Isabel's ill-treatment, you alluded to my wife. Has it 
 transpired beyond yourselves?" 
 
 "You may be sure that neither Isabel nor myself 
 would mention it ; we shall dismiss it from among our 
 reminiscences. Let it be as though you had never 
 heard it; it is past and done with." 
 
EAST LYNNE 93 
 
 * '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 1 go away honoring him. Be a good 
 and faithful wife to him, for he deserves it." 
 
 '.'Of course, I shall," she answered in surprise. 
 
 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 it 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 quitted her own house, and removed to 
 East Lynne with Peter and two of her hand-maidens. 
 In spite of Mr. Dill's grieved remonstrances, she dis- 
 charged the servants whom Mr. Carl3^1e had engaged, 
 all save one man. 
 
 On a Friday night, about a month after the wed- 
 ding, Mr. Carlyle and his wife came home. They 
 were expected, and Miss Carlyle went through the 
 hall to receive them, and stood on the npper steps, 
 between the pillars of the portico. 
 
 "You here, Cornelia!" exclaimed Mr. Carlyle, 
 ''That is 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 car- 
 riage. Miss Carlyle led the way to a sitting-room, 
 where the supper-tray was laid. "You w^ould like to 
 go upstairs and take your things off before supper, 
 ma'am?" she said, in the same jerking tone, to Lady 
 Isabel. 
 
94 EAST LYNNE 
 
 * 'Thank you. 1 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 any 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 consequence. 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 encounter. No words passed, 
 but each eyed the other grimly. Marvel 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. Car- 
 lyle 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 comfortless. "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 until 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?" 
 
EAST LYNNE 95 
 
 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, 
 my darling; I will strive to render it so." 
 
 She leaned upon him and sobbed aloud. He ten- 
 derly bore with her mood, soothing her to composure, 
 gently kissing the face she held to him, now and then. 
 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 thralldom. Isabel 
 did not love him; of that she was conscious; but her 
 deep and earnest hope by night and day was that she 
 might learn to love him, for she knew that he 
 deserved it. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle qtiitted the room and sought his sister, 
 who, finding she was co 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. "Gone away?" responded Mr. Car- 
 lyle. "What for? I believe they were excellent ser- 
 vants." 
 
 "Very excellent ! Decking themselves out in buff 
 mousseliiie-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 state- 
 ment 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 
 
96 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 
 incumbrances," 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 lodg- 
 ings, Archibald. There will be enough expense with- 
 out 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 honors from her ; but I shall have a world of 
 trouble in management, and be as useful to her as a 
 housekeeper. She will be glad of that, inexperienced 
 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 plaus- 
 ibly put, that he began to think it might be all for the 
 best. He had great reverence for his sister's judg- 
 ment ; 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 " 
 
 "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. Car- 
 lyle, passing over the remark, "I shall certainly keep 
 as many as I deem necessary. I cannot give my wife 
 splendor, but I will give her comfort. The horses and 
 carriacres will take one man's " 
 
EAox LYNNE 97 
 
 Miss Corny turned faint all over. "What on earth 
 are you talking of?" 
 
 "I bought a pretty open carriage in town, 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." 
 
 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 it out, 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 armchair, 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 got nervous after Marvel went," she whispered, 
 laying hold of him, as if for protection from terror. 
 "1 could not find the bell, and that made me v/orse; so 
 I came back to the chair and covered my head over, 
 hoping somebody would come up." 
 
 "I have been talking to Cornelia. But what made 
 you nervous?" 
 
 "Oh, 1 was very foolish. I kept thinking of fright- 
 ful things; they would come into my mind. Do not 
 blame me, Archibald. This is the room papa died in." 
 
 "Blame you, my darling!" he muttered, 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 1 might see You are laugh- 
 
 ine!' 
 
 7 Lynn* 
 
98 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Yes, he was smiling, for he knew that these 
 moments of nervous fear are best met jestingly. He 
 made her drink 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 altera- 
 tions 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 get 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 close up 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. Car- 
 lyle 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. 
 
EAST LYNNE 99 
 
 After breakfast Lady Isabel accompanied Mr. Car- 
 l3^ie through the park. He thought it a good opportu- 
 nity 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 a resident guard ; 
 but, refined and sensitive, almost painfully considerate 
 of the feelings of others, she raised no word of objec- 
 tion. 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 hap- 
 piness. " 
 
 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 protector. Miss Carlyle 
 could not mar her life's peace, "Let her stay, Archi- 
 bald; 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. 
 
 Isabel wandered back, and then wandered through 
 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 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 
 
100 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 v/ith"— that female 
 Guy, had been on the tip of Marvel's tongue ; but she 
 rem.embered in time of v\rhom she was speaking — "with 
 Miss Carlyle. I fear, my lady, we have both got 
 tempers that would clash, and mJght 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 toward 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 get in most 
 places. You ought to have given me proper notice. " 
 
 So Marvel left. And when Lady Isabel went to her 
 room to dress for dinner, Joyce entered it. "1 am not 
 much accustomed to a lady's maid's duties," said she. 
 "but Miss Carlyle has sent me, my lady, to do what I 
 can for you, if you will allow me." 
 
 Joyce did her best, and Lady Isabel v/ent dow^n. It 
 was nearly six o'clock, the dinner hour, and she 
 strolled to the park gates, hoping to meet Mr. Car- 
 
EAST LYNNE 101 
 
 lyle. 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 pelting up, 
 passed the gate, and turned on to the grass. There 
 was his wife. She had fallen asleep, her head leaning 
 against the trunk of a 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 1 been asleep?" 
 
 "Aye; and might have been stolen and carried off. 
 I could not afford that, Isabel." 
 
 "1 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 quicker, 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, 1 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 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 qf complaint. 
 
102 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 tack on 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 
 brows 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 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, and held her against 
 his heart. 
 
 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 
 her 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 gray, dusky hue, of which she was 
 only too conscious, but could not subdue. Her covet- 
 ous eyes would wander to that other face with its 
 singular loveliness and its sweetly earnest eyes, 
 sheltered under the protection of him for whose 
 sheltering protection she had so long yearned. Poor 
 Barbara did not benefit much by the services that day. 
 
 Afterward they went across the churchyard to the 
 
EAST LYxNNE lOS 
 
 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 
 staring stragglers who might be lingering in the road. 
 
 "There ought to be railings around the tomb," she 
 presently said, after a successful battle with her emo- 
 tion. 
 
 "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 pen- 
 etrating his mind that his sister might have been talk- 
 ing 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 expression 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 j^ou. " 
 
 "I wished to walk," returned the unhappy Barbara,, 
 
 "What a pretty girl!" said Lady Isabel to her hus- 
 band. "What is her name?" 
 
 "Barbara Hare." 
 
104 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 Car- 
 lyle. 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. Mr. Carlyle might have taken up 
 his abode at East Lynne without any such honors 
 being paid him, but his marriage with Lady Isabel had 
 sent him up in county estimation. Among 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 faithfully to the best of my ability. " 
 Just then a knock came to the dressing-room door. 
 Joyce went to open it, and saw one of the housemaids 
 recently 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, 
 
EAST LYNNE 105 
 
 and a white feather on the out, as long as Martha's 
 back 'us hearth- broom. I watched her get out of the 
 carriage. ' ' 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "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, shut the door, and turned 
 to her mistress, quite unconscious that the half- whis- 
 pered conversation had been audible. "Some visitors 
 in the drawing-room, my lady, Susan says — Mr. Jus- 
 tice Hare, and Mrs. Hare, and Miss Barbara." 
 
 Isabel descended, her mind full of the mysterious 
 words spoken by Susan. The iustice was in a new 
 flaxen wig, obstinate-looking and pompous; Mrs. Hare, 
 pale, delicate and ladylike; 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 Car- 
 lyle 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 turned crimson; but, 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 
 
106 EAST LYNNE 
 
 her hair brushed. "My lady, I'll tell j^ou 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 after- 
 ward married again — a sister of Mr. Kane's wife " 
 
 "Mr. Kane, the music master?" 
 
 "Yes, my lady. She v^^as 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 would bring her up. I remained at home 
 with my father, going to school by day, and when I 
 grew up I went by day to learn milliner}^ and dress- 
 making. 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 around 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 money 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 use to get at the West 
 Lynne library. My father did not like it; we were 
 only plain working people, and she wanted to set up 
 for a lady — the effect of bringing her up above her 
 station. The next thing she got acquainted with 
 young Richard Hare." 
 
 Lady Isabel looked up quickly. 
 
 "Mr. Justice Hare's only son — own brother to Miss 
 
EAST LYNNE 107 
 
 Barbara," proceeded Joyce, dropping her voice, as 
 though Barbara could hear her in the drawing-room. 
 *'Oh, she was very flighty! She encouraged Mr. Rich- 
 ard, 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 to have one or other of her admirers 
 there. ' ' 
 
 "Had she many admirers?" asked Lady Isabel, who 
 seemed inclined to treat the tale in a joking spirit. 
 
 "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 here any longer, for 
 when gentlemen go in secret after poor girls it is well 
 known that 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 
 think how flighty she was. However, one day he 
 heard people talking about it 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 
 
108 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 cotild give no particulars; she had gone out to the 
 wood path at the back, and never heard or saw any- 
 thing 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 judg- 
 ment of murder out against him, and his own father 
 would be the first to deliver him up to justice. It is 
 a dreadful thing to have befallen the Hare family, 
 who are most 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 any- 
 thing but Afy. But I have got the worst to tell you 
 yet, m,y lady — the worst as regards her. As soon as 
 the inquest was over she v/ent off after Richard Hare. " 
 
 Lady Isabel uttered an exclamation. 
 
 "She did, indeed, my lady," returned Joyce, turn- 
 ing away her moist eyelashes and her shamed 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 Car- 
 lyle 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 most people. After 
 
EAST LYNNE 109 
 
 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 smells of 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 had 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 gos- 
 siping over at the door?" Lady Isabel suddenly asked. 
 "About Miss Hare giving me a bowl of poison. You 
 should tell Susan not to whisper so loud." 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 
 lace 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 
 
no liAbl i^^iMNll 
 
 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. 
 
 They stood together at the window, looking at Mr. 
 Carlyle as he came up the avenue. He saw them, and 
 nodded. Lady Isabel watched the damask cheeks turn 
 to crimson at sight of him. 
 
 ''How do you do, Barbara?" he cried, as he shook 
 hands. "Come to pay us a visit at last? You have 
 been tardy over it. And how are you, my darling?" he 
 whispered, bending over his wife; but she missed his 
 kiss of greeting. Well, would she have had him give 
 it her in public? No; but she was in the mood to 
 notice the omission. 
 
 Dinner over, Miss Carlyle and Barbara went out of 
 doors. 
 
 They came upon the gardener, and Miss Carlyle got 
 into a discussion with him — a somewhat v/arm one. 
 She insisted upon having certain work done in a cer- 
 tain way, he standing to it that Mr. Carlyle had ordered 
 it done in 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 hear- 
 ing that sweet voice. She did as Miss Carlyle con- 
 fessed 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 "Bohemian 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 are come in. Shall we go into 
 the next room?" 
 
 "Just this one first — this translation from the Ger- 
 
EAST LYNNE 111 
 
 man, ' '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, imagina- 
 tive songs, and so do you. And so do I," she ^.augh- 
 ingly 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 songs. I speak of the time when she was with 
 us in London." 
 
 She ceased and began the song, singing it exquis- 
 itely, in a low, sweet, earnest tone, the chords of the 
 accompaniment and 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." 
 
 He did pay her, holding her dear face to him, and 
 taking from it some impassioned kisses. Barbara 
 turned to the window, a low moan of pain escaping her 
 as she pressed her forehead on one of its panes and 
 looked forth at 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 just come in," was Barbara's reply. "I 
 dare say she is following me." So she was, for she 
 came upon them as they were speaking, her voice 
 raised to tones of 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. ' * 
 
112 EAST LYxXNE 
 
 "He is a regular muff, is that Blair, and as obstinate 
 as a mule!" cried Miss Carlyle. 
 
 "Indeed, then, Cornelia, I think him a very civil, 
 good servant." 
 
 "Oh, of course!" snapped Miss Carlyle. "You 
 never can see faults in anybody. You always were a 
 simpleton in some things, Archibald." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle laughed good-humoredly ; he was of an 
 even, calm temper, and he had, all his life, been sub- 
 jected 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 everybody does not think so," cried he, 
 with a glance at his wife and Barbara, as they drew 
 around the tea-table. 
 
 The evening went on to ten, and as the time-piece 
 struck the hour, Barbara rose from her chair in amaze- 
 ment. "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 have gone to rest, tired, and papa 
 must have forgotten me. It would never do for me to 
 get locked out," she gayly added. 
 
 "Like 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, unconsciously, of locking her 
 out. She had given Mr. Carlyle the history; but its 
 recollection now called up a smart 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 113 
 
 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 its summer's twilight. They went 
 down the park into the road, which they crossed, and 
 soon came to a stile. From that stile there led a path 
 through the fields which would pass the back of Jus- 
 tice Hare's. Barbara stopped at it. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "He is very anxious to get home to her!" mentally- 
 exclaimed Barbara. "I shall fly out upon him pres- 
 ently, or my heart will burst." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle crossed the stile, 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 was, 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 word and its delusive hopes; terribly present to 
 her was their bitter ending. 
 
 "When does the justice begin haymaking, Barbara?" 
 
 There was no reply; Barbara was trying to keep 
 down her emotions. Mr. Carlyle tried again. "Bar- 
 bara, 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 nervous- 
 ness, 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, won- 
 
 8 Lynne 
 
114 EAST LYNNE 
 
 dering what the disturbance could mean at that sober 
 time of night, walked up and stared at them. 
 
 "Are you better, Barbara? What can have caused 
 all this?" 
 
 "What can have caused it?" she burst forth in pas- 
 sionate uncontrol. "You can ask me that?" 
 
 Mr. Carlyle was struck dumb; but by some inexpli- 
 cable law of sympathy, a dim and very unpleasant 
 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 — "youhaveyour wife to care for; what am I?" 
 
 "Hush!" he interposed, glancing around, 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 com.ing to our house constantly, almost like 
 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 any- 
 thing else," he added, in his straightforward truth. 
 
 "Ay, as a brother — nothing else '" and her voice rose 
 once more with her excitem^ent; it seemed that she 
 would not long control it. "What cared you for my 
 feelings? Vv/'hat 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 115 
 
 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 toward 
 Mr. Carlyle. "If she had not come between us, should 
 you have loved me?" 
 
 "I don't know. How can 1 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." 
 
 "1 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 but 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 
 friends — as brother and sister. Believe me," he con- 
 cluded, 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 if 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 thought it better to wait no longer for the man's 
 return, so had dispatched her, Wilson, for Miss Barbara. 
 Mr. Carlyle got over the stile, and handed over Bar- 
 bara. 
 
 "You need not come any further now," she said to 
 him, in a low tone. 
 
 "1 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- 
 
115 EAST LYNNE 
 
 garden, Wilson went forvv-ard. 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." 
 
 *'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. "1 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 the past days had been a tinge 
 warmer than he would bestow upon a sister, and he 
 decided that it might have been, but that he most cer- 
 tainly had never cast a suspicion to the mischief it was 
 doing. 
 
 "I heartily hope she will soon find somebody 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 vou, mv dearest?" 
 
EAST LYNNE 117 
 
 "1 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 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, consid- 
 ering 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 
 afflicted her presence upon East Lynne, and made the 
 bane of its household. She deferred outwardly to 
 Lady Isabel as the mJstress; 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 Carl3^1e. 
 
 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 sometning 
 which had gone wrong amongst the servants, silence 
 
118 EAST LYNNE 
 
 supervened. Isabel, who was sitting listless and dis- 
 spirited, suddenly broke it, speaking more to herself 
 than to Miss Carlyle: 
 
 *'I wish evening was come!" 
 
 "Why do you wish that?" 
 
 '* Because Archibald would be home." 
 
 Miss Carlyle gave an unsatisfactory grunt, '*You 
 seem tired, Lady Isabel." 
 
 *'I am very tired." 
 
 "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 napkins, 
 rather than do nothing." 
 
 "I make 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 anybody else till they try. For my 
 part I'd rather sit down and make or mend shoes than 
 I'd sit with my hands before me. It's a sinful v/aste 
 
 of " She stopped short. "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. "Ob, 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 
 berself. 
 
EAST LYNNE 119 
 
 "Only for a drive." 
 
 "A drive!" repeated Miss Corny, looking at him in 
 bewilderment. "To take Isabel for one, he said. I 
 shall not trust her to John again yet a while." 
 
 "That's the way to get on with your business!" 
 retorted Miss Corny, when she could find temper to 
 speak, "Deserting the office in the middle of the day. " 
 
 "Isabel's health is of more consequence, just now, 
 than business," he returned, good-humoredly. "And 
 you really speak, Cornelia, as if I had neither Dill to 
 replace me, nor plenty of clerks under him." 
 
 "John is a better driver than you are." 
 
 "He is as good a one. But that is not the question. " 
 
 Isabel came down, looking radiant, all her listless- 
 ness gone. Mr. Carlyle placed her in the carriage, and 
 drove away. Miss Corny gazing after them with an 
 expression of face enough to turn a whole dairy of 
 milk sour. 
 
 There were many such little episodes as these, so you 
 need not wonder that Isabel was not altogether happy. 
 But never before Mr. Carlyle was the lady's temper 
 vented upon her; plenty fell to his own share when he 
 and his sister were alone ; and he had been so accustomed 
 to that sort of thing all his life, had got so used to it, that 
 it made no impression. He never dreamed that Isabel 
 also received her portion. 
 
 It was hard upon mid-day. A clergyman, Mr. Car- 
 lyle and Miss Carlyle were gathered in the dressing- 
 room, around a table on which stood a rich china bowl, 
 containing water for the baptism. Joyce, her pale 
 face working with emotion, came into the room, carry- 
 ing what looked like a bundle of flannel. Little cared 
 Mr. Carlyle for that bundle, in comparison with his 
 care for his wife. 
 
 "Joyce," he whispered, "is all well still?" 
 
 "I believe so, sir." 
 
 The service commenced. The clergyman took the 
 child. "What name?" he asked. "Isabel Lucy," 
 said Mr. Carlyle. Upon which a strange sort of 
 
120 EAST LYNNE 
 
 resentful sniff was heard from Miss Corny. She had 
 probably thought to hear him mention her own, but 
 he had named it after his wife and his mother. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle was not allowed to see his wife until 
 the evening. His eyelashes glistened as he looked 
 down at her. She detected his emotion, and a faint 
 smile parted her lips. 
 
 *'I never knew what thankfulness was until this 
 day!" he murmured. 
 
 "That the baby is safe?" 
 
 *'That you are safe, my darling — safe and spared to 
 me, Isabel," he whispered, hiding his face upon hers, 
 *'I never until to-day knew what prayer was — the 
 prayer of a heart in its sore need." 
 
 "Have you written to Lord Mount Severn?" she 
 asked, after a while. 
 
 "This afternoon," he replied. 
 
 "Why did you give baby my name — Isabel?" 
 
 "Do you think I could have given it a prettier one? 
 1 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 interview was over almost as soon as it had begun. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 Wilson's tongue 
 
 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 get strong very quickly; fever and weak- 
 ness 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 neighborhood, who should 
 you suppose is come up after the place of nurse?" she 
 said to Lady Isabel. 
 
EAST LYNNE 121 
 
 "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 got a tongue as long as from here to Lynne- 
 borough. ' ' 
 
 "That won't hurt the 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. She lived there 
 five years." 
 
 Wilson was ultimately engaged, and entered 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 asleep, half 
 wakeful delirium, which those who suffer from weak- 
 ness 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 in comparison." 
 
 "My goodness! would not somebody's hopes be up 
 again if anything should happen?" 
 
 "Nonsense!" crossly returned Joyce. 
 
 "You may cry out 'nonsense' forever, Joyce; but 
 they would," went on Wilson. "And she would snap 
 him up, to a dead certainty; she'd never let him escape 
 
122 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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!" 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 gra- 
 ciously to countenance 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 beilef is she wears it in 
 her sleep." 
 
 "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 got 
 to 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 back 
 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 the front, if 
 a friend comes up. I was expecting 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 123 
 
 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 baby! 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 has passed between them two ; but 1 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 the nature of man to be fickle, especially 
 those who can boast of their own good looks, like Mr. 
 Carlyle." 
 
 *'Mr. Carlyle is not fickle." 
 
 Then Wilson proceeded to describe how Barbara took 
 the news of Mr. Carlyle's marriage; and told of how 
 afterward she had seen him take Barbara home, and 
 of Barbara's **sobbing fit to break her heart" by the 
 "^tile. 
 
 "I assure you, Joyce," she added, "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 the truth. 
 Men are shamefully fickle ; husbands worse than sweet- 
 hearts; and I'm sure I'm not thinking 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." 
 
 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 
 
124 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 impression upon her had 
 she been in strong health ; but she was v/eak, 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 Barbara 
 Hare. 
 
 A pretty state of excitement she worked herself into 
 as she lay there; jealousy and fever — aye, and love, 
 too — playing pranks with her brain. It was near the 
 dinner hour, and when Mr. Carl34e entered he was 
 startled to see her; her pallid cheeks were burning 
 with a red hectic, and her eyes glistened with fever. 
 
 "Isabel, you are worse!" he uttered, approaching her 
 quickly. 
 
 She partially rose from the sofa, and clasped hold of 
 him in her emotion. *'0h, 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 laboring under some temporary hallucina- 
 tion, the result of weakness. He set himself 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 recollec- 
 tion 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 anything in reason," he replied, 
 bewildered with her v/ords; "but I do not know what 
 
EAST LYNNE 125 
 
 you mean. There is no possibility of my marrying any 
 one, Isabel; you are my wife," 
 
 "But if 1 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 since — perhaps you love her still?" 
 
 Mr. Carlyle began to discern "method in her mad- 
 ness." 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. Whatever had put this bygone business 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 enter- 
 tained 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 she had; but, taking all the circum- 
 stances into consideration, more especially how he 
 learned the fact, he could not in honor acknowledge 
 it even to his wife. "If it was so, Isabel, she was more 
 reprehensibly foolish than I should have given Bar- 
 bara's good sense credit for; a woman may almost as 
 well lose herself as to suffer herself to love unsought. 
 If she did give her love to me, I can only say I was 
 entirely 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. 
 
126 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Carlyle bent his head and spoke in a tender, though 
 pained tone. "1 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 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 over- 
 heard; but, in that moment of renewed confidence it 
 appeared to her that she must have been very foolish 
 to attach any importance to it — that a sort of humilia- 
 tion, 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 
 waking?" 
 
 "I do sometimes dream strange things, especially in 
 my feverish afternoon sleeps. I think 1 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 of the enigma, and he never 
 questioned it. 
 
 "Dan'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 between us. " 
 
 There never was a passion in this world, there never 
 
EAST LYNiNE 127 
 
 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 at her 
 own suspicion, Lady Isabel afterward suffered the 
 unhappy fear to regain its influence ; the ill-starred 
 revelations of Wilson reasserted their power, overmas- 
 tering the denial of Mr. Carlyle, Shakespeare callsl 
 jealousy yellow and green; I think it may be calledJ 
 black and white, for it most assuredly views white asj 
 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 under- 
 stand 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 heartj 
 like an incubus. '^ 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 CAPTAIN THORN AT W^EST LYNNE 
 
 One afternoon found Barbara shopping in West 
 Lynne. She had stopped outside one of the stores and 
 was listlessly gazing 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 on the enameled gold studs of his shirt 
 front, making them glitter; and as he suddenly raised 
 his ungloved hand, a white hand, to stroke his mus- 
 tache — by which action you may know a vain man — a 
 diamond ring gleamed with a light that was positively 
 
128 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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, slen- 
 der 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 bviff 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 jewelry, or connected it in 
 her mind with the other jewelry in that unhappy secret. 
 
 "Halloa! Thorn, is that you? Just step over here!" 
 
 The speaker was Otv/ay Bethel, who was on the 
 opposite side of the street; the spoken-to, the gentle- 
 man with the jewelry. 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 across the street. Barbara stood like one in a 
 dream, her brain, her mind, her fancy all a confused 
 mass together. Just then she caught sight of Mr. 
 Wainwright, the surgeon, at a little distance, and sped 
 toward him. "Mr. Wainwright," began she, forget- 
 ting ceremony in her agitation, "you see that gentle- 
 man 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 Captain Thorn. He 
 is visiting the Herberts, 1 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 down the street, and the latter 
 saluted her; but she was too much confused to respond 
 
EAST LYNNE 129 
 
 to it. Mr. Wainwright then wished her good-day, and 
 Barbara walked slowly back. 
 
 Barbara was five minutes alone in her chamber 
 before the dinner was on the table. All the conclusion 
 she could come to was that she could do nothing save 
 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 to 
 talk of some silk she had purchased for a mantle. She 
 should like to 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 I^lrs. 
 Hare. "Barbara thinks she shall get a peep at the 
 baby, I expect. All young folks are fond of babies." 
 
 Barbara's face flushed crimson; but she did not con- 
 tradict the opinion. She could not eat her dinner ; she 
 was too full of poor Richard; she played with it, and 
 then sent away her plate, nearly untouched. 
 
 "That's through the finery she has been buying, " 
 pronounced Justice Hare. "Her head is stuffed up 
 with it." 
 
 No opposition was offered to Barbara's going to East 
 Lynne. She reached it just as their dinner was over. 
 It was for Miss Carlyle she asked. "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 sorry to disturb you; to have asked for 
 
130 EAST LYNNE 
 
 you, "began Barbara, with a burning face, for a cer- 
 tain evening interview of hers with him, twelve 
 months before, was disagreeably presented 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 indiffer- 
 ent. 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 getting it, I 
 saw a stranger coming up the street; a tall, good-look- 
 ing, 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 which 
 he wore, for he had one hand raised to his face. The 
 thought flashed over me: 'That is like the description 
 Richard gave me 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 prob- 
 ably be Captain Thorn now." 
 
EAST LYNNE 131 
 
 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. '*lt 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 remem- 
 bered Richard's words when describing the other — 
 "and an out-and-out aristocrat." "Of coifrse, 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 movements. I 
 will see what I can ascertain and let you know." 
 
 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 the answer of Barbara. "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 sne 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. 
 
132 EAST LYNNE 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 PUZZLED 
 
 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 till 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 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 
 in 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 toward Mr. Carlyle. He 
 appeared of a far more gentlemanly nature than Tom 
 Herbert. 
 
 "You'll have one, too, Carlyle/ said Herbert, hold- 
 ing out his cigar case. "Oh! I forgot. You are a 
 muff; don't smoke one twice a year. I say, how's 
 Lady Isabel?" 
 
 "Very ill still" 
 
 "By Jove! is she, though? Tell her I'm 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 faco. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle reassured him upon that point, and 
 turned to Captain Thorn. 
 
 "Are you acquainted with this neighborhood?" 
 
 Captain Thorn smiled. "I only reached West 
 Lynne yesterday." 
 
EAST LYNNE 133 
 
 "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 cere- 
 mony. "Jack had invited him down for some fishing, 
 and Thorn arrives. But he never sent a word he was 
 coming. Jack had given him up, and is off on some 
 Irish expedition, the deuce knows where. Precious 
 unlucky that it should have happened so. Thorn says 
 that he shall cut short his stay, and go again." 
 
 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 careless 
 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 neighborhood 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 very easy degrees, turned the con- 
 versation to Swainson, 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 for a short time." 
 Mr. Carlyle became nearly convinced that Barbara's 
 suspicions were correct. The descriptions certainly 
 agreed, as far as he could judge, in the most n mute 
 particulars. The man before 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 
 
134 EAST LYNNE 
 
 delicate to a degree, and his handkerchief, a cambric 
 one of unusually fine texture, was not entirely guilt- 
 less 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 sum- 
 moned 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 to come 
 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 sur- 
 prised. However, she presently followed, taking in 
 some water, and lingered a few minutes, apparently 
 placing the things on the table in order. 
 
 When the two departed, Mr. Carlyle called Joyce, 
 before proceeding 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. thinh 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 possi- 
 ble the man might be," 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 consideration — "that I should 
 at all know him again. 1 did not think of him when I 
 looked at this gentleman ; but, at any rate, no appear- 
 ance in this one struck upon my memory as being 
 familiar." 
 
 So, from Joyce, Mr. Carlyle obtained no clew one 
 way or the other. The follov>ring day he sought out 
 Otway Bethel. "Are you intimate with that Captain 
 
EAST LYNNE 135 
 
 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 driv- 
 ing at now? I called in at Herberts' the night before 
 last, and Tom asked me to stay the evening. Thorn 
 had just come. 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 What Thorn?" 
 
 he broke off, abruptly. 
 
 "You are equivocating, Bethel. The Thorn who 
 was mixed up — or 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, arousing 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-naturedman 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 
 
136 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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. "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 tenterhooks of impa- 
 tience, accompanied him outside when he departed, 
 and walked dowm the path. 
 
 "What have you learnt?" she eagerly asked. 
 "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 previous evening after Barbara's 
 departure, and his encounter with Tom Herbert that 
 day; he mentioned, also, his interview with Bethel. 
 
 "Can he have gone on purpose, fearing conse- 
 quences?" wondered Barbara. 
 
 "Scarcely, or why should he have come?" 
 
 "You did not suffer any word 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 Her- 
 bert's regiment. I ascertained no more. Tom said 
 he was of good family. But I cannot help suspecting 
 it is the same man." 
 
 "Can nothing more be done?" 
 
 "Nothing in the present state of the affair," con- 
 cluded 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 137 
 
 of the gate as his footsteps died way. '*Ay, to wait 
 on," she murmured, '*to wait on in dreary pain; to wait 
 on, perhaps for years, perhaps forever! 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 particular event occur- 
 ring to note them. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 FRANCIS LEVISON 
 
 Then the doctor insisted upon a change of scene, 
 and suggested Boulogne. So to Boulogne, after much 
 persuasion. Lady Isabel was sent. 
 
 One day, when sitting on the pier, a tall, gentlemanly 
 figure approached. 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 v\'as thus advancing, and changing the monotony 
 of her mind into a tumult? It was that of one whom 
 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!" he thought to himself. "What 
 can she be, sitting there alone?" All at once a recol- 
 lection 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 
 honor 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 
 
138 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 anything I can 
 do for you?" 
 
 She v/as 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 white- 
 ness. She was exceedingly vexed and angry with 
 herself that the meeting him should have had power 
 to call forth emotion. Until that momxcnt 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 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 relation of the family — a connec- 
 tion, at any rate, and she could find no ready excuse 
 for declining. 
 
 "Have you seen Lady Mount Severn lately?" he 
 ■'.nquired. 
 
 "I saw her when I was in London this spring with 
 
EAST LYNNE 139 
 
 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 Eng- 
 land either, foi 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 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 possi- 
 ble he may have a son of his own now; and my cred- 
 itors all came down upon me. They allowed me to 
 run in 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?" 
 
 "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 harbor? — it is well if the 
 police don't drop upon him. Ask him what his pros- 
 pects are, and he would stare in your face and say, 
 *Non3. ' Mine are on a par. " 
 
 "You may succeed Sir Peter yet." 
 
 "I may; but I may not. When these old idiots get 
 a young wife " 
 
 "Have you quarreled 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 
 
140 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Stopped. Self-interest, you see, Lady Isabel, is the 
 order of the day with most of us." 
 
 "Do you purpose staying in Boulogne long?" 
 
 "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 Sir Peter's marriage. And I am not sorry 
 for it," she added, good-naturedly, "for it has proved 
 to me how strong I am getting. A week ago I could 
 not have walked half so fast." 
 
 He interrupted with eager apologies, and soon they 
 reached her home. Captain Levison entered with her 
 — uninvited. He probably deemed that between con- 
 nections great ceremony might be dispensed with, and 
 he sat a quarter of an hour chatting to amuse her. 
 When he arose, he inquired what she meant to do with 
 herself in the afternoon. 
 
 "I lie down," replied' Lady Isabel. "I am not 
 strong enough to sit up all day," 
 
 "Should you be going out again afterward, 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 
 are not fit to wander out only followed by a servant. 
 When Mr. Carlyle comes he will thank me for my 
 pains." 
 
 What was she 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 such to 
 her own heart brought its glow of shame to her brow. 
 She would meet Captain Levison and suffer his com- 
 panionship 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 won- 
 
EAST LYNNE 141 
 
 derfully. 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 acquaintance whatever in the place, and when she 
 had a companion 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. One day she said, in a joking 
 sort of manner^ — she would not say it in any other way 
 — that now she was strong, she had no need of his arm 
 and his escort. He demanded, in evident astonish- 
 ment, 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 reply to this, no excuse to urge, and, 
 in default of one, took his arm as usual. In the even- 
 ing 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, as he 
 sometimes would do of a morning. 
 
 In a fortnight from the period of his departure, Mr. 
 Carlyle was expected in Boulogne. But what a mar- 
 velous change had this fortnight wrought in Lady 
 Isabel! She did not dare to analyze her feelings, but 
 she was conscious that all the fresh emotions of her 
 youth had come again. The blue sky seemed as of 
 the sweetest sapphire, the green fields and the waving 
 trees were of an emerald brightness, the perfume of 
 the flowers was more fragrant than any perfume had 
 yet seemed. She knew that the sky, that the grassy 
 plains, the leafy trees, the brilliant flowers, were but 
 as they ever had been; she knew that the sunny 
 atmosphere possessed no more of loveliness, or power 
 of imparting delight, than of old ; and she knew that 
 the change, the sensation of ecstasy, was in her own 
 
142 EAST LYNNE 
 
 heart. No wonder that she shrank from self-examina- 
 tion. 
 
 The change from listless languor to her present feel- 
 ings brought the hue and contour of health to her face 
 far sooner than anything 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. Car- 
 lyle, 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 forgot- 
 ten 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 flrst she was unfit to venture 
 alone." 
 
 "I feel much indebted to you," said Mr. Carlyle, 
 warmly. 
 
 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 cargo of troubles. 
 
 "This compulsory exile abroad is becoming intoler- 
 able," he concluded; "and a Paris life plays the very 
 
EAST LYNNE 143 
 
 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 repre- 
 sented 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 got 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 V\^ith 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." 
 
 "1 know I should; but it is not possible, under pres- 
 ent circumstances. With these thunder-clouds hang- 
 ing 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 quarreled with my law- 
 yers, Sharp & 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 heads 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. 
 
144 EAST LYNNE 
 
 **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, in return for your kind attention to my 
 wife. I cannot promise to see him for these two or 
 three weeks," resumed Mr. Carlyle, "for we are terri- 
 bl}^ busy. Otherwise I should be staying here w^ith my 
 wife." 
 
 Lady Isabel felt that her old feeling of attraction 
 towards this man w^as creeping over her, and she 
 resolved to put him out of her life forever, 
 
 "Archibald, I have a favor to ask of you," she tim- 
 idly began, as they sat together after Captain Levison's 
 departure. "You must promise to grant it to 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 sta3^ed the whole of the 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 to the 
 end of the term, if not longer," The color came flow- 
 ing painfully into her cheek, "I cannot stay without 
 you, Archibald," 
 
 "Tell me why," smiled Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 Tell him why! "I am so dull without you," was 
 
EAST LYNNE 145 
 
 the best argument she could offer, but her voice fal- 
 tered, 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 honorable in 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 XXn 
 
 QUITTING THE DANGER 
 
 Lady Isabel was seated on one of the benches of the 
 Petit Camp, as it is called, underneath 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 belief. 
 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. Cap- 
 tain Levison was her companion, as he mostly was in 
 her walks; shake him off she could not. 
 
 ''Do you remember the evening, Lady Isabel, just 
 such a one as this, that we all passed at Richmond?" 
 he suddenly asked. "Your father, Mrs. Vane, you 
 and I and others." 
 
 "Yes, I remember it. We had spent a pleasant 
 day; the two Miss Challoners were with us. You drove 
 Mrs. Vane home, and I went with papa. You drove 
 recklessly, I recollect, and Mrs. Vane said when we 
 got home that you should never drive her again." 
 
 10 Lynne 
 
146 EAST LYNNE 
 
 *' Which meant not till the next time. Of all capri- 
 cious, vain, exacting women, Emma Vane was the 
 worst; and Emma Mount Severn is no improvement 
 upon it; she's a systematic flirt. I drove recklessly 
 on purpose to put her in a fright, and pay her off." 
 
 *'What had she done to you?" 
 
 "Put me in a rage. She had saddled herself upon 
 me, when I wanted — I wished for another to be my 
 companion." 
 
 "Blanche Challoner. " 
 
 "Blanche Challoner!" echoed Captain Levison, in a 
 mocking tone; "what did I care for Blanche Chal- 
 loner?" 
 
 Isabel remembered that he had been supposed in 
 those days to care a great deal for Miss Blanche Chal- 
 loner — a most lovely girl of seventeen. "Mrs. Vane 
 tried to accuse you of caring too much for her, ' ' she 
 said, aloud. 
 
 "She accused me of caring for some one else more 
 than for Blanche Challoner, " he significantly returned, 
 "and for once her jealous surmises were not misplaced. 
 No, Lady Isabel, it was not Blanche Challoner I wished 
 to drive home. Could you not have given a better 
 guess than that, at the time?" he added, turning to 
 her. There was no mistaking the tone of his voice or 
 the glance of his eye. Lady Isabel felt a crimson flush 
 rising, and she turned her face away. 
 
 "The past is gone, and cannot be recalled," he con- 
 tinued, "but we both played our parts like simpletons. 
 If ever two beings were formed to love each other, you 
 and I were. I sometimes thought you read my feel- 
 ings " 
 
 Surprise had kept her silent, but she interrupted 
 him now, haughtily enough. "I must speak. Lady 
 Isabel; a few words, and then I am silent forever. I 
 would have declared myself had I dared, but my uncer- 
 tain position, my debts, my inability to keep a wife, 
 weighed me down ; and, instead of appealing to Sir 
 Peter, as I hoped to have done, for the means to 
 assume a position that would justify me in asking for 
 
EAST LYNNE 147 
 
 Lord Mount Severn's daughter, I crushed my hopes 
 within me, and suffered you to escape " 
 
 "I will not hear this. Captain Levison," she cried, 
 rising from her seat in anger. He touched her arm to 
 place her on it again. "One single moment yet, I pray 
 you. I have for years wished that you should know 
 why I lost you — a loss that tells upon me yet. I have 
 bitterly worked out my own folly since. I knew not 
 how passionately I loved you until you became the wife 
 of another. Isabel, I love you passionately still." 
 
 "How dare you to presume so to address me?" 
 
 She spoke in a cold, dignified tone of hauteur, as it 
 was her bounden duty to speak. But, nevertheless, 
 she was conscious of an undercurrent of feeling, whis- 
 pering 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. 1 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 yourself, 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 advantage of my 
 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 frame 
 would permit. Captain Levison strode after her. He 
 
US EAST LYNNE 
 
 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, endeavoring to be of ser- 
 vice 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 companionship, 
 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, 1 fancy." 
 
 *'I ask you for pardon, Lady Isabel; I have acknowl- 
 edged my fault ; but I can do no more. I v/ill 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 
 Grande 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 lad3^ 
 
 "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 Eng- 
 lish mail is closed." 
 
EAS'i L^NMii 149 
 
 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 withdraw- 
 ing entirely from his society and his dangerous sophis- 
 tries; she would be 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 
 longer she would not. It is probable she would have 
 started alone, not waiting for Mr. Carlyle, but for fear 
 of not having sufficient funds for the journey, after 
 the rent and the other things were paid. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle, when he received the letter and marked 
 its earnest tone, wondered much. In reph^ he stated 
 he would be with her on the following Saturday, and 
 then her returning or not with him would be settled. 
 Fully determined not to meet Captain Levison, 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 
 receiving visitors." 
 
 Sunday morning — it had been impossible for him to 
 get away before — brought Mr. Carlyle. He strongly 
 combatted her wish to return home until the six weeks 
 should have expired; he nearly 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 vast 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 whose 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 
 
150 EAST LYNNE 
 
 his companionship now. Oh, that she had done so! her 
 kind, her noble, her judicious husband! Why did she 
 not? The whole truth as to her present feelings it 
 was not expedient that she should tell, but she might 
 have confided to him quite sufficient. He would only 
 have cherished her the more deeply, and sheltered her 
 under his fostering care, safe from harm. 
 
 Why did she not? In the impulse of the moment 
 she was about to do so, when Mr. Carlyle, who had 
 been taking a letter from his pocketbook, put it into 
 her hand. Upon what 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 handed it to her brother in the mom^ent of his 
 departure, to carry to Lady Isabel and save postage. 
 Mr. Carlyle had nearly dropped it into the Folkestone 
 postoffice. 
 
 A letter as stiff as Miss Corny herself. The chil- 
 dren 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 continue my epistle, but Barbara Hare, who 
 is to spend the day with us, has just arrived." 
 
 Barbara Hare spending the day at East Lynne! 
 That item v/as 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 like a child let loose from 
 school. She laughed; she danced in her excess of con- 
 tent; she showered kisses on her husband, thanking 
 him in her gleeful 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 151 
 
 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. Carlyie mistook its source, and caught her 
 to his heart. 
 
 One day more, and then they — she and that man — 
 should be separated by the broad sea! The thought 
 caused her to lift up her heart in thankfulness. She 
 knew that to leave him would be as though she left the 
 sun behind her, that the other side might for a time 
 be somevvrhat dreary; nevertheless, she fervently 
 thanked Heaven. Oh, reader! never doubt the prin-"' 
 ciples of poor Lady Isabel; her reticence of mind, her 
 wish and endeavor to do right, her abhorrence of 
 wrong. Her spirit was earnest and true, her inten-^ 
 tions were pure. 
 
 Captain Levison paid a visit to Mr. Carlyie, and 
 inquired if he had had time to see Sir Peter. Not yet; 
 Mr. Carlyie 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 
 honorable man to a m.an of dishonor; but of the dis- 
 honor Mr. Carlyie suspected nothing. It is a pity but 
 what bad men could be turned inside out sometimes 
 to put others on their guard. 
 
 It was high water in the afternoon, and the Folke- 
 stone boat announced to start at one. The Carlyles 
 and their servants went on board in good time, and 
 Captain Levison greeted them and said farewell as 
 they stepped on the steamer. Lady Isabel took her 
 seat on the deck, her husband standing by her; the 
 cords were unloosened, and the boat moved slowly 
 dov/n the harbor. On the shore stood Francis Levi- 
 son, watching its progress, watching her. He was a 
 bold, unscrupulous 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 put on, meant to servp a purpose. However, 
 he had received his checkmate. 
 
152 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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?" 
 
 "At the thought of what I could 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 from you again; keep me 
 by 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 XXIII 
 
 THE FRACTURED ANKLE 
 
 Lady Isabel had returned home to bodily health, to 
 the delight of meeting her children, to the glad sensa- 
 tion of security. But, as the days went on, a miser- 
 able 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, the 
 vacuum in her heart which was making itself felt in 
 its keen intensity. She strove to drive that bad man 
 from her thoughts; but, even while she so strove, he 
 was again in them. Too frequently she caught her- 
 self thinking that if she could but see him once again, 
 for ever so short a period, one hour, one day, she could 
 compose her spirit afterward to rest. She did not 
 encourage these reflections, but they thrust them- 
 selves continually forward. The form of Francis 
 Levison was ever present to her ; not a minute of the 
 day but it gave the coloring to her thoughts, and at 
 night it made the subject of her dreams. Oh, those 
 
EAST LYNNE 1,53 
 
 dreams! they were painful to wake from; painful from 
 the contrast they presented to reality; and equally 
 painful to her conscience, in its strife 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 like the word 
 better) 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 awake to self- 
 reproach, restless and feverish, wishing that this terri- 
 ble 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, dressed showily. She 
 inquired his business. 
 
 "My business, madame, is with Sir Peter." 
 
 "But Sir Peter is not well enough to attend to busi- 
 ness. It upsets him; worries him." 
 
 "Nevertheless, I am here by his own appointment. 
 Twelve o'clock he mentioned, and the hour has barely 
 struck. ' ' 
 
 Lady Levison bit her lip and bowed coldly ; and at 
 that moment a servant appeared to conduct Mr. Car- 
 lyle to Sir Peter. The matter which had taken Mr. 
 Carlyle there 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 chap- 
 ter — as I have done before," cried Sir Peter. "His 
 grandfather was my only brother, his father my duti- 
 ful and beloved nephew; but he is just as bad as they 
 
154 EAST LYNNE 
 
 were estimable. He is a worthless fellow, and nothing 
 else, Mr. Carlyle." 
 
 As Mr. Carlyle left Sir Peter's presence, he encoun- 
 tered 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 hus- 
 band's nephew, his presumptive heir; it may therefore 
 appear strange that I set my face so determinedly 
 against him. Two or three years ago, previous to my 
 marriage with Sir Peter — in fact, before I knew Sir 
 Peter — 1 was brought into contact with Francis Levi- 
 son. He was acquainted with some friends of mine, 
 and at their house I met him. He behaved shamefully 
 ill; he repaid their hospitality 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 
 inclination, and that he will remain such 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?" 
 
 "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 got them to put their 
 names to bills, 'as a simple matter of form, to accom- 
 modate him for a month or so,' he stated, and so they 
 believed. They were not wealthy; they lived upon 
 their own small estate in comfort, but with no super- 
 fluous money to spare, and when the time came for 
 them to pay — as come it did — it brought ruin, and 
 they had to leave their home. He deliberately did it; 
 1 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 
 
SAST LYNNII ' ;j_55 
 
 that 1 object to j*eeeive liim hers. I dc. My objection 
 is to the man, to his character ; not owing-, as I hear it 
 has been said, to any jealous, paltry feeling touching 
 his being the heir. 1 must lose my own self-respect 
 before I admit Francis Levison to my house as an 
 inmate. Sir Peter may assist him, 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 yoti 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 the present cir- 
 cumstances, 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 con- 
 nection of Lady Isabel's." 
 
 "Take care that he does not repay your hospitality 
 with ingratitude," warmly returned Lady Levison. 
 "It would only be in accordance with his practice." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle laughed. "I do not well see what harm 
 he could do me, allowing that he had the inclination. 
 He v\^ould not scare my clients from me, nor beat my 
 children, and I can take care of my pocket. A few 
 days, no doubt, will be the extent of his sojourn." 
 
 Lady Levison smiled, too, and shook hands with 
 Mr. Carlyle. "In 3^our 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." 
 
 The visit of Mr. Carlyle to Levison Park took place 
 on a Friday morning, and on his return to his office he 
 dispatched 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 entirely 
 slipped his memory to mention the expected arrival at 
 home. The following evenmg, Saturday, he and 
 Ladv Isabel were dining in the neighborhood, when 
 
156 Ex\ST LYiNNE 
 
 the conversation at table turned upon the Ducies and 
 their embarrassments. The association of ideas led 
 Mr. Carlyle's thoughts to Boulogne, to Captain Levi- 
 son and his embarrassments, and it immediately- 
 occurred to him that he had not told his wife of the 
 anticipated visit. He kept it in his mind, and spoke 
 as soon as they were in the chariot returning home. 
 
 "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 it 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 — the heart leaped 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 into Par- 
 adise; her second was a lively consciousness that 
 Francis Levison ought not to be suffered to come 
 again into companionship with her. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle 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 but a day 
 or two. Sir Peter is in the humor to discharge th^ 
 claims; and the moment his resolve is known the ex- 
 
EAST LYNNE 151 
 
 captain can walk on 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 feel 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, all of the words that 
 caught her ear; "is he coming to-morrow?" 
 
 "Being Sunday, a free day, he will be sure to take 
 advantage of it. What has he done that 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 ill opinion 
 of him," resumed 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 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 period he is likely to remain. 
 You have taken a prejudice against him also, I sup- 
 pose, 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 companion- 
 
158 EAST LYNNE 
 
 ship? 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 posi- 
 tion, and bent his own lovingly upon it. It came into 
 her mind as she lay there to tell him a portion of the 
 truth, like it had done once before. It was a strong 
 arm of shelter round her; a powerful pillar of protec- 
 tion, him upon whom she leaned ; why did she not con- 
 fide 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 her after years, did Lady Isabel recall that 
 i midnight drive with her husband and wish, in her vain 
 I repentance, that she had opened his eyes to that dan- 
 (gerous man! 
 
 '"' The following morning they were driving home 
 from church, when sounds of distress were heard, and 
 they saw little Isabel flying toward 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." Isabel told her tale. 
 She had been a naughty child, she freely confessed, 
 and had run out in the rain for fun because Joyce told 
 her not; she had run amidst 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, plac- 
 ing 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 is amiss. " 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 159 
 
 might be inferred from the little girl's words — she 
 had recovered consciousness. 
 
 "Oh, master, don't try to move me! 1 fear my leg 
 is broken." 
 
 He did, however, essay gently to raise her, but she 
 screamed with the 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 dispatched John and the pony carriage 
 back for Mr. Wainwright, and with the aid of the ser- 
 vants, who were soon up from church, Joyce was car- 
 ried in and laid on a bed, dressed as she was. 
 
 Little Isabel stole in, and drew her mother aside. 
 
 "Mamma," she whispered, "there is a strange gen- 
 tleman downstairs. He came in a chaise. He has got 
 a portemanteau, and he is asking for you and papa." 
 
 Lady Isabel turned sick with apprehension. Was 
 he really come? "Who is it, Isabel?" she said, by way 
 of making some answer; she guessed but too well. 
 
 "I don't know. I don't like him, mamma. He laid 
 hold of me and held me tight, and there was an ugly 
 look in his eyes." The stranger was, of course, Cap- 
 tain Levison. Mr. Carlyle went 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 l^e a sim- 
 ple 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. 
 
160 EAST LYNNE 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 MRS. hare's dream 
 
 The next day rose bright, warm and cloudless, and 
 the morning sun streamed into the bedi-ooni of ^.Irs., 
 Hare. That lady lay in bed, a flush on her delicate 
 cheeks, and her soft eyes rather glistening, as if with 
 a touch of fever. 
 
 The justice rubbed his face to a shiny brilliancy, 
 settled on 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 eat it 
 this morning. Would you please to throw this win- 
 dow 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 that further one to be opened, 
 he would have opened the other — his own will and 
 opinions were ever paramount. Then he descended. 
 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 
 rshe was. She leaned over to kiss her mother. Bar- 
 I bara 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. 
 
EAST LYNNE 161 
 
 "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 fool- 
 ish 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 draw- 
 ing her to her again. "I do not give myself the 
 dreams; I cannot prevent their making me sick, pros- 
 trate and 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 outward facts; 
 but come it did. How can I help these things, I ask?" 
 
 "And it is so long since you had one of these disa- 
 greeable dream.s! 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 I that he was with us here, and 
 we " 
 
 At this moment the bedroom door was flung open, 
 and the face of the justice, especially stern and cross 
 then, was pushed in. So startled was Mrs. Hare that 
 she shook till 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 the breakfast to-day or 
 not, Barbara? Do you expect me to make it?" Bar- 
 
 11 Lynne 
 
162 EAST LYNNE 
 
 bara flew after Mr. Hare, poured out his cofiee, saw 
 him settled at his breakfast, with a plateful of grouse- 
 pie before him, and then returned upstairs with her 
 mamma's tea and dry toast. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 A VISIT 
 
 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 favorite. 
 
 The cloth was removed, the justice sat but 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 stay 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 w^altzed round the large room to a gleeful 
 song, as if she felt his absence a relief. Perhaps she 
 did. "You can have tea, now, mamma, at any time 
 you please, if you are thirsty, without waiting till 
 seven," said she. 
 
EAST LYNNE 163 
 
 **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 but neighborly. " 
 
 Barbara's heart beat quicker. Hers was indeed aj 
 true and lasting love, one that defied time and change, j 
 She having to bury it wholly within her, had perhaps 
 but 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 pres-/ 
 ence 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 their dinner will be over then." 
 
 "Yes," answered Mrs. Hare, with alacrity, who was 
 always pleased when somebody 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 toward 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, but ere she reached East Lynne she became 
 aware that the walk was too much for her. She did 
 not usually venture upon so long a one ; and probably 
 the fever and agitation of the morning had somewhat 
 impaired her day's strength. She laid her hand upon 
 the iron gate as they were turning into the park and 
 stood stilL 
 
 "I did wrong to come, Barbara." 
 
 *'Lean on me, mamma. When you reach those 
 
164 EAST LYxNNE 
 
 benches, you can rest before proceeding to the house. 
 It is very warm, and that may have fatigued you." 
 
 They gained the benches, which were placed under 
 some of the dark trees, in view of the gates and the 
 road, but not of the house; and Mrs. Hare sat down. 
 Another minute, and they Vv-ere surrounded. Mr, 
 Carlyle, his wife and sister, who were taking an after- 
 dinner stroll amidst the flowers with their guest, 
 Francis Levison, discerned them and came up. The 
 children, except the youngest, were of the party. Lady 
 Isabel warmly v/elcomed Mrs. Hare; she had become 
 quite attached to the delicate and suffering woman. 
 
 "I am a pretty one, am I not, Archibald, to come 
 inquiring after an invalid, when I am so much an 
 invalid myself that I have to stop half way!" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Hare, as Mr. Carlyle took her hand, "I 
 am greatly concerned to hear of poor Joyce." 
 
 "You must stay the evening, now you are here," 
 cried Lady Isabel. ''It will afford you a rest, and tea 
 will refresh you." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, but we have taken tea," said Mrs. 
 Hare. 
 
 "That is no reason why you should not take some 
 more," she laughed, "Indeed, you seem too fatigued 
 to be anything but a prisoner with us for the next 
 hour or two." 
 
 "I fear I am," answered Mrs. Hare. 
 
 "Who are they?" Captain Levison was muttering to 
 himself, as he contemplated the guests from a distance. 
 "It's a deuced lovely girl, whoever she may be. I 
 think I'll approach; they don't look formidable." 
 
 He did approach, and the introduction was made. 
 "Captain Levison; Mrs. Hare and Miss Hare." A 
 few formal words, and Captain Levison disappeared 
 again, challenging little Willie Carlyle to a foot-race. 
 
 "How very poorly your mamma looks," Mr. Carlyle 
 exclaimed to Barbara, when they were beyond the 
 hearing of Mrs. Hare, who was busy talking with 
 Lady Isabel and Miss Carlyle. "She has appeared so 
 much stronger lately; altogether better." 
 
EAST LYNNE 165 
 
 **The walk here has fatigued her; I feared it would 
 be too long; so that she looks unusually pale," replied 
 Barbara. "But what do you think it is that has upset 
 her again, Mr. Carlyle?" 
 
 He turned his inquiring eyes on Barbara. 
 
 She explained chat Mrs. Hare had had one of her 
 terrible dreams, in which the murderer seemed to be 
 at West Lynne. 
 
 *'Were it in my power," she added, earnestly, "to 
 do anything to elucidate the mystery, I would spare 
 no pains, no toil; I would walk barefoot 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 
 favor West Lynne v/ith him " 
 
 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 quitted the walk, bending 
 their steps backward toward the group of ladies. 
 "Could he have heard what we were saying?" ejacu- 
 lated Barbara, below her breath. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle looked down on the concerned, flushed 
 cheeks, with a smile. Barbara was evidently per- 
 turbed. But for a certain episode of their lives, some 
 years ago, he might have soothed her. "I think he 
 must have heard a little, Barbara, unless his own wits 
 were v^ool-gathering; he might not be attending. 
 What if he did hear? It is of no consequence. " 
 
 "I was speaking, you know, of Captain Thorn — of 
 his being the murderer." 
 
166 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "You were not speaking of Richard or his move- 
 ments, 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 distinguished 
 the subject, it would bear for him no interest; would 
 go, as the saying runs, 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 premed- 
 itated — that they had gone beyond her sight to enjoy 
 each other's society for a few stolen moments. Won- 
 derfully 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 to her pretty white bonnet, and 
 was restlessly playing with them, more in thought 
 than nervousness. 
 
 "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 man- 
 ner, and to give your servants trouble besides." 
 
 "A great deal too bad, I think," returned Mr. Car- 
 lyle, 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 are always kind, Archibald, smoothing 
 difficulties for all, and making a trouble of nothing. 
 Ah, Lady Isabel, were I a young woman, I should be 
 envying you your good husband. There are not many 
 like him." 
 
 Possibly the sentence reminded Lady Isabel that 
 
EAST LYNNE 167 
 
 another, who was young, might be envying her. 
 Isabel's cheeks flushed crimson. Mr. Carlyle held out 
 his strong arm of help 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 5^ou bravely along. 
 Your feet need scarcely touch the ground." 
 
 Mrs. Hare laughed, but said she thought Mr. Car- 
 lyle 's arm would be sufficient. She took it, and they 
 were turning toward 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 toward our house. He will call 
 in and tell them to send the phaeton if you ask him." 
 
 When Barbara had given the order for the phaeton 
 she became conscious of other footsteps, 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 for- 
 gotten 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 " 
 
 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 planted itself upon her memory in characters of 
 fire. Major Herbert continued to talk, but Barbara for 
 once lost her self-possession; she could not listen; she 
 could not answer; she could only stare at that face as 
 if fascinated to the gaze, looking herself something 
 
168 EAST LYNNE 
 
 like a simpleton, her shy blue eyes anxious and rest- 
 less, and her lips turning to an ashy whiteness. A 
 strange feeling of wonder, of superstition, was creep- 
 ing over Barbara. . Was that man before her in sober, 
 veritable reality, or was it but a phantom, called up in 
 her mind by the associations arising from her mam- 
 mas dream, or by the conversation held not many 
 moments ago with Mr. Carlyle? 
 
 Major Herbert may have deemed that Barbara, who 
 was not attending to him, but to his companion, wished 
 for an introduction, and he accordingly made it. ''Cap- 
 tain Thorn; Miss Hare." 
 
 Then Barbara roused herself; her senses were par- 
 tially coming to her, and she became alive to the fact 
 that they must deem her behavior 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 remain here all the time, I cannot say." 
 
 Barbara parted from them. Thought upon thought 
 crowded upon her brain as she flew back to East 
 Lynne. She ran up the steps to the hall, gliding 
 toward a group v^rhich 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 spdak to her, she draw- 
 ing back toward 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 v/hile?" 
 
 He nodded, and walked out openly by her side. 
 Why should he not? What had he to conceal? But, 
 unfortunately. Lady Isabel, who had gone out into 
 
EAST LYNNE 169 
 
 that same room for a minute and was coming out 
 again to join Mrs. 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 win- 
 dows and watched them saunter toward the more 
 private parts of the grounds; she saw her husband 
 send back Isabel. Never, since their marriage, had 
 Lady Isabel's jealousy been excited as it was excited 
 that evening. 
 
 "I — I — feel — 1 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 
 fashion." 
 
 "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 that he 
 was not. Well — just — now " 
 
 "Barbara, what can be the matter?" said Mr. Car- 
 lyle, 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 uncollected as her manner. 
 
 "What were nearly 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, Archibala. 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' holidays, and are here to spend it." 
 
 "It is a singular coincidence," exclaimed Mr. Car- 
 lyle. 
 
 ''H^^ anything been wanting to convince me that 
 
170 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Thorn is the guilty man, this would have done it/* 
 went on Barbara, in her excitement. "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 v/alk, 
 they came in contact with Captain Levison, who 
 appeared to be either standing or sauntering there, 
 his hands underneath his coat-tails. Again Barbara 
 felt vexed, wondering how much he had heard, and 
 beginning in her heart to dislike the man. He 
 accosted them familiarly, and appeared as if he would 
 have turned with them ; but none could put down pre- 
 sumption 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 toward 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 in 
 regard to Thorn?" 
 
 "It is more than I can tell you," replied Mr. Car- 
 lyle. "I cannot go up to the man and unceremoni- 
 ously accuse him of being Hallijohn's murderer. In 
 the first place, Barbara, we are not positively sure 
 that he is the same man spoken of by Richard." 
 
 "Oh, Archibald, how can you doubt? The extraor- 
 dinary 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 endeavor to ascerfein 
 whether he is the same." 
 
 "And there is no one but you to do it!" wailed Bar- 
 
EAST LYNNE 171 
 
 bara. **How vain and foolish are our boastings? I 
 said 1 would not cease striving to bring it home 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 it before them, and saw Lady Isabel stand at 
 the hall window. Yes, she was standing and looking; 
 brooding over her fancied wrongs. 
 
 "Who is that Miss Hare?" he demanded, in a cyn- 
 ical tone. "They appear to have a pretty good under- 
 standing together; twice this evening I have met them 
 in secret conversation." 
 
 "Did you speak to me, sir?" sharply and haughtily 
 returned Lady Isabel. 
 
 "1 did not mean to offend 3^ou; I spoke of Mr. Car- 
 lyle and Miss Hare," he replied, in a gentle voice. 
 He knew she had distinctly heard his first speech, in 
 spite of her question, 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Mr. Carlyle was sitting 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. Archi- 
 bald. " 
 
 "I am too busy to see anybody 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 expres- 
 sion was in the face of both. Mr. Carlyle glanced 
 down at the parchment he was perusing, as if calculat- 
 ing his time. Then he looked up again and spoke. 
 
 "I will see him, Dill. Send him in." 
 
 The business leading to the visit was quite simple. 
 
172 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Captain Frederick Thorn had got himself into some 
 trouble and vexation about "a bill" — like 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 Cap- 
 tain 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 open for him to slink out of it. 
 
 "Cannot you advise me what my course ought to 
 be?" he inquired, detecting Mr. Carlyle's hesitation. 
 '*I could advise you, certainly. But — you must excuse 
 my being plain, Captain Thorn — I like to know who 
 my clients are before I take up their cause or accept 
 them as clients." 
 
 "Well, how can I convince you that I am respect- 
 able? I have served my country ever since I was six- 
 teen, 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 deemed innocent until proved guilty. "At any 
 rate, I will advise you 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. Car- 
 lyle 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 it to 
 me once at my house; but I concluded from an obser- 
 vation that you let fall, that you had been here." 
 
EAST LYNNE 173 
 
 *'Yes, I was," replied Captain Thorn, in a confiden- 
 tial tone. "I don't mind owning it to you in confi- 
 dence, but I do not wish it to get abroad. I was not 
 at West Lynne, but in its neighborhood. 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 I am in the country 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. 
 
 "Afy Hallijohn." 
 
 Captain Thorn continued to look at Mr. Carlyle, an 
 amused expression, rather than any other, predom- 
 inant 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 trag- 
 edy 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 pres- 
 ence — 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 of that attract- 
 ive girl, Barbara. Your speaking of this has recalled 
 what they told me to my recollection. The first even- 
 ing I was at the Herberts', Justice Hare and others 
 
■^^^ EAST LYNNE 
 
 "WH,l'-''.r' "'^ reason," resumed Mr. Carlyle 
 What IS the reason, then?" "-ariyie. 
 
 A faint flush tinged the isrow of Mr Carlvtp "r 
 know more than one who would be tladto^l; R«. 
 ba«, ;n sp.te of the murder. Do not deprfcif t^e' ^H 
 
 reS 11$^%^^^ .}^y^^ -f y too wen,. 
 been heard of since, has she?" ^ ' ^' ^^' "'^^^'" 
 
 we;;?^r;d;ri'jj, add'j^ ^:;t '"^i '"°- ■'- 
 
 all, if you mean A y HaHiiohn wZ^T\^^' '~' 
 
 heedless and vain Amidst of,,'^"^'?'"'^' ^°' '^^ ^^^^ 
 for occasional tasking f„h°e,r"v7''° ^°' '^"^ ''^"^'^ 
 of the name of^Thorn"^ Was it^TyoSfP""^'"^" 
 
 tha^tt^^n-ed^t^o^s^rctldtaTtT?^^^^^^ - ^^^ 
 •X^in- rwS°d^h - ^[3 a^ SeTto°^d^- 
 
 honor; I cannot confes^^to f ' •^'°".'^° ""^ ^°° "1"^^ 
 MissAfy." ^* '° ''^^'"g been favored by 
 
 wh^d^ove^'^^or-lf^r und;;st ' .'^"^.^' ^°" «P-k of. 
 locality?" reCed Mr Carlv ri-^"^^*-^'''''" '^^ 
 him so as to take in every £e of tL ' '^'' "P°" 
 shade of the countenance, L he save t '''^'' ^""^ 
 
 "I Should think not, indeed'^ ftTa^', „„Hed lady. 
 
EAST LYNNE 175 
 
 more's the pity; young, pretty, vain and heedless, as 
 you represent this Afy. Things went along smoother 
 after a time, and she and her husband — a stupid coun- 
 try 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. Carlyl'e 
 could not solve the doubt. Mr. Dill came in as he 
 disappeared, closed the door and advanced to his mas- 
 ter, speaking in an under-tone. "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 gentle- 
 man, "and my doubts have naturally been excited as 
 to whether it could be the man in question. Curious 
 enough, Bezant, the doctor, was over here yesterday 
 from vSwainson; 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 acquaint- 
 ances. *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 
 
176 EAST LYNNE 
 
 next question. 'Yes, that he was,' replied Bezant, 
 *none more fond of galloping across the 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 clerk; "and so far as i could make out, this 
 was about the very time of the tragedy at Hallijoim's. " 
 "Think?" replied Mr. Carlyle; '^vhat 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 revery, regardless of the parchments that lay 
 before him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE TEMPTATION 
 
 Bright was the moon one genial Monday night, 
 bright was the evening star, as they shone upon a sol- 
 itary wayfarer who walked on the shady side of the 
 road, with his head down, as though he did not care 
 to court observation. A laborer apparently, for he 
 wore a smock-frock and had hobnails in his shoes; but 
 his whiskers were large and black, quite hiding the 
 lower part of his face, and his broad-brimmed "wide- 
 awake" came far over his brows. He drev\^ near the 
 dwelling of Richard Hare, Esquire, 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. 
 
 It was none other than Richard, and Barbara, ever 
 on the lookout, noticed his figure among the trees, and 
 at once stole out. "Oh, Richard, darling, I may not 
 stop and talk to you!" she wailed, in a deep whisper. 
 "Papa is at home, you see, of ail nights in the world. " 
 
 "Can't I see my mother?" 
 
 "How can you? You must wait till to-morrow 
 night." 
 
 "I don't like waiting a second night, Barbara. 
 There's danger in every inch of ground that this neigh- 
 borhood contains. " 
 
EAST LYNNE 177 
 
 ''But you must wait, Richard, for reasons. That 
 man who caused all the mischief, Thorn " 
 
 ''Hang him!" gloomily interrupted Richard. 
 
 "He 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 down as if to tie her shoes. 
 "Should it prove to be the same, perhaps nothing can 
 be immediately done toward clearing you, but it will 
 be a great point ascertained. Are you sure you would 
 know him again?" 
 
 "Sure! that I would 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 till 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." 
 
 There must be no delay now, and the next day Bar- 
 bara, braving comments, appeared once more at the 
 office of Mr. Carlyle. Terribly did the rules of con- 
 trary seem in action just then. Mr. Carlyle was not 
 in, and the clerks did not know when to expect him. 
 He was gone out for some hours, they believed. 
 
 "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, :\Iiss 
 Barbara. I expect him then. Is it anything I can 
 do?" 
 
 12 Lynne 
 
178 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "No — no," sighed Barbara. 
 
 At that moment Lady Isabel and her little girl 
 passed in the chariot. She saw Barbara at her hus- 
 band's door; what should she be doing there, unless 
 paying him a visit? A slight, haughty bow to Bar- 
 bara, a pleasant nod and a smile to Mr. Dill, and the 
 carriage bowled on. 
 
 It was four o'clock before Barbara could see Mr. 
 Carlyle. She communicated her tidings, that Richard 
 had arrived. Mr. Carlyle held deceit and all under- 
 handed doings in especial abhorrence; yet he deemed 
 that he was acting right, under the circumstances, 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 dis- 
 patch 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 calling the attention of Mr. Car- 
 lyle, 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 the din- 
 ner engagement. Mr. Carlyle was one who never 
 hesitated to sacrifice personal gratification to friend- 
 ship or to business. 
 
 The chariot was at the door, and Lady Isabel was 
 dressed and waiting 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 179 
 
 liere before. And I should not have come so soon 
 but to tell you that I cannot accompany 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. 1 assure you it is 
 no fault of mine. It is important private business that 
 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. "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 1 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. 
 "What has brought you to West Lynne again— any 
 particular object?" 
 
180 EAST LYNNE 
 
 * '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." 
 
 "That's lucky. This Captain Thorn will be here 
 to-night. You can go into the next room, and take a 
 goodlook at him. And — there he is!" said Mr. Car- 
 lyle, as a ring was heard at the bell. "Come this way. 
 Bring your hat." 
 
 "Well, Richard, is it the same man?" asked Mr. 
 Carlyle, when he had completed the business of Cap- 
 tain Thorn and shown him out. 
 
 "No, sir. Not 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, Vvdth nearly the 
 same colored 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 
 expression at times of a demon; but the expression of 
 this one is the best part of his face. Hallijohn's mur- 
 derer 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 eye ; 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 on't 
 he won't venture to West Lynne again. This man is 
 no more like that other villain than you are like him. " 
 
 Mr. Carlyle went home with Richard, and finding 
 Mr. Hare out, they both went in. 
 
EAST LYNNE 181 
 
 *'Yoti have been very kind," said Mrs. Hare; "I 
 don't know whatever we should do without you. And 
 1 want to tax your kindness yet further. 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 shiver. Barbara and I have been dis- 
 cussing 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, 
 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 his 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," she whispered, pressing Mr. Carlyle's 
 hand 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, 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 trifle 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 glowing moonlight, Lady Isabel did not 
 
182 EAST LYNNE 
 
 at first recognize him, for he wore a disfignring 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 enter- 
 tainers?" 
 
 "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 otherv/ise. 
 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. Which 
 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 neigh- 
 borhood 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 jeal- 
 ous question broke out. 
 
 "Engaged in what manner?" 
 
 "As I came by Hare's house just now, I saw two 
 people, a gentleman and a young lady, coupled lov- 
 ingly together, enjoying a tete-a-tete by moonlight. 
 They were your husband and Miss Hare." 
 
EAST LYNNE 183 
 
 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, 
 in 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 prob- 
 ably escaped her. 
 
 She leaned back, panting in her emotion, but con- 
 cealed it from Captain Levison. As they came oppo- 
 site 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, and 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 to 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 v/as 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 those bold and shameless words? 
 Alas! alas! Francis Levison applied himself to soothe 
 her with all the sweet and dangerous sophistry of his 
 crafty nature. 
 
184 EAST LYNNE 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 GOOD-BY 
 
 The minutes flew on. A quarter to 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 tearful farewell, which Mr. Carlyle 
 witnessed; then a hard grasp of that gentleman's hand 
 and Richard plunged amidst the trees to depart the 
 way he came. 
 
 "Good-night, Barbara," said Mr. Ca.Tly]e. 
 
 "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 toward his home, and Bar- 
 bara leaned on the gate to indulge her tears. Her 
 heart was aching for Richard; it was aching for the 
 disappointment the night had brought forth respect- 
 ing Captain Thorn. Still nobody passed; still the 
 steps of her father were not heard, and Barbara stayed 
 on. But — what was that figure, cowering under the 
 shade of the hedge at a distance, and, seemingly, 
 watching her? Barbara strained her eyes, while her 
 heart beat as if it would burst its bounds. Surely, 
 surely, it was her brother! What had he ventured 
 back for? 
 
 Richard Hare it was. When fully assured that Bar- 
 bara was standing there, he knev^ the justice was still 
 absent, and ventured to advance. He appeared to be 
 in a strange state of emotion, his breath labored, his 
 whole frame trembling, 
 
 "Barbara! Barbara!" he ejaculated, "I have seen 
 Thorn." 
 
EAST LYNNE 185 
 
 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 gentleman I 
 saw to-night in Carlyle's office. I have seen the fel- 
 low himself. Why do you stare 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 Beam lane, 
 which is more private for me than this road, ' ' proceeded 
 Richard. "Just as I got to that clump of trees — you 
 know it, Barbara — I saw somebody coming toward me 
 from a distance. I stepped back behind the trunks of 
 the trees, into the shade of the hedge, for I don't care 
 to be met, though I am disguised. He came along 
 the middle of the lane, going toward East Lynne, and 
 I looked out upon him. 1 knew him long before he 
 was abreast of me; 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 1 
 restrained it; or, perhaps, my courage failed. One of 
 the reproaches against me used to be that 1 was a 
 physical coward, you know, Barbara," he added, his 
 tone changing to bitterness. "In a struggle. 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 had been talking of 
 Thorn, and your thoughts were, naturally, bearing 
 upon him. Imagination " 
 
 "Be still, Barbara!" he interrupted, in a tone of 
 pain. "Imagination, 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 
 
186 EAST LYNNE 
 
 see Thorn in every shadow, or meet people where 1 do 
 not? He had his hat off as if he had been walking fast 
 and had got 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 the diamond 
 ring! Barbara, the diamond glittered in the moon- 
 light." 
 
 Richard's voice and manner were singularly earnest, 
 and a conviction of the truth of his assertion flashed 
 over his sister. "I saw his face as plainly as I ever 
 saw it, every feature; he is scarcely altered, save 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 
 but 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 
 did Justice Hare return and find her absent, Barbara 
 set off with a fleet foot, Richard more stealthily fol- 
 lowing 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. Carlj^le; fortunately, 
 also, they met no one. She succeeded in reaching Mr. 
 Carlyle before he turned into East Lynne gates. 
 
 ''Barbara!" he exclaimed, in the extreme of aston- 
 ishment. "Barbara!" 
 
 "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 got over the field stile nearly opposite the gate, 
 
EAST LYNNE 187 
 
 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, in the face of Richard's 
 agitated and intense earnestness. 
 
 "I am sure there is no one named Thorn in the 
 neighborhood, save 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." 
 
 "How was he dressed? As a gentleman?" 
 
 "Catch him dressing as anything else," returned 
 Richard. "He v/as in an evening suit of black, with 
 a sort of thin overcoat thrown on, but it was flung 
 back at the shoulders, and I distinctly saw his clothes. 
 A gray alpaca it looked like. 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; it was 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 neighborhood 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 practicable." 
 
 "But the danger?" urged Richard. 
 
 "Your fears magnify that. I am quite certain that 
 nobody 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 w^s 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 got from 
 him an address in London to which he might write, in 
 case anything turned up, and Richard's presence 
 should be necessary. He then once more said fare- 
 well, and quitted them, his way lying past^East Lynne. 
 
188 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "And now to see you back, 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 returned home 
 3^et. M}'' being late once in a way is of no conse- 
 quence. " 
 
 Not another word was spoken, save by Barbara. 
 "Whatever excuse can I make, should papa be come 
 home?" Both were buried in their own reflections. 
 "Thank you very greatly," she said, as they reached 
 the gate, and Mr. Carlyle finally turned away, Bar- 
 bara stole in, and found the coast clear. Her papa 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 tlien 
 he asked her if she was not going to bed. 
 
 "By-and-by. 1 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 smile. "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 
 
EAST LYNNE 189 
 
 made no reply. Mr. Carlyle went into the bedroom 
 and shut 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 wax light in her hand. Joyce rubbed her 
 eyes and collected her senses, and finally sat up in 
 bed. 
 
 "My lady, are you ill?" 
 
 "111? Yes; ill 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, stay at East Lynne with my chil- 
 dren. " 
 
 Joyce stared in amazement, too astonished to make 
 any reply. 
 
 "Joyce, you promised it once before; promise it 
 again. Whatever betide, you will stay 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-by, Joyce," murmured Lady Isabel, gliding 
 from the chamber as softly as she had entered it. And 
 Joyce, after an hour of perplexity, dropped asleep 
 again. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 NEVER TO BE REDEEMED 
 
 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 
 
190 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 nowhere could he find her, and, feeling 
 perplexed, 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 
 I, 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 anybody 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-room, neither is she in 
 the children's room." 
 
 "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 tow^ard Joyce's room, 
 at this suggestion, when his sister called to him. 
 
 "If anything is amiss with Joyce, you 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 expecting to find a light there, and his wife 
 sitting by the bedside. There was no light, however, 
 save 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 inside 
 the room and called to her. 
 
 Joyce started up in a fright, which changed to aston- 
 ishment when she recognized her master. He inquired 
 whether Lady Isabel had been there, and for a few 
 
EAST LYNNE 191 
 
 moments Joyce did not answer. She had been dream- 
 ing of Lady Isabel, and could not at first detach the 
 dream from the visit which had probably given rise 
 to it. 
 
 "What did yon 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' 
 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 dilating with 
 it ; she seized and threw on a large flannel gown which 
 lay on a chair by the bed, and 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 tight round her with one 
 hand, she laid the other on the arm of Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 "Oh, master! oh, master! she has destroyed herself! 
 I see it all now." 
 
 "Joyce!" sternly interrupted Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 "She has destroyed herself, as true as that we two 
 are living here!" persisted Joyce, her own face livid 
 with emotion. "I can understand her words now; 1 
 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 chil- 
 dren 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 syl- 
 lable did he believe. He was not angry with Joyce, 
 for he thought she had lost her reason. 
 
192 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "It is so, sir, incredible as yon may deem my 
 words," pursued Joyce, wringing her hands. "My 
 lady has been miserably unhappy; and that has driven 
 her to it." 
 
 "Joyce, are you in your senses or out of them?" 
 demanded Mr. Carlyle, a certain sternness in his tone. 
 "Your lady miserably unhappy! What do you mean 
 by such an assertion?" 
 
 Before Joyce could answer, an addition was received 
 to the company 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 lament- 
 able and unusual state of excitement completely over- 
 powered 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 consternation. "What is all this? Where's 
 my lady?" 
 
 "She has gone and taken the life that was not hers 
 to take," sobbed Joyce, "and 1 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 liave 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 
 
EAST LYNNE I93 
 
 it all in silence, like a patient angel, never, as I 
 believe, complaining to master. He can say whether 
 she has or not. We all loved her, we 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, confounded at the rapid words, could scarcely 
 gather in their sense. "What is it that you are saying, 
 Joyce?" he asked in a low tone. "1 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 forbidden 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 countermanded it. You have told her 
 that master worked like a dog to support her extrav- 
 agances, when you know that she never was extrav- 
 agant; 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 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 of a green cast ; and for the first time prob- 
 ably in Miss Carlyle's life, her words failed. 
 
 "May God forgive you, Cornelia!" he murmured, as 
 he went out of the chamber 
 
 He descended to his own. That his wife had lau] 
 
194 EAST LYNNE 
 
 violent hands upon herself, his reason utterly repudi- 
 ated; she was one of the least likely to commit so 
 great a sin. He believed that, in her happiness, 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 super- 
 natural strength was given her, for, though she had 
 been able to put her foot on 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, holding out a note. Joyce did not stand on cere- 
 mony 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 w^hy she left them, tell 
 them that you, their father, goaded her to it. If they 
 inquire what she is, tell them also, if you so will; but 
 tell them, at the same time, that you outraged and 
 betrayed her — driving her to the very depth of desper- 
 ation — ere she quitted them in her despair." 
 
 The handwriting, his wife's, swam before the eyes 
 of Mr. Carlyle. All, save the disgraceful fact that 
 she had flown — and a horrible suspicion began to dawn 
 upon him with whom — was totally incom.prehensible. 
 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 comprehend it; he 
 had not the clew. 
 
 At that moment the voices of the servants in the 
 corridor 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 196 
 
 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 a blanched face. 
 iSTever 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, and wavered, and 
 stood still — as if he did not know what he was doing. 
 Probably he did not. Then he took out his pocketbook, 
 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 j^our 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 its import. But he touched 
 Isabel's shoulder to draw Joyce's attention to the child. 
 
 "Joyce — Miss Lucy, in future." 
 
 He left the room, and Joj^ce 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 near, did not 
 observe her. Presently she came running bp^k. and 
 disturbed Joyce from her revery. 
 
 "Joyce, is it true?" 
 
196 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "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 emo- 
 tion from the motherless child. And just then Miss 
 Carlyle entered on tiptoe and humbly sat down on a 
 low chair, her green face — green that night — in its 
 grief, its remorse, and. its horror, looking nearly as 
 dark as her stockings. 
 
 She broke out in a subdued wail. 
 
 "God be merciful to this dishonored house!" 
 
 Mr. Justice Hare turned into his gate between 
 twelve and one; turned in with a jaunty air; for the 
 justice was in spirits, he having won nine sixpences, 
 and his friend's tap of ale having been usually good. 
 When he reached his bedroom he told Mrs. Hare of a 
 chaise and four which had gone tearing past at a furi- 
 ous pace as he was closing the gate, coming from the 
 direction of East Lynne. He wondered where it could 
 be going at the midnight hour, and whom it contained. 
 
 CHAPTER XXZ 
 
 TERRIBLE RESULTS 
 
 Nearly a year went by. 
 
 Lady Isabel Carlyle had spent it on the Continent — 
 t«at refuge for such fugitives — now removing about 
 from place to place with her companion, now station- 
 ary 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 Ladv Isabel? Just as it must be 
 
EAST LYNNE 197 
 
 expected to fare, and does fare, when a high-princi- 
 pled gentlewoman falls from her pedestal. Never had 
 she experienced a moment's calm, or peace, or happi- 
 ness, 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 the pros- 
 pective, assumed at once its true, frightful color, the 
 blackness of darkness; and a lively remorse, a never- 
 dying anguish, took possession of her soul forever. 
 Oh, reader, believe me! Lady — wife — mother! should 
 you ever be tempted to abandon j^our home, so will 
 you awake. Whatever trials may be the lot of your 
 married life, though they may magnify themselves to 
 your crushed spirits 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 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. 
 
 Nearly a year went by, save some six or eight weeks; 
 when, one morning in July, Lady Isabel made her 
 appearance in the breakfast-room. They were stay- 
 ing nov/ at Grenoble. Taking that town on their way 
 from Switzerland, through Savoy, it had been Captain 
 Levison's pleasure to halt in it. He engaged apart- 
 ments, furnished, in the vicinity of the Place Gren- 
 nette ; it was a windy old house, full of doors and win- 
 dows, chimneys and cupboards, and he said he should 
 remain there. Lady Isabel remonstrated; she wished 
 to go further on, where they might get quicker news 
 from England, but her will now was as nothing. She 
 
198 EAST LYNNE 
 
 was looking like the ghost of her former self. Talk 
 of her having looked ill when she took that voyage 
 over the water with Mr. Carlyle — you should have 
 seen her now ; misery marks the countenance worse 
 than sickness. Her face was white and worn, her 
 hands were thin, her eyes were sunken and sur- 
 rounded by a dark circle ; care was digging caves tor 
 them. A stranger might have attributed these signs 
 to her state of health ; she knew 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 Cap- 
 tain 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 got 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 overlooked them. You will 
 speedily gather his motive. 
 
 Pierre departed toward Captain Levison's room, and 
 Lady Isabel took up the letters and examined their 
 superscriptions 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; anx- 
 ious 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 learnt all his badness yet. 
 
 Captain Levison, unwashed, tmshaven, with a dress- 
 ing-gown loosely flung on, lounged in to breakfast; 
 the decked-out dandies before the world are frequently 
 
EAST LYNNE 199 
 
 the greatest slovens in domestic privacy. He wished 
 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 attended 
 the beginning of these promising unions last out a 
 whole ten months, you are in egregious error. Com- 
 pliments, the very opposite to honey and sweetness, 
 have generally supervened long before. Try it, if 
 you don't believe me. 
 
 "Two letters," she continued, "and they are both 
 in the same handwriting; 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 information of the 
 fact. "We are, sir, faithfully yours, 
 
 "Moss & Grab. 
 
 "F. Levison, Esq." 
 
 It was over, then. And all claim to the name of 
 Carlyle was declared to have been forfeited by the 
 Lady Isabel forever. Captain Levison folded up the 
 letter, and placed it securely in an inner pocket. 
 
 "Is there any news?" she asked. 
 
 "News!" 
 
 "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, 
 
200 £AS r LYNNE 
 
 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 Eng- 
 land at present, we will be happy to transact all nec- 
 essary matters for you, on your favoring us with 
 instructions. 
 
 "And we remain, sir, most faithfully j^ours, 
 
 "Moss & Grab. 
 *'SiR Fra-ncts Levison, Bart." 
 
 The outside of this 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 expression, as he tossed the letter open 
 upon the breakfast table. 
 
 "The divorce is granted!" feverishly uttered Lady 
 Isabel. 
 
 He made no ve^^'y, but seated himself at breakfast. 
 
 "May I read the letter? Is it for me to read?" 
 
 "For what else should I have thrown it there?" 
 
 "x\ few days ago you put a letter, open, on the 
 table, 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 too long. I ov/n a better 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 table hand- 
 bell — the only bell you generally meet with in France, 
 Pierre answered it. 
 
 "Put. up a change of things," said he, in French. 
 "I start for England in an hour." 
 
 "It is 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. 
 
EAST LYNNE zOl 
 
 "You do not mean what you say? You will not 
 leave me yet?" 
 
 "1 cannot do otherwise," he answered. "There's a 
 mountain of business to be attended to, now that I am 
 come into power. ' ' 
 
 "Moss & Grab say they will act for you. Had there 
 been a necessity for your going, they would not have 
 offered that." 
 
 "Ay, they say so— with a nice eye to the feathering 
 of their pockets! Go to England I must; it is abso- 
 lutely 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 his objections. Resuming, 
 after a moment's pause: "Were you to go to Eng- 
 land, 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 in 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 sud- 
 denly to England?" 
 
 "Have you no pity for your child?" she urged, in 
 agitation. ''Nothing 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." 
 
202 EAST LYNNE 
 
 *'You are worrying yourself for nothing, Isabel. I 
 shall bo 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 remembered the breakfast things, 
 and rang for them to be removed. A maid-servant 
 entered to do it, and she thought how ill miladi looked. 
 
 "Where was Pierre?" miladi asked. 
 * "Pierre was making himself ready to attend mon- 
 sieur to England." 
 
 Scarcely had she closed the door upon herself and 
 her tray when Sir Francis Levison appeared, equipped 
 for traveling. "Good-by, 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, help 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 continued, in a peevish though kind tone, 
 as he took hold of 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 for me still you will wait." 
 
 "I cannot wait," he replied, his tone changing to 
 one of determination. "It is useless to urge it." 
 
 "Say that you will not." 
 
 "Well, then, I will not; if you prefer to have it; 
 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 1 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 For the child's sake! for the child's sake! 
 
 A whole long life before it; never to hold up its head, 
 
EAST LYNNE 203 
 
 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, one-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, rais- 
 ing her supplicating hands. He grew impatient, and 
 by some dextrous sleight of hand got the door open. 
 She seized his arm. 
 
 "Not for my sake," she panted, 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-by, 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 conviction 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 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 the streets were 
 unusually black, and the people crept along, looking 
 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, into which 
 we could put four or five of our English ones, shivered 
 Lady Isabel Vane. She wore an invalid cap, and a 
 thick woolen invalid shawl, and she shook and shivered 
 
204 EAST LYNNE 
 
 perpetually; though she had drawn so close to the 
 wood fire that there was a danger of her petticoats 
 igniting, and the attendant had frequently to spring 
 up and interpose between them 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 get 
 better. She had had a long illness, terminating in 
 low fever; but the attendants whispered amongst 
 themselves that miladi would soon get about if she 
 would only rouse herself. She had so far got about as 
 to sit up in the windy chamber, and it seemed to her 
 to be a matter of perfect indifference whether she ever 
 got out of it. 
 
 This day she had partaken of her early dinner — such 
 as it was, for appetite failed — and had dozed asleep in 
 the arm-chair, when a noise arose from below, like a 
 carriage driving into the court-yard through the porte 
 cochere. 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 res- 
 olution, overspread the face of Lady Isabel. It would 
 appear 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 calm- 
 ness," 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 over- 
 looked the court-yard. "He has got out of the car- 
 riage; 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." 
 
EAST LYNNE 205 
 
 The girl departed, closing the door, and Lady Isa- 
 bel sat looking at it, schooling herself into 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 sub- 
 dued, quiet tone, not to draw too near, as any little 
 excitement made her faint now. He took a seat oppo- 
 site to her, and began pushing the logs together with 
 his boot, as he explained that he really could not get 
 away from town before. 
 
 *'Why did you come now?" she quietly rejoined. 
 
 '*Why did I come?" repeated he. "Are these all 
 the thanks a fellow gets for traveling 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 under- 
 standing, one with the other; and, so far, I am pleased 
 that you are here. It was my intention to have com- 
 municated with you by letter as soon as I found myself 
 capable of the necessary exertion, but your visit has 
 removed the necessity. I wish to deal with you quite 
 unreservedly, 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 over," she pursued, bend- 
 ing her eyes determinedly upon him. "It must be." 
 
 "AVith 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 prom- 
 
206 EAST LYNNE 
 
 ise to come back in time for our marriage; 3^ou know 
 what I mean when I say 'in time;' but " 
 
 "Of course I meant to do so when I gave the prom- 
 ise," he interrupted. "But no sooner had I set foot 
 in London than 1 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 tov/n. " 
 
 "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!" interrupted 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 ot the pockets. 
 I savv% by the date, that it was one of those two which 
 you received on the morning of your departure. It 
 contained the information that the divorce was pro- 
 nounced. "' 
 
 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 
 protestations 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 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 deemed that it was not in reason I should aspire 
 to be made the wife of Sir Francis Levison." 
 
EAST LYNNE 207 
 
 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 3^ou 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 and 
 respected baronetcy," he resumed, in a tone as of 
 apology for his previously heartless words, "and to 
 make you my wife would so offend all my familv, 
 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 j^ou 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 
 fate in life worse than the being compelled to pass it 
 with you." 
 
 "If you have taken this aversion to me, it cannot be 
 helped," he coolly said, inwardly congratulating him- 
 self 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 forever." 
 
 "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." 
 
208 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "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 
 persuasions, half as much as in your jealous anger 
 toward 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 complimentary discourse, it is 
 of no consequence to smooth over facts." 
 
 "I do not tmderstand what you would imply," she 
 said, drawing her shawl round her with a fresh shiver. 
 "How 'on the wrong scent?' " 
 
 "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 perpetu- 
 ally, related to that and to that alone." 
 
 Her face was more flushed than it had been through- 
 out 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 disreputa- 
 ble secret attaching to the Hare family, and Carlyle 
 was acting in it for Mrs. Hare. She could not seek 
 
EAST LYNNE 209 
 
 out Carlyle herself so she sent the young lady. That's 
 all I know." 
 
 *'How did you tnow 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 conclu- 
 
 ^'"^^You told a different tale to me, Sir Francis," was 
 her remark, as she lifted her indignant eyes toward 
 
 'sir Francis laughed. '*A11 stratagems are fair in 
 
 love and war. " ^^^i„ 
 
 She dared not immediately trust herself to reply, 
 and a silence ensued. Sir Francis broke it, pointing 
 with his left thumb over his shoulder m the direction 
 
 of the cradle. ^. . ,. _,,, 
 
 "What have you named that young article there? 
 ''The name which ought to have been his by inherit- 
 ance: '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 him- 
 self as if a at of idleness had overtaken him; then 
 adv'anced 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 
 mieht die ere he could speak or think, she burst 
 forth And then, remembering the resolution she 
 had marked out for herself, subsided outwardly into 
 
 '^'^VhS llv ' 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 eet it back again with interest. " 
 
 She made no reply. Sir Francis P^^t the clothes 
 back over the sleeping child returned to the fire and 
 stood a few moments with his back to it. is my 
 foorn prepared for me, do you know?" he presently 
 asked. 
 
 14 Iv'tne 
 
210 EAST LYNNE 
 
 ''No, it is not," she quietly rejoined. "These apart- 
 ments are mine now ; they have been transferred into 
 my name, and they can never again afford you accom- 
 modation. 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 not?" 
 
 "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 v/hatever 
 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 con- 
 fess I think it may be the wisest course, as things 
 have come to 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 j^ou 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 inter- 
 rupted. "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, 
 
 I 
 
EAST LYNNE 211 
 
 or means of earning my own bread, and it was neces- 
 sary that I should still exist, I would apply to my hus- 
 band 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 for 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 be5^ond 
 the pale of the world, I am still Lord Mount Severn's 
 daughter." 
 
 "You did as much toward putting yourself beyond 
 its pale as " 
 
 "Don't I know it? Have I not said so?" she sharply 
 interrupted. And then she sat, striving to calm her- 
 self, 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 me at my bankers, will " 
 
 Lady Isabel drew herself up. "Put away those 
 notes, if you please," she interrupted, not allowing 
 him to finish the sentence. 
 
 He took out his pocketbook 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?" 
 
212 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "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 immediately the house. He went into a dis- 
 tant apartment, and, calling the servants before him 
 — there were but 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 stars that he had so easily 
 got rid of a vexatious annoyance. 
 
 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 at East 
 Lynne — not back in one sense, but that she seemed 
 never to have gone awa}^ from it — walking in the 
 flower garden with Mr. Carlyle, while the three chil- 
 dren played on the lawn. Her arm was within her 
 husband's, and he was relating something to her ; what 
 the news was she could not remember afterward, 
 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 honored wife. As 
 recollection flashed across her with its piercing stings, 
 she gave vent to a sharp cry of agony, of unavailing 
 despair. 
 
EAST LYNNE 213 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 ALONE FOR EVERMORE 
 
 A surprise awaited Lady Isabel Vane. It was on a 
 windy day in the following March that a traveler 
 arrived at Grenoble. 
 
 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 therefore deemed it time 
 to inquire what he had done with you." 
 
 "Since last July, " she interrupted, lifting her wan 
 face, now colorless 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 corre- 
 spondence ; and he would scarcely be so bold as to 
 write 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 
 answered. 
 
 "He is 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 surprise. "Alice? 
 Not Blanche?" 
 
 "The story runs that he has played Blanche very 
 
214 EAST LYNNE 
 
 false. That he had been with her much, leading on 
 her expectations; and then he suddenly proposed for 
 her younger 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 St. George's. 
 I was at the church the next morning before he 
 was. " 
 
 "Not to stop it! not to intercept the marriage!" 
 breathlessly uttered Lady Isabel. 
 
 "Certainly not. I had no power to attempt any- 
 thing of the sort. I went to demand an answ^er to my 
 question — what he had done with you, and where you 
 were? He gave me this address, but said he knew 
 nothing of 5^our 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 hanging down. "Why 
 did you seek me out?" she presently broke forth. "I 
 am not worthy of it. I have brought enough disgrace 
 upon your name." 
 
 "And upon your husband's, and upon your chil- 
 dren'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 blood 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 dower." 
 
 He might have spared her that stab. But she 
 scarcely understood him. She looked at him, wonder- 
 ing whether she did understand. "You have not a 
 shilling in the world," he resumed. "How do you 
 propose to live?" 
 
 "I have some money yet. 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 wa}'. " 
 
 ' ' Trinkets ! ' ' repeated Lord Mount Severn. ' ' Mr. Car- 
 
EAST LYNNE 215 
 
 lyle 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 own 
 family, could I do less than hasten to East Lynne to 
 tender my sympathies? I went with another object 
 also — to try to discover what could have been moving 
 the springs of your conduct; for I protest, when the 
 black tidings reached me, I believed 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 hectic cheek. An awful blow U- 
 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 some- 
 thing of its harshness — and it was the first time he had 
 called her by her Christian name, "I see you are reap- 
 ing the fruits. Tell me how it happened. What 
 demand prompted you to sell yourself to that bad 
 man?" 
 
 "He is a bad man," she exclaimed. "A base, heart- 
 less, bad man." 
 
 ' ' 1 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, believing his wife to be his wife, a trust- 
 worthy woman of honor," was the severe remark. 
 
 She did not reply; she could not gainsay it; she only 
 sat with her meek face of shame and her eyelids 
 drooping. 
 
216 EAST LYNNE 
 
 *'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 entirely inexplicable; 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 con- 
 fidence on the point, that he might have set matters 
 on the 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 me speak of these things," said Lady 
 Isabel, faintly. '*It cannot redeem the past." 
 
 "But I must speak of them; I am come to speak of 
 them," persisted 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 the extraordinary letter, I should have sup- 
 posed you had been solely actuated by a mad infatua- 
 tion 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. 
 
 "He did not know," sternly replied the earl. "A 
 more truthful, honorable man than Carlyle does not 
 exist on the face of the earth. When he told me then, 
 
EAST LYNNE 217 
 
 in his agon}^ of grief, that he was unable to form even 
 a suspicion of your meaning, I could have staked my 
 earldom 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; that he had deserted me for 
 another." 
 
 The earl stared at her. *'What can you mean by 
 ^deserted?' He was with you." 
 
 "There is a desertion of the heart," was her mur- 
 mured answer. 
 
 "Desertion of a fiddlestick!" retorted his lordship. 
 "The interpretation we gave to the note, 1 and Car- 
 lyle, 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 faithful 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 Vv^hole thoughts had been of you 
 alone. It is more than many a husband can say," 
 significantly coughed Lord Mount Severn. . 
 
 Her pulses were beating wildly. A powerful con- 
 viction that the words were true ; that her own blind 
 jealousy had been titterly mistaken and unfounded was 
 forcing its way to her brain. 
 
 "After that I could only set your letter down as a 
 subterfuge," resumed the earl ; "a false, barefaced plea, 
 put forth to conceal your real motive ; and I told Car- 
 lyle 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 confidence in you, 
 
218 EAST LYNNE 
 
 and would have trusted you with the man round the 
 world; or with any one else." 
 
 She entwined her hands, one within the other, press- 
 ing 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 customary 
 office work, his time was taken up with some secret 
 business for a family in the neighborhood, 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 his 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 din- 
 ner party, but most important circumstances 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 Lady Isabel, with white lips. 
 
 **Yes, he did; I forgot it, thouofh. Rabit? Rabit' 
 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; perceiv- 
 ing this, he intended to go in afterward, but was pre- 
 vented. When the interview was over in his office, 
 he was again detained at 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 promenading in their garden by moonlight with 
 Barbara — Miss Hare. I saw them as my carriage 
 passed." 
 
 "And you were jealous!" exclaimed Lord Mount 
 Severn, with mocking reproach, as he detected her 
 mood. "Listen!" he whispered, bending his head 
 toward her. "Whilst you thought, as your present 
 
EAST LYNNE 219 
 
 tone would seem to intimate, that they were pacing- 
 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 
 interview with his poor mother — one who lives in dan- 
 ger 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 kept him from 
 the dinner party." 
 
 Her face had become crimson — crimson at her past 
 lamentable folly. And there was no redemption! 
 "But he was always with Barbara Hare!" she mur- 
 mured, 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 you construed business interviews with 
 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 
 persuasion of that wicked man." 
 
 "It is all over now," she wailed. 
 
 "Carlyle was true and faithful to you, and to you 
 alone. Few wom^en 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 
 honor. Do you know what he did in the matter of the 
 damages?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "He did not wish to proceed for damages, or only 
 for the trifling sum demanded bylaw; but the jury, 
 feeling for his wrongs, gave unprecedentedly heavy 
 
220 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 
 dishonor." 
 
 "Let us close these topics," implored the poor 
 invalid. "I acted wickedly and madly; and I have 
 the consequence to bear forever. More I cannot say. " 
 
 "Where do you intend to fix your future residence?" 
 inquired the earl. 
 
 "I am unable to tell. I shall leave this town as soon 
 as 1 am well enough." 
 
 "Ay. It cannot be pleasant for you to remain 
 under the eyes of its inhabitants." 
 
 "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 extravagance under her reduced 
 circumstances. "As soon as ever the baby can walk 
 I shall manage to do with one." 
 
 The earl looked confounded. "The baby!" he 
 uttered, in a tone of astonishment and grief. "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, stopping short in his strides to ask it. 
 
 "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 hys- 
 terical sobs, her hands extended beseechingly toward 
 
EAST LYNNE 221 
 
 the earl. *' Spare me! spare me! You have been 
 rending my heart ever since you came ; indeed, I am 
 too weak to bear it." 
 
 The earl, in truth, had been betrayed into showing 
 more of his sentiments than he intended. He recalled 
 his recollection. "Well, well; sit down again, Isabel," 
 he said, putting her into a chair. "We will go to the 
 point I chiefly cam^e 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 
 get 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. Get your own living, indeed! As 
 much as is necessary for you to live upon I shall sup- 
 ply. No remonstrance; I tell you I am acting for 
 your father. Do you suppose he would have aban- 
 doned you to starve or to work?" 
 
 The allusion touched every chord within her bosom, 
 and the tears fell fast. "I thought I could get 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 fine 'keep' it would be! You shall have 
 that sum every quarter!" 
 
 "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 your- 
 self, 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 imme- 
 diately settle four hundred a year upon you, and you 
 can draw it quarterly." 
 
 "Then half the sum," she reiterated, knowing how 
 iseless it was to contend with Lord Mount Severn 
 
222 EAST LYNNE 
 
 when he got upon the stilts of "duty." "Indeed, two 
 hundred a year will be ample; 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 flushed 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 that 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, no." 
 
 "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, marvel- 
 ing, probably, that she could ask it. 
 
 "Just what you may have said in the da^^-s now over 
 at any who had gone the way j^ou have done. What 
 did you expect that it would say?" 
 
 What, indeed! She stood there with her humble 
 face and her beating 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 consci- 
 entiousness. From the moment he heard of the false 
 step taken by Lady Isabel, and that it was with Fran- 
 cis Levison she had flown, he cast more blame than 
 he had ever done upon the conduct of his wife, in 
 having forced her — so he regarded it — upon Mr. Car- 
 lyle. In short, he considered his wife as the primary^ 
 
EAST LYNNE 223 
 
 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 blood 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 
 "'hrsiYQ Monsieur Anglais'' he was, and how delighted 
 miladi must be at seeing a friend to break the monot- 
 ony 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 getting out her smart 
 dresses once more, and that the first words she should 
 hear on entering miladi's presence would touch on that 
 attractive point. 
 
 The Earl of Mount Severn returned to the Hotel 
 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 on in her chamber, alone. 
 
 Alone — alone! Alone for evermore! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXin 
 
 AN ACCIDENT 
 
 As the year advanced Lady Isabel grew stronger^ 
 and in the latter part of the summer made prepara- 
 tions 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 
 becam.e of her. The remotest spot on earth, one 
 unpenetrated 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, 
 entirely declined to leave the place. All her luggage, 
 except the things absolutely requisite. Lady Isabel 
 had forwarded to Paris, there to be warehoused until 
 
224 EAST LYNNE 
 
 she sent further directions. It was a lovely day when 
 she quitted Grenoble. The train traveled safely until 
 in the dusk of the evening they approached a place 
 called Cammere, 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 v/ithin 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 dark- 
 ness added to the awful confusion. 
 
 The carriage in which Lady Isabel with her child 
 and bonne traveled lay beneath a superincumbent mass 
 of ruins ; they were among the last passengers to be 
 extricated. The bo?tne 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 injuries 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 horri- 
 ble 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 wretchedness. 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 preternaturally 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 aught else I can do?" asked the Sister. 
 
 '*My baby and its nurse were with me in the car- 
 riage — tell me, have they been found? Is my child 
 killed?" asked Isabel. 
 
EAST L7NNE 225 
 
 The Sister turned to gain intelligence if she could, 
 but the confusion and noise were so great that she 
 could scarcely hope to ascertain anything with cer- 
 tainty. 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 feel- 
 ing 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 fulfill your wishes. 
 Whilst your mind is preserved clear it will be well to 
 settle your duties toward those you are leaving 
 behind." The Sister had heard what the doctor said 
 of Lady Isabel's condition. 
 
 "All w^ho 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 recom.pense for your 
 sins — make in this last momient 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 the Almighty, 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. 
 
 15 Lynne 
 
226 FAST LYNNE 
 
 iir^'n^" ^ ^^^^® ^° ^^^ ^^® ^°^ y^^'^' ^^^^^ the Sister 
 Tell me now, whilst you can think of it." 
 
 , ''.^^^^ yo^^ paper and writing things at hand? 
 Write then— direct the letter first, to the Earl of 
 Mount— stay!" she interrupted, feeling how undesir- 
 able It was to make known her private affairs, even m 
 that strange place. Besides, from the injury to her 
 face, she could only speak with the greatest difficultv 
 Could I not write a line myself. I think I could 'ir 
 you will hold the paper before me; my hands a^e not 
 injured; my intellect is clear." 
 
 The compassionate Sister complied, and Lady Isabel 
 contrived to scrawl a few words as she lay first direct- 
 ing the letter to the earl's town house. They were to 
 the effect that she was dying from the fatal injuries of 
 the railvvay 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 Car- 
 lyle," she continued, "say that I humbly beo- him to 
 forgive me; that I also beg the forgiveness of his chil- 
 dren when they shall be old enough to know the crime 
 I have committed against them; tell him I repent, and 
 I have repented bitteriy— 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 
 characters like those that one on the rack mi^ht have 
 ^JZ -Q ^^^f^ssj^^. /'Forgive; Isabel," and whis- 
 pered : Send it when I am dead-not before ; and add 
 a few words of confirmation." 
 
 When at length the surgeon came up to Lady Isabel 
 to_ examine more minutely the injuries she had sus- 
 w.T^' !. Tu ''^''^^^ insensible, and they thought she 
 'TeJZ\ ^^%'^'^ '^ to the Sister, who was then 
 .neelmg beside her repeating the prayers appointed 
 for the passing soul. She finished them and retired 
 to a aistance, otner sufferers claiming her services 
 
EAST LYNNE 227 
 
 She did not return to Lady Isabel, whom she fully 
 believed to be dead; and she dispatched the letter, 
 writing in it, as requested, some words of confirma- 
 tion. The dead were buried and a special mass was 
 said for them. The survivors were sent to the hos- 
 pital; all that could be done for them was done; neither 
 skill nor kindness being wanting. 
 
 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 understood that she had not died. The surgeons, on 
 further inspection, had found life still lingering in her 
 shattered frame. The injuries were terrible enough, 
 but not of necessity 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 
 honor 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 
 toward life. She remained three months in the hos- 
 pital 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 for 
 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, strangely 
 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 possessed all his father's notions of honor. 
 
228 EAST LYNNE 
 
 ''But such an odd letter! It may require an imme- 
 diate 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 impulse of the 
 moment. 
 
 "What is dreadful?" asked Lord Vane. 
 
 "Lady Isabel — Isabel Vane — you have not forgotten 
 her?" 
 
 "Forgotten her!" he echoed. "Why, mamma, I 
 must possess a funny mxcmory to have forgotten her 
 already." 
 
 "She is dead. She has been killed in a railway acci- 
 dent in France." 
 
 His large eyes, honest and true as they had been in 
 childhood, filled and his face flushed. He said noth- 
 ing, for emotion was strong within him. "But, shock- 
 ing 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 anybody in the world half 
 so much as I liked Isabel." 
 
 "That's past and gone. You could not have con- 
 tinued to like her after the disgrace she wrought." 
 
 "Somebody else wrought more of the disgrace than 
 she did; and, had 1 been a man, I would have shot 
 him dead," flashed the viscount. 
 
 "You don't know anything about it." 
 
EAST LYNNE 229 
 
 '* 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 eat 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 ob- 
 served. 
 
 "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 color 
 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 proceeded 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 person until he had 
 opened his letters; then he would ring for Mr. Dill. 
 The letters and the Times newspaper lay on the table 
 before him. The old gentleman came up in a covert, 
 timid sort of way, which made Mr. Carlyle look all 
 the more. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir; will you let me ask if you 
 have heard any particular news?" 
 
 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." 
 
230 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 Cammere, in France, on the i8th 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. Archi- 
 bald, 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, col- 
 lected man of business again. 
 p As the news of Lady Isabel's marriage had first 
 ' come to the knowledge of Lord Mount Severn through 
 the newspapers, so, singular 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 that mistakes are often 
 made in these reports from a distance, and he deemed 
 it incumbent on him to make inquiries. He wrote 
 imm.ediately to the authorities of the town 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 
 \ 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 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 for whom he inquired. She was dead and buried, 
 
EAST LYNNE 231 
 
 sufficient money having been found upon her person 
 to defray the few necessary expenses. It will easily 
 be comprehended that the lady of whom they spoke 
 was one of those who had been in the same carriage 
 as Lady Isabel, 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 traveler who had been amongst the sufferers 
 and lay in the hospital received the English news- 
 papers, and sometimes lent them to her to read. She 
 vv^as not traveling under her own name ; she left that 
 behind her vv^hen she left Grenoble ; she had rendered 
 her own too notorious to risk the chance recognition 
 of travelers; and the authorities did not suspect that 
 the quiet, unobtrusive Madame Vine, slowly recover- 
 ing at the hospital, was the true Dame Isabelle Vane, 
 respecting whom the grand English Comte wrote. 
 
 Lady Isabel understood it at once ; that the dispatch- . 
 ing her letter had been the foundation of the misap- / 
 prehension; 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, totally unrecognized by all; 
 none can know it till they have put 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 everybody else continue to believe she was dead 
 and 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. 
 
232 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 forgot- 
 ten. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 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 looking 
 shawl, and a white veil. A very pretty woman, tall 
 and slender, was she, and she minced as she walked, 
 and coquetted with her head, and altogether contrived 
 to show that she had quite as much vanity as brains. 
 She went boldly up to the front entrance of the house, 
 and boldly rang at it, drawing her white veil over her 
 face as she did so. 
 
 One of the men servants answered it, not Peter; 
 and, seeing somebody very smart before him, bowed 
 deferentially. 
 
 "Miss Hallijohn is residing her, 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 aback. He had deemed 
 it a visitor to the house, and was prepared to usher her 
 to the drawing-room, at least; but it seemed it was 
 only a visitor to Joyce. He showed her into a sfnall 
 parlor and went upstairs to the nursery, where Joyce 
 was sitting with Wilson — for there had been no change 
 in the domestic department of East Lynne. Joyce 
 remained as upper maid, partially superintending the 
 servants, attending upon Lucy, and making Miss Car- 
 lyle's dresses as usual. Wilson was nurse still. Miss 
 Carlyle had once or twice begun upon the point of the 
 
EAST LYNNE 233 
 
 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 gray parlor." 
 
 "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 proceeded to the gray parlor. 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 consternation. 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. 1 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-humored manner 
 
 she had ever used to Joyce. "My hand won't damage 
 
 yours. 1 am not poison!" 
 
 "You are looked upon in the neighborhood 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 1 know where he is? It's like your 
 impudence to mention him 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 my choice between the two." 
 
 Then you have left Richard Hare! How long since?' 
 
234 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "I have left— what do you say?" broke off Afy, 
 whose lips were quivering ominously with suppressed 
 passion. "Perhaps you'll condescend to explain. I 
 don't understand." 
 
 "When you ]eft here, Afy, did you not go after Rich- 
 ard Hare? — did 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 Richard 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 conviction of all West 
 Lynne, and a settled belief such as that is not easily 
 shaken. Was Afy telling her the truth? She knew 
 her propensity for making false statements, when they 
 served to excuse herself. 
 
 "Afy," she said at length, "let me understand you. 
 When you left tl^is place, was it not to share Richard 
 Hare's flight? Have you not been living with him?" 
 
 "No," burst forth Afy, with kindling eyes. "Liv- 
 ing with him! with our father's murderer! Shame 
 upon you, Joyce Hallijohnt 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 to 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 235 
 
 go and live with a scalping red Indian, who goes about 
 with his body tattooed in place of clothes, and keeps 
 sixteen wives. But let's talk of something else; the 
 subject invariably gives me the shivers. Who is mis- 
 tress 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 like she has done many a time in the old days. 
 Little love was there lost between me and Corny Car- 
 lyle." 
 
 "You need not fear meeting her. She is away ; gone 
 to Lynneborough 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 rumor 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 got a nose as long as a 
 foundry chimney. Wei), one would think Mr. Carlyle 
 had had enough of marrying,'* 
 
 "Lady Isabel is dead," interrupted Joyce, hastily. 
 
 "So is Queen Anne. What's 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 
 
236 . EAST LYNNE 
 
 to stop folks giving their opinions. East Lynne must 
 have been wen rid of her— such a canker as that!" 
 
 *'Afy," said Joyce, ''I loved my mistress and I love 
 her memory stilf, in spite of what has taken place. 
 If you are to speak against her it must be in some 
 other house." 
 
 "Have it your ov/n way, " rejoined Afy, and they 
 fell to talking of other matters. 
 
 When Mr. Carlyle returned home Joyce sought him, 
 and acquainted him with what had happened; that Afy 
 was come; was maid to Lady Mount Severn; and, 
 above all, that she had never been with Richard 
 Hare. 
 
 Later in the evening, after Mr. Carlyle's dinner, a 
 message came that Afy was to go to him. Accord- 
 ingly 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." 
 
 "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 quar- 
 
EAST LYNNE 237 
 
 reled 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? 1?" 
 
 "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 con- 
 fused. But Mr. Carlyle's speech and manner were 
 authoritative, and she saw that it would be useless to 
 attepmt to trifle with him. 
 
 "I know he was, sir. A young chap, 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 nobody, sir." 
 
 "What was his name?" questioned Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 "Thorn," said Afy. 
 
 "I mean his real name. Thorn was an assumed 
 name." 
 
 "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 
 
238 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 
 afterward." 
 
 '*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 some- 
 thing 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're all 
 in the arm.y, 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 pos- 
 itive 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 to it." 
 
 "I tell you, Afy, 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 him. It was 
 
EAST LYNNE 239 
 
 that wicked Richard Hare. Sir! have I not said that 
 I'll swear to it?" 
 
 "Thorn was with you!— at the moment of the mur- 
 der?" 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 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. 
 
 "Locksley was in the wood that evening; Otway 
 Bethel was in it. Could either of them have been the 
 culprit?" 
 
 "No, sir," firmly retorted Afy, "the culprit was 
 Richard Hare; and I'd say it v/ith my last 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 bygone assertion of Richard 
 Hare? 
 
240 EAST LYNiNE 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 A NIGHT INVASION OF EAST LYNNE 
 
 In one of the comfortable sitting-rooms of 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 altogether, 
 and the light of the chandelier which fell on all, pre- 
 sented a picture of home peace, though it may not 
 have deserved the name of luxury. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle stirred the fire into a brighter blaze, 
 and stood on the hearth rug. "I wonder if it snow? 
 still?" he exclaimed to himself. 
 
 Proceeding to the window, one of those opening to 
 the ground, he drew aside the half of the warm crim- 
 son 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 finding a man's face nearly 
 
 in contact with his own. 
 
 "Let me come in, Mr. Carlyle, for the love of life! 
 I see you are alone. I'm dead beat, and I don't knovtf 
 but I'm dodged also." 
 
 The tone struck familiarly on Mr. Carlyle 's ear. 
 He drew back mechanically; a thousand perplexinjRf 
 sensations overwhelmed him, and the man followed 
 him into the room. A white man, as Lucy had called 
 to her father. Ay, for he had been hours and hours 
 on foot in the snow; his hat, his clothes, his eyebrows, 
 his large whiskers, all were white. *'Lock the door. 
 
EAST LYNNE 241 
 
 sir," were his first words. Need you be told that it 
 was Richard Hare? 
 
 Mr. Carlyle fastened the window, drew the heavy 
 curtains across it, and turned rapidly to lock the two 
 doors. For there were two to the room, one of them 
 leading into the adjoining one. Richard, meanwhile, 
 took off his wet smock-frock — the old smock-frock of 
 former memory — his hat, and his false black whiskers, 
 wiping the snow from the latter with his hand. 
 
 "Richard," uttered Mr. Carlyle, "I am thunder- 
 struck. 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 the 
 cold. "I'm dodged, Mr. Carlyle; 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. "Drink it, Richard. It will 
 warm, you." 
 
 "I'd rather have it in some hot water, sir." 
 
 "But how am I to get the hot water brought in? 
 Drink this for 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 1 was at a cab-stand at the West-end, 
 talking to a cabrdriver, when some drops of rain came 
 down. A gentleman and lady were passing at the 
 time, but 1 had not paid any attention to them. 'By 
 Jove!' I heard him exclaim to her, 'I think we are 
 going to have a pepper. We had iDctter 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 
 
 16 Lynne 
 
242 EAST LYNNE 
 
 looked at me. He turned as white as a cloth: perhaps 
 I did; 1 don't know." 
 
 "Was he well dressed?" 
 
 "Very. Oh, there's no mistaking his position. 
 That he moves in the higher circles, there's no doubt. 
 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. 1 was on the 
 pavement before Thorn was, and looked at him again ; 
 and again he went white. I marked the house, think- 
 ing it was where he lived, and, and " 
 
 "Why did you not give him into custody, Richard?" 
 
 Richard shook his head. "And my proofs of his 
 guilt, Mr. Carlyle? I could bring none against him; 
 no positive ones. No, I must wait till I can get proofs 
 to do that." 
 
 "Is this all, Richard?" 
 
 "All! I wish it had been all. 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 over into custody. 'And, remember, men are 
 not given into custody for watching others,' he signifi- 
 cantly added. 'I know you, and if you have any 
 regard for yourself, you'll keep out of my way.' He 
 got into 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 gentleman. Again I saw him, 
 standing at the entrance to Tattersalls, talking to the 
 
EAST LYNNE 243 
 
 same gentleman ; and his face turned savage — I believe 
 with fear as much as anger — when he saw me. He 
 seemed to hesitate, and then, as if he acted in a pas- 
 sion, suddenly beckoned to a policeman, pointed me 
 out and said something to him in a fast 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 some turnings and passages, through into 
 another street, and got up beside a cabman who was 
 on his box, driving a fare past. I reached my lodg- 
 ings in safety, as I thought, but, happening to glance 
 into the street, there I saw the man again, standing 
 opposite and reconnoitering the house, 1 had gone 
 home hungry, but this took all my hunger away from 
 me. I opened the box where I keep my disguise, pat 
 it on, and got out by back way. I have been pretty 
 nearly ever since on my feet coming here ; I only got 
 a lift now and then." 
 
 "But, Richard, do you know that East 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 laborer." 
 
 "Who the deuce betrayed that?" ejaculated 
 Richard. 
 
 "1 am unable to tell; I cannot even imagine. The 
 rumor was rife in the place, and it reached your 
 father's ears. That rumor may make people's wits 
 sharper to know you in your disguise than they other- 
 wise might have been." 
 
 "But what was I to do? I was forced to come here 
 first, to get a little money. I shall fix myself in some 
 other big town, far away from London; Liverpool, or 
 Manchester, perhaps, and see what employment I can 
 get into, but I must have something to live upon until 
 I get it. I don't possess a penny piece," he added, 
 drawing out his trousers' pockets for the inspection of 
 Mr. Carlyle. "The last coppers I had, threepence, I 
 spent in bread and cheese and half a pint of beer at 
 
244 EAST LYNNE 
 
 midday. I have 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 (>;^ here, hoping that I 
 might by good luck drop upon you. There was a little 
 partition in this window curtain^ it had not been drawn 
 close ; and through it I could see you and Miss Carlyle. 
 I saw her leave the room; I saw you come to the win- 
 dow and open it, and then I spoke. Mr. Carlyle," he 
 added, after a pause, "is this sort of life to go on with 
 me forever?" 
 
 "I am deeply sorry for you, Richard," was the sym- 
 pathizing answer. "I wish I could remedy it." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 BARBARA'S HEART AT REST 
 
 Barbara was sent for, and anxiously they consulted 
 together, Miss Carlyle of course putting in her word. 
 Over and over again did Barbara ask the 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 but discover 
 some one whom he knows, and inquire it!" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "I have seen him with one person, but 1 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 unsuited to a gentleman." 
 
 Richard laughed bitterly. "A gentleman!" 
 
 "Who is it you have seen Thorn with?" inquired 
 Barbara. 
 
 "Sir Francis Levi^on," replied Richard, glancing 
 at Miss Carlyle, who drew in her lips ominously. 
 
EAST LYNNE 245 
 
 "With whom?" uttered Barbara, betraying complete 
 astonishment. "Do you know Sir Francis Levison?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, 1 know him. Nearly the only man about 
 town that I do know. " 
 
 Barbara seemed lost in a puzzled revery, and it was 
 some time before she roused herself from it. "Are 
 they at all alike?" she asked. "Very much so, I sus- 
 pect. Both bad men." 
 
 "But I meant in person." 
 
 "Not in the least. Except that they are both tall. "^ 
 
 Again Barbara sank in thought. Richard's words 
 had surprised her. She was aroused from it by hear- 
 ing 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 Bar- 
 bara. 
 
 "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 nov/. " 
 
 "You must be so kind as to keep him strictly in for 
 to-day," continued Barbara, authoritatively. "Miss 
 Carlyle i:i 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 V\ras 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. He was in very low 
 spirits, almost as low as Barbara, who could not con- 
 ceal her tears; they dropped in silence on her pretty 
 
246 EAST LYNNE 
 
 silky dress. He was smuggled down the stairs, a larcfe 
 cloak of Miss Carlyle's enveloping him, into ihe room 
 he had entered by storm on the previous night. Mr. 
 Carlyle held the window open. 
 
 *'Good-by, Barbara, dear. If ever you should be able 
 to tell my mother of this day, say that my chief sor- 
 row was not to see her." 
 
 *'0h, Richard!" she sobbed, broken-hearted, "good- 
 by. 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 for an instant, and their 
 leave-taking was alone. Barbara returned to the 
 chamber she had quitted. She felt that she must 
 indulge in a few moments' sobbing; Joyce was there, 
 but Barbara was sobbing when she entered it. 
 
 "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 
 hold of 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 Franci^s 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 ; he had come 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 — 
 
EAST LYNNE 247 
 
 for he was always doing it — all reminded me of Cap- 
 tain Levison; and from that hour until to-day I did 
 believe 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. What 1 think 
 now is that this Thorn must have paid a flying visit to 
 the neighborhood that night to assist Captain Levison 
 in the wicked work he had on hand." 
 
 *'How strange it all sounds!" uttered Joyce. 
 
 "And 1 never could tell my suspicions to Mr. Car- 
 lyle! 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? 1 am so sorry to take out your 
 ponies again, and in this storm." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle laughed. "Which would feel the storm 
 worst — you or the ponies?" 
 
 But when Barbara got outside, she saw that it was 
 not the pony carriage, but the chariot that was in wait- 
 ing 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, " 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 so bravely 
 as many could have done. Mr. Carlyle only detected 
 her emotion as they were nearing the Grove. He 
 leaned forward, took her hand and held it betv/een his. 
 
 "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." 
 
248 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "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. Car- 
 lyle 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 the visit of Mr, Carlyle. 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 Bar- 
 bara 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 eyelids, 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 happiness. Then it 
 all faded down to paleness and 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 color, as before, and a deep silence. 
 Mr. Carlyle put his arm round her, and bent his face 
 on a level with hers. "Whisper it to m.e, 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!" 
 
EAST LYNNE 249 
 
 She glanced up at him ; the 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 upon a chimera. " 
 
 She cried more softly, leaning upon his arm. *' Hap- 
 piness? 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 at length at rest; 
 and she had been content to remain where she was 
 forever. 
 
 And Richard? Had he got clear off? Richard was 
 stealing along the road, plunging into the snow by the 
 hedge because it v/as more sheltered there than in the 
 beaten path, when his umbrella came in contact with 
 another umbrella. Miss Carlyle had furnished it to him ; 
 not to protect his battered hat, but to protect his face 
 from being seen by the passers-by. The umbrella he 
 encountered was an aristocratic 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, till they, 
 the umbrellas, met smash, right underneath 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 but opened and swallowed him in. 
 For now, peering into his face, was his own father. 
 Uttering an exclamation of dismay, which broke from 
 him involuntarily, Richard sped away with the swift- 
 ness 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 evi- 
 
250 • EAST LYNNE 
 
 dently 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 caliber. Nevertheless, he stood 
 still and gazed in the direction, until all sound of 
 Richard's footsteps had died away in the distance. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIl 
 
 FOR THE SECOND TIME 
 
 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. Car- 
 lyle stood near her. The tears were of joy and of grief 
 mingled ; of grief 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 was 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 ever be 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 implic- 
 itly, Archibald. Had the v/hole world laid themselves 
 at Barbara's feet, I should have prayed that she might 
 choose you." 
 
 A smile flitted over Mr. Carlyle's lips. He knew it 
 was what Barbara would have done. 
 
 "But Archibald, what about Cornelia?" resumed 
 Mrs. Hare. "I would not for a moment interfere in 
 your affairs, or in the arrangements you and Barbara 
 may agree upon; but I cannot help thinking that mar- 
 ried people are better alone." 
 
 "Cornelia will quit East Lynne, " said Mr. Carlyle. 
 "I have not spoken to her yet, but I shall do so now. 
 1 have long made my mind up to that; that if ever I 
 
 I 
 
EAST LYNNE 251 
 
 married again, I and my wife would live alone. It is 
 said she interfered too much with my former wife; nad 
 I suspected it, Cornelia should not have remained in 
 the house a day. Rest assured that Barbara shall not 
 be subjected to the chance." 
 
 "How did you come over her?" demanded the jus- 
 tice, 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. 
 
 Miss Carlyle's cold was better that evening; in fact, 
 she seemed quite herself again, and Mr. Carlyle intro- 
 duced the subject of his marriage. It was after dinner 
 that he began upon it. 
 
 "Cornelia, when I married Lady Isabel Vane, you 
 reproached me severely with having kept you in the 
 dark " 
 
 "If you had not kept me in the dark, but consulted 
 me, as any other Christian would, the course of events 
 might have been wholly changed, and the wretched- 
 ness and disgrace that fell on this house been spared 
 to it," fiercely interrupted Miss Carlyle. 
 
 "We will leave the past," he said, "and consider 
 the future. I was about to remark that I do no! 
 intend to fall under your displeasure for the like 
 offense. 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. 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?" 
 "1. Is there anything so very astonishing in it?" 
 
252 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "For the love of common sense, don't go and make 
 such a fool of yourself ! You have done it once ; was 
 that not 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 me 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 1 shall think you doubly mad now. " 
 
 "Because you have preferred to remain single and 
 solitary yourself, is it any reason why you should con- 
 demn 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!" intemperately spoke Miss Carlyle, caring not a 
 Tush what she said in her 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 neighborhood 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 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 Mis^ 
 Corny. 
 
 "Yes; as I did before." 
 
EAST LYNNE 253 
 
 *'Well, can't you open your mouth, and say who it 
 is?" was the exasperating rejoinder. 
 
 "It is Barbara -Hare." 
 
 "Who?" shrieked Miss Carlyle. 
 
 "You are not deaf, Cornelia." 
 
 "Well, you are an idiot!" she exclaimed, lifting up 
 her hands and eyes. 
 
 "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. What- 
 ever passing fancy she may have entertained for me in- 
 earlier days, she has shown no symptoms of it of late 
 years; and I am certain that she had no more thought, 
 or idea, that 1 should choose her for my second, than 
 you had that I should choose you. Others may 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 — if I 
 must have married," aggravatingly returned Miss 
 Corny. 
 
 "Slur?" 
 
 "Slur, yes! Dear me, is it an honor to possess such 
 a brother?" 
 
 "There is no slur upon Barbara. And the time may 
 come when it will be taken off Richard." Miss Corny 
 sniffed. "Pigs mayfly; but I never saw them try 
 at it." 
 
 "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 my own home?" she exclaimed. "I shall do noth- 
 ing of the sort. I shall stop at East Lynne. What's 
 to hinder me?'* 
 
254 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 the chance." 
 
 She did not answer. Her lips only parted and 
 closed again. Somehow Miss Carlyle could not bear 
 to be reminded of that revelation of Joyce's ; it subdued 
 even her. 
 
 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 learned that he could be 
 firm upon occasions, and the tone of his voice had told 
 that this was one of them. 
 
 "Joyce," began 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 master was going to do?" 
 
 "To make a simpleton of himself," irascibly repeated 
 Miss Carlyle. "He is going to tie himself np 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 she thou<rht she was about to die— a 
 
EAST LYNInE 255 
 
 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 per- 
 mitted to remain here?" 
 
 Joyce considered; she could not see her way alto- 
 gether clear. "Allow me to give you my answer a 
 little later," she said to Miss Carlyle. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 ALL FATE 
 
 "Such a journey!" Major Thorn was saying, mean- 
 while, to Mr. Carlyle. "It is my general luck to get 
 ill weather when I travel. Rain and hail, thunder 
 and heat, nothing bad 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!" 
 
 "lam 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 it would be a kind 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. 
 
256 EAST LYNNE 
 
 •'Will you shoot me, major, if I venture to tell you 
 that any second application to Barbara would be 
 futile?" 
 
 "She is not appropriated, is she?" hurriedly cried 
 Mr. Thorn. "She's not married?"' 
 
 "She is 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. Car- 
 lyle's. "No, by Jove, it sha'n't! It's all fate. And 
 if she must go to any other besides me, I'd rather see 
 her yours than any man's upon earth. Were you 
 engaged when I asked Barbara to be my wife, some 
 months ago?" 
 
 "No. We have been engaged but very recently. " 
 
 "Did Barbara betray to you that I asked her?" pro- 
 ceeded 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." 
 
 "Wrath because I asked for his daughter?" 
 
 "Wrath against Barbara for refusing. Not partic- 
 ularly at her refusing you, " added Mr. Carlyle, correct- 
 ing himself; "but she was in the habit of refusing all 
 who asked her, and thereby fell under displeasure." 
 
 "Did she refuse you?" 
 
 "No," smiled Mr. Carlyle, "she accepted me." 
 
 "Ah, well ; it's all fate, I say. But she is an uncom- 
 mon nice girl, and I wish it had been my luck to get 
 her." 
 
 "To go from one subject to another," resumed Mr. 
 
EAST LYNNE 257 
 
 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 Halli- 
 john'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 but once only. I don't 
 think he was living in 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 he like- 
 wise took shelter — a tall, dandified man, aristocratic 
 and exclusive. When he departed — for he quitted 
 first, the storm being 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, drink- 
 ing, 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 the 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? J 
 
 "Should you recognize him again, were you to see 
 him?" resumed Mr. Carlyle, awaking from his revery. 
 
 "I think I should. There is something peculiar in 
 his countenance, 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, j 
 the one he went by then, was an assumed one — willj 
 you oblige me by letting me know it?" 
 
 17 Lynne 
 
258 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "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 where he 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. " 
 
 The words took Mr. Carlyle by surprise. "Miss Car- 
 lyle has been in a hurry to tell you!" he remarked, a 
 certain haughty displeasure in his tone. 
 
 "She did not speak 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 per- 
 mitted; 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 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. 
 
EAST lvna :: 259 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 THE SAME, YET NOT 
 
 More than a year has gone b}^ 
 
 To a family by the name of Crosby, stopping at 
 Stalkenberg, in Germany, Lady Isabel is governess. 
 But look at her, reader, for she is so altered as to be 
 well-nigh unrecognizable. 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 former height. A scar extends from 
 her chin above her mouth, completely changing the 
 character of the lower part of her face; some of her 
 teeth are missing, so that she speaks with a lisp; and 
 the sober bands of her gray hair — it is nearly silver — 
 are confined under a large and close cap. She herself\ 
 tries to make the change greater, that the chance of I 
 being recognized may be at an end, for which reason' 
 she wears disfiguring green spectacles — or, as they are 
 called, preservers — going round the eyes; and a broad 
 band of gray velvet coming down low upon her fore- 
 head. 
 
 Her dress, too, is equally disfiguring. Never is she 
 seen in one that fits her person, but in those frightful 
 ''loose jackets," which must surely have been invented 
 by somebody envious of a pretty shape. As to her 
 bonnet, it would put to shame those masquerade 
 things tilted on to the back of the head, for it actually 
 shaded her face; and she was never seen out-of-doors 
 without a thick veil. She was pretty easy upon the' 
 score of being recognized now, for Mrs. Ducie and her 
 daughter had been sojourning at Stalkenberg, and 
 they did not know her in the least. Who could know 
 her? What resemblance was there between that gray 
 broken-down woman, with her disfiguring marks, and 
 
 3Wi 
 
 4 
 
260 EAST LYNNE 
 
 /the once lovely Lady Isabel, with her bright color, her 
 j beauty, her dark, flowing curls, and her agile figure? 
 ! Mr. Carlyle himself would not have known her. But 
 j she was good-looking still, in spite of it all, gentle and 
 interesting; and people wondered to see that gray hair 
 ion one yet young. 
 
 She had been with the Crosbys nearly two years. 
 After her recovery from the railway accident, she 
 removed to a quiet town in its vicinity, where they 
 were living, and she became daily governess to Helena. 
 The Crosbys were given to understand she was Eng- 
 lish, but the widow of a Frenchman — she vv^as obliged 
 to offer some plausible account. There were no refer- 
 ences; but she so won upon their esteem as the daily 
 governess that they soon took her into the house. 
 Had Lady Isabel surmised that they would be travel- 
 ing to so conspicuous a spot as an English-frequented 
 German watering-place, she might have hesitated to 
 accept the engagement. However, it had been of 
 service to her, the meeting with Mrs. Ducie proving 
 that she was altered beyond chance of recognition. 
 She could go anywhere now. 
 
 But how about her state of mind? 1 do not know how 
 to describe the vain yearning, the inward fever, the 
 restless longing for what might not be. Longing for 
 what? For her children. 
 
 It happened that Mrs. Latimer, a lady living at 
 West Lynne, betook herself about that time to Stalk- 
 enberg, 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; 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 one to be compas- 
 sionated. 
 
EAST LYNNE 261 
 
 On the evening of the day Helena Crosby communi- 
 cated 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 afterward, 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 grand- 
 mother's bonnet. I'll go and have a chat with her." 
 Accordingly Afy, who was never troubled with bash- 
 fulness, went up and seated herself beside Lady 
 Isabel. "Good-evening, Madame Vine, " cried she. 
 
 "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 gath- 
 ering from Lady Isabel's looks. "I am companion to 
 Mrs. Latimer; and she is spending 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 compan- 
 ion, 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 beating and her brain whirling, as she delib- 
 
262 EAST LYNNE 
 
 erated how she could put all the questions she wished 
 to ask. 
 
 "I ought to know it," returned Afy. "My own 
 sister, Miss Hallijohn, 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 neigh- 
 borhood 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; aban- 
 doned him and her children." 
 
 "Are the children living?" 
 
 "Yes, poor things. But the one's on its road to con- 
 sumption, 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 het 
 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," added Afy, violently indignant, "that he 
 
EAST LYNNE 263 
 
 could no jonger 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 ir?" 
 
 "It's William, the eldest boy. He is not, to say, ill; 
 but he is as thin as a herring, willi 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 1 know better. Folks in health don't 
 have those brilliant colors." 
 
 "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 con- 
 tact with that sort of misdoing lot, 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, changing the 
 subject unceremoniously, "if you were stopping at 
 West Lynne, perhaps you heard some wicked, mis- 
 chief-making stories concerning me?" 
 
 "I believe I did hear your name mentioned. I can- 
 not 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 chap called Richard Hare, 
 who decamped instanter. Perhaps you knew 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 1 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 
 d more infamous accusation was ever pitched upon?" 
 
mi EASILYNNL 
 
 •V^..-.i,i you had not gone after him?" 
 
 "No; that I swear," passionately returned Afy. 
 "Make myself a companion of my father's murderer! 
 If Mi. Calcraft, the hangman, finished off a few of 
 those West Lynne scandal mongers, it might be a 
 warning to 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 once. 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 Mount Severn. " 
 
 ""With the Countess of Mount Severn !" echoed Lady 
 Isabel, surprised into the remark. "Why, she — she — 
 was related to Mr. Carlyle 's wife. At least. Lord 
 Mount Severn was." 
 
 "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 got 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 marshaled 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. 
 
EAST LYNNE 265 
 
 But so she would at an angel — a cross-grained old cock- 
 atoo!" 
 
 "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 
 of 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 twelvemonth 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 disbe- 
 lieve ten — that 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. Nearly the first 
 
266 EAST LYNNE 
 
 thing that Mr. Carlyle did after his wife's moonlight 
 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." 
 
 "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 favor me. She knew that her brother Rich- 
 ard would have given his head to marry me, and she 
 resents it. No such great catch, I'm sure, that Dick 
 Hare, even if he had gone on right," continued Afy, 
 somewhat after the example of the fox looking at the 
 unattainable grapes. "He had no brains to speak of; 
 and what he had were the color of a peacock's tail — 
 green. Ah, me ! the changes that take placfe in this 
 world! But for that Lady Isabel's mad folly in quit- 
 ting him, and leaving the field open, Miss Barbara 
 would never have had the chance of being Mrs. 
 Carlyle." 
 
 Lady Isabel groaned in spirit. 
 
 "There's one person who will never hear a word 
 breathed against her, and that's Joyce," went on Afy. 
 "She was as fond of Lady Isabel, nearly, as Mr. Car- 
 lyle was." 
 
 "Was he so fond of her?" 
 
 "He worshiped 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 267 
 
 as a jubilee, I should say, and set all the bells in the 
 town to ring, and feasted the men upon legs of mutton 
 and onion sauce afterward. 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 defense of herself. Defense? 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, incessant long- 
 ing. 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 herself 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. 
 
 What would have been the ending it is impossible^ 
 to say, but a strange turn in affairs came ; one of those J / 
 wonderful coincidences which are sometimes, but not/ 
 often, to be met with. Mrs. Crosby appeared in 
 Madame Vine's room after breakfast, and gave hei 
 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 anothei 
 situation. Would madame have any objection to take 
 
268 EAST LYNNE 
 
 one in England? Madame was upon the point of reply- 
 ing 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 desir- 
 able situation. You will be treated as a lady, and 
 have all things comfortable. 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 governess there! 
 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 us 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. 
 
 The outcome was that Mrs. Latimer wrote to Mrs. 
 Carlyle and she was engaged. 
 
EAST LYNNE 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 CHANGE AND CHANGE 
 
 It was a foggy afternoon, gray with the coming 
 twilight, when they arrived at West Lynne. Mrs. 
 Latimer, believing the governess was a novice in Eng- 
 land, kindly put her into a fly, and told the driver his 
 destination. ''Azi revoir, madame," she said, "and 
 good luck to you." 
 
 Once more she was whirling along the familiar 
 road. She saw Justice Hare's house, she saw other 
 marks which she knew well. And once more she saw 
 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 her. 
 Her heart was sick with expectation, 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 momentarily 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 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 him- 
 self 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. 
 
270 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "It is Madame 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 \vas bring- 
 ing them up then— in reality, to gather a short respite, 
 for Joyce might be about to usher her into the pres- 
 ence of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle. 
 
 Joyce, however, did nothing of the sort. She 
 merely conducted her to the gray parlor; a fire was 
 burning in the grate, looking cheerful on the autumn 
 night. 
 
 "This is your sitting-room, madame. What will you 
 please to take? I will order it 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 palpitating; past the rooms 
 that used to be hers, along the corridor, toward the 
 second staircase. The doors of her old bed and dress- 
 ing-rooms stood open, and she glanced in wuth a yearn- 
 ing 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 was glittering 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 commodious and 
 well furnished. It was the one Miss Carlyle had occu- 
 pied when she, Isabel, had been taken, a bride, to 
 East Lynne, though that lady had subsequently quitted 
 
EAST LYNNE 271 
 
 it for one on the lower floor. Joyce put down the wax 
 light she carried and looked round. 
 
 "Would you like a fire lighted here, madame, for to- 
 night? Perhaps it will feel welcome, after traveling." 
 
 "Oh, no, thank you," was the answer. 
 
 Stephen, with somebody 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 attempt- 
 ing 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 possi- 
 ble 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 gray 
 parlor, and will do anything you like up here." 
 
 Joyce had quitted the room, and Lady Isabel had 
 got her bonnet 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 
 jthe use of lingering? — she must meet their eye sooner 
 Jor later. Though in truth, there was little, if any, "\ 
 I fear of her detection, so effectually was she disguised, I 
 ihy nature's altering hand, or by art's. It was withj 
 the utmost difficulty she kept tranquil; had the tears 
 once burst forth, they would have gone on to hyster- 
 ics, 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 
 
272 EAST LYNNE 
 
 wonder at it. Shall I tell you what she did? Yes, I 
 will. She knelt down by the bed, and prayed for cour- 
 age 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 mode of return to it was an 
 expedition precisely calculated to call down a bl'essing. 
 
 There was no excuse for lingering longer, and she 
 descended, the wax light in her hand. Everything 
 was ready in the gray parlor; the tea-tray on the table, 
 the small urn hissing away, the tea-caddy in proximity 
 to it. A silver rack of dry toast, butter, and a hot 
 Tnuiifin 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 remembered 
 them all. Not the urn, a copper one; she had no recol- 
 lection of that. It had possibly been bought for the 
 use of the governess, when a governess came into use 
 at East Lynne. If she had reflected on the m.atter, 
 she might have known, by the signs observable in the 
 short period she had been in the house, that govern- 
 esses 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. Car- 
 lyle 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 gray parlor, and was at her, the governess*, 
 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 vvould burst its bounds, and she started from 
 her chair like one who has received an electric shock. 
 
 It was nothing to be startled at— for ordinary people; 
 
EAST LYNNE 273 
 
 it was but the sound of children's voices. Her chil- 
 dren! were they being brought in to her? She pressed 
 her hand upon her heaving bosom. 
 
 No; they were but traversing the hall, and the 
 voices faded away up the wide staircase. Perhaps 
 they had been in to dessert, as in the old times, and 
 were now going up to bed. She looked at her new 
 watch ; half-past seven. 
 
 Her nev/ watch. The old one had been changed 
 away for it. All her trinkets had been likewise parted 
 with, sold or exchanged 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 hy, as an 
 evil omen at the time of the accident, how awfully 
 had the subsequent events seemed to bear her fancy 
 out! 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 spot 
 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 ques- 
 tion as to whether Mr. Carlyle was there. 
 
 "Quite alone, ma'am. My master is dining out to-day. 
 Madame Vine, I think?" he added, waiting to announce 
 her, aS; the hall traversed, he laid his hand on the 
 d rowing-room door. 
 
274 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "Madame Vine," she said, correcting him. For 
 Peter had spoken the name, Vine, broadly, according 
 to our English habitude; she set him right, and pro- 
 nounced it a la 7)wde Frajicaise. 
 
 "Madame Veen, ma'am," quoth Peter to his mis- 
 tress as he ushered in Lady Isabel. 
 
 The old familiar drawing-room; its large, hand- 
 some proportions, its well-arranged furniture, its 
 bright 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 Bar- 
 bara. 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 gii'l. "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 
 color 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 greeting. "I hope you are not very much 
 tired after your journey?" Lady Isabel murmured 
 something, she did not know what, and pushed the 
 chair set for her as much as possible in the shade. 
 
 "You are not ill, are you?" asked Barbara, noting 
 the intensely pale face— as much as could be seen of 
 it for the cap and the spectacles. 
 
 "Not ill," was the low answer, "only a little 
 fatigued " 
 
EAST LYNNE 275 
 
 ** Would you prefer that I should speak with you in 
 the morning? You would like, possibly, to retire to 
 bed at once." But this Lady Isabel declined. Better 
 get the first interview over by candlelight than by 
 daylight. 
 
 "You looked so very pale. I feared you might be 
 ill." 
 
 **I am generally pale; sometimes remarkably so ; but 
 my health is good." 
 
 "Mrs. Latimer wrote us word that you w^ould be 
 quite sure to suit us," freely said Barbara. "1 hope 
 you will; and I hope you may find your residence here 
 agreeable. Have you lived much in England?" 
 
 "In the early portion of my life." 
 
 "And you have lost your husband and children? 
 Stay. I beg your pardon if I am making a mistake; 
 I think Mrs. Latimer did mention children." 
 
 "I have lost them," was the faint, quiet response. 
 
 "Oh, but it must be terrible grief when children 
 die!" exclaimed Barbara, clasping her hands in emo- 
 tion. "I would not lose my baby for the world. I 
 could not part with him." 
 
 "Terrible grief, and hard to bear," outwardly 
 assented Lady Isabel. But in her heart she was think- 
 ing that death was not the worst kind of parting. 
 There was another, far more dreadful. Mrs. Carlyle 
 began to speak of the children about to be placed 
 under her charge. "You are no doubt aware that 
 they are not mine! Mrs. Latimer would tell you. 
 They are the children of Mr. Carlyle's first wife." 
 
 "And Mr. Carlyle's," interrupted Lady Isabel. 
 What in the world made her say that? She wondered, 
 herself, the moment the words were out of her mouth. 
 A scarlet streak flushed her cheeks, and she remem- 
 bered that there must be no speaking upon impulse at 
 East Lynne. 
 
 "Mr. Carlyle's, of course, "said Barbara, believing 
 Madame Vine had but asked the question. "Their 
 position — the girl's in particular — is a sad one, for their 
 mother left them. Oh, it was a shockins^ business." 
 
278 EAST LYNNE 
 
 *'She is dead, I hear," said Lady Isabel, hoping to 
 turn the immediate point of conversation. Mrs. Car- 
 lyle, however, continued, as though she had not heard 
 her. 
 
 "Mr. Carlyle married Lady Isabel Vane, the late 
 Lord Mount Severn's daughter. She was attractive 
 and beautiful, but I do not fancy she cared very much 
 for her husband. However that may have been, she 
 ran away from him. ' ' 
 
 "It was very sad," observed Lady Isabel, feeling 
 that she was expected to say something. Besides she 
 had lies ^r ok to play. 
 
 "Sad? It was wicked; it was infamous," returned 
 Mrs. Carlyle, giving way to some excitement. "Of 
 all men living, of all husbands, Mr. Carlyle least 
 deserved such a requital. You will say so v/hen you 
 _come to know him. And the affair altogether was a 
 '^Hyste^^ for it never was observed or suspected by 
 any one that Lady Isabel entertained a liking for 
 another. She eloped with Francis Levison — Sir Fran- 
 cis, he is now. He had been staying at East Lynne, 
 but no one had detected any undue intimacy between 
 them, not even Mr. Carlyle. To him, as to others, her 
 .conduct must always remain a mastery, ' ' 
 
 Madame Vine appeared to be occupied v\^ith 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 
 motlier " 
 
 "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, 
 I\Lidame Vine, not to encourage them in that. They 
 had better forget her." 
 
 "Mr. Carlyle would naturally wish them to do so." 
 
 "Most certainly. There is little doubt that Mr. Car- 
 lyle would blot out all recollection of her, were it pos- 
 sible. But, unfortunately, she was the children's 
 
EAST LYNNE 277 
 
 mother, and for that there is no help. 1 trust you will 
 be able to instill principles into the little girl which 
 will keep her from a like fate." 
 
 " I will try, " answered Lady Isabel, with more fervor 
 than she had yet spoken. "Are the children much 
 with you, may I inquire?" 
 
 "No; I never was fond of being troubled with chil- 
 dren. 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 tool 
 many mothers pursue a mistaken system in the man-| 
 :igement of their family. There are some, we know/ 
 \vho, lost in the pleasures of the world, in frivolity, 
 wholly neglect them. Of these I do not speak ; noth- 
 ing 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 — rendering themselves slaves and the nurse's 
 office a sinecure. The children are noisy, trouble- 
 some, cross — all children will be so — and the mother's 
 temper gets 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 sha'n't do this; you shall be still,' 
 and that perpetually, 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 elsewhere. I could mention 
 instances in this neighborhood," continued Mrs. Car-, 
 lyle, "where things are managed precisely as I havej 
 described, even in our own class of life. I consider it) 
 a most mistaken and pernicious system." ^J 
 
278 EAST LYNNE 
 
 'It undoubtedly is," answered Lady Isabel, feeling 
 a sort of thankfulness, poor thing, that the system had 
 not been hers when she had a home and children. 
 ~ "Now what I trust I shall never give up to another 
 will be the training of my children," pursued Barbara. 
 ''Let the offices properly pertaining to a nurse be per- 
 formed 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 
 Iplace. But I hope I shall never fail to gather my chil- 
 'dren round me daily, at stated and convenient periods, 
 for higher purposes: to instill into them Christian and 
 moral duties; to strive to teach them how best to fulfill 
 the obligations of life. 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 aught from its mother's lips but persuasive 
 gentleness; and this becomes impossible if she is very 
 much with her children." Lady Isabel silentl)) 
 (assented. Mrs. Carlyle's views were correct. 
 
 "When I first came to East Lynne I found Miss 
 Manning, the governess, was doing everything neces- 
 sary for Mr. Carlyle's children in the way of the train- 
 ing that I speak of," resumed Barbara. "She had 
 them with her for a short period every morning, even 
 the little one ; I saw 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 long been engaged to an officer in the army, 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 under«;tand 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 the measles in the spring, and 
 the illness left a cough upon William, the eldest boy. 
 Mr. Wainwright says he will outgrow it." 
 
£AST LYNNE 279 
 
 *'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 v/as so con- 
 cerned, that he left the dinner-table and went up to 
 the nursery; he gave Joyce strict orders that the child 
 should never again be 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 came 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 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 stam- 
 mered forth the actual truth. 
 
 "Three. And — and a baby. That died. Died an 
 infant, 1 mean." 
 
 "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 an almost inaudi- 
 ble 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 drops from her pale forehead. 
 Barbara detected her emotion, and felt sorry to have 
 made the inquiries; she judged it was caused by the 
 recollection of her children. 
 
 "Mrs. Latimer wrote us word you were of gentle 
 
280 EAST LYNNE 
 
 birth and breeding," she resumed, presently. "I am 
 sure you will excuse my asking these particular ques- 
 tions," 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 gentlewoman," said Barbara. "How sad it is 
 Avhen pecuniary reverses fall upon us! I dare say you 
 never thought to go out as 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, did not leave you well off. 
 Mrs. Latimer said something to that effect." 
 
 "When 1 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 hesitated as she was moving 
 away. 
 
 "I will have the baby here to-night," she said to 
 the girl. "Tell the 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 go 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 281 
 
 months old ever did yet. So thought Barbara. He 
 was in his clean white night-gown, and night-cap, 
 with their pretty crimped frills and border — altogether 
 a pleasant sight to look upon. She had once sat 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. Them blue spectacles 
 capped everything, she decided. And what on earth 
 made her tie up her throat in that fashion for? As 
 well wear a man's collar and stock at once! If her 
 teaching was no better than her looks. Miss Lucy 
 might as well go to the parish charity school! 
 
 "Shall I wait, ma'am?" demurely asked Wilson, hci 
 investigations being concluded. 
 
 "No," said Mrs. Carlyle. *'I will ring." 
 
 Baby was exceedingly busy taking his supper. And, 
 of course, according to all baby precedent, he ought 
 to have gone off into a sound sleep over it. But the 
 supper concluded, and the gentleman seemed to have 
 no more sleep in his eyes than he had before he began. 
 He sat up, crowed at the lights, stretched out his hands 
 for them, and set his mother at defiance, absolutely 
 refusing to be hushed up. 
 
 "Do you wish to keep awake all night, you rebel?" 
 cried Barbara, fondly looking on him. A loud crow 
 by way of answer. Perhaps it was intended to inti- 
 mate that he did. She clasped him to her with a sud- 
 den gesture of rapture, a sound of love, and devoured 
 his pretty face with kisses. Then she took him in her 
 arms, putting him to sit upright, and approached 
 Madame Vine. 
 
 "Did you ever see a m.ore lovely child?" 
 
 "A fine baby, indeed," she constrained herself to 
 answer; and she could have fancied it her own little 
 Archibald over again when he was a baby. "But he 
 is not much like you," 
 
V 
 
 282 EAST LYNNE 
 
 **He is the very image of my darling husband. When 
 5''ou see Mr. Carlyle — " 
 
 Barbara stopped, and bent her ear, as if listening. 
 
 "Mr. Carlyleisprobably a handsome man," said poor 
 Lady Isabel, believing that the pause was made to 
 give her an opportunity of putting in an observation. 
 
 '*He is handsome; but that is the least good about 
 him. He is the most noble man! revered, respected 
 by every one; I may say, loved. The .only one who 
 could not appreciate him was his wife. However she 
 could leave him — how she could even look at another, 
 after calling Mr. Carlyle husband, will always be a 
 marvel to those who know him." 
 
 A bitter groan — and it nearly escaped her lips. 
 
 "That certainly is the pony-carriage," cried Bar- 
 bara, bending her ear again. "If so, how very early 
 Mr. Carlyle is home! Yes, I am sure it is the sound 
 of the wheels." 
 
 How Lady Isabel sat, she scarcely knew; how she 
 concealed her trepidation, she never would know. A 
 pause; an entrance to the hall; Barbara, baby in arms, 
 advanced to the drawing-room door, and a tall form 
 entered. Once more Lady Isabel was in the presence 
 of her sometime husband. 
 
 He did not perceive that any one was present, and 
 he bent his head and fondly kissed his wife. Isabel's 
 jealous eyes were turned upon them. She saw Bar- 
 bara's passionate, lingering kiss in return, she heard 
 her fervent, whispered greeting, "My darling!" and 
 she watched him turn to press the same fond kisses 
 on the rosy, open lips of his child. Isabel flung her 
 hands over her face. Had she bargained for this? It 
 was part of the cross she had undertaken to carry, and 
 she must bear it. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle came forward and saw her. He looked 
 somewhat surprised "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 
 
EAST LYNNE 283 
 
 been tenderly clasped in his a thousand times ; that it ] 
 was the one pledged to him at the altar at Castle Mar-j 
 ling. 
 
 She sat down on the 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. Car- 
 lyle 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 at home soon, Archibald," Barbara 
 exclaimed. '*I did not expect you so early. I did 
 not think you could get away. I know what the jus- 
 tices' annual dinner at the Buck's Head is; they always 
 make it late." 
 
 **As they will to-night," laughed Mr. Carlyle. "I 
 watched my opportunity, and got away when the 
 pipes were brought in ; I had determined to do so, if 
 possible. Dill — who means to stick 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 table's head. What would 
 the dinner be without the chairman of the bench, Bar- 
 bara?" 
 
 "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 palpa- 
 bly so for one ear. 
 
 "No, but listen. You know papa is going to Lon- 
 don with Squire Pinner, to see those new agricultural 
 
284 EAST LYNNE 
 
 implements — or whatever it is. They are sure to be 
 away three days. Don't you think so?" 
 
 "And three to the back of it," said Mr. Carlyle, 
 with a wicked smile upon his lips. "When old gentle- 
 men get plunged into the attractions of London, 
 there's no answering for them getting out of them in 
 a hurry, country justices especially. Well, Barbara?" 
 
 "I was thinking if we could but 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 monot- 
 onous life." 
 
 "1 wish you could," 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 nov/, " he 
 added, in a spirit of politeness, addressing himself to 
 Madame Vine. 
 
 She simply bowed her head ; she did not trust her- 
 self to speak. Mr. Carlyle scanned her face atten- 
 tively, as she sat, her head bent downward. She did 
 not appear inclined to be sociable, and he turned to 
 the baby, who was wider awake than ever. 
 
 "Young sir, I should like to know what brings you 
 up, and here, at this hour?" 
 
 "You may well ask," said Barbara. "I had him 
 brought down, as you were not here, thinking he 
 would be asleep directly. And only look at him! no 
 more sleep in his eyes than in mine!" 
 
 She would have hushed him to her as she spoke, but 
 the young gentleman stoutly repudiated it. He set up 
 a half cry, and struggled his arms and head free 
 again, crowing the next moment most impudently. 
 Mr. Carlyle took him. 
 
 "It is of no use, Barbara; he is beyond 5^our coaxing 
 this evening," and he tossed the child in his strong 
 arms, held him up to the chandelier, made him bob at 
 the baby in the pier-glass, until the baby was in an 
 ecstasy of delight. Finally he smothered his face 
 
EAST LYNNE 285 
 
 with kisses, as Barbara had done. Barbara rang the 
 bell. 
 
 Oh! can you imagine what it was for Lady Isabel? 
 So had he tossed, so had he kissed her children, she 
 standing by, the fond, proud, happy mother, as Bar- 
 bara was standing now. Mr. Carlyle came up to 
 her. 
 
 "Are you fond of these little troubles, Madame 
 Vine? This one is a fine fellow, they say." 
 
 "Very fine. What is his name?" she replied by way 
 of saying something. 
 
 "Arthur." 
 
 "Arthur Archibald," put in Barbara to Madame 
 Vine. "I was vexed that his name could not be 
 entirely Archibald, but that was already monopolized. 
 Is it you, Wilson? I don't know what you'll do with 
 him, but he looks as if he would not be asleep by 
 twelve o'clock. " 
 
 Wilson satisfied her curiosity by taking another pro- 
 longed stare at Madame Vine, received the baby from 
 Mrs. Carlyle, and departed with him. 
 
 IMadame Vine rose. Would they excuse her? she 
 asked in a low tone; she was tired, and would be glad 
 •to retire to rest. 
 
 Of course. And would she ring for anything she 
 might wish in the way of refreshments? Barbara 
 shook hands with her, in her friendly way; and Mr. 
 Carlyle crossed the room to open the door for her, and 
 bowed her out with a courtly smile. 
 
 She went up to her chamber at once. To rest? 
 Well, what think you? She strove to say to her lacer- 
 ated and remorseful heart that the cross — far heavier 
 though it was proving than anything she had imag- 
 ined or pictured — was only what she had brought upon 
 herself, and must bear. Very true ; but none of us 
 would like such a cross to be upon our shoulders. 
 
 "Is she not droll-looking?" cried Barbara, when she 
 was alone with Mr. Carlyle. "1 can't think why she 
 wears those blue spectacles; it cannot be for her 
 sight, and they are very disfiguring." 
 
286 EAST LYNNE 
 
 She puts me in mind of— of " began Mr. Carlyle, 
 
 in a dreamy tone. 
 
 "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. Nobody in particular," returned 
 he, rousing himself. "Letnis have tea in, Barbara." 
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 THE YEARNING OF A BREAKING HEART 
 
 At her bed-room door, the next morning, stood Lady 
 
 Isabel, listening whether the coast was clear, ere she 
 
 descended to the gray parlor, for she had a shrinking 
 
 dread of encountering Mr. Carlyle. When he was 
 
 r 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 w'as~tHe 
 
 I husband of another; therefore it was not expedient 
 
 M:hat 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 — an upright, fair, noble 
 boy, of some five years old, who began careening 
 along the corrider, astride upon a hearth-broom. She 
 did not need to be told that it was her boy, Archibald, 
 his likeness to Mr. Carlyle would have proclaimed it, 
 even if her heart had not. In an impulse of unre- 
 strainable 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, and the 
 tears raining from her eyes. She could not have 
 helped the tears, had it been to save her life ; she could 
 
EAST LYNNE 287 
 
 as little have helped the kisses. Lifting her eyes, 
 there stood Wilson, who had entered without cere- 
 mony. A sick feeling came over Lady Isabel ; she felt 
 as if she had betrayed herself. All that could be done 
 now to make the best of it — to offer some lam.e 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; while 
 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 v/e come near." 
 
 Wilson, who stared only in a less degree than Archie, 
 for she deemed the new governess had gone suddenly 
 mad, gave some voluble assent, and turned her atten- 
 tion upon Archie. "You naughty young monkey, how 
 dared you rush out in that way with Sarah's hearth- 
 broom? I'll tell you what it is, sir; you are getting 
 too owdacious and rumbustical for the nursery; I shall 
 speak to your mamma about it." She seized hold of 
 the child and shook him. Lady Isabel started for- 
 ward, her hands up, her voice one of painful entreaty: 
 "Oh, don't, don't beat him! 1 cannot see him 
 beaten." 
 
 "Beaten!" echoed Wilson; "if he got a good beating 
 it would be all the better for him; but it's what he 
 never does get. 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 up at the top of the nursery door. And if I did, 
 he'd be for climbing up the doorpost to get at it." 
 
 The last sentence Wilson delivered to the governess, 
 as she jerked Archie out of the room, along the pas- 
 sage 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 
 
288 EAST LYNNE 
 
 him! She descended to the gray parlor. The t\^o 
 elder children, and breakfast, were waiting; Joyce 
 quitted 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 fea- 
 tures, her once bright and delicate complexion, her 
 large, soft, brown eyes. How utterly her heart 
 yearned to them ! but there must be no scene like there 
 had just been above. Nevertheless, she stooped and 
 kissed them both; one kiss each of impassioned fervor. 
 Lucy was naturally silent, William somewhat talkative. 
 
 "You are our nev^ 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 knov/ 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 strik- 
 ing upon her memory. "Mr. Kane, the m.usic- 
 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 as she 
 niuttered 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, as he teaches the classics as well. 
 He has come to teach us music since Miss Manning 
 left; mamma said that we ought not to lose our les- 
 sons." 
 
 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. 
 
EAST LYNNE 289 
 
 "Do you always take bread and milk for breakfast?" 
 she inquired, perceiving that to be what they were 
 eating. 
 
 "We get 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 
 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," she cried, "and Aunt 
 Cornelia said it was not good for me, but papa gave it 
 to me all the same. I always had breakfast with him 
 then." 
 
 "And why do you not now?" asked Lady Isabel. 
 
 "1 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 daily routine of their lives. 
 
 "This is not the school-room, you know," cried 
 William, when she made some inquiries as to their 
 books. 
 
 "No?" 
 
 "The school-room is upstairs. This is for our 
 meals, and for you in the evening." 
 
 The voice of Mr. Carlyle was heard at this juncture 
 in the hall, and Lucy was springing toward the sound. 
 Lady Isabel, fearful lest he might enter if the child 
 showed herself, stopped her with a hurried hand. 
 
 "Stay her, Isabel." 
 
 "Her name's Lucy," said William, looking quickly 
 up. "Why do you call her Isabel?" 
 
 "I thought — I thought I heard her called Isabel," 
 stammered the unfortunate lady, feeling quite con- 
 fused 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 
 
 19 Lynne 
 
290 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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!" 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. Wil- 
 son 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." 
 
 "Do you love this one as you did the other?" 
 breathed Lady Isabel. "Oh, I loved mamma! I loved 
 mamma!" uttered Lucy, clasping her hands. "But 
 it's all over. Wilson said we must not love her any 
 longer, and Aunt Cornelia said it. Wilson said if she 
 had loved us she would not have gone away from 
 us." 
 
 "Wilson said so?" resentfully spoke Lady Isabel. 
 
 "She said she need not have let that man kidnap 
 her. I am afraid he beat her, for she died. I lie in 
 my bed at night and wonder whether he did beat her, 
 and what made her die. It was after she died that 
 our new mamma came home. Papa said she was come 
 
EAST LYNNE 291 
 
 to be our mamma in place of Lady Isabel, and we 
 were to love her dearly." 
 
 *'Do you love her?" almost passionately asked Lady 
 Isabel. Lucy shook her head. "Not as 1 loved 
 mamma." 
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE 
 
 They were at tea in the gray parlor, Lady Isabel 
 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 hang- 
 ing over him with unguarded tenderness, when, hap- 
 pening 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, looking at her with his sweet smile. 
 
 She did not know what she answered; some con- 
 fused, 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 color gone; it was too bril- 
 liant, as Afy had said. Mrs. Carlyle entwined her arm 
 within her husband's, but turned her head to speak 
 as they were walking away. 
 
292 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "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 
 ^vas — what she was. Once more she drew to her her 
 first-born son, and laid her aching forehead upon 
 him. 
 
 "Do 5'ou 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 hirn. 
 
 "No. I have a room to myself." 
 
 She fell into deep thought, wondering whether they 
 would let a little bed be put up in 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 aware that he was possessed of that preco- 
 cious 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. 
 "Knowing," "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. 
 
 "1 don't know. Why should I sleep in your room?" 
 
 "I could attend to you; could give you jelly, or 
 anything else 3^ou might require, if you v/ere 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 293 
 
 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. Mamma " 
 
 "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 
 but a day, and 1 have learned to love you. I love you 
 already, very, very much." 
 
 She pressed her lips to his hot cheeks 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 on this evening, she 
 saw Lucy, who was peeping out of the gray parlor. 
 
 "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, 
 
294 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 tone suppressed, "have you had much 
 experience in the ailments of children?" 
 
 She was about to answer "No;" for her own chil- 
 dren, so long as she had been with them, were remark- 
 ably healthy. But she remembered that she was sup- 
 posed to have lost four by death, and must speak 
 accordingly. 
 
 "Not a very great deal, sir. Somewhat, of course." 
 
 "Does it strike you that this is an ugly cough of 
 William's?" 
 
 "I think that he wants care; that he should be con- 
 tinually watched, especially at night. 1 was wishing 
 .that he might be allowed to sleep in my room," she 
 added, some strong impulse prompting her to prefer this 
 request to Mr. Carlyle, trembling inwardly and out- 
 wardly as she did so. "His bed could be readily 
 moved in, and I would attend to him, sir, as — as — I 
 would attend more cautiously than any servant would 
 be likely to do * 
 
 "By no means,' warmly responded Mr. Carlyle. 
 "We would not think of giving you the trouble. He is 
 not ill to require night- nursing; and, if he were, our 
 servants are to be depended on." 
 
 "I am so fond of children," she ventured to plead. 
 "I have already taken a great liking for this one, and 
 would wish to make his health my care by night and 
 by day. It would be a pleasure to me." 
 
 "You are truly kind. But I am sure Mrs. Carlyle 
 would not hear of it; it would be taxing you unrea- 
 sonably." 
 
 His tone was one of decision, and he opened the 
 door for her to pass in. 
 
 An evening to herself in the gray parlor. A terrible 
 evening; one made up of remorse, grief, rebellion, and 
 bitter repentance; repentance of the wretched past. 
 
EAST LYNNE 295 
 
 rebellion at existing things. Between nine and ten she 
 dragged herself upstairs, purposing to retire to rest. 
 
 As she was about to enter her chamber, Sarah, Wil- 
 son's assistant in the nursery, was passing, and a sud- 
 den thought occurred to Lady Isabel. "In which 
 room does Master Carlyle sleep?" she asked. "Is it 
 on this floor?" 
 
 The girl pointed to a near door. "In there, 
 ma'am." 
 
 Lady Isabel watched her downstairs and then 
 entered the room softly. A little white bed, and Wil- 
 liam's beautiful face lying on it. His cheeks were 
 flushed, his hands were thrown out, as if with inward 
 fever; but he was sleeping quietly. By the bedside 
 stood a saucer, some currant jelly in it, and a teaspoon: 
 there was also a glass of water. 
 
 She glided down upon her knees and let her face 
 I est on the bolster beside him, her breath in contact 
 with his. Her eyes were wet ; but that she might wake 
 him, she would have taken the sleeper on to her 
 bosom, and caressed him there. Death for him? She 
 could hardly think it. 
 
 "My gracious heart alive! Seeing a light here, if I 
 didn't think the room was on fire. It did give me a 
 turn." 
 
 The speaker was Wilson, who had discerned the 
 light in passing the door. Lady Isabel sprang up as 
 though she had been shot. She feared the detection 
 of Wilson and Joyce more than she feared that of Mrs. 
 Carlyle. 
 
 "I am looking at Master William," she said, as 
 calmly as she could speak. ' ' Mr. Carlyle appears some- 
 what uneasy respecting his cough. He has a flushed, 
 delicate look." 
 
 "It is nothing, " returned Wilson. "It's just the 
 look that his mother had. The first time I saw her, 
 nothing would convince me but what she had got 
 paint on." 
 
 "Good-night," was all the reply made by Lady 
 Isabel, as she retreated to her own room. 
 
296 EAST LYNNE 
 
 ^'Good-night, madame," replied Wilson, returning 
 toward the nursery. "I'll be blest if 1 know what to 
 think of that French governess!" she mentally contin- 
 ued. *'I hope it may turn cut that she's not deranged, 
 that's aU " 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 AN M. P. FOR WEST LYNNE 
 
 *' Barbara," said Mr. Carlyle one day, '*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." 
 
 "I am not sure of that. 1 think I am, for a portion 
 of the year. I have had an offer made me this after- 
 noon, Barbara." 
 
 She looked at him, wondering what he meant; won- 
 dering whether he was serious. 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 color, 
 and then she gleefully 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 re- 
 main 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 but a laboring man, toiling 
 daily for the bread you eat, you would be contented, 
 feeling that you were fulfilling your appointed duty to 
 the utmost; but, Archibald, could you not be still a 
 busy man at West Lynne, although you should be- 
 come its representative?" 
 
EAST LYNNE 297 
 
 "If I could not, I would not accept the honor, Bar- 
 bara. 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 between 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?" she inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 "Well," smiled Mr. Carlyle, "in the first place, I 
 suppose you could not always be with me." 
 
 Her hands fell; her color faded. "Oh, Archibald!" 
 
 "If I do become their member I must go up to town 
 as soon as elected; and 1 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 go very well 
 with you 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 contin- 
 ued, 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. 
 
298 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 recogni- 
 tion. She and the children were upon the best terms; 
 she had greatly endeared herself to them, and they 
 loved her; perhaps na ture was asserting her own hid - 
 d en claim s. 
 
 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. 
 Wainwright attended him^ daily now. In the day he 
 looked tolerably well, for the exceeding beauty and 
 brightness of his complexion disarmed suspicion; but 
 toward evening, as soon as twilight came on, his ill- 
 ness showed itself outwardly. His face would be of a 
 pallid whiteness, he could scarcely speak for weakness, 
 and his favorite resting-place was the hearth-rug in 
 the gray parlor. 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, one or two evenings, and then the old place 
 was resumed, and he would not quit it. He was 
 lying there, as usual, on this evening, when Hannah 
 came in with the tea-things. She gazed down for a 
 minute or two at the boy, v/hom 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 sometimes renders us partially blind to it's 
 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 299 
 
 William; the winter improvement had dispelled that 
 concern ; while the spring change had come on so grad- 
 ually that her fears had not taken alarm. She judged 
 him to be a delicate boy, one 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 your- 
 self!" 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 feelings of one 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 particular the matter with him, 
 Hannah. He is only weakly." But she spoke these 
 words in braving defiance of her thoughts; anxious, 
 if we may so say it, to deceive herself. Even as she 
 gave expression to them, her pulses were going pit-a- 
 pat v/ith the fear, the next to certainty, that there was 
 worse the matter with him. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 SIR FRANCIS LEVISON AT HOME 
 
 Wonders never cease. Surprises are the lot of man. 
 But perhaps a greater surprise had never been experi- 
 enced by those who knew him, than when it went 
 forth to the world that Sir Francis Levison had con- 
 verted himself from — from what he was, into a red- 
 hot politician. 
 
 Had he been offered the post of prime minister? Or 
 did his conscience smite him? — as was the case with a 
 certain gallant captain renowned in song. Neither 
 the one nor the other The simple fact was that Sir 
 Francis Levison was in a state of pecuniary embarrass- 
 ment, and required something to prop him up — some 
 snug sinecure ; plenty to get and nothing to do. 
 
 "He in pecuniary embarrassment!" cries the reader. 
 
300 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "How could that be?" No easier thing **to be" in 
 this world, if a man plunges into the amusements 
 favored by Francis Levison. When he came into his 
 fortune 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. 
 
 In a handsome drawing-room in Eaton Square, one 
 sunny afternoon, sat a lady, young and handsome. 
 Her eyes were of a violet blue, her hair was auburn, 
 her complexion delicate. But there was a stern 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. If you sow wheat 
 it will come up wheat, gladdening you with its good; 
 if you sow noxious weeds, noxious weeds spring forth, 
 and you m.ust do battle with them as you best can. 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 himself, suspected it, and taxed Blanche 
 with it. Blanche, true to her compact of keeping it a 
 secret, 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 
 deemed him an unlikely man to marry. 
 
EAST LV'NNE 301 
 
 He played fast and loose with her, professing attach- 
 ment for her in secret, and visiting at the house. Per- 
 haps he feared an outbreak from her, an exposure that 
 might prove 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 of his intention 
 of marrying her (had he ever possessed such) Vv^as over. 
 Bad men are always cowards. Sir Francis shrank 
 from an explanation, and so far forgot honor 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 nearly 
 thirty years — not the years, but the long-continued 
 disappointment, the heart-burnings, 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 generally 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 his own vanity; and he 
 offered her marriage. She accepted him, and prepara- 
 tions for the ceremony immediately 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 hard. 
 
 Will it be believed that he denied the past — that he 
 met with mocking suavity her indignant reminders of 
 
302 EAST LYNNE 
 
 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 had ever 
 hinted at such a thing as a union. 
 
 She determined to appeal to Alice, but her only 
 answer was: "I know! He told me I might expect 
 something of this; that you had fancied him in love 
 with you, and were angry because he had chosen me." 
 
 Blanche turned upon her with streaming eyes; she 
 could no longer control her emotion, "Alice, my sis- 
 ter, all the pride is gone out of me , all the reticence 
 that woman loves to observe as to her wrongs and to 
 her inward feelings, I have broken through for you 
 this night. As sure as that there is a heaven above us, 
 I have told you but the truth. Until you came I was 
 engaged to Francis Levison. " 
 
 An unnatural scene ensued. Blanche, provoked at 
 Alice's rejection of her words, told all the ill she knew 
 or had heard of the man ; she dwelt upon his conduct 
 with regard to Lady Isabel Carlyle, his heartless after- 
 treatment of that unhappy lady. Alice was passionate 
 and fiery. She professed not to believe a word of her 
 sister's wrongs, and, as to the other stories, they were 
 no affairs of her, she said; what had she to do with 
 his past life? 
 
 But Alice Challoner did believe ; her sister's earnest- 
 ness and distress, as she told the tale, carried convic- 
 tion with them. She did not care very much for Sir 
 Francis; he was not entwined round her heart as he 
 was round that of Blanche ; but she was dazzled with 
 the prospect of so good a settlement in life, and she 
 would not give him up. If Blanche broke her heart — 
 why, she must break it. But she need not have 
 mixed taunts and jeers with her refusal to believe; she 
 need not have triumphed openly over Blanche. Was 
 it well done? As we sow, so I tell you, we shall reap. 
 She married Sir Francis Levison, leaving Blanche to 
 her broken heart, or to any other calamity that might 
 grow out of the injustice. And there sat Lady Levi- 
 
EAST LYNNE 303 
 
 6on now, her three years of marriage having- served to 
 turn her love for Sir Francis into contempt and hate. 
 
 A little boy, two years old, the only child of the 
 marriage, was playing about the room. His mother 
 took no notice of him; she was buried in all-absorbing 
 thought; thought that caused her lips to contract and 
 her brow to scowl. Sir Francis entered, his attitude 
 lounging, his air listless. Lady Levison roused her- 
 self, but no pleasant manner or tone was hers, as she 
 addressed himx, "I want some money," she said. 
 
 *'So do I," he answered. 
 
 An impatient stamp of the foot, and a haughty toss. 
 *'And I must have it. I must. I told you yesterday 
 that I must. Do you suppose 1 can go on, without a 
 sixpence of ready money, day after day?" 
 
 "Do you suppose it is of any use to put yourself in 
 this fury?" retorted Sir Francis. "A dozen times a 
 week do you bother me for money, and a dozen times 
 do 1 tell you I have got none. I have got none for 
 myself. You might as well ask that baby for money 
 as ask me. ' ' 
 
 ''I wish he had never been born!" passionately said 
 Lady Levison. ' ' Unless he had had a different father. ' ' 
 
 That the last sentence, and the bitter scorn of its 
 tone, would have provoked a reprisal from Sir Francis, 
 his flashing countenance betrayed. But at that 
 moment a servant entered the room. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir. That man, Brov/n, forced 
 his way into the hall, and " 
 
 "I can't see him, I won't see him!" interrupted Sir 
 Francis, backing to the furthest corner of the room, in 
 what looked very like abject terror, as if he had com- 
 pletely 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, sir, and he vows he won't stir till he sees you, 
 whether you are sick or well." 
 
 A mom.ent's pause, a half-muttered oath, and then 
 
304 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Sir Francis quitted the room. The servant retired, 
 and Lady Levison caught up her child. "Oh,^ranky, 
 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 nobody — his life depending 
 upon quiet. Such was the report, or something equiv- 
 alent to it, which had gone in to Lord Headthelot 
 (or, rather, to the official office, for that renowned 
 chief v/as, 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. 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 in 
 attendance at your door day after day, in a state of 
 incipient fever, enough to put me into a real one, and 
 could neither get admitted nor a letter taken up. I 
 should have blown the houses up to-day and got in 
 amidst the flying debris. 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 noth- 
 ing 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." 
 
EAST LYNNE 305 
 
 "Nothing doing tip 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 would 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." 
 
 "Headthelot came up this morning," said Mr. Mer- 
 edith. 
 
 The information somewhat aroused Sir Francis. 
 "Headthelot! What brings him back?" 
 
 "You. I tell you, Levison, there's a hot row. Head- 
 thelot expected you would be at West Lynne days past, 
 and he has come up in an awful rage. Every addi- 
 tional 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 our fingers! You must start for 
 it at once." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then you lose your post. Thornton goes in for 
 West Ljmne, and takes your place with Headthelot." 
 
 "Did Headthelot send you here to say this?" asked 
 Sir Francis. 
 
 "He did. And he means it, mind; 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 antic- 
 ipated, would be ruin irretrievable; nothing short of 
 outlawry, or the queen's prison. It was awfully nec- 
 essary 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 
 
 20 Lynne 
 
306 EAST LYNNE 
 
 by this time," was the result of his cogitations, uncon- 
 sciously 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. 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 let funds 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, Thorn- 
 ton will." 
 
 "I should run no chance. West Lynne wotild not 
 elect me if he is a candidate. I'm not sure, indeed, 
 West Lynne would have me in any case." 
 
 "Nonsense! you know our interests there. Govern- 
 ment put in Attley, and it can put in you. 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 Scotland Yard. In consider- 
 ably less than another hour, the following telegram, 
 marked "secret," went down from the head office to 
 the superintendent of police at West Lynne: 
 
 "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. Move- 
 ments uncertain." 
 
 Lady Levison heard of the scheme that was in the 
 wind. When Sir Francis went to tell her (as a matter 
 
^AST LYNNE 307 
 
 of the merest courtesy) that he was about to go into 
 the country for a few days, she turned upon him 
 fiercely. 
 
 "If you have 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 an extreme pitch 
 between her and her husband, and that he had not 
 been long in giving her ample cause of 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 front of brass, a recollection 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 mad. 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. "The taking of me v/as a dead robbery 
 on her, you know. You knew it then." 
 
 She sat beating her foot on the carpet, really striv- 
 ing to calm down her irritability. "Allow me to 
 recommend you to pause and consider, ere you enter 
 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, 
 honorable man, beloved by his friends, respected by all. 
 If ever two men presented a contrast, 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." 
 
308 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "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 XLV 
 
 ANOTHER CANDIDATE 
 
 Mr. Carlyle and Barbara were seated at breakfast, 
 when, somewhat to their surprise, Mr. Dill was shown 
 in. Following close upon his heels came Justice Hare; 
 close upon his heels came Squire Pinner; while bring- 
 ing up the rear was Colonel Bethel. All the four had 
 come up separately, not together, and all four were 
 out of breath, as if it had been a race which should 
 arrive soonest. 
 
 Quite impossible was it for Mr. Carlyle, at first, to 
 understand the news they brought. All were talking 
 at once, in the utmost excitement, and the fury of 
 Justice Hare alone was sufficient to produce temporary 
 deafness. Mr. Carlyle caught a word of the case 
 presently. 
 
 "A second man! Opposition? Well, let him come 
 on," he good-humoredly cried. "We shall have the 
 satisfaction of ascertaining who wins in the end." 
 
 "But you have not heard who it is, Mr. Archibald," 
 cried old Dill. "It " 
 
 "Stand a contest with him," raved Justice Hare. 
 "He " 
 
 "The fellow wants hanging," interjected Colonel 
 Bethel. 
 
 "Couldn't he be ducked?" suggested Squire Pinner. 
 
 Now all these sentences were ranted out together, 
 and their respective utterers were fain to stop till the 
 noises subsided a little, Barbara could only look from 
 one to the other in astonishment. 
 
 "Who is the formidable opponent?" asked Carlyle. 
 
 There was a pause. Not one of them but had the 
 delicacy to shrink from naming the man to Carlyle, 
 
EAST LYNNE 309 
 
 The information came at last from old Dill, who 
 dropped his voice while he spoke it: 
 
 "Mr. Archibald, the candidate who has come for- 
 ward is that man, Levison. " 
 
 A scarlet flush dyed the brow of Mr. Carlyle. Barbara 
 bent down her face, but her eyes flashed with anger. 
 
 "Benjamin went through the town early this morn- 
 ing, exercising his horses," stuttered Justice Hare. 
 "He came back, telling me that the walls were pla- 
 carded with 'Levison forever!' 'Vote for Sir Francis 
 Levison!' I nearly knocked him down. 'It's true, 
 master,' says he, 'as I'm a living sinner. And some 
 folks I spoke to told me that he came down last eve- 
 ning. ' There was news for a respectable man to hear 
 before breakfast." 
 
 "He got here by the last train," said Mr. Dill, "and 
 has put up at the Buck's Head. The printers must 
 have sat up all night to get the placards ready. He 
 has got an agent, or something of that sort, with him, 
 and some other chap, said to be a member of the gov- 
 ernment. " 
 
 "Boasting that the field is theirs at the onset, and 
 that the canvass will be a mere matter of form!" added 
 Colonel Bethel, bringing down his cane vehemently. 
 "He is mad to offer himself as a candidate here." 
 
 "It's done purposely to insult Mr. Carlyle," said the 
 meek voice of Squire Pinner. 
 
 "To insult us all, you mean, squire," retorted Colo- 
 nel Bethel. "I don't think he will go off quite so 
 glibly as he has come." 
 
 "Of course, Carlyle, you will go into it now, neck 
 and crop," cried Justice Hare. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle was silent. 
 
 "You won't let the beast frighten you from the con- 
 test!" uttered Colonel Bethel, in a loud tone. 
 
 "There's a meeting at the Buck's Head at ten," 
 said Mr. Carlyle, not replying to the immediate ques- 
 tion. "I will be with you there." 
 
 "Did you say he is at the Buck's Head?" asked 
 Squire Pinner. "I had not heard that." 
 
310 EAST LYNNE 
 
 *'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 doing 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 heed of him than I should of the 
 dirt under my feet." 
 
 "Right, right," she answered, a proud flash deepen- 
 ing the rose on her cheeks, 
 p And now the contest began in earnest — that is, the 
 canvass. 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 pri- 
 vate chum of the baronet's, by name Drake, sneaked 
 about the town like dogs with their tails burnt, for 
 they were entirely alive to the odor in which they were 
 held; their only attendants being a few young gentle- 
 men and ladies in rags, who commonly brought up the 
 rear. The other party presented a stately crowd — 
 country gentry, magistrates. Lord Mount Severn. 
 Sometimes 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. With all his "face of 
 brass," he could not meet Mr. Carlyle and that con- 
 l_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 shopping. Lady Isabel had a 
 dread and horror of appearing there whilst that man 
 
EAST LYNNE 311 
 
 was in the tov/n, 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 a 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 got in; shivering and shaking and glanc- 
 ing fearfully around, as if she feared a dozen specters 
 were about to burst 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 Miss Carlyle; but she could 
 not forget how strangely peril to Richard had super- 
 vened upon some of these dreams. "I will go in now 
 and see mamma," she said. "If you are returning 
 home, Cornelia, Madame Vine can walk 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 Isa- 
 bel ; 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 
 
312 EAST LYNNE 
 
 veil was over the hedge, the spectacles were broken; 
 how could she dare to show her unshaded face? That 
 face as rosy, just then, as in former days the eyes were 
 bright, and Miss Carlyle caught their expression, and 
 stared in very amazement. 
 
 "Good Heaven above!" she muttered, "what an 
 extraordinary likeness!" 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI 
 
 HER boy's life AT STAKE 
 
 That evening after dinner Miss Carlyle and Lady 
 Mount Severn sat side by side on the same sofa, 
 coffee cups in hand. Sir John Dobede and one or two 
 more gentlemen were of the party. Young Vane, 
 Lucy and Mrs. Carlyle were laughing together, and 
 there was considerable noise and talking in the room. 
 Under cover of it. Miss Carlyle turned to the earl. 
 
 "Was it a positively ascertained fact that Lady Isa- 
 bel died?" 
 
 The earl stared with all his might ; he thought it the 
 strangest question that was ever asked him. "1 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 Vv^as terribly injured." 
 
 A pause. Miss Carlyle was ruminating. But she 
 returned to the charge, as if difficult to be convinced. 
 
 "You deem that there could be no possibility of an 
 error? You are sure that she is dead?" 
 
 "I am as sure that she is dead as that we are liv- 
 ing," decisively replied the earl; and spoke but 
 
EAST LYNNE 313 
 
 according to his belief. "Wherefore should yoti be 
 inquiring- this?" 
 
 "A thought came over me — only to-day — to wondei' 
 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 Wil- 
 liam 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 pretense than work ; he and his breath were 
 soon tired; 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 got five. Lady Isabel had made prisoner of 
 Archibald, and was holding him on her knee in the 
 gray parlor, 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 a sweet smile and his attractive manner. 
 She let the boy slip to the ground and rose, her face 
 burning, her heart throbbing. Archie 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 make 
 it still; 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." 
 
314 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "Ay. 1 intended to take him over to Lynneborough, 
 to Dr. Martin, and the drive would have done him 
 good; but I have been so much engaged, there has 
 been no time to think of it. Neither do I know when 
 I shall be at liberty." 
 
 "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, sir," she said, with feverish 
 impatience. 
 
 "I will ascertain whether Mrs. Carlyle wants the 
 pony carriage," said he. "It will be better to go in 
 that than boxed up in the raiUvay train." 
 
 Her heart rose rebelliously as he quitted the room. 
 Were Mrs. Carlyle's capricious "v/ants" 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 
 refreshments you please at the hotel — 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 v;e 
 start?" 
 
 "Any time you like. Ten o'clock. Will that suit?" 
 
 "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. 
 
 I 
 
EAST LYNNE 315 
 
 "Oh, that is nothing, " she hastily interrupted. "I 
 will pay for him myself; I would rather." 
 
 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 sov- 
 ereigns — and of the hundred-pound note so generously 
 left in her hands afterward by another. Then she 
 was his chosen love — ay, she was; though it had not 
 been declared. 
 
 Now? A pang as of death shot through her bitter 
 heart. 
 
 "You can remind Dr. Martin that the child's con- 
 stitution 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, when 
 he attended him for 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 forever and forever — that she was J 
 worse to him than nothing! 
 
 Soft4yv^in^J^tdyJ__Xlusjs not_bearin^ cross. 
 
316 EAST LYNNE 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 A RUSSIAN BEAR AT WEST LYNNE 
 
 Among the crowd listening to one of Sir Francis 
 Levison's outdoor campaign speeches were Mr. Dili 
 and Mr. Ebenezer James. The latter was one who, 
 for the last twelve or fifteen years, had been trying his 
 hand at many trades, and had not come out particu- 
 larly 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 traveler in the oil and color line; then a parson, 
 the urgent pastor of some 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 Bell 
 & Treadman, other solicitors of West Lynne. 
 
 "I'll — be — blest," uttered Mr. Ebenezer James, 
 after a prolonged pause of staring consternation, "if 
 I don't believe there's Bethel!" 
 
 "Bethel!" repeated old Dill, gazing at an approach- 
 ing figure, which resembled rather a Russian bear 
 than a man. "What has he been doing to himself?" 
 
 Mr. Otway Bethel it was, just arrived from foreign 
 parts in his traveling costume, something shaggy, 
 terminating all over with tails. A shaggy cap sur- 
 mounted his head, and the hair on his face would have 
 set up Mr. Justice Hare in wigs for his life. A wild 
 object he looked, and j\Ir. Dill rather backed as he 
 drew near, as if fearing he were a real animal which 
 might bite him. 
 
 "What's your name?" cried he. 
 
 "It used to be Mr. Bethel," replied the wild man, 
 holding out his hand to Mr. Dill. "So you are in the 
 world, James, and kicking yet!" 
 
 "And hope to kick in it for some time to come, " 
 
EAST LYNNE 317 
 
 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. 1 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, impa- 
 tiently. "What's this?" waving his hand at the 
 crowd. 
 
 "One of the candidates wasting his 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 government — if it is the government 
 who put him on it — must be a pack of fools; they can't 
 know the influence of Carlyle. 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 get 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 confusion, to push themselves 
 
318 EAST LYNNE 
 
 to the front, not far from Sir Francis. Otway Bethel 
 stared at him in unqualified amazement. 
 
 "Why — what brings him here? What is he doing?" 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 He pointed with his finger. "The one with the 
 white handkerchief in his hand." 
 
 "That is Sir Francis." 
 
 "No!" uttered Bethel, a whole world of astounded 
 meaning in his tone. "By Jove! He Sir Francis 
 Levison?" 
 
 At that moment their eyes met — Francis Levison's 
 and Otway Bethel's. Otway Bethel raised his shaggy 
 cap in salutation, and Sir Francis appeared completely 
 scared. Only for an instant did he lose his presence 
 of mind. The next his eye-glass was stuck in his eye 
 and turned on Mr. Bethel with a hard, haughty stare, 
 as much as to say, Who are you, fellow, that you 
 should take such a liberty? But his cheeks and lips 
 were growing as white as marble. 
 
 "Do you know Levison, Mr. Otway?" inquired old 
 Dill. 
 
 "A little. Once." 
 
 "When he was not Levison, but somebody else," 
 laughed Mr. Ebenezer James. "Eh, Bethel?" 
 
 Bethel turned as reproving a stare on Mr. Ebenezer 
 as the baronet had just turned on him. "What do 
 you mean, pray? Mind your own business." 
 
 A nod to old Dill, and he turned off and disappeared, 
 taking no further notice of James. The old gentle- 
 man questioned the latter. "What was that little bit 
 of by-play, Mr. Ebenezer?" 
 A^ "Nothing much," laughed Mr. Ebenezer. "Only 
 1 he," nodding toward Sir Francis, "was not always the 
 \great man that he now is. ' ' 
 ^ "Ah!" 
 
 "I have held my tongue about it, for it's no affaii 
 
 •of mine, but I don't mind letting you into the secret. 
 
 /Would you believe that that grand baronet there, 
 
 L.ii'ould-be member for West Lynne, used, years ago, 
 
EAST LYNNE 319 
 
 to dodge about Abbey Wood, mad after Afy Hallijohn? 
 He didn't call himself Levison then." 
 
 Mr. Dill felt as if a hundred pins and needles were 
 pricking at his memory, for there rose up in it certain 
 doubts and troubles, touching Richard Hare and one 
 Thorn. He laid his eager hand upon the other's arm. 
 ''Ebenezer James, what did he call himself?" / 
 
 "Thorn. A dandy then, as he is now. He used to a/ 
 come galloping down the Swainson road at dusk, tie 
 his horse in the wood and monopolize Miss Afy." 
 
 ''How do you know this?" 
 
 "Because I have seen it a dozen times. I was 
 spoony after Afy myself in those days, and went down 
 there a good deal in an evening. If it hadn't been 
 for him, and — perhaps that murdering villain, Dick 
 Hare, Afy would have listened to me. Not that she 
 cared for Dick ; but you see, they were gentlemen. I 
 am thankful to the stars, now, for my luck in escap- 
 ing her. With her for a wife I should have been in a 
 pickle always; as it is, 1 do get out of it once in a 
 way." 
 
 "Did you know then that he was Francis Levison?'' 
 
 "Not I. He called himself Thorn, I tell you. When 
 he came down to offer himself for member and oppose 
 Carlyle, I was thunderstruck, like Bethel was a minute / 
 ago. Ho, ho, said I, so Thorn's defunct and LevisonV 
 has arisen." 
 
 "What had Otway Bethel to do with him?" 
 
 "Nothing — that I know of. Only Bethel was fond 
 of the wood also — after other game than Afy, though / 
 — and must have seen Thorn often. You saw that he '^ 
 recognized him." 
 
 "Thorn — Levison, I mean — did not appear to like ^J 
 the recognition," said Mr. Dill. 
 
 "Who would, in his position?" laughed Ebenezer 
 James. "I don't like to be reminded of many a wild | 
 scrape of my past life, in my poor station; and what 
 would it be for Levison, were it to come out that he 
 once called himself Thorn, and came running after 
 Miss Afy Hallijohn?" 
 
320 EAST LYNNE 
 
 \. '"Why did he call himself Thorn? Why disguise his 
 ^ own name?" 
 
 "Not knowing, can't say. Is his name Levison — or 
 is it Thorn?" 
 
 "Nonsense, Mr. Ebenezer!" 
 
 Mr. Dill, bursting with the strange news he had 
 heard, endeavored to force his way through the crowd, 
 that he might communicate it to Mr. Carlyle. The 
 crowd was, however, too dense for him, and he had 
 to wait the opportunity of escape with what patience 
 he might. When it came he made the best of his way 
 to the office, and entered Mr. Carlyle 's private room. 
 That gentleman was seated at his desk signing letters. 
 
 "Why, Dill, you are out of breath!" 
 
 "Well I may be! Mr. Archibald, I have been listen- 
 ing to the most extraordinary statement. I have 
 found out about Thorn. Who do you think he is?" 
 
 Mr. Carlyle laid down his pen and looked full in the 
 old man's face. He had never seen him so excited. 
 
 "It's that man Levison." 
 
 "1 do not understand you," said Mr. Carlyle. He 
 did not. It was Hebrew to him. 
 
 "The Levison of to-day, your opponent, is the 
 Thorn who went after Afy Hallijohn. It is so, Mr. 
 Archibald." 
 
 "It cannot be!" slowly uttered Mr. Carlyle, thought 
 
 upon thought working through his brain. "Where did 
 
 you hear this?" 
 
 j^ Mr. Dill told his tale. Otway Bethel's recognition 
 
 / of him; Sir Francis Levison's scared paleness — for he 
 
 Liiad noticed that; Mr. Ebenezer's revelation. 
 
 "Bethel has denied to me more than once that he 
 knew Thorn, or was aware of such a man being in 
 existence," observed Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 "He must have had a purpose in it," returned Mr. 
 Dill. "They knew each other to-day. Levison 
 recognized him, for certain; although he carried it off 
 Vv'ith a high hand, pretending that he did not." 
 
 "And it was not as Levison, but as Thorn, that 
 Bethel recognized him'" 
 
EAST LYNNE 321 
 
 "There's little doubt about that. He did not men- 
 tion the name Thorn ; but he was evidently struck with 
 astonishment at hearing that it was Levison. If they 
 have not some secret between them, Mr. Archibald, 
 I'll never believe my own eyes again." 
 
 "Mrs. Hare's opinion is that Bethel had to do with 
 the murder," said Mr. Carlyle in a low tone. 
 
 "If the murder is their secret, rely upon it Bethel 
 had," was the answer. "Mr. Archibald, it seems to 
 me that now or never is the time to clear up Richard. " 
 
 "Ay. But how set about it?" responded Mr. 
 Carlyle. 
 
 Mr, Carlyle was somewhat surprised when Barbara 
 came to him that evening, and with a serious face 
 said: 
 
 "Archibald, I do fear I have done a foolish thing." 
 
 He laughed. "I fear we all do that at times, Bar- 
 bara. What is it?" 
 
 He had seated himself in one of Barbara's favorite 
 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 going to speak. 
 
 "It is something that I have had upon my mind for • 
 years, and I did not like to tell it to you." 
 
 "For years?" 
 
 "You remember that night, years ago, when Rich- 
 ard was at the Grove in disguise? He " 
 
 "Which night, Barbara? He came more than once. " 
 
 "The night — the night that Lady Isabel quitted 
 East Lynne," she answered, not knowing how better 
 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 that 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; s^ 
 glittered in the moonlight. Do you remember?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "The motion appeared perfectly familiar to me, for 
 
322 EAST LYNNE 
 
 I have seen it repeatedly tised 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. " 
 
 A pause. "Why did you not tell me so, Barbara?" 
 
 "How could I speak of that man to you? — at that 
 time? Afterward, when Richard was here, that snowy 
 winter's day, he asserted that he knew Sir Francis 
 Levison ; that he had seen him and Thorn together, 
 and that put me off the scent. But to-day, as I was 
 passing the Raven in a carriage, going very slow on 
 account of the crowd, he was perched out there address- 
 ing the people, and I saw the very same action, the 
 old action that 1 remember so well." 
 
 Barbara paused. Mr. Carlyle did not interrupt her. 
 
 "I feel a conviction that they are the same; that 
 Richard must have been under some unaccountable 
 mistake in saying he knew Francis Levison. Besides, 
 who but he, in evening dress, would have been likely 
 to go through Bean Lane that night? It leads to no 
 houses; but one who wished to avoid the high road 
 could get into it from these grounds, and so on to 
 West Lynne. It was proved, you know, that he met 
 — met the carriage coming from Mrs. Jeafferson's, and 
 returned with it to East Lynne. He must have gone 
 back directly on foot to West Lynne to get the post- 
 chaise, as was proved; and he would naturally go 
 through Bean Lane. Forgive me, Archibald, for 
 recalling these things to you, but I feel so sure that 
 Levison and Thorn are one." 
 
 "I know they are," he quietly said. 
 
 Barbara, in her astonishment, drew back and stared 
 him in the face, A face of severe dignity it was just 
 then. 
 
 "Oh, Archibald! did you know it at that time?" 
 
 "I did not know it until this afternoon. I never 
 suspected it." 
 
 "I wonder you did not. I have wondered often." 
 
 "tt» do I — now. Dill, Ebenezer James and Otway 
 
EAST LYNNE 323 
 
 Bethel — who came home to-day — were standing before 
 the Raven, listening to his speech, when Bethel recog- 
 nized him — not as Levison — he was infinitely astoss- 
 ished to find he w.as Levison, Levison, they say, was 
 scared at the recognition, and changed color. Bethel 
 would give no explanation, and moved away, but James 
 told Dill that Levison was the man Thorn, who used 
 to be after Afy Hallijohn. " 
 
 "How did he know?" breathlessly asked Barbara. 
 
 "Because Mr. Ebenezer was after Afy himself, and 
 repeatedly saw Thorn in the wood. Barbara, I believe 
 now that it was Levison who killed Hallijohn, but 
 I should like to know what Bethel had to do with 
 it." 
 
 Barbara clasped her hands. "How strange it is!" 
 she exclaimed, in some excitement. "Mamma told 
 me yesterda}^ that she was convinced some discovery 
 was impending relative to the murder. She had had 
 a most distressing dream, she said, connected with 
 Richard and Bethel, and somebody else whom she 
 appeared to know in the dream, but could not recog- 
 nize or remember when she awoke. She was very ill; 
 she puts so much faith in those wretched dreams." 
 
 "One would think you did also, Barbara, by your 
 vehemence." 
 
 "No, no; you know better. But it is strange — j^ou 
 must acknowledge that it is — that so sure as anything 
 fresh happens touching the subject of the m.urder, so 
 sure is a troubled dream the forerunner of it. Mamma 
 does not dream at other times. Bethel denied to you 
 that he knew Thorn." 
 
 "I know he did." 
 
 "And now it turns out that he does know him; and 
 he is always in mamma's dreams— none more promi- 
 nent in them than Bethel. But, Archibald, I am not 
 telling you — I have sent for Richard." 
 
 "You have?" 
 
 "I felt sure that Levison was Thorn; I did not 
 expect that others would recognize him, and I acted 
 on the impulse of the moment and wrote to Richard, 
 
324 EAST LYNNE 
 
 telling him to be here on Saturday evening. The 
 letter is gone." 
 
 "Well, we must shelter him as best we can." 
 
 *' Archibald, dear Archibald, what can be done to 
 clear him?" she asked, the tears risiiig to her eyes. 
 
 ''I cannot act against Levison." 
 
 *'Not act? not act for Richard?" 
 
 He bent his clear, truthful eyes upon her. "My 
 dearest, how can I?" She looked a little rebellious, 
 and the tears fell. "You have not considered, Barbara. 
 It would look like my own revenge." 
 
 "Forgive me," she softly whispered. "You are 
 always right. I did not think of it in that light. But 
 what steps can be taken?" 
 
 "It is a case encompassed with difficulties,'' mused 
 Mr. Carlyle. "Let us wait till Richard comes." 
 
 "Do you happen to have a five-pound note in your 
 pocket, Archibald? I had not one to send him, and 
 borrowed it from Madame Vine." He took out his 
 pocketbook and gave her the money. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII 
 
 A FADING CHILD 
 
 In the gray parlor, in the dark twilight of the April 
 evening, for it was getting on into the night, were 
 William Carlyle and Lady Isabel. It had been a 
 warm day, but the spring evenings were still chilly, 
 and a fire burned in the grate There was no blaze, 
 the red embers were smoldering and half dead, but 
 Madame Vine did not heed the fire. William lay on 
 the sofa, and she sat by, looking at him. Her glasses 
 were off, for the tears wetted them continually; and 
 it was not the recognition of the children that she 
 feared. He was tired with the drive to Lynneborough 
 and back, and lay with his eyes shut; she thought 
 asleep. Presently he opened them. 
 
 "How long will it be before I die?" 
 
 The words took her utterly by surprise, and her 
 
EAST LYNNE 325 
 
 heart went round in a whirl. *'What do you mean, 
 William? Who said anything about your dying?" 
 
 "Oh, I know. I know by the fuss there is over me. 
 You heard what Hannah said the other night?" 
 
 "What? When?" 
 
 "When she brought in the tea, and I was lying on 
 the rug. I was not asleep, though you thought I was. 
 You told her she ought to be more cautious, for that I 
 might not have been asleep." 
 
 "I don't remember much about it," said Lady 
 Isabel, at her wits' end how to remove the impression 
 that Hannah's words must have created. "Hannah 
 talks great nonsense sometimes." 
 
 "She said 'I was going on fast to the grave. ' " 
 
 "Did she? Nobody attends to Hannah. She is only 
 a foolish girl. We shall soon have you well, whea 
 the warm weather comes." 
 
 "Madame Vine." 
 
 "Well, my darling?" 
 
 "Where's the use of your trying to deceive me? 
 Do you think I don't see that you are doing it? I am 
 not a baby; you might if it were Archibald. What is 
 the matter with me?" 
 
 "Nothing. Only you are not strong. When you 
 get strong again you will be as well as ever." 
 
 William shook his head in disbelief. He was pre- 
 cisely that sort of child from whom it is next to impos- 
 sible to disguise facts; quick, thoughtful, observant, 
 and advanced beyond his years. Had no words been 
 dropped in his hearing, he would have suspected the 
 evil by the care evinced for him, but plenty of words 
 had been dropped; hints by which he had gathered 
 suspicions; broad assertions, like Hannah's, which had 
 too fully supplied it; and the boy, in his inmost heart, 
 knew as well that death was coming for him as that 
 death itself did. 
 
 "Then, if there's nothing the matter with me, v.-hv 
 could not Dr. Martin speak to you before me to-day? 
 Why did he send me into the other room while he told 
 
326 EAST LYNNE 
 
 you what he thought? Ah, Madame Vine, I am as 
 wise as you.*' 
 
 '*A wise little boy, but mistaken sometimes," she 
 said, from her aching heart, 
 
 "It's nothing to die, when God loves us. Lord 
 Vane says so. He had a little brother who died. " 
 
 "A sickly child who was never likely to live; he had 
 been pale and ailing from a baby," said Lady Isabel. 
 
 *'Why! did you know him?" 
 
 *'I — I heard so, " she replied, turning off her thought- 
 less avowal in the best manner she could. 
 
 "Don't you know that I am going to die?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then why have you been grieving since we left 
 Dr. Martin's? And why do you grieve at all for me? 
 I am not your child." 
 
 The words, the scene altogether, overcame her. 
 She knelt down by the sofa, and her tears burst forth 
 freely. "There! you see," cried William. 
 
 *'Oh, William, I — I had a little boy of my own once, 
 and when I look at you I think of him, and that is 
 why I cry." 
 
 *'I know. You have told us of him before. His 
 name was William, too." 
 
 She leaned over him, her breath mingling with his. 
 She took his little hand in hers. "William, do you 
 know that those whom God loves best He takes the 
 first? Were you to die, you would go to Heaven, 
 leaving all the cares and sorrows of the world behind 
 you. It would have been happier for many of us had 
 we died in infancy." 
 
 "Would it have been happier for you?" 
 
 "Yes," she faintly said. "I have had more than 
 my share of sorrow. Sometimes I think that I cannot 
 support it." 
 
 "Is it not past, then? Have you sorrovvT now?" 
 
 **I have it always. I shall have it till I die. Had I 
 died a child, William, I should have escaped it. Oh', 
 the world is full of it! full and full." 
 
 **What sort of sorrow?" 
 
EAST LYNNE 32T 
 
 **Pain, sickness, care, trouble, sin, remorse, weari- 
 ness, " she wailed out. "I cannot enumerate the 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 bed, waiting for 
 sleep?" 4 
 
 "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 into a blessed 
 place of rest, where sorrow and pain cannot come. 
 I wish — 1 wish," she added, with a bursting 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 butterflies 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 wavering overhead, and the sky's blue, and the roses 
 and the 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, take it at its best, in comparison with the 
 other world, Heaven? I have heard of some 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 earnestness. "They are ten times 
 brighter than our flowers are here." 
 
 "Seen the flowers! The flowers we shall see in 
 Heaven?" she echoed. "1 have seen a picture of them. 
 We went to Lynneborough to see Martin's picture of 
 
328 EASTLYNNE 
 
 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 colors they were, but so bright and 
 beautiful; brighter than our flowers are." 
 
 "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, 1 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 329 
 
 away from papa. Lucy talks nonsense about her hav- 
 ing been kidnapped, but she knows nothing. I do, 
 though they don't think it, perhaps." 
 
 "She may be among the redeemed some time, Wil- 
 liam, 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 whis- 
 pered 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 appoint- 
 ment that evening at West Lynne, and were departing 
 to keep it. As the hall door closed upon them, Bar- 
 bara came into the gray parlor. Up rose Madame 
 Vine, hastily assuming her spectacles, and took her 
 seat soberly upon her chair. 
 
 "All in the dark! And your fire going out!" 
 exclaimed Barbara, as she hastened to stir the latter 
 and send it 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, "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." 
 
 Mrs. Carlyle looked at her. The firelight played 
 
330 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Upon her face, played especially upon the spectacles, 
 and she moved her chair into the shade. 
 
 "Dr. Martin will see him again next week; he is 
 coming to Vvest Lynne. I am sure, by the tone of 
 his voice, by his evasive manner, that he anticipates 
 the worst, although he would not say so in words." 
 
 "I will take William into West Lynne myself," said 
 Barbara. "The doctor will, of course, tell me. I 
 came in to pay my debts," she added, dismissing the 
 subject of the child, and holding out a five-pound note. 
 
 Lady Isabel mechanically stretched out her hand 
 for it. 
 
 "Whilst we are upon the money topic," resumed 
 Barbara, in a gay tone, "will you allow me to inti- 
 mate that both myself and Mr. Carlyle very much dis- 
 approve of your making presents to the children? I 
 was calculating, at a rough guess, the cost of the toys 
 and things you have bought for them, and I think it 
 must amount to a very large portion of the salary you 
 have received." 
 
 "I have no one else to spend my money on; I love 
 the children," was madame's answer, somewhat 
 sharply given, as if she were jealous of the interfer- 
 ence between her and the children, and would 
 resent it. 
 
 "Nay, you have yourself. And if you do not 
 require much outlay, you have, 1 should suppose, a 
 reserve fund to which to put your money. Be so kind 
 as to talie the hint, madame; otherwise I shall be 
 compelled more peremptorily to forbid your generos- 
 ity. It is very good of you, very kind ; but if you do 
 not think of yourself, we must for you." 
 
 "1 will buy them less," was the murmured answer. 
 "I must give them a little token of love now and 
 then." 
 
 "That you are welcome to do; a 'little token' once in 
 a way; but not the costly toys you have been purchas- 
 ing." 
 
EAST LYNNE 331 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX 
 
 MR. CARLYLE INVITED TO SOME PATE 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 nearer, rustling 
 the fine old chestnuts in the park; a melancholy, 
 sweeping, fitful wind. The weather had changed, 
 gathering clouds seemed to be threatening rain; so, at 
 least, deemed 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 ringlets of hair, and black, curling 
 whiskers; a prodigious pair of whiskers, hiding his 
 neck above his blue turned collar, hiding partially 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, hitched up with 
 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 bolt. "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 unlikely, seeing that 
 it was the most retired spot on the grounds — was Mrs. 
 Carlyle. 
 
 "Oh, Richard, my poor brother!" 
 
 Locked in a yearning embrace, emotion overpow- 
 ered both. Barbara sobbed like a child. A little while, 
 and then he put her from him to look at her. 
 
332 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "So, Barbara, you are a wife now!" 
 
 "Oh, the happiest wife! Richard, sometimes I ask 
 myself' what I have done that God should have show- 
 ered down 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. 1 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. "1 did not 
 see her last time, you remember." 
 
 "All in good time to talk of that. 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 job 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 done." 
 
 "Why have you summoned me here, Barbara? What 
 has turned up?" 
 
 "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?" 
 
EAST LYNNE 333 
 
 **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. 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 them to 
 the waterman at the cab-stand hard by. 'Do you 
 know that fellow?' I asked him, indicating Thorn — for 
 I wanted to come at who he really is. 'I don't know 
 that one,' the old chap 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 got to know Levison?" 
 
 "That was it," said Richard Hare. 
 
 "Then, Richard, you and the waterman made a f 
 mistake between you. He pointed out the wrong, or >i 
 you did not look at the right. Thorn is Sir Francis 
 Levison." 
 
 Richard stared at her v/ith 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. On the impulse of the 
 moment 1 wrote off for you, that you might come and 
 set the doubt at rest. I need not have done so; for 
 when Mr. Carlyl^ returned home that evening and I 
 acquainted him with what I had done, he told me that 
 
334 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Thorn and Francis Levison are one and the same, 
 mway Bethel recognized him that same afternoon; 
 and so did Ebenezer James. ' • j -d- i,„,^ 
 
 "Thev would both know him," cried Richard, 
 ea Jrlv "James I am positive would for he was 
 S ng down to Hallijohn's often then, and saw 
 Thorn f dozen times. Otway Bethel must have seen 
 Sm abo-though he protested l^e„^ad not Barbara 
 
 The name was uttered m affright and Kicnara 
 plunged amidst the trees, for somebody was in sight. 
 A tall dark form, advancing from the endof the walk^ 
 Barbara smiled; it was only Mr. Carlyle, and Richard 
 
 ^"?-^^Sfs1tin,- Richard!" Mr Carlyle exclaimed as 
 he shook Richard cordially by the hand. So you 
 have changed your traveling costume! 
 
 •'I couldn't^enture here again in the old suit; it 
 
 had been seen, you said," «t"™«^ ,^''*?'^*^- Two 
 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, cried Dick 
 "The barber charged a shilling for doing it, and cut 
 my hair into the bargain. I told him no to spare 
 grease, for I liked the curls to shine; sailors always da 
 Mr Carlyle, Barbara says that Levison and that brute 
 Thorn have turned out to be 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— that he was 
 
 not Thorn." „. , , i 
 
 "When can I see him?" asked Richard eagerly 
 "It must be contrived somehow. Were you to hang 
 
 about the door of the Raven— this evening— you d be 
 
 sure to get the opportunity, for he is always passing 
 
 in and out. No one will know you. " 
 
 "I shall look odd to people's eyes. You don t see 
 
 many sailors in West Lynne." 
 
EAST LYNNE 335 
 
 **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 Bar- 
 bara laughed. 
 
 ''Mr, Otway Bethel has returned in what is popu- 
 larly supposed to be a bear's hide ; 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?" 
 
 l^'That's the difficulty,'* said Mr. Carlyle. 
 '*Who will set it going? Who will move on 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. Car- 
 lyle?" 
 
 [[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 opportu- 
 nity for revenge." 
 
 "For the crime perpetrated upon Hallijohn I would 
 pursue him to the scaffold. For my own wrong, no. 
 But the remaining 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 1 should have horsewhipped him 
 within an ace of his life. " 
 
 "If you horsewhipped him to death he would only 
 meet his deserts." 
 
 "What I advise is to apply to Ball & Treadman and 
 get them to take up the case." 
 
 Ball & Treadman— as the brass plate on their office 
 doors intimated — were conveyancers and attorneys-at- 
 law. 
 
336 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Lawyer Ball was at breakfast when Mr. Carlyle was 
 
 shown in. , i i.- ^^ »» 
 
 "Hallo Carlyle! You are here betimes, 
 -fifstmrdon't disturb yourself. Don't ring; I 
 
 ^'^^ThrmSt'dtlicious pate de >V' -..ed Lawyer 
 Ball, w\o was a regular gourmand. "I get 'em direct 
 
 ^Tr^Sle resisted the offered dainty with a smile 
 -I have come on business," said he, "not to feast. 
 Before I enter upon it, you will give me your word, 
 Ball that my conimunication shall be held sacred, m 
 the ^vent of your not consenting to pursue it further? 
 
 -Certainly 1 will. What business is it Some tha. 
 offends the delicacy of the Carly e office.^" he adaed 
 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 continued, bending rorward 
 and somewhat dropping his voice— '/the murder. 
 
 Lawyer Ball, who had just taken m a delicious bonne 
 boucheeoi the foie gras, bolted it whole 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." 
 -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 back 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 337 
 
 little 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 hav 
 lighted upon Thorn ; but he was not to be found, nor 
 any clew 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 ofeer 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 up Rich- 
 bird's cause the instant 1 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, dis- 
 regarding the question. ''1 come to you on the part of 
 Richrd Hare. I have seen him lately and conversed 
 with him. I gave him my reasons for not persoi- 
 ally acting, advised him to apply to you, and prom- 
 ised to come here and open the matter. Will you see 
 Richard, in good faith, and hear his story— giving the 
 understanding that he shall depart in secret and unmo- 
 lested, as he came, if you do not desire to undertake 
 the business?" 
 
 "I'll give it with all the pleasure in life," freely 
 returned the attorney. ''I'm 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. 1 have stated my belief in his inno- 
 cence; 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 think fit. He would 
 not come to you without your previous promise to hold 
 him harmless— to be his friend, in short, for the 
 time being. When I bear this promise to him from 
 you, my part is done. ' 
 
 22 Lynne 
 
338 EAST LYNNE 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 AN INTERVIEW 
 
 An evening or two later 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 
 ci'edit 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' 
 evident fear of him; and the previous Saturday night's 
 recognition at the door of the Raven. Not forgetting 
 to tell of 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 dispatching 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, 1 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 willing- 
 ness. But there's Ebenezer James. ' ' 
 
 ''What does he know about it?" asked the attorney 
 m surprise. "Ebenezer James is in our office at pres- 
 ent. ^ 
 
 ^ "He Baw Thorn often enough in those days, and 
 nas, I hear, recognized him as Levison. You had better 
 
EAST LYNNE 339 
 
 inquire of him. Should you object to take a case 
 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 J 
 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 wildly up. "Not while I am 
 here; he must not see me. For Heaven's sake, con- 
 sider the peril to me, Mr. Ball!" 
 
 "Pooh, pooh!" laughed the attorney. "Do you 
 suppose I have but this one reception-room? We don't 
 let cats into cages where canar}^ birds are kept." 
 
 Ebenezer James returned with the messenger dis- 
 patched after him. "You'll be sure to find him at the 
 singing saloon," 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 a question or 
 two answered; 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 when Hallijohn was killed. 
 Thorn used to be prowling about there in the 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 did — I for one. He was sweet upon 
 Afy Hallijohn." 
 
 "Where was he living at that time? I never remem- 
 ber him in 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 separate. A splendid horse he rode, 
 thoroughbred, and he used to come galloping into the 
 woods at dusk, get over and chat with Miss Afy, mount 
 and gallop away again." 
 
340 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "Where to? Where did he come from?" 
 
 "From somewhere near Swainson; a ten miles' ride 
 Afy used to say he had. Now that he has appeared 
 here in his own plumage, of course I can put two and 
 two together, and not be much at fault for the exact 
 spot. ' ' 
 
 "And where is 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 impressibly. 
 "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." 
 
 "Are you ready to swear to the 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 5'our head." 
 
 "All close, sir," answered Mr. Ebenezer James. 
 
 Far into the middle of the night saw Lawyer Ball 
 and Richard Hare, the former chiefly occupied in tak- 
 ing notes of Richard's statement. "It's half a 
 crotchet, this objection of Carlyle's to interfere with 
 Levison!" said Richard suddenly, in the midst of some 
 desultorv conversation. "Don't you think so, Mr. 
 Ball?" 
 
 The lawyer pursed up his lips. "Um— a delicate 
 point. Carlyle was always fastidiously honorable. I 
 should go at him, thunder and fury, in his place; but 
 I and Carlyle are different." 
 
EAST LYNNE 341 
 
 CHAPTER LI 
 
 THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN 
 
 One afternoon Madame Vine brought William up to 
 Mr. Carlyle's office for examination by Dr. Martin. 
 "What is your opinion?" asked Carlyle, as the doctor 
 was leaving. 
 
 *'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 neces- 
 sary. 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 grand- 
 mother 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 consump- 
 
342 EAST LYNNE 
 
 tion. 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 com- 
 mand. 
 
 "Then there is none — no hope whatever. The lungs 
 are extensively diseased." 
 
 "And how long " 
 
 "That I cannot say," interrupted the doctor, divin- 
 ing 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 termination. Don't 
 worry him with any more lessons and stuff of learning ; 
 he'll never want it." 
 
 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 started, for he 
 thought she was fainting; her face had become so 
 ghastly white; he could see it through her veil. 
 
 "You are ill, madame! you are ill! Trouve maladel 
 don't you?" 
 
 She opened her lips to speak; her trembling lips, 
 that would not obey her. Dr. Martin, in his concern, 
 pulled off the blue spectacles. She caught them from 
 him with one hand, sat down on the nearest chair and 
 hid her face with the other. 
 
 Mr. Carlyle, scarcely understanding the scuffle, came 
 forward. "Are you ill, Madame Vine?" 
 
 She was putting on her spectacles under her veil, 
 her face whiter than ever. "Pray do not interrupt 
 your conversation to pay attention to me. 1 thank 
 you; I thank you both. I am subject to — slight 
 spasms, and they make me look ill for the moment. 
 It has passed now." 
 
 The doctor turned from her; Mr. Carlyle resumed 
 his place by the window. "What should be the treat- 
 ment?" asked the latter. 
 
EAST LYNNE 343 
 
 * 'Almost anything you please — that the boy himself 
 likes. Let him play or rest, ride or walk, eat and 
 drink, or let it alone; it cannot make much difference." 
 
 "Doctor, you yield to it, as a last hope, very lightly." 
 
 Dr. Martin shook his head. *'I speak as I know, 
 You insisted on having my true opinion." 
 
 "A warmer climate?" suggested Mr. Carlyle,. 
 eagerly, the idea crossing his mind. 
 
 "It might prolong the end for a very little while — a 
 few weeks, perhaps — avert it, it could not. And who 
 could take him? You could not go; and he has no 
 mother. No, I should not advise it." 
 
 "I wish you had seen Wainwright— with reference 
 to William." 
 
 "I have seen him. I met him this afternoon, by 
 chance, and told him my opinion. How is Mrs. 
 Carlyle?" 
 
 "Pretty well. 'She is not in robust health, you are 
 aware, just now." 
 
 Dr. Martin smiled. "These things will happen. 
 Mrs. Carlyle has a thoroughly good constitution; a far 
 stronger one than — than " 
 
 "Than what?" said Mr. Carlyle, wondering why he 
 hesitated. 
 
 "You must grant me pardon. I may as well finish, 
 now I have begun; but I was not thinking when I 
 spoke. She is stronger than was Lady Isabel. I 
 must be off to catch the six train." 
 
 "You will come over from time to time to East 
 Lynne to see William." 
 
 "If you wish it. It may be a satisfaction perhaps. 
 Bon jour, madame." 
 
 Lady Isabel bowed to him as he left the room with 
 Mr. Carlyle. "How fond that French governess of 
 yours is of the boy," the doctor whispered, as they 
 crossed the hall. "I detected it when she brought him 
 to Lynneborough. And you saw her just now! that 
 emotion was all because I said he could not live. 
 Good-by. " 
 
 Mr. Carlyle grasped his hand. "Doctor, I wish you 
 
344 EAST LYNNE 
 
 could save him," he passionately uttered. "Ah, 
 Carlyle! if we humble mites of human doctors could 
 but keep those whom it is the Great Physician's good 
 pleasure to take, how we should 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 somebody passing whom 
 she would gaze at. All of emotion was stirred up 
 within her; her temples throbbed; her heart 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 for coolness to 
 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," 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, resentfull}'' 
 were the words spoken, as if she would cast contempt 
 on 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." 
 
EAST LYNNE 345 
 
 William, who had fled from the room with the 
 avowed purpose of getting something nice from the 
 cook, here pushed his head in at the door to recon- 
 noiter. 
 
 "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." 
 
 "But I don't think it does make me strong, papa. 
 Does Mr. 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 toward 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, whetherX , 
 we live or die, we are in the hands of God, you know, I '^ 
 William, and whatever God wills is always for the' 
 best." 
 
 "Yes, I know that, papa." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle rose and lifted the boy toward Madame 
 Vine. "Take care of him, madame," he said, and 
 passed into the hall. 
 
 "Here, papa, papa! I want you," cried William, 
 breaking from Madame Vine's hands and running 
 after him. "Let me walk home with you? Are you 
 going to walk?" 
 
 How could he find it in his heart to deny anything 
 to the child then? "Very well," he said. "Stay here 
 till I come for you." 
 
 "We are going home with papa," proclaimed Wil- 
 liam 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. 
 
346 EAST I.YNNE 
 
 "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 
 some hindrance. The man looked confused, and 
 slunk off into the gutter. And you will not wonder 
 that he did, when you hear that it was Francis Levi- 
 son. William, childlike, 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 
 Pinner 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; it's too far-fetched a tale. What do you 
 know about it?" 
 
 ''Nothing," said Mr. Carlyle. "I have been privy 
 to no application." 
 
 "It seems they want to make out that Dick never 
 murdered Hallijohn," proceeded the justice in a half 
 whisper, glancing around, as if to be sure there were 
 no eavesdroppers amidst the trees. 
 
 '•Oh!" said Mr. Carlyle. 
 
EAST LYNNE 347 
 
 **But that Levison did. Levison!" 
 
 Mr. Carlyle made no reply, save by gesture, his face 
 more impassive than before. Not so another face 
 beside him. 
 
 *'But it can't be, you know. It can't, I sa)^" 
 
 "So far as Richard's innocence goes, of that I have 
 long been convinced," 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 j 
 down, ' ' 
 
 "It is sometimes, I think. That Richard was not] 
 the guilty man will be proved yet, justice, in the broadj 
 face of day." 
 
 "If-— if— that other did do it, 1 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, " spoke 
 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, return- 
 ing to the thought which so troubled his mind. "Then 
 why has he kept away?" 
 
 "That you might not 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 — somebody — had she lived. How / 
 her false step would have come home to her now!" , 
 
 ' ' False_ste£s_ corne . Jiome to most people, ' ' respond- J 
 ed MrT'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 
 
348 EAST LYNNE 
 
 and a heart sickened unto death. The justice looked 
 after them, his mind preoccupied. He was a maze of 
 bewilderment. Richard innocent! Richard whom he had 
 I striven to pursue to a shameful end! And that other 
 ' the guilty one? The world was turning upside down. 
 
 It 
 
 CHAPTER LII 
 
 THE ARREST 
 
 On the day of nomination West Lynne was in a 
 fever of excitement. Sir Francis and Mr. Drake were 
 conversing together, when suddenly Sir Francis felt 
 his arm gripped by a policeman and a voice rang out: 
 "Sir Francis Levison, you are my prisoner." Noth- 
 ing 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 amazement 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 coiue 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, paralyzed with consternation; 
 the word was passed from one extreme of it to the 
 other, back and across again, and the excitement grew 
 high. The ladies looking from Miss Carlyle's window 
 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 349 
 
 with the frightfully livid hue that disfigured the fea- 
 tures of Francis Levison? His agitation was pitiable 
 to witness, his face a terror to look upon. Once or 
 twice he gasped as if in agony; and then his eyes hap- 
 pened to fall on Otway Bethel, who stood near. Shorn 
 of its adornments — which might not be thought adorn- 
 ments on paper — the following was the sentence that 
 burst involuntarily from his lips: 
 
 "You hound! It is you who have done this!" 
 
 "No! b}^ " Whether Mr. Otway Bethel was 
 
 about to swear by Jupiter or Juno never was decided, 
 the sentence being cut ignominiously short at the 
 above two words. Another policeman, in the sum- 
 mary manner exercised toward 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 — and stood with eager gaze and open 
 ears. Colonel Bethel, 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 demanded of the 
 officers. 
 
 "It's no fault of ours, colonel; we have but executed 
 the warrant," answered one of them. "The magis- 
 trates 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, pris- 
 oners and officers, in scared bewilderment. 
 
 "It's alleged now that Richard Hare didn't have 
 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 got to prove it," civilly 
 rejoined the policeman. 
 
350 EAST LYNNE 
 
 CHAPTER LIII 
 
 THE JUSTICE-ROOM 
 
 The magistrates took their seats on the bench. Tht, 
 bench would not hold them ; all in the Commission of 
 the Peace flocked in. Any other day they would not 
 have been at West Lynne. As to the room, the won- 
 der was how it ever got 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 accusa- 
 tion. A scandalous affair, cried they, got up, prob- 
 ably, 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 got the best 
 place he could fight for amidst the crowd. Mr. Justice 
 Hare sat as chairman, unusually stern, unbending and 
 grim. No favor would he show, but no unfairness. 
 Had it been to save his son from hanging, he would 
 not adjudge guilt to Francis Levison against his con- 
 science. 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 
 jconducted 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 bout of whipping for juveniles, were pretty nearly 
 ^the harshest sentences pronounced. In this examina- 
 nion, as in others, evidence was advanced that was 
 I inadmissible — at least, that would have been inadmis- 
 (sible in a more orthodox court; hearsay testimony and 
 jrregularities of that nature. Mr. Rubiny watched 
 the case on behalf of Sir Francis Levison. 
 
 Mr. Ball opened the proceedings, giving the account 
 which had been imparted to him by Richard Hare, but 
 
EAST LYNNE 351 
 
 not mentioning Richard as his informant. H^ was 
 questioned as to whence he obtained his information, 
 but replied that it was not convenient, at present, to 
 disclose the source. The stumbling-block to the mag-\ 
 istrates appeared to be the identifying Levison with)*^ 
 Thorn. Ebenezer James came forward to prove it. / 
 
 "What do you know of the prisoner, Sir Francis 
 Levison?" questioned Justice Herbert. 
 
 "Not much," responded Mr. Ebenezer. "I used to 
 know him as Captain Thorn." 
 
 "Captain Thorn?" 
 
 "Afy Hallijohn called him captain; but I understood 
 he was but a lieutenant." 
 
 "From whom did you understand that?" 
 
 "From Afy. She was the only person I heard speak 
 of him." 
 
 "And you say you were in the habit of seeing him 
 in the place mentioned, the Abbey Wood?" 
 
 "I saw him there repeatedly; also at Hallijohn's 
 cottage. " 
 
 "Did you speak with him^as Thorn?" 
 
 "Two or three times. I addressed him as Thorn, 
 and he answered to the name. I had no suspicion but 
 what it was his name. Otway Bethel" — casting his 
 eyes on Mr. Otway, who stood in his shaggy attire — 
 "also knew him as Thorn; and so, I make no doubt, 
 did Locksley, for he was always in the wood." 
 
 "Anybody else?" 
 
 "Poor Hallijohn himself knew him as Thorn. He 
 said to Afy one day, in my presence, that he would 
 not have that confounded dandy. Thorn, coming 
 there." 
 
 "Were those the words he used?" 
 
 "They were. *That confounded dandy, Thorn!' I 
 remember Afy's reply; it was rather insolent. She 
 said Thorn was as free to come there as anybody else; 
 and she would not be found fault with, as though she 
 was not fit to take care of herself." 
 
 "That is nothing to the purpose. Were any others 
 acquainted with this Thorn?" 
 
I 
 
 352 EAST LYNNE 
 
 '*I should imagine the elder sister, Joyce, was. And 
 the one who knew him best of all was young Richard 
 Hare." 
 
 Old Richard Hare, from his place on the bench, 
 frowned menacingly at an imaginary Richard. 
 
 ''What took Thorn into the woods so often?" 
 
 "He was courting Afy?" 
 
 "With an intention of marrying her?" 
 
 "Well — no," cried Mr. Ebenezer, with a twist of the 
 mouth; "I should not suppose he entertained any 
 intention of that sort. He used to come over from. 
 Swainson, or its neighborhood, riding a splendid 
 horse." 
 
 "Whom did you suppose him to be?" 
 
 "I supposed him to be moving in the upper ranks of 
 life. There was no doubt of it. His dress, his man- 
 ners, his tone, all proclaimed it. He appeared to wish 
 to shun observation, and evidently did not care to be 
 seen. He rarely arrived until twilight." 
 
 "Did you see him there on the night of Hallijohns 
 murder?" 
 
 "No. I was not there myself that evening, so could 
 not have seen him." 
 
 "Did a suspicion cross your mind at any time that 
 he may have been guilty of the murder?" 
 
 "Never. Richard Hare was accused of it, and it 
 never occurred to me to suppose that he had not 
 done it." 
 
 "Pray, how many years is this ago?" sharply inter- 
 rupted Mr. Rubiny, perceiving that the witness was 
 done with. 
 
 "Let's see!" responded Mr. Ebenezer. "I can't be 
 sure as to a year without reckoning up. A dozen, if 
 not more." 
 
 "And you mean to say that you can swear to Sir 
 Francis Levison being that man — with all those years 
 intervening?" 
 
 "I swear that he is the same man. I..ani,aa.^ositive 
 of his identity as I am of my own." 
 
 "Without having seen him from that time to this?" 
 
EAST LYNNli 353 
 
 derisively returned the lawyer. * 'Nonsense, wit- 
 ness!" 
 
 *'I did not say that," returned Mr. Ebenezer. 
 
 The court pricked up its ears. **Have you seen him 
 between then and now?" asked one of them. 
 
 "Once." 
 
 ''Where, and when?" 
 
 "It was in London. About eighteen months after 
 the period of the murder." 
 
 "What communication had you with him?" 
 
 "None at all. I only saw him. Quite by chance." 
 
 "And whom did you suppose him to be — Thorn — or 
 Levison?" 
 
 "Thorn, certainly. I never dreamt of his being 
 Levison until he appeared here now to oppose Mr. 
 Carlyle." 
 
 A wild, savage curse shot through Sir Francis' heart 
 as he heard the words. What demon had possessed 
 him to venture his neck into the lion's den? There 
 had been a strong, hidden power holding him back 
 from it, independent of his dislike to face Mr. Carlyle. 
 How could he have been so mad as to disregard it? 
 How? X 
 
 "You may have been mistaken, witness, as to the / 
 identity of the man you saw in London. It may not 
 have been the Thorn you had known here." Mr. 
 Ebenezer James smiled a peculiar smile. "I was not 
 mistaken," he said, his tone sounding remarkably 
 significant. "I am upon my oath." 
 
 "Call Aphrodite Hallijohn." 
 
 The lady appeared, supported by her friend the 
 policeman, and Mr. Ebenezer James was desired by 
 Mr. Ball to leave the court while she gave her evi- 
 dence. Doubtless he had his reasons. 
 
 "What is your name?" 
 
 "Afy, " replied she, looking daggers at everybody 
 and sedulously keeping her back turned upon Francis 
 Levison and Otway Bethel. 
 
 "Your name in full, if you please. You were not 
 christened *Afy'?" 
 
 23 Lynne 
 
354 EAST LYNNE 
 
 ** Aphrodite Hallijohn. You all know my name as 
 well as I do. Where's the use of asking useless ques- 
 tions?" 
 
 "Swear the witness," said Mr. Justice Hare. 
 
 "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. "And 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, 1 don't refuse on that score. 1 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 sv^^ear me, then," 
 she said. Little notion had she of the broad gauge 
 those questions would run upon. And she was sworn 
 accordingly. Very unwillingly yet. 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 question put," was 
 
EAST LYNNE 355 
 
 the uncompromising rejoinder. ' ' How did you become 
 acquainted with Captain Thorn?" 
 
 "I met him at Swainson," doggedly answered Afy. 
 '*I went over there one day just for a spree, and I met 
 him at the pastry-cook's." 
 
 "And he fell in love with your pretty face?" said 
 Lawyer Ball, taking up the examination. 
 
 In the incense to her vanity, Afy 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 courting; 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." 
 
 "Did you know where he lived?" 
 
 **No. He never said that. I thought he was stop- 
 ping 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." 
 
 "Subsequently to the murder, I presume?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 Mr. Ball's eyes gave a twinkle, and the unconscious 
 Afy surreptitiously smoothed, with one finger, the 
 glossy parting of her hair. 
 
356 EAST LYNNE 
 
 ** Besides Captain Thorn, what gentlemen were in 
 the wood the night of the murder?" 
 
 "Richard Hare was there. Otway Bethel and Locks- 
 ley 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' 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 
 get 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, out X 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 inter- 
 rupted 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. Cap- 
 tain Thorn wished me good-by there, and 1 stayed 
 out." 
 
 "Did you hear the gun go off. " 
 
 "I heard a shot as I was sitting on the stump of a 
 tree and thinking. But I attached no importance to 
 it, never supposing it was in the cottage." 
 
EAST LYNNE 357 
 
 **What was it that Captain Thorn had to get from 
 the cottage after he quitted you? What had he left 
 there?" 
 
 Now this was a random shaft. Lawyer Ball, a keen 
 man, who had well weighed all points in the tale 
 imparted to him by Richard Hare, as well as other 
 points, had made his own deductions, and spoke accord- 
 ingly. Afy was taken in. 
 
 "He had left his hat there; nothing else. It was a 
 warm evening, and he had gone out without it." 
 
 "He told you, I believe, sufficient to convince you 
 of the guilt of Richard Hare?" Another shaft at 
 random. 
 
 "I did not want convincing. I knew it without. 
 Everybody else knew it." 
 
 "To be sure," equably returned Lawyer Ball. "Did 
 Captain Thorn see it done? — did he tell you that?" 
 
 "He had got his hat and was away down the wood 
 some little distance when he heard voices in dispute in 
 the cottage, and recognized one of them to be that of 
 my father. The shot followed close upon it, and he 
 guessed some mischief had been done, though he did 
 not suspect its extent." 
 
 "Thorn told you this! When?" 
 
 "The same night; much later." 
 
 "How came you to see him?" 
 
 Afy hesitated. But she was sternly told to answer 
 the question. 
 
 "A boy came up to the cottage and called me out, 
 and said a strange gentleman wanted to see me in the 
 wood, and had given him sixpence to come for me. I 
 went out, and found Captain Thorn. He asked what 
 the commotion was about, and I told him Richard Hare 
 had killed my father. He said that, now I spoke of 
 him, he could recognize Richard Hare's as having 
 been the other voice in the dispute." 
 
 "What boy was that — the one who came for you?" 
 
 "It was Mother Whiteman's little son." 
 
 ''And Captain Thorn then gave you this version oi 
 the tragedy?" 
 
358 EAST LYNNE 
 
 '*It was the right version," resentfully spoke Afy. 
 
 "How do you know that?" 
 
 *'Oh, because I'm sure it was. Who else would kill 
 him but Richard Hare? It is a scandalous shame, 
 your wanting to put it upon Thorn." 
 
 "Look at the prisoner. Sir Francis Levison. Is it 
 he whom you knew as Thorn?" 
 
 "Yes. But that does not make him guilty of the 
 murder." 
 
 "Of course it does not," complacently assented 
 Lawyer Ball. "How long did you remain with Cap- 
 tain Thorn in London — upon that liftle visit, you 
 know?" 
 
 Afy stared like anybody moonstruck. 
 
 "When you quitted this place after the tragedy it 
 was to join Captain Thorn in London. How long, I 
 ask, did you remain with him?" Entirely a random 
 shaft, this. 
 
 "Who says I was with him? Who says I went after 
 him?" flashed Afy, with scarlet cheeks. 
 
 "I do, " replied Lawyer Ball, taking notes of her 
 confusion. "Come, it's over and done with; it's no 
 use to deny it now. We all go upon visits to friends 
 sometimes." 
 
 "1 never heard anything so bold!" cried Afy. 
 "Where will you tell me I went next?" 
 
 "You are upon your oath, woman!" again inter- 
 posed Justice Hare, and a trembling, as of agitation, 
 might be detected in his voice, in spite of its ringing 
 severity. "Were you with the prisoner, Levison, or 
 were you with Richard Hare?" 
 
 "I with Richard Hare!" cried Afy, agitated in her 
 turn, and shaking like an aspen leaf, partly with dis- 
 comfiture, partly with an unknown dread. "How dare 
 that cruel falsehood be brought up again to my face? 
 I never saw Richard Hare after the night of the mur- 
 der. I swear it. I swear that I have never seen him 
 since. Visit him! I'd sooner visit Calcraft, the hang- 
 man." 
 
 There was truth in the words, in the tone. The 
 
EAST LYNNE 359 
 
 chairman let fall the hand which had been raised to 
 his face, holding on his eye-glasses, and a sort of self- 
 condemning fear arose, confusing his brain. His son 
 proved innocent of one part might be proved innocent 
 of the other, and then how would his own harsh con- 
 duct show out? West Lynne, in its charity, the jus- 
 tice, in his, had cast more odium to Richard with 
 regard to his after conduct touching this girl, than it 
 had on the score of the murder. 
 
 "Come," said Lawyer Ball, in a coaxing tone, "let 
 us be pleasant. Of course you were not with Richard 
 Hare; West Lynne is always ill-natured; you were only 
 on a visit to Captain Thorn, as — as any other young 
 lady might be?" 
 
 Afy hung her head, cowed down to abject meekness. 
 
 "Answer the question," came forth the chairman's 
 voice again. 
 
 "Were you with Thorn?" 
 
 "Yes." Though the answer was feeble enough. 
 
 Mr. Ball coughed an insinuating cough. "Did you 
 remain with him — say, two or three years?" 
 
 "Not three." 
 
 "A little over two, perhaps?" 
 
 "There was no harm in it!" shrieked Afy, with a 
 catching sob of temper. "If I chose to live in London, 
 and he chose to make a morning call upon me now 
 and then, as an old friend, what's that to anybody? 
 Where v/as the harm, 1 ask?" 
 
 "Certainly — where was the harm? I am not insinu- 
 ating any," returned Lawyer Ball, with a wink of the 
 eye furthest from the witness and the bench. "And, 
 during the time that — that he was making these little r 
 morning calls upon you, did you know him to be Levi-y 
 son?" 
 
 "Yes. I knew him to be Captain Levison, then." 
 
 "Did he ever tell you why he had assumed the name 
 of Thorn?" ■ 
 
 "Only for a whim, he said. The day he spoke to me ', 
 in fhe pastry-cook's shop at Swainson, something 
 came over him, in the spur of the moment, not to give , 
 
\ 
 
 360 EAST LYNNE 
 
 /his right name, so he gave the first that came into his 
 I head. He never thought to retain it, or that other 
 I people would hear of him by it." 
 
 "I dare say not," said Lawyer Ball, dryly. "Well, 
 Miss Afy, 1 believe that is all for the present. I want 
 Ebenezer James in again," he whispered to an officer 
 of the justice-room, as the witness retired. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV 
 
 COMMITTED 
 
 Ebenezer James reappeared and took Afy's place. 
 "You informed their worships just now that you had 
 met Thorn in London, some eighteen months subse- 
 quent to the murder," began Lawyer Ball, launching 
 another of his shafts. "This must have been during 
 Afy H alii John's sojourn with him. Did you also see 
 her?" 
 
 Mr. Ebenezer opened his eyes. He knew^nothing 
 of the evidence just given by Afy, and wondered how 
 on earth it had come out — that she had been with 
 Thorn at all. He had never betrayed it. "Afy?" 
 stammered he. 
 
 "Yes, Afy," sharply returned the lawyer. "Their 
 worships know that when she left West Lynne it was 
 to join Thorn, not Richard Hare — though the latter has 
 borne the credit of it. I ask you, did you see her? for 
 she was then still connected with him." 
 
 "Well — yes, 1 did," replied Mr. Ebenezer, his own 
 scruples removed, but wondering still how it had been 
 discovered, unless Afy had, as he had half prophesied 
 she would — let it out in her "tantrums." "In fact, it 
 was Afy whom I first saw." 
 
 "State the circumstances." 
 
 "I was up Paddington way one afternoon, and saw 
 a lady going into a house. It was Afy Hallijohn. 
 She lived there, I found — had the drawing-room apart- 
 ments. She invited me to stay to tea with her, and I 
 did." 
 
EAST LYNNE 361 
 
 **Did you see Captain Levison there?" 
 
 *'I saw Thorn — as I thought him to be. Afy told 
 me I must be away by eight o'clock, for she was 
 expecting a friend, who sometimes came to sit with 
 her for an hour's chat. But, in talking over old times 
 — not that I could tell her much about West Lynne, for 
 I had left it almost as long as she had — the time 
 slipped on, past the hour. When Afy found that out, 
 she hurried me off, and I had barely got outside the 
 gate when a cab drove up and Thorn alighted from it, 
 and let himself in with a latch-key. That is all I 
 know." 
 
 "When you knew that the scandal of Afy's absence 
 rested on Richard Hare, why could you not have said 
 this, and cleared him on your return to West Lynne?" 
 
 "It was no affair of mine, that I should make it 
 public. Afy asked me not to say I had seen her. and 
 I promised her 1 would not. As to Richard Hare — a 
 little extra scandal on his back was nothing, while 
 there remained on it the worse scandal of the murder. ' ' 
 
 "Stop a bit," interposed Mr. Rubiny, as the witness 
 was about to retire. "You speak of the time being 
 eight o'clock in the evening, sir. Was it dark?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then how could you be certain it was Thorn who 
 got out of the cab and entered?" 
 
 "I am quite certain. There was a gas lamp right 
 at the spot, and I saw him as well as I should have 
 seen him in daylight. I knew his voice, too; could 
 have sworn to it anywhere ; and I could almost have j 
 sworn to him by his splendid diamond ring. It flashed) 
 in the lamplight." 
 
 "His voice! Did he speak to you?" 
 
 "No. But he spoke to the cabman. There was a half 
 dispute between them. The man said Thorn had not 
 paid him enough; that he had not allowed for the hav- 
 ing kept him waiting twenty minutes on the road. 
 Thorn swore at him a bit, and then flung him an extra 
 shilling/' 
 
 The next witness was a man who had been groom 
 
362 EAST LYNNE 
 
 to the late Sir Peter Levison. He testified that the 
 prisoner, Francis Levison, had been on a visit to his 
 master late in the summer and part of the autumn the 
 year that Hallijohn was killed. That he frequently 
 rode out in the direction of West Lynne, especially 
 toward evening; would be away for three or four 
 hours, and come home with the horse in a foam. 
 Also that he picked up two letters at different times, 
 which Mr. Levison had carelessly let fall from his 
 pocket, and returned them to him. Both the notes 
 were addressed "Captain Thorn." But they had not 
 been through the post, for there was no further super- 
 scription on them, and the writing looked like a lady's. 
 He remembered quite well hearing of the murder of 
 Hallijohn, the witness added, in answer to a. question; 
 it made a great stir throughout the country. It was 
 just at that same time that Mr. Levison concluded his 
 visit and returned to London. 
 
 "A wonderful memory!" Mr. Rubiny sarcastically 
 remarked. 
 
 The witness, a quiet, respectable man, replied that 
 he had a good memory, but that circumstances had 
 impressed upon it particularly the fact that Mr. Levi- 
 son 's departure followed close upon the murder of 
 Hallijohn. 
 
 "What circumstances?" demanded the bench. 
 
 "One day, when Sir Peter was round at the stables, 
 gentlemen, he was urging his nephew to prolong his 
 visit, and asked what sudden freak was taking him off. 
 Mr. Levison replied that unexpected business called 
 him to London. While they were talking the coach- 
 man came up, all in a heat, telling that Hallijohn, of 
 West Lynne, had been murdered by young Mr. Hare. 
 I remember Sir Peter said he could not believe it, and 
 that it must have been an accident, not murder." 
 
 "Is this all?" 
 
 "There was more said. Mr. Levison, in a shame- 
 faced sort of manner, asked his uncle would he let him 
 have five or ten pounds? Sir Peter seemed angry, and 
 asked what had he done with the fifty-pound note he 
 
EAST LYNNE 
 
 had made him a present of only the previous morning! 
 Mr. Levison replied that he had sent that away in a 
 letter to a brother officer to whom he was in debt. Sir 
 Peter refused to believe it, and said he was more likely 
 to have squandered it upon some disgraceful folly. 
 Mr. Levison denied that he had, but he looked con- 
 fused; indeed, his manner was altogether confused that 
 morning." 
 
 "Did he get the five or ten pounds?" 
 
 "I don't know, gentlemen. I dare say he did, for 
 my master was as persuadable as a woman, though he'd 
 fly out a bit sometimes at first. Mr. Levison departed 
 for London that same night." 
 
 The last witness called was Mr. Dill. On the previ- 
 ous Tuesday evening he had been returning home 
 from spending an hour at Mr. Beauchamp's, when, in 
 the field opposite to Mr. Justice Hare's, he suddenly 
 heard a commotion. It arose from the meeting of Sir 
 Francis Levison and Otway Bethel. The former 
 appeared to have been enjoying a solitary moonlight 
 ramble, and the latter to have encountered him unex- 
 pectedly. 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 Hallijohn'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!" 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 con- 
 fusion. I have not been able to look Mrs. Hare in the 
 
)k 
 
 364 EAST LYNNE 
 
 face since — knowing I hold the secret that would save 
 her son from the hangman." 
 
 "And put3^ourself in his place," sneered Sir Francis. 
 
 ''No. 'Put you." 
 
 ''That's as it might be. But if I went to the hang- 
 man you would go with me. There Avould 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;" "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 3'ou made no mis- 
 take? — 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 conspicuous. Was that stone 
 the real thing, or a false one substituted for the real? 
 Hard up as he had long been for money, the suspicion 
 might arise. A derisive sm.ile crossed his features at 
 parts of the evidence, as much as to say, you may con- 
 vict 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 worship will take bail for Sir Fran- 
 cis," said Mr. Rubiny, at the close of the proceedings. 
 
 Bail! The bench looked at one another. 
 
 "Your worship will not refuse it— A_gentjeman in 
 Sir Francis Levison's position I" The bench thought 
 they had never had so insolent an application made to 
 
EAST LYNNE 365 
 
 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 nobody 
 would offer bail for him, not even the colonel, did not 
 ask the bench to take it. So the two were fully com- 
 mitted to take their trial for the "wilful murder, 
 otherwise the killing and slaying, of George Halli- 
 john. " 
 
 CHAPTER LV 
 
 THE TRIAL 
 
 At the assizes the same evidence was taken. Then 
 the counsel for the prosecution rose and said: "Call 
 Richard Hare." 
 
 Those present who knew Mr. Justice Hare looked 
 up at him, wondering why he did not stir in answer to 
 his name ; wondering at the pallid hue which over- 
 spread his face. Not he, but another man, came for- 
 ward; a fair, placid young man, with blue eyes, fair 
 hair and a pleasant countenance. It was Richard 
 Hare, the younger. He had resumed his original posi-] 
 tion in life, so far as attire went, and in that, at least, i 
 was a gentleman again; in speech also. With his] 
 working dress Richard had thrown off his working ' 
 manners. 
 
 A strange hubbub arose in court. Richard Hare the 
 exile! the reported dead; the man whose life was still 
 in jeopardy! The spectators rose with one accord to 
 get a better view; they stood on tiptoe; they pushed 
 forth their necks; they strained their eyesight; and 
 amidst all the noisy hum, the groan, bursting from 
 the lips of Justice Hare, was unnoticed. Whilst order 
 was called for, and the judge threatened to clear the 
 court, two officers moved quietly up and stood behind 
 the witness. Richard Hare was in custody, though 
 he might know it not. The witness was sworn. 
 
 "What is your name?" 
 
36G EAST LYNNE 
 
 "Richard Hare." 
 
 "Son of Mr. Justice Hare, I believe, of the Grove, 
 West Lynne?" 
 
 "His only son." 
 
 "The same against whom a verdict of wilful murder 
 is out?" interposed the judge. 
 
 "The same, my lord," replied Richard Hare, who 
 appeared, strange as it may seem, to have cast away 
 all his old fearfulness. 
 
 "Then, witness, let me warn you that you are not 
 obliged to answer any question that might tend to 
 criminate yourself." 
 
 "My lord," answered Richard Hare, with some emo- 
 tion, "I wish to answer any and every question put to 
 me. I have but one hope ; that the full truth of all 
 pertaining to that fatal evening may be made manifest 
 this day." 
 
 "Look round at the prisoner," said the examining 
 counsel. "Do you know him?" 
 
 "I know him now as Sir Francis Levison. Up to 
 A-pril last I believed his name to be Thorn." 
 
 "State what occurred on the evening of that murder 
 —so far as your knowledge goes. " 
 
 "I had an appointment that evening with Afy Hal- 
 lijohn, and went down to their cottage to keep it " 
 
 "A moment," interrupted the counsel. "Was your 
 visit that evening made in secret?" 
 
 "Partially so. My father and mother were dis- 
 pleased at my intimacy 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 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; sho 
 was busy, she said. I felt sure she had Thorn v/ith 
 
EAST LYNNE 367 
 
 ner. She had, more than once before, refused to 
 admit me when I had gone there by her own appoint- 
 ment, and I always found that Thorn's presence in the 
 cottage was the obstacle." 
 
 "I suppose you and Thorn were jealous of each 
 other?" 
 
 "I v/as 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 friend* 
 ship for Miss Afy Hallijohn?" 
 
 "I loved her with an honorable love; as^I might 
 have loved any young;_lady in my own station ofTife. >> 
 I would not have married her in opposition to my 
 father and mother, but I told Afy that if she was con- 
 tent to wait for me, until I was my own master, I 
 would then make her my wife." 
 
 "You had no views toward her of a different na- 
 ture?" 
 
 "None. I cared for her too much for that. And I 
 respected her father. Afy's mother had been alady, / 
 too, although she hadjmarried HaIlijohh,'who was but 
 clerk to Mr. Carlyle. No, I never had a thought of 
 wrong toward 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 v/ith 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 further off, quite out of 
 view of the cottage. Some time afterward, less than 
 half an hour, I heard a shot in the direction of the cot- 
 tage. Somebody was having a late shot at the par- 
 tridges, I thought. Just then I saw Otway Bethel 
 emerge from the trees not far from me, and run 
 toward the cottage. My lord," added Richard Hare, 
 looking at the judge, ''that was the shot that killed 
 Hallijohn." 
 
368 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "Could the shot," asked the counsel, "have been 
 fired by Otway Bethel?" 
 
 "It could not. It was much further 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 staring, and he panted and shook like 
 one in the ague. Past me l^e tore, on the down path, 
 and I afterward heard the sound of his horse gallop- 
 ing away. It had been tied in the wood." 
 "Did you follow him?" 
 
 "No. I wondered what had happened to put him 
 in that state; but I made haste to the cottage, intend- 
 ing to reproach Afy with her duplicity. I leaped up the 
 two steps, and fell over the prostrate body of Halli- 
 john. He was lying dead, within the door. My gun, 
 just discharged, was flung on the floor, its contents in 
 Hallijohn's side." 
 
 You might have heard a pin drop in court, so intense 
 was the interest. 
 
 "There appeared to be no one in the cottage, 
 upstairs or down. I called to Afy, but she did not 
 answer. I caught up the gun, and was running from 
 the cottage, when Locksley came out of the wood, and 
 looked at me. I grew confused, fearful, and I threw 
 the gun back again and made off. " 
 
 "What were your motives for acting that way?" 
 "A panic had come over me; and in that moment I 
 must have lost the use of my reason, otherwise I never 
 should have acted as I did. Thoughts, especially of 
 fear, pass through our minds with astonishing swift- 
 ness, and I feared lest the crime should be fastened 
 upon me. It was fear that made me snatch up my 
 gun, lest it should be found near the body; it was fear 
 that made me throw it back again when Locksley 
 appeared in view, a fear from which all judgment, all 
 reason, had departed. But for my own conduct, the 
 charge never would have been laid to me." 
 "Goon." 
 **In my flight 1 came upon Bethel. I knew that if 
 
EAST LYNNE 369 
 
 he had gone toward the cottage, after the shot was 
 fired, he must have encountered Thorn, flying from it. 
 He denied that he had. He said he had only gone 
 along the path for a few paces, and had then plunged 
 into the wood again. I believed him, and departed." 
 
 "Departed from West Lynne?" 
 
 *'That night I did. It was a foolish, fatal step, the 
 result of cowardice. I found the charge was laid to 
 me, and I thought I would absent myself for a day or 
 two, to see how things turned out. Next came the 
 inquest and the verdict against me, and I left for 
 good." 
 
 **This is the truth, so far as you are cognizant of it?" 
 
 ''I swear that it is the truth and the whole truth, so 
 far as I am cognizant of it, ' ' replied Richard Hare, with 
 emotion. "I could not assert it more solemnly were I 
 before God." 
 
 He was subjected to a rigid cross-examination, but 
 his testimony was not shaken in the least. Perhaps 
 not one present but was impressed with its truth. 
 
 Afy Hallijohn was recalled, and questioned as to 
 Richard's presence at her father's house that night. 
 It tallied with the account given by Richard; but it 
 had to be drawn from her. 
 
 "Why did you decline to receive Richard Hare into 
 the cottage, after appointing him to come?" 
 
 "Because 1 chose," returned Afy. 
 
 "Tell the jury why you chose." 
 
 "Well, I had got a friend with me. It was Captain 
 Thorn," she added, feeling that she should only be 
 questioned on the point, so might as well acknowledge 
 it. "1 did not admit Richard Hare, for I 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. " 
 
 24 Lynne 
 
570 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "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 afterward found near 
 my father, and had been discharged." 
 
 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 his testimony was as follows: 
 
 "On the evening that Hallijohn was killed I was in 
 Abbey Wood, and 1 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, 
 pulling the door to behind her, and holding 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-doors. Some time 
 after that I saw Richard Hare amid the trees at a dis- 
 tance, further off the cottage than 1 was, and appar- 
 ently watching the path. I was wondering what he 
 was up to, hiding there, when I heard a shot fired, 
 close, as it seemed, to the cottage, and " 
 
 "Stop a bit, witness. Could that shot have been 
 fired by Richard Hare?" 
 
 "It could not. He was a quarter of a mile, nearly, 
 away 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; 
 and I knew that poachers did not congregate so near 
 Hallijohn's cottage. I set off to reconnoitre, and as I 
 turned the corner, which brought the house Vvrithin my 
 view, I saw Captain Thorn— as he was called— come 
 
EAST LYNNE 371 
 
 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 " 
 
 "Stop. Why did you suspect him?" 
 "From his state of excitement; from the terror he 
 was in. That some ill had happened 1 felt sure — and 
 so would you, had you seen him as I did. My arrest- 
 ing 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 it worth your while. The thing 
 was not premeditated, it was done in the heat of pas- 
 sion. 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 anybody was killed. " 
 "What did j^ou suppose had happened, then?" 
 "I could not suppose; 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 1 stood looking after him. The next was, I heard 
 footsteps, and I slipped within the trees. They were 
 those of Richard Hare, who took the path to the cot- 
 tage. Presently he returned, little less agitated than 
 Thorn had been. 1 had gone into an open space then, 
 and he accosted me, asking me if I had seen 'that 
 hound' fly from the cottage? 'What hound?' I asked 
 him. 'That fine fellow, that Thorn, who comes after 
 Afy,' he answered; but I stoutly denied that I had seen 
 
372 EAST LYNNE 
 
 any one. Richard Hare continued his way. and I 
 afterward found that Hallijohn was killed." 
 
 '*And so you took a bribe to conceal one of the foul- 
 est crimes that ever man committed, Mr. Otway 
 Bethel?" 
 
 **I took the money, and am ashamed to confess to it. 
 But it was done v/ithout reflection. I swear that had 
 1 known what crime it was intended to hush up, I 
 never would have touched it. I wsls hard up for funds, 
 and the amount tempted me. When 1 discovered 
 what had really happened, and that Richard Hare v/as 
 accused, I was thunderstruck 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 disap- 
 peared. 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 a cer- 
 tain understanding, and it was only fair that I should 
 keep to it." 
 
 If Richard Hare was subjected to a severe cross- 
 examination, a far more severe one awaited Otway 
 Bethel. The judge spoke to him only once, his tone 
 ringing with reproach. 
 
 "It appears then, v/itness, that you have retained 
 within you, all these years, the proofs of Richard 
 Hare's innocence?" 
 
 "1 can only acknowledge it with contrition, my 
 lord." 
 
 "What did you know of Thorn in those days?" asked 
 the counsel. 
 
 "Nothing, save that he frequented the Abbey Wood, 
 his object being Afy Hallijohn. I had never exchanged 
 a word with him until this night; but I knew his 
 
EAST LYNNE r^ 
 
 name — Thorn — at least the one he went by. And by 
 his calling me Bethel, it appeared that he knew mine." 
 
 The case for the prosecution closed. An able and ^ 
 ingenious speech was made for the defense, the learned 
 counsel who offered it contending that there was still 
 no proof of^Sir Francis Levison having been the guilty 
 man. Neither was there any proof that the catas- 
 trophe 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 in it being that of the 
 judge. 
 
 The judge summed up. Certainly not in the pris- 
 oner's favor, 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 lord- 
 ship; Richard Hare for sympathy. The jury retired 
 about four o'clock, and the judge quitted the bench. 
 
 A very short time they v/ere absent. Scarcely a 
 quarter of an hour. His lordship turned 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 fore- 
 head — the action so often spoken of. Silence was pro- 
 claimed. 
 
 "How say you, gentlemen of the jury? Guilty or 
 not guilty?" 
 
 "Guilty!" It was a silence to be felt, and the pris- 
 oner 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 from 
 the bad passions of the moment, and was so com- 
 mitted." 
 
 The judge paused, and drew something black from 
 
374 EAST LYNNE 
 
 the receptacle of his pocket, buried deep in his 
 robes. 
 
 "Prisoner at the bar! Have you anything to urge 
 why the 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 rea- 
 son for recommending me to your lordship's mercy, 
 have adopted the right view of the case, as it actually 
 occurred. That the man, 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 quitted 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 was there — the father — 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 undoubted evidence, of the crime of wilful 
 murder. The jury have pronounced you guilty, and 
 in their verdict I entirely coincide. That you took the 
 life of that ill-fated and unoffending man there is no 
 doubt; you have yourself confessed it. It was a foul, 
 a barbarous, a wicked act. I care not what m.ay have 
 been the particular circumstances attending it ; he may 
 have provoked by words, but no provocation of that 
 nature could justify your drawing the gun upon him. 
 Your cou nsel u rged that you were a gentleman, a 
 ^ menibeF of the British aristocracy, and therefore 
 deserved consideration. I confess that I was very 
 :mucli~surprised to hear such a doctrine fall from his 
 lips. In my opinion, your position in life makes your 
 crime the worse; and I have always maintained that 
 when a man possessed of advantages falls into sin, he 
 
EAST LYNNE 375 
 
 deserves less consideration than does one who is poor,\ 
 simple and uneducated. Certain proportions of the 1 
 evidence given to-day (and I do not allude to the ' 
 actual crime) tell very greatly against you. You 
 were pursuing the daughter of this man with no hon- 
 orable purpose — and in this point your conduct con- 
 trasts badly with that of Richard Hare, equally a gen- 
 tleman with yourself. In this pursuit you killed her 
 father; and, not content with that, you still pursued 
 the girl — and pursued her to her ruin — basely deceiv- 
 ing her as to the actual facts, and laying the crime 
 upon another. I cannot trust myself to speak further 
 upon this point, nor is it necessary that I should. It 
 is not to answer for that, that you stand before me. 
 Uncalled, unprepared, andbyyouunpitied, you hurried 
 that unfortunate man into eternity, and you must now 
 expiate the crime with your own life. The jury have 
 recommended you to mercy, and the recommenda- 
 tion will be forwarded in due course to the proper 
 quarter; but you must be aware how frequently this 
 clause is appended to a verdict, and hov/ very rarely it 
 is attended to, just cause being wanting. I can but 
 enjoin you, and I do so most earnestly, to pass the 
 little time that probably remains to you on earth in 
 seeking repentance and forgiveness. You are best 
 aware yourself, what your past life has been — the 
 world knows somewhat of it — but there is pardon 
 above for the most guilty, when it is earnestly sought. 
 It now only remains for me to pass upon you the 
 dread sentence of the law. It is that you, Francis 
 Levison, be taken back to the place whence you came, 
 and thence to the place of execution, and that you be 
 there hanged by the neck until you are dead. And 
 may the Lord God Almighty have mercy upon your 
 immortal soul. Amen." 
 
 The court was cleared. The day's excitement was 
 over, and the next case was inquired for. Not quite 
 over yet, however, the excitement, and the audience 
 crowded in again. For the next case proved to be the 
 arraignment of Richard Hare the younger. A forma/ 
 
376 EAST LYNNE 
 
 proceeding*, merely, in pursuance of the verdict of the 
 coroner's inquest. No evidence was offered against 
 him, and the judge ordered him to be discharged. 
 Richard— poor, ill-used, baited Richard — was a free 
 man again. 
 
 Then ensued the scene of all scenes. Half, at least, 
 of those present were residents of, or from near West 
 Lynne. They had known Richard Hare from infancy: 
 they had admired the boy in pretty childhood ; they 
 had liked him in his unoffending boyhood; but they 
 had been none the less ready to cast their harsh 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 demon- 
 stration be of a laudatory or a condemnatory 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 over- 
 whelmed him with good wishes, they expressed with 
 shame their repentance, they said that the future 
 should atone for the past. Had he possessed a hun- 
 dred 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 pompos- 
 ity, burst into tears and sobbed like a child, as he mur- 
 mured something about he, also, wanting forgiveness. 
 
 "Dear father," cried Richard, his own eyes wet, ''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 tv/itching curi- 
 ously, the face was twitching curiouslv ; the body also 
 began to twitch; and he fell upon 'the shoulder of 
 Colonel Bethel, in a second stroke of paralysis. 
 
EAST LYNNE 317 
 
 CHAPTER LVI 
 
 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.^r 
 to dying children ! It is astonishing how very readily, 
 where the right means are taken, they may be made 
 to look with pleasure, rather than fear, upon their 
 unknown journey. 
 
 The brilliant, hectic type of the disease had gone 
 from his cheeks, his features were white and wasted, 
 and his eyes large and bright. His silky brown hair 
 was pushed off 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 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 to God — how- 
 ever it may he." 
 
 William lay looking upward at the sky, apparently 
 in thought. A dark-blue, serene sky, from which 
 shone the hot July sun. His 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 butter- 
 flies and bees sported in the summer air. 
 
 "I wonder hovy it will be?" pondered he, aloud. 
 
378 EAST LYNNE 
 
 *' There will be the beautiful city, with its gates of 
 pearl, and its shining precious stone, and its streets of 
 gold; and there will be the clear river, and the trees 
 with their fruits and their healing leaves and the 
 lovel}^ flowers ; and there will be the harps and music 
 and singing; and what else will there be?" 
 
 "Everything that is desirable and beautiful, Wil- 
 liam." 
 
 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 forever. 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 free- 
 dom ; 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! Erelong." 
 
 "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 hesita- 
 tion — "she was not quite good. She was not good to 
 papa or to us. Sometimes I think, suppose she did 
 not grow good, and did not ask God to forgive her?" 
 
 "Oh, William," sobbed the unhappy lady, "het 
 
EAST LYNNE 379 
 
 whole life, after she left you, was one long scene of jij^ 
 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 in 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 mam- 
 ma'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." 
 
 "Oh!" said the boy. "Why did you never tell us? 
 What did she say? What was she like?" 
 
 "She said" — sobbing wildly — "that she was parted 
 from her children here. But she should meet them in 
 Heaven and be with them forever. William, darling! 
 all the awful pain and sadness of guilt of this world will 
 be washed out, and God will wipe our tears away." 
 
 "What was her face like?" he questioned, softly. 
 
 "Like yours. Very much like Lucy's." 
 
 "Was she pretty?" 
 
 A momentary pause. "Yes." 
 
 "Oh, dear! I am ill! Hold me!" cried out Wil- 
 liam, as his head sank to one side, and great drops, as 
 large as peas, broke forth upon his clammy face. It 
 appeared to be one of the temporary faint attacks that 
 had overpowered him at times lately, and Lady Isabel 
 rang the bell hastily. 
 
 Wilson came in, in answer. Joyce was the usual 
 attendant upon the sick-room, but Mrs. Carlyle, with 
 her infant, was passing the day at the Grove, uncon- 
 scious of the critical state of William, and she had 
 taken Joyce with her. It was the day following the 
 trial. Mr. Justice Hare had been brought to West 
 
380 EAST LYNNE 
 
 Lynne in his second attack, and Barbara had gone to 
 see him, to console her mother, and to welcome Richf 
 ard to his home again. If one carriage drove that da}? 
 to the Grove with cards and inquiries, fifty did, not to 
 speak of the foot callers. 
 
 *'It is all meant by way of attention to you, Rich- 
 ard," said gentle Mrs. Hare, smiling through her lov- 
 ing tears at her restored son. Lucy and Archie were 
 dining at Miss Carlyle's, and Sarah attended little 
 Arthur, leaving Wilson free. She came in, in answer 
 to Madame Vine's ring. 
 
 "Is he off in another faint?" uncerem.oniously cried 
 she, hastening to the bed. 
 
 "I think so. Help me to raise him. " 
 
 William did not faint. No, the attack was quite 
 different from those he was subject to. Instead of 
 losing consciousness and power, as was customary, he 
 shook as if he had the ague, and laid hold both of 
 Madame Vine and Wilson, grasping them convul- 
 sively, 
 
 "Don't let me fall! don't let me fall!" he gasped. 
 
 "My dear, you cannot fall," responded Madame 
 Vine. "You forget. that you are on the bed." 
 
 He clasped them yet, and trembled still, as from 
 fear. "Don't let me fall! don't let me fall!" the 
 incessant burden of his cry. 
 
 The paroxysm passed. They wiped his brow, and 
 stood looking at him — Wilson with a pursed-up mouth, 
 and a peculiar expression of face. She put a spoonful 
 of restorative jelly between his lips, and he swallowed 
 it, but shook his head when she would have given him 
 another. Turning his face to the pillow, in a few 
 minutes he was in a doze. 
 
 "What could it have been?" exclaimed Lady Isabel, 
 
 \in an undertone to Wilson. 
 , "I know," was the oracular answer. "I saw this 
 same sort of attack once before, madame. " 
 "And what caused it?" 
 
 " 'Twasn't in a child, though," went on Wilson. 
 " 'Twas in a grown-up person. But that's nothing- 
 
EAST LYNNE 381 
 
 "t comes for the same thing in all. I think he was 
 aken for death." 
 
 *'Who?" uttered Lady Isabel, startled. 
 
 Wilson made no reply in words, but she pointed 
 with her finger to the bed. 
 
 *'Oh, Wilson! He is not^so ill as that. Mr. Wain- 
 wright said this morning that he might last a week or 
 two." 
 
 Wilson composedly sat down in the easiest chair. 
 She was not wont to put herself out of the way for the 
 governess, and that governess was too much afraid of 
 her, in one sense, to let her know her place. 
 
 "As to Wainwright, he's nobody," quoth she. 
 "And if he saw the child's breath going out before his 
 face, and knew that the next moment would be his 
 last, he'd vow to us all that he was good for twelve 
 hours to come. You don't know Wainwright as I do, 
 madame. He was our doctor at mother's, and he has 
 attended in all the places I have lived in since I went 
 out to service. Five years I was head nurse at Squire 
 Pinner's; going on for four I was lady's-maid at Mrs. 
 Hare's; I cam.e here when Miss Lucy was a baby, and 
 in all my places has he attended, like one's shadow. 
 My Lady Isabel thought great guns of old Wain- 
 wright, I remember. It was more than I did." 
 
 My Lady Isabel made no response to this. She took 
 a seat, and watched William. His breathing was more 
 labored than usual. 
 
 "That idiot, Sarah, says to me to-day, says she, 
 *Which of his two grandpas will they bury him by — • 
 old Mr. Carlyle or Lord Mount Severn?' 'Don't be a 
 calf!' I answered her. 'D'ye think they'll stick him 
 out in the corner with my lord? He'll be put in the 
 Carlyle vault, of course.' It would have been differ- 
 ent, you see, Madame Vine, if my lady had died at 
 home, all proper, Mr. Carlyle's wife. They'd have 
 buried her, no doubt, by her father, and the boy would 
 have been laid with her. But she did not." 
 
 No reply was made by Madame Vine, and a silence 
 ensued. Nothing to be heard but that fleeting breath. 
 
382 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "I wonder how that beauty feels?" suddenly broke 
 forth Wilson again, her tone of scornful irony. 
 
 Lady Isabel, her eyes and her thoughts absorbed by 
 William, positively thought Wilson's words must 
 relate to him. She turned to her in surprise. 
 
 "That bright gem in the prison at Lynneborough," 
 explained Wilson. "1 hope he may have found him- 
 self pretty well since yesterday! I wonder how 
 many trainfuls from West Lynne will go to his hang- 
 in o- 
 
 ,•?' 
 
 Her face turned crimson; her heart sick. She had 
 not dared to inquire how the trial terminated. The 
 subject altogether was too dreadful, and nobody had 
 happened to mention it in her hearing. 
 
 "Is he condemned?" she asked, in a low tone. 
 
 '*He is condemned; and good luck to him! and Mr. 
 Otway Bethel's let loose again; and good luck to him. 
 A nice pair they are! Nobody went from this house 
 to hear the trial — it might not have been pleasant, 
 you know, madame, to Mr. Carlyle; but people came 
 in last night and told us all about it. Young Richard 
 Hare chiefly convicted him. He is back again, and so 
 nice-looking, they say— ten times more so than he was 
 when quite a young man. You should have heard, 
 they say, the cheerings and shouts which greeted Mr. 
 Richard when his innocence came out ; it pretty near 
 rose off the roof of the court; and the judge didn't 
 stop it." 
 
 Wilson paused, but there was no answering com- 
 ment. On she went again. 
 
 "When Mr. Carlyle brought the news home last 
 evening, and broke it to his wife — telling her how 
 Mr. Richard had been received with acclamations, she 
 nearly fainted; for she's not strong yet. Mr. Carlyle 
 called out to me to bring som^e water — I was in the 
 next room with the baby — and there she was, the 
 tears raining from her eyes, and he holding her to him. 
 I always said there was a whole world of love between 
 those two, though he did go and marry another. Mr. 
 Carlyle ordered me to put the water down, and sent 
 
EAST LYNNE 383 
 
 me away again. But I don't fancy he told her of 
 Hare's attack until this morning.'' 
 
 Lady Isabel lifted her aching forehead. "What 
 attack?" 
 
 "Why, madame, don't you know? 1 declare, you box 
 yourself up in the house, keeping from everybody, till 
 you hear nothing. You might as well be living at the 
 bottom of a coal-pit. Old Hare had another stroke in 
 the court at Lynneborough, and that's why my mis- 
 tress is gone to the Grove to-day." 
 
 "Who says Richard Hare's coming home, Wil- 
 son?" 
 
 The question, the weak, scarcely audible question, 
 had come from the dying boy. Wilson threw up her 
 hands, and made a bound to the bed. "The like of 
 that!" she uttered, aside to Madame Vine. "One 
 never knows when to take these sick ones. Master 
 William, you hold your tongue, and drop off to sleep 
 again. Your papa will be home soon from Lynne- 
 borough, and if you talk and get tired he'll say it's 
 my fault. Will you have a bit more jelly?" 
 
 William, making no reply to the offer of jelly, 
 buried his face again on the pillow. But he was griev- / 
 ously restless. The nearly worn-out spirit was ebbing v 
 and flowing, 
 
 Mr. Carlyle was at Lynneborough. He always had 
 much business there at assize time, in the Nisi Prius 
 court. But the previous day he had not gone himself; 
 Mr. Dill had been dispatched to represent him. 
 Between seven and eight he returned home, and came 
 into William's chamber. The boy brightened up at 
 the well-known presence. 
 
 "Papa!" 
 
 Mr. Carlyle sat down on the bed and kissed him.\ 
 The passing beams of the sun, slanting from the hor-\ 
 izon, shone into the room, and Mr. Carlyle could view I 
 well the dying face. The gray hue of death was cer- 
 tainly on it. 
 
 "Is he worse?" he exclaimed, hastilv. to Madame 
 Vine. 
 
384 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "He appears to be worse this evening, sir More 
 W6alc ' 
 
 *'Papa," panted William, "is the trial over?" 
 
 "What trial, my boy?" 
 
 "Sir Francis Levison's. " 
 
 "It was over yesterday. Never trouble your head 
 about him, my brave boy. He is not worth it. '* 
 
 "But I want to know. Will they hang him?" 
 
 "He is sentenced to it." 
 
 "Did he kill Hallijohn?" 
 
 "Yes. Who has been talking to him upon the sub- 
 ject?" Mr. Carlyle continued to Madame Vine, marked 
 displeasure in his tone. 
 
 "Wilson mentioned it, sir," was the low answer. 
 
 "Oh, papa, what will he do? Will Jesus forgive 
 Vhim?" 
 
 "We must hope it." 
 
 "Do you hope it, papa?" 
 
 "Yes. I wish that all the world may be forgiven, 
 \ . William, whatever 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 toward 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 something "I forget; T forget. " 
 
 "Forget what? ' asked Mr. Carlyle. 
 
 "It was something I wanted to ask you; or to 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, 1 remember now. Papa, how 
 shall I know mamma in Heaven? Not this mamma." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle did not immediately reply. The question 
 
EAST LYNNE 3iid 
 
 may have puzzled him. William continued hastily; 
 possibly mistaking the motive of 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 get to 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 flush rose to Mr. Carlyle's brow. He turned 
 inquiringly to Madame Vine. "Oh, I beg your par- 
 don, sir," she murmured, with desperate energy. "I 
 ought not so to have spoken ; I ought not to have inter- 
 fered in your family affairs. I spoke only as 1 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 toward her. "Do you perceive the. 
 change in his countenance?" he whispered. 
 
 "Yes, sir, yes. He has looked like this since a] 
 strange fit of trembling that 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, 
 and his hand upon his brow, his drooping eyelids fall- 
 ing over his eyes. "It is hard to lose him." 
 
 "Oh, sir, he will be better off!" she wailed, choking 
 down the sobs and the emotion that arose threaten- 
 
 25 Lynu 
 
388 EAST LYNNE 
 
 ! ingly. "We can bear death; it is not the worst part- 
 is ing that the earth knows. He will be quit of this 
 Icruel 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 the 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 
 V 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 yet. Death was 
 certainly coming on quick. 
 
 At that moment, Lucy and Archibald came in, on 
 their return from their visit to Miss Carlyle. The 
 dying boy looked up eagerly. "Good-by, Lucy/* he 
 said, putting out his cold, damp hand. 
 
 "I am not going out," replied Lucy. "We have 
 just come home." 
 
 "Good-by, Lucy," repeated he. 
 
 She laid hold of the little hand then, leaned over, 
 and kissed him. "Good-by, 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-by; good-by, 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 387 
 
 promises that they should see WiUiam in the morning, 
 if he continued well enough. 
 
 Down on her knees, her face buried in the counter- 
 pane, 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 
 strength 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 consola- 
 tion. 
 
 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," Vv^hispered William, raising his 
 feeble hand caressingly to his father's cheek. "I am 
 not afraid to go. Jesus is coming for me. " 
 
 ''Afraid to go! Indeed I hope not, my gentle boy. , 
 You are going to God; to happiness. A few years, ' 
 we know not how few, and we shall all come toj 
 you. " 
 
 "Yes, you will be sure to come; 1 know that. I will 
 tell mamma so. I dare say she is looking out for me 
 now. Perhaps she's standing on the banks of the 
 river, watching the boats." 
 
 He had evidently got that picture of Martin's in his 
 mind, the Plains of Heaven. Mr. Carlyle turned to 
 the table. He saw some strawberry juice, pressed 
 from the fresh fruit, and moistened with it the boy's 
 fevered lips. 
 
 "Papa, I can't think hov; Jesus can be in all the 
 boats! Perhaps they don't go quite at the same time? 
 He must be, you know, because he comes to fetch us." 
 
 "He will be in yours, darling," was the whispered, 
 fervent answer. 
 
 "Oh, yes. He will take me all the way up to God, 
 and say, 'Here's a poor little boy come, and you must 
 please to forgive him and let him go in to Heaven^ 
 
388 EAST LYNNE 
 
 because I died for him. ' Papa, did you know that 
 mamma's heart broke?" 
 
 A caress was all the reply Mr. Carlyle returned. 
 William's restlessness of body appeared to be extend- 
 ing to his mind. He would not be put off. 
 
 ''Papa! did you know that mamma's heart broke?" 
 "William, I think it likely that your poor mamma's 
 heart did break ere death came. But let us talk of 
 you; not of her. Are you in pain?" 
 
 "I can't breathe; I can't swallow. I wish Joyce was 
 here. ' ' 
 
 "She will not be long." 
 / The boy nestled himself in his father's arms, and in 
 a few minutes appeared to be asleep. Mr. Carlyle, 
 1 after a while, gently laid him on his pillow, watched 
 ^him, and then turned to depart. 
 
 r "Oh, papa, papa!" he cried out, in a tone of painful 
 i entreaty, opening wide his yearning eyes, "say good- 
 \by to me!." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle's tears fell upon the little upturned 
 face, as he once more caught it to his breast. 
 
 "My darling, papa will soon be back. He was not 
 going to leave you for more than an hour. He is 
 going to bring mamma to see you." 
 "And pretty little baby Anna?" 
 "And baby Anna, if you would like her to come in. 
 1 will not leave you again to-night, William, when 
 once 1 am back." 
 
 "Then put me down, and go, papa." 
 A lingering embrace — a fond, lingering, tearful 
 embrace, Mr. Carlyle holding him to his beating heart. 
 Then he laid him comfortably on his pillow, gave 
 him a teaspoonful of strawberry juice, and hastened 
 awa3^ 
 
 "Good-by, papa," came forth the little feeble cry. 
 
 It was not heard. Mr. Carlyle was gone. Gone 
 
 from his living child — forever. Up rose Lady Isabel, 
 
 ' and flung her arms aloft in a storm of sobs. "Oh, 
 
 ! William, darling, in this dying moment let me be to 
 
 \ you as your mother?" 
 
EAST LYNNE 389 
 
 Again he unclosed his weary eyelids. It is probable 
 that he only partially understood. 
 
 "Papa's gone for her." 
 
 "Not her. I — I — "Lady Isabel checked herself, 
 and fell sobbing on the bed. No; not even at that last 
 hour, when the world was closing on him, dared she 
 say, I am your mother. 
 
 Wilson re-entered. *'He looks as if he were drop- 
 ping off to sleep," quoth she. 
 
 "Yes," said Lady Isabel. "You need not wait, 
 Wilson. I will ring if he requires anything." 
 
 Wilson, though withal not a bad-hearted woman, 
 was no one to remain for pleasure in a sick-room, if 
 told she might leave it. Lady Isabel remained alone. 
 She fell on her knees again, this time in prayer — in 
 prayer for the departing spirit on its wing, and that 
 God would mercifully vouchsafe herself a resting-place 
 with it in Heaven. 
 
 A review of the past then rose up before her — from 
 the time of her first entering that house, the bride of 
 Mr. Carlyle, to her present sojourn in it. The old 
 scenes passed through her mind like the changing 
 pictures in a phantasmagoria. Why should they have 
 come, there and then? She knew not. 
 
 William slept on silently; she thought of the past. / 
 The dreadful reflection, "If I had not — done as I did 
 — how different would it have been now!" had been 
 sounding its knell in her heart so often that she had 
 almost ceased to shudder at it The very nails of her 
 hands had, before now, entered the palms with the 
 sharp pain it brought. Stealing over her more espe- 
 cially this night as she knelt there, her head lying on 
 the counterpane, came the recollection of that first ill- 
 ness of hers. How she had lain, and, in her unfounded 
 jealousy, imagined Barbara the house's mistress. She, 
 dead; Barbara exalted to her place, Mr. Carlyle's wife, 
 her child's stepmother! She recalled the day when, 
 her mind excited by certain gossip of Wilson's — it was 
 previously in a state of fever bordering on delirium — 
 she had prayed her husband, in terror and anguish, 
 
390 EAST LYNNE 
 
 not to marry Barbara. "How could he marry her?'* 
 he had replied, in his soothing pity. *'vShe, Isabel, was 
 his wife— who was Barbara? Nothing to them." But 
 it had all come to pass. .She had brought it forth. 
 Not Mr. Carlyle; not Barbara; she alone. Oh, the 
 dreadful misery of the retrospect. 
 
 Lost in thought, in anguish past and present, in 
 self-condemning repentance, the time passed on. 
 Nearly an hour must have elapsed since Mr. Carlyle's 
 departure, and William had not disturbed her. But — 
 who was this coming into the room? Joyce. 
 
 She hastily rose up, as Joyce, advancing with a 
 quiet step, drew aside the clothes to look at William. 
 "Master says he has been wanting me," she observed. 
 ^' Why— oh!" 
 
 It was a sharp, momentary cry, subdued as soon as 
 uttered. Madame Vine sprang forward to Joyce's 
 side, looking also. The pale, young face lay calm in 
 its utter stillness; the busy little heart had ceased to 
 beat. Jesus Christ had indeed taken the fleeting 
 spirit. 
 
 Then she lost all self-control. She believed that she 
 had reconciled herself to the child's death, that she 
 could part with him without too great emotion. But 
 she had not anticipated it would be quite so soon; she 
 had deemed 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 her 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 back- 
 ward, after the manner of one receding from some 
 hideous vision. 
 
EAST LYNNE 391 
 
 "My lady, let me take you into your room. Mr. 
 Carlyle is come; he is just 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 i 
 of fire. I went close up to you to take Master Archi- 
 bald from your arms ; and, as sure as I am standing 
 here, I believe that for the moment my senses left me. j 
 I thought I saw a specter; the specter of my dead lady, j 
 I forgot the present; I forgot that all were standing; 
 round me; that you, Madame Vine, were still before/ 
 me. Your face was not disguised 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 on 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, dread- 
 ing what might come out. Think of the awful confu- 
 sion, the consequences, should it come to the knowl- 
 edge 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, the being 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; 1 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, 
 
592 EAST LYNNE 
 
 was of one 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 
 jrou?" 
 
 "Sir! master!" she panted, "be prepared. Master 
 William — Master William " 
 
 "Joyce! Not dead?" 
 
 "Alas, yes, sir!" 
 
 Mr. Carlyle strode into the chamber. But, ere he 
 was well across it, turned back to slip the bolt of the 
 door. On the pillow lay the white, thin face, at rest 
 now. 
 
 "My boy! my boy! Oh God!" he murmured, in 
 bowed reverence, "mayst Thou have received this 
 child to his rest in Jesus! Even as, I trust, Thou 
 hadst already received his unhappy mother!" 
 
 CHAPTER LVII 
 
 LORD VANE DATING FORWARD 
 
 To the funeral of William Carlyle came Lord Mount 
 Severn and his son. Wilson had been right in her sur- 
 mises as to the resting-place. The Carlyle vault was 
 opened for him, and an order went forth to the sculptor 
 for an inscription to be added to their marble tablet in 
 the church: "William Vane Carlyle, eldest son of" 
 Archibald Carlyle, of East Lynne. " Amongst those 
 who attended the funeral as mourners, went one more 
 notable in the eyes of the gazers than the rest — Rich- 
 ard Hare the younger. 
 
 Lady Isabel was ill. Ill in mind, and ominously ill 
 in body. She kept her room, and Joyce attended on 
 her. The household set down madame's illness to the 
 fatigue of having attended upon Master William; it 
 was not thought of seriously by any one, especially as 
 she declined to see a doctor. 
 
 She was nearer to death than she imagined. She 
 
EAST LYNNE 393 
 
 knew — judging by her declining streng^th and inner 
 feelings — that it could not be far off; but she did not 
 deem that 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, did 
 discovery come. Which brings us back to the point 
 whence ensued this long digression. I dare say you 
 are chafing at it, but it is not often I trouble you with 
 one. 
 
 But she would not willingly let discovery 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 forever 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 quitted the room as she entered it. 
 Barbara, fatigued with a recent drive, was* lying on 
 the sofa. 
 
 "We shall be 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. Would you like to go to the sea-side? I am going 
 there on Monday next; Mr. Carlyle insists upon it 
 that I try a little change. I had intended only to take 
 my baby, but we can make different arrangements and 
 
394 EAST LYNNE 
 
 take you and LtlC3^ It might do you good, Madame 
 Vine." 
 
 She shook her head. "No, it would make me worse. 
 All that I want is perfect quiet. I must beg you to 
 understand that I shall leave. And I should be glad 
 if you could allow the customary notice to be dispensed 
 with, so that T may be at liberty to depart within a 
 few days." 
 
 *'Look here, then," said Barbara, after a pause of 
 consideration; *'you remain at East Lynne until my 
 return — which will be in a fortnight. Mr. Carlyle 
 cannot stay with me, so I know I shall be tired in less 
 time than that. Upon my return, if you still wish to 
 leave, you shall then be at liberty to do so. What do 
 you say?" 
 
 Madame Vine said *'Yes." Said it eagerly. To 
 ha^ve another fortnight with her children, Lucy and 
 Archibald, was very like a reprieve, and she embraced 
 it. Although she knew, as I have said, that grim 
 Death was on his way, she did not think he had drawn 
 so near the end of his journey. Her thoughts went 
 back to the time when she had been ordered to the 
 seaside after an illness. It had been a marvel if they 
 had not. She remembered how her husband had 
 urged the change upon her; how he had taken her 
 traveling carefully; how tenderly anxious he had been 
 in the arrangements for her comfort when settling her 
 in the lodgings; how, when he came again to see her, he 
 had met her in his passionate fondness, thanking God 
 for the visible improvement in her looks. That one 
 injunction, which she had called him back to give him, 
 as he was departing for the boat, was bitterly present 
 to her now: "Do not get making love to Barbara 
 Hare." All this care and love and tenderness 
 belonged now of right to Barbara, and were given to 
 her. 
 
 "1 intend Lucy Carlyle to be my wife, papa," said 
 young Vane one day. "I mean in earnest— when we 
 shall both be grown up. If you will approve, and Mr. 
 Carlyle will give her to me." 
 
EAST LYNNE 395 
 
 The earl looked g:rave; Mr. Carlyle amused. "Sup- 
 pose," said the latter, *' we adjourn the discussion to 
 this day ten years." 
 
 "But that Lucy is so very young a child, I should 
 reprove you seriously, sir," said the earl. "You have 
 no right to bring Lucy's name into any such absurdity. " 
 
 "I mean it, papa; you'll all see. And I intend to 
 keep out of scrapes — that is, of nasty, dishonorable 
 scrapes — on purpose that Mr. Carlyle shall find no 
 excuse against me. I have made up my mind to be 
 what he is — a man of honor. I am right glad you 
 know about it, sir. And I shall let mamma know it, 
 before long." 
 
 The last sentence tickled the earl's fancy, and a 
 grim smile passed over his lips. "It will be war to 
 the knife, if you do. " 
 
 "I know that," laughed the viscount. "But I am 
 getting a better match for mamma in our battles than 
 I used to be. " 
 
 Madame Vine, when the corridor became empty 
 again, laid her hand upon the boy's arm, as he was 
 moving away, and drew him to the window. 
 
 "In speaking, as you do, of Lucy Carlyle, do you 
 forget the disgrace reflected on her through the con- 
 duct of her mother?" 
 
 "Her mother is not Lucy." 
 
 "It might prove an impediment with Lord and 
 Lady Mount Severn." 
 
 "Not with his lordship. And I must do — as you 
 heard me say— battle with my mother. Conciliatory 
 battle, you understand, madame; bringing the enemy 
 to reason." 
 
 Madame Vine was agitated. She held her handker- 
 chief to her mouth, and the boy noticed how her hands 
 trembled. 
 
 "I have learned to love Lucy," said she. "It has 
 appeared to me, in these few months' sojourn with 
 her, that I have stood to her in the light of a mother. 
 William Vane," she solemnly added, keeping her hold 
 upon him, "I shall soon be where earthly distinctions 
 
396 EAST LYNNE 
 
 are no more; where sin and sorrow are wiped away. 
 Should Lucy Carlyle indeed become your wife in after 
 years, never, never, cast upon her, by so much as 
 the slightest word of reproach, the sin of Lady 
 Isabel." 
 
 Lord Vane threw back his head, his honest eyes 
 flashing in their indignant earnestness. 
 
 "What do you take me for?" 
 
 "It v/ould be a cruel wrong upon Lucy. She does 
 not deserve it. That unhappy lady's sin was all her 
 own; let it die with her. Never speak to Lucy of her 
 mother." 
 
 The lad dashed his hand across his eyes, for they 
 were filling. "I shall. I shall speak to her often of 
 her mother — that is, you know, after she's my wife, I 
 shall tell how I loved Lady Isabel — that there's nobody 
 I ever loved so much in the world, but Lucy herself. 
 I cast a reproach to Lucy on the score of her mother!" 
 he hotly added. "It is through her mother that I 
 love her. You don't understand, madame. " 
 
 "Cherish and love her forever, should she become 
 yours," said Lady Isabel, wringing his hand. "I ask 
 this as one who is dying." 
 
 "I will, I promise it. But, I say, madame," he con- 
 tinued, dropping his fervent tone, "to what do you 
 allude? Are you worse?" 
 
 Madame Vine did not answer. She glided away 
 without speaking. When she was sitting that evening 
 by twilight in the gray parlor, cold and shivering, and 
 wrapped up in a shawl, though it was hot summer 
 weather, somebody knocked at the door. 
 
 "Come in," cried she, apathetically. 
 
 It was Mr. Carlyle who entered. She rose up, her 
 pulses quickening, her heart throbbing against her 
 side. In her wild confusion she was drawing forward 
 a chair for him. He laid his hand upon it, and 
 motioned her to her own. 
 
 "Mrs. Carlyle tells me that you have been speaking 
 to her of leaving — that you find yourself too much 
 out of health to continue with us," 
 
EAST LYNNE 39? 
 
 "Yes, sir, " she faintly replied, having a most imper- 
 fect notion of what she did say. 
 
 ''What is it that you find to be the matter with you?" 
 
 "I — think — it is chiefly weakness," she stammered. 
 
 Her face had grown as gray as the walls. A dusky, 
 livid sort of hue, not unlike that which William's had 
 worn the night of his death, and her voice sounded 
 strangely hollow. The voice struck Mr. Carlyle, and 
 awoke his fears. 
 
 "You cannot — you never can have caught William's 
 complaint, in your close attendance on him!" he 
 exclaimed, speaking in the impulse of the moment, 
 as the idea flashed across him. "I have heard of such 
 things." 
 
 "Caught it from him!" she rejoined, carried away 
 also by impulse. "It is more likely that he " 
 
 She stopped herself just in time. "Inherited it from 
 me," had been the destined conclusion. In her alarm, 
 she went off volubly, something to the effect that "it 
 was no wonder she was ill; illness was natural to her 
 family. ' ' 
 
 "At any rate, you have become ill at East Lynne, 
 in attendance on my children," rejoined Mr. Carlyle, 
 decisively, when her voice died away; "you must 
 therefore allow me to insist that you permit East 
 Lynne to do what it can toward renovating you. 
 What is your objection to see a doctor?" 
 
 "A doctor could do me no good," she faintly 
 answered. 
 
 "Certainly not — so long as you will not consult one. " 
 
 "Indeed, sir, doctors could not cure me. Nor — as I 
 believe — prolong my life." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle paused. "Do you believe yourself to 
 be in danger?" 
 
 '-'Not in immediate danger, sir. Only in so far 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!" 
 
398 EAST LYNNE 
 
 She could not say to him "My malady is on the 
 mind; it is a breaking heart, and therefore no doctor 
 of physic 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 Vv^hen in his 
 presence, and she wished the interview at an end. 
 
 "I will see Mr. Wainwright, if it will be any satis- 
 faction 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. 1 will write him a note to-mor- 
 row. " 
 
 "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 
 return " 
 
 "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 1 
 must express a hope that by that time j^ou may be 
 feeling so much better as to reconsider your decision, 
 and continue with us. For my daughter's sake, 
 Madame Vine, I trust that it will be so." 
 
 He rose as he spoke, and held out his hand. What 
 could she do but to 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?" 
 
EAST LYNNE 399 
 
 His earnest, tender eyes were on her double specta- 
 cles; a sad smile mingled with the sweet expression of 
 his lips, as he bent toward 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 dis- 
 engaged hand, and flung it up to her face. He mis- 
 took 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. 
 
 CHAPTER LVni 
 
 UNTIL ETERNITY 
 
 Barbara was at the sea-side ; and Lady Isabel was in 
 her bed, dying. You remember the old French say- 
 ing, ''L'homme propose ^ et Dieu dispose.'" An exemplifi- 
 cation 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 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 gone, rapidly, unexpect- 
 edly, "like the snuff of a candle." Wilson was in 
 attendance on her mistress; Joyce remained at home. 
 
 Barbara had chosen a watering-place near, not thirty 
 miles off, so that Mr. Carlyle went there most eve- 
 nings, returning to his office in the mornings. Thus he 
 saw little of East Lynne, paying it only one or two 
 flying visits. From the Saturday to the Wednesday 
 
400 EAST LYNNE 
 
 in the second week he did not come home at all ; and 
 it was in those few days that Lady Isabel had changed 
 for the worse. On the Wednesday he was expected 
 home to dinner and to sleep. 
 
 Joyce was in a state of frenzy— or next door to it. 
 Lady Isabel was dying, and what could become of the 
 ominous secret? A conviction, born of her fears, was 
 on the girl's mind, that, with death, the whole must 
 become known ; and who v/as to foresee v/hat blame 
 might not be cast upon her by her master and mistress 
 for not having disclosed it? She might be accused of 
 having been an abettor in the plot from the first! 
 Fifty times it was in Joyce's mind to send for Miss 
 Carlyle and tell her all. 
 
 The afternoon was fast waning, and the spirit of 
 Lady Isabel seemed to be waning with it. Joyce was 
 in the room, in attendance upon her. She had been in 
 a fainting state all day, but felt better now. She was 
 partially raised in bed by pillows, a white cashmere 
 shawl over her shoulders, her night-cap off, to allow 
 as much air as possible to come to her, and the win- 
 dows stood open. 
 
 Footsteps sounded on the gravel in the quiet still- 
 ness of the summer air. They penetrated even to her 
 ear, for all her faculties were keen yet. Beloved foot- 
 steps; and a tinge of hectic rose to her cheeks. Joyce, 
 who stood at the window, glanced out. It was Mr. 
 Carlyle. 
 
 "Joyce!" came forth a cry from the bed, sharp and 
 eager. 
 
 Joyce turned round. "My lady?" 
 
 "I should die happier if I might see him." 
 
 "See him!" uttered Joyce, doubting her own ears. 
 "My lady! See him? Mr. Carlyle?" 
 
 "What can it signify? I am already as one dead. 
 Should I ask it, or wish it, think you, in rude life? 
 The yearning has been upon me for days, Joyce; it is 
 keeping death away." 
 
 ^^ "It could not be, my lady," was the decisive answer. 
 "It must not be. It is as a thing impossible." 
 
EAST LYNNE 401 
 
 Lady Isabel burst into tears. "I can't die for the 
 trouble," she wailed. "You keep my children from 
 me. They must not come, you say, lest I betray 
 myself. Now you would keep my husband. Joyce, 
 Joyce, let me see him." 
 
 Her husband ! Poor thing! Joyce was in a maze of 
 distress, though not the less firm. Her eyes were wet 
 with tears; but she believed she should be infringing 
 her allegiance to her mistress, did she bring Mr. Car- 
 lyle to the presence of his former wife; altogether it 
 might be productive of nothing but confusion. 
 
 A knock at the chamber door. Joyce called out, 
 '*Come in." The two maids, Hannah and Sarah, were 
 alone in the habit of coming into the room, and neither 
 of them had ever known Madame Vine as Lady Isabel. 
 Sarah put in her head. 
 
 '* Master wants you, Mrs. Joyce." 
 
 "I'll come." 
 
 "He is in the dining-room. I have just taken down 
 Master Arthur to him." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle had got "Master Arthur" on his 
 shoulder when Joyce entered. Master Arthur was 
 decidedly given to noise and rebellion, and was 
 already, as Wilson expressed it, "sturdy upon his 
 pins." 
 
 "How is Madame Vine, Joyce?" 
 
 Joyce scarcely knew how to answer. But she did 
 not dare equivocate as to her precarious state. And 
 where the use, when a few hours would probably see 
 the end of it? 
 
 "She is very ill indeed, sir." 
 
 "Worse?" 
 
 "Sir, I fear she is dying." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle, in his consternation, put down Arthur. 
 "Dying?" 
 
 "I hardly think she will last till morning, sir." 
 
 "Why, what has killed her?" he uttered in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 Joyce did not answer. She looked pale and con- 
 fused. 
 
 26 Lynne 
 
402 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "Have you had Dr. Martin?*' 
 
 "Oh, no, sir. It would be of no use." 
 
 "No use!" repeated Mr. Carlyle, in a sharp accent. 
 "Is that the way to treat dying people? Assume it 
 is of no use to send for advice, and so quietly let them 
 die! If Madame Vine is as ill as you say, a tele- 
 graphic message must be sent off at once. I had better 
 see her," he said, moving to the door. 
 
 Joyce, in her perplexity, dared to place her back 
 against it, preventing his egress. "Oh, master! — I 
 beg your pardon, but — but — it would not be right. 
 Please, sir, do not think of going into her room!" 
 
 Mr. Carlyle thought that Joyce had taken a fit of 
 prudery. "Why can't I go in?" he asked. "Mrs. 
 Carlyle would not like it, sir," stammered Joyce, her 
 cheeks scarlet now. Mr. Carlyle stared at her. 
 "Some of you take up odd ideas," he cried. "In Mrs. 
 Carlyle 's absence it is necessary that some one should 
 see her. Let a lady die in my house, and never see 
 after her? You are out of your senses, Joyce. I shall 
 go in after dinner; so prepare Madame Vine." 
 
 The dinner was being brought in then. Joyce, feel- 
 ing like one in a nervous attack, picked up Arthur and 
 carried him to Sarah, in the nursery. What on earth 
 was she to do? 
 
 Scarcely had Mr. Carlyle begun his dinner, when 
 his sister entered. Some grievance had arisen between 
 her and the tenants of certain houses of hers, and she 
 was bringing the dispute to him. Before he would 
 hear it, he begged her to go up to Madame Vine, tell- 
 ing her what Joyce had said of her state. 
 
 "Dying!" ejaculated Miss Corny, in disbelieving 
 derision. "That Joyce has been more like a simpleton 
 lately than like herself. I can't think what has come 
 to the woman." 
 
 She took off her bonnet and mantle, and laid them 
 on a chair, gave a twitch or two to her cap, as she 
 surveyed it in the pier-glass, and went upstairs. Joyce 
 answered her knock at the invalid's door; and Joyce, 
 when she saw who it was, turned as white as any sheet. 
 
EAST LYNNE 403 
 
 •*Oh, ma'am! j'-ou must not come in!" she blundered 
 out, in her confusion and fear, as she put herself right 
 in the doorway. 
 
 '*Who is to keep me out?" demanded Miss Carlyle, 
 after a pause of 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 11 
 There she was, her pale face lying against the pillow, 
 free from its disguising trappings. The band of gray 
 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;j 
 but still hers. The silvered hair fell on either side of, 
 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 mind that Madamei 
 Vine might be Lady Isabel, it had died away again,- / 
 from the sheer improbability of the thing, as much aai^^ 
 from the convincing proofs offered by Lord Mount 
 Severn. Not but what Miss Carlyle had borne in mind, 
 the suspicion, and had been fond of tracing the like- 
 ness 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 Car- 
 lyle! 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 
 
i04 EAST LYNNE 
 
 eyes full of tears. "Jesus did not come, you know, to 
 
 save the good, like you; He came for the sake of us 
 
 i 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 expressed, 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 ^le 
 stood there, that the hard religion she had through 
 life professed was not the religion that would best 
 bring peace to her dying bed. 
 
 "Child," she said, 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 whispered: "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. For- 
 give 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 1 had done it. I have wished it 
 
 ever since you left it." 
 
 Lady Isabel drew the hand in hers. "I want to see 
 Archibald," she whispered, going back, in thought, 
 to the old time and tlie old 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, pos- 
 sibly she reasoned as did Lady Isabel— what could it 
 matter? She went to the door. Joyce was in the cor- 
 ridor, leaning against the wall, her apron up to her 
 eyes. 
 
EAST LYNNE 405 
 
 "How long have you known of this?" 
 
 ''vSince 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 a 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?" remon- 
 strated Joyce. "Well that he should see her?" 
 
 "Go and request your master to come to me," 
 unequivocally repeated Miss Carlyle. "Are you mis- 
 tress, Joyce, or am I?" 
 
 Joj^ce 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 straight- 
 forward manner. "1 am grieved, Madame Vine " 
 
 The words failed 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 
 
I 
 
 406 EAST LYNNE 
 
 ere he had drawn quite beyond her reach. He looked 
 at her, he looked round the room, as does one awak- 
 ing from a dream! "1 could not die without your for- 
 giveness," 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 me, forgive me! I did not die. I got 
 well from that accident, but it changed me dreadfully; 
 nobody knew me, and I came here as Madame Vine. 
 I could not stay away. Archibald, forgive me!" 
 
 His mind was in a whirl, his wits were scared away. 
 The first clear thought that came thumping through 
 his brain was that he was a man of two wives. She 
 noticed his perplexed silence. 
 
 "I could not stay away from you and from my chil- 
 dren. The longing for you was killing me," she 
 reiterated, wildly, like one talking in a fever. *'I 
 never knew a moment's peace after the mad act I was 
 guilty of, quitting you. Not an hour had I departed, 
 when my repentance set in ; and even then I would 
 have retracted and come back, but I did not know 
 how. See what it has done for me!" tossing up her 
 'gray hair, holding out her attenuated wrists. "Oh, 
 i forgive, forgive me! My sin was great, but my pun- 
 ' ishment was greater. It has been as one long scene 
 W mortal agony." 
 
 "Why did you go?" asked Mr Carlyle. 
 
 "Did you not know?" 
 
 "No. It has always been a mystery to me." 
 
 "I went out of love for you. " 
 
 A shade of disdain crossed his lips. Was she equiv- 
 ocating to him on her death-bed? 
 
 "Do not look in that way," she panted. "My 
 strength is nearly gone; you must perceive that it is: 
 and I do not, perhaps, express myself clearly. I loved 
 you dearly, and I grew suspicious of you. ' I thought 
 you were false and deceitf uj to me ; that your love was 
 
EAST LYNNE 407 
 
 all given to another; and, in my sore jealousy, I lis- 
 tened to the temptings of that bad man, who whis- 
 pered to me of revenge. It was not so, was it?' ' 
 
 Mr. Carlyle had regained his calmness; outwardly, 
 at any rate. He stood by the side of the bed, looking 
 down upon her, his arms crossed upon his chest, and 
 his noble form raised to its full height. 
 
 '*Was it so?" she feverishly repeated. 
 
 "Can you ask it? — knowing me as you did then, as 
 you must have known me since? I never was false to 
 you in thought, in word, or in deed." 
 
 "Oh, Archibald, I was mad, I was mad! I could 
 not have done it in anything but madness. Surely 
 you will forget and forgive!" 
 
 "I cannot forget. I have already forgiven." 
 
 "Try and forget the dreadful time that has passed 
 since that night!" she continued, the tears falling on 
 her cheeks, as she held up to him one of her poor hot 
 hands. "Let your thoughts go back to the days when 
 you first knew me ; when I was here, Isabel Vane, a 
 happy girl, with my father. At times I have lost 
 myself in a moment's happiness thinking of it. Do 
 you remember how you grew to love me, though you 
 thought you might not tell it me? — and how gentle 
 you were with me when papa died? — and the hundred- 
 pound note? Do you remember coming to Castle 
 Marling, and my promising to be your wife? — and the 
 first kiss you left upon my lips? And oh, Archibald! 
 do you remember the loving days after I was your 
 wife? — how happy we were with each other? Do you 
 remember, when Lucy was born, we thought I should 
 have died; and your joy, your thankfulness that God 
 restored me? Do you remember all this?" 
 
 ' Ay. He did remember it. He took that poor hand 
 into his, retaining there its wasted fingers. "Have 
 you any reproach to cast to me?" he gently said, bend- 
 ing 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! 
 
408 EAST LYNNE 
 
 When I think of what you were and are, and how 1 
 
 requitted you, I could sink into the earth with remorse 
 
 I and shame. My own sin I have surely expiated; I 
 
 ^cannot expiate the shame I entailed upon you and upon 
 
 lour 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 ! 1 never loved you so 
 passionately 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 pretty grief you soothed, not mine; mine, his 
 mother. God alone knows how I have lived through 
 it; 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 pun- 
 ishment would be mine alone, so long as I guarded 
 against discovery. I never thought to stop here to 
 die ; but death seems to have come upon me with a 
 leap, as it came to my mother." 
 
 A pause of labored breathing. Mr. Carlyle did not 
 interrupt it. 
 
 "All wrong, all wrong," she resumed; "this inter- 
 view with you amongst the rest. And yet— 1 hardly 
 know. It cannot hurt the new ties you have formed, 
 '^' for 1 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 
 
EAST LYNNE 409 
 
 past could be blotted out! tliat 1 could wake up and 
 find it but 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!" 
 
 "Hav^ 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." 
 
 "As I once was. Ay! And I might have been now. " 
 
 "Indeed you might," he answered, with emotion. 
 
 "Archibald, 1 am on the very threshold of the next 
 world. Will you not bless me? Will you not say a word 
 of love to me before I pass it? Let what I am be 
 blotted for the moment from your memory; think of 
 me as the innocent, timid child, whom you made your 
 wife. Only a word of love— my heart is breaking 
 for it!" 
 
 He leaned over her, he pushed aside the hair from 
 her brow with his gentle hand, his tears dropping on 
 her face. "You nearly broke mine when you left me, ! 
 Isabel," he whispered. "May God bless you and takej 
 you to His rest in Heaven! May He so deal with me, ! 
 as I now fully and freely forgive you!" 
 
 Lower and lower he bent "his head, until his breath 
 nearly mingled with hers. But suddenly his face grew 
 red with a scarlet flush, and he lifted it again. Did 
 the form of one, then in a felon's cell at Lynne- 
 borough, thrust itself before him — or that of his 
 absent and unconscious wife? 
 
410 EAST LYNNE 
 
 "To His rest in Heaven," she murmured, in the 
 hollow tones of the departing. "Yes, yes; I know that 
 God has forgiven me. Oh, what a struggle it has 
 been! Nothing but bad feelings — rebellion, and 
 sorrow, and repining — for a long while after I came 
 back here ; but Jesus prayed for me and helped me ; 
 and you know how merciful He is to the weary and 
 heavy-laden. We shall meet again, Archibald, and 
 live together forever and forever. But for that great 
 hope I could hardly die. William said mamma would 
 be on the banks of the river, looking out for him; but 
 it is William who is looking for me. " 
 
 Mr. Carlyle released one of his hands; she had taken 
 them both; and, with his own handkerchief, wiped the 
 death dew from her forehead. 
 
 "It is no sin to anticipate it, Archibald. For there 
 will be no marrying or giving in marriage in Heaven; 
 Christ has said so. Though we do not know it will 
 be. My sin will be remembered no more there, and 
 we shall be together with our children forever and 
 forever. Keep a little corner in 3^our heart for your 
 poor lost Isabel." 
 
 "Yes, yes," he whispered. 
 
 "Are you leaving me?" she uttered, in a wild tone 
 of pain. 
 
 "You are growing faint, I perceive. I must call 
 assistance." 
 
 "Farewell, then; farewell, until eternity," she 
 sighed, the tears raining from her eyes. "It is death, 
 I think; not faintness. Oh, but it is hard to part! 
 Farewell, farewell, my once dear husband!" 
 
 She raised her head from the pillow, excitement 
 giving her strength; she clung to his arm; she lifted 
 her face in its sad yearning. Mr. Carlyle laid her 
 tenderly down again, and suffered his lips to rest upon 
 hers. "Until eternity," he whispered. She followed 
 him with her eyes as he retreated, and watched him 
 from the room; then turned her face to the wall. "It 
 is over. Only God now." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle took an instant's counsel with himself, 
 
EAST LYNNE 411 
 
 stopping at the head of the stairs to do it. Joyce, in 
 obedience to a sign from him, had already gone into 
 the sick-chamber; his sister was standing at its door. 
 
 "Cornelia." 
 
 She followed him down into the dining-room. 
 
 "You will remain here to-night? With her." 
 
 "Do you suppose I shouldn't?" crossly responded 
 Miss Corny. "Where are you off to now?" 
 
 "To the telegraph office, at present. To send for 
 Lord Mount Severn." 
 
 "What good can he do?" 
 
 "None. But I shall send for him. " 
 
 "Can't one of the servants go just as well as you? 
 You have not finished your dinner; hardly begun yet. " 
 
 He turned his eyes on the dinner-table in a mechan- 
 ical sort of way, his mind wholly preoccupied, made 
 some remark in answer, which Miss Corny did not 
 catch, and went out. 
 
 On his return his sister met him in the hall, drew 
 him inside the nearest room, and closed the door. Lady .. 
 Isabel was dead. Had been dead about ten minutes. 
 
 "She never spoke after you left her, Archibald. 
 There was a slight struggle at the last, a fighting for 
 breath, otherwise she went off quite peacefully. I 
 felt sure, when I first saw her this afternoon, that she 
 could not last till midnight." 
 
 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 favorite as Sir Francis is with you and 
 with me — we can but admit that justice did not a: 
 demand that it should be. That he had wirfuTly killed 
 Hallijohn was certain; but the act was committed in a 
 moment of wild rage ; it had not been premeditated. 
 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. Onej 
 little grain of comfort had penetrated to Lady Levison ; 
 the anticipation of the time when she and her ill-fated 
 
^ 
 
 412 EAST LYNNE 
 
 child should be alone, and could hide themselves in 
 some hi(Jden nook of the wide world, he and his crime 
 and his end, gone — forgotten. But it seems 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 v/ith his 
 gang! Where would his diamonds and his perfumed 
 handkerchiefs and his white hands be then? After a 
 time he might get 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 a flame of living fire. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX 
 
 I. M. V. 
 
 Lord Mount Severn, wondering greatly what the 
 urgent summons could mean, lost no time in obeying 
 it, and was at East Lynne the following morning, 
 early. Mr. Carlyle was in his carriage at the station ; 
 his close carriage; and, shut up in that, he made the 
 communication to the earl as they drove to East 
 Lynne. ^ ' z 
 
 The earl could with difficulty believe it. Never had 
 he been so utterly astonished. At first he really could 
 not understand the tale. 
 
 "Did she — did she — come back to your house to 
 die?" he blundered. "You never took her in? I don't 
 comprehend." 
 
 Mr. Carlyle explained further. And the earl at 
 length understood. But he could not recover his per 
 plexed astonishment. 
 
EAST LYNNE 413 
 
 "'What a mad act! — to come back here! Madame 
 Vine ! Hoffi_an_earth did she escape detection?" 
 
 "She did escape Tt," said Mr. Carlyle. "The* 
 strange likeness Madame Vine possessed to my first j 
 wife often struck me as being marvelous, but I never' 
 suspected the truth. It was a likeness, and not a like-'- 
 ness; for every part of her face and form was changed. \ 
 Except her eyes, and those I never saw but through \ 
 disguising glasses. " 
 
 The earl wiped his hot face. The news had ruffled 
 him in no measured degree. He felt angry with Isabel, 
 dead though she v/as, and thankful that Mrs. Carlyle 
 was away. 
 
 "Will you see her?" whispered Mr. Carlyle, as they 
 entered the house. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 They went up to the death-chamber, Mr. Carlyle 
 procuring the key. Very peaceful she looked now, her 
 pale features composed under her white cap and 
 bands. Miss Carlyle and Joyce had done all that was 
 necessary; nobody else had been suffered to approach 
 her. Lord Mount Severn leaned over her, tracing the 
 former looks of Isabel; and the likeness grew upon 
 him in a wonderful degree. 
 
 "What did she die of?" he asked. 
 
 "She said a broken heart." 
 
 "Ah!" said the earl. "The wonder is that it did 
 not break before. Poor thing; poor Isabel!" he added, 
 touching her hand, "how she marred her own happi- 
 ness! Carlyle, I suppose this is your wedding ring?" 
 
 Mr. Carlyle cast his eyes upon the ring. "Very 
 probable. ' ' 
 
 "To think of her never having discarded it!" 
 remarked the earl, releasing the cold hand. "Well, I 
 can hardly believe the tale now." He turned and 
 quitted the room as he spoke. Mr. Carlyle looked 
 steadfastly at the dead face for a minute or two, his 
 fingers touching the forehead; but what his thoughts 
 or feelings may have been none can tell. Then he 
 replaced the sheet over the face, and followed the earl. 
 
414 EAST LYNNE 
 
 They descended in silence, to the breakfast-room. 
 Miss Carlyle was seated at the table waiting for them. 
 "Where could all your eyes have been?" exclaimed 
 the earl to her, after a few sentences referring to the 
 event had passed. 
 
 "Just where yours would have been," retorted Miss 
 Corny, with a touch of her old temper. "You saw 
 Madame Vine as well as we did." 
 
 "But not continuously. Only two or three times in 
 all. And I do not remember ever to have seen her 
 without her bonnet and veil. That Carlyle should not 
 have recognized her is almost beyond belief." 
 
 "It seems so, to speak of it," said Miss Corny; "but 
 facts are facts. She was young, gay, active, when she 
 left here, upright as a dart, her dark hair drawn from 
 . her open brow and flowing on her neck, her cheeks 
 like crimson paint, her face altogether beautiful. 
 Madame Vine arrived here a pale, stooping woman, 
 lame of one leg, shorter than Lady Isabel — and her 
 figure stuffed out under those sacks of jackets. Not a 
 bit, scarcely, of her forehead to be seen, for gray vel- 
 vet and gray bands of hair; her head smothered under 
 a close cap, large blue double spectacles hiding the 
 eyes and their sides, and the throat tied up — the chin 
 partially. The mouth was entirely altered in charac- 
 ter, and that upward scar, always so conspicuous, 
 made it almost ugly. Then she had lost some of her 
 front teeth, you know, and she lisped when she spoke, 
 f^fake her for all in all," summed up Miss Carlyle, "she 
 I looked no more like the Isabel who went away from 
 I here than I do like Adam. Just get your dearest 
 1 friend damaged and disguised as she was, my lord, 
 ',^nd see if you'd recognize him." 
 
 The observation came home to Lord Mount Severn. 
 ■ A gentleman whom he knew well had been so altered 
 iby a fearful accident that little resemblance could be 
 [traced to his former self. In fact, his own family 
 jjcould not recognize him; and he used no artificial dis- 
 !^ui*es. It was a case in point, and, reader, I assure 
 ^yoi? that it is a true one. 
 
EAST LYNNE 415 
 
 *'It was the disguise that we ought to have sus- 
 pected/' quietly observed Mr. Carlyle. "The likeness 
 was not sufficiently striking to cause suspicion." 
 
 "But she turned the house from that scent as soon 
 as she came into it," struck in Miss Corny. "Telling 
 of the 'neuralgic pains' that afflicted her head and face, 
 rendering the guarding them from exposure necessary. 
 Remember, Lord Mount Severn, that the Ducies 
 had^been with her in Germany, and had never sus- 
 pected her. Remember, also, another thing; that, 
 however great a likeness we may have detected, we 
 could not and did not speak of it one to another. Lady 
 Isabel's name is never so much as whispered amongst 
 us." 
 
 "True; all true," said the earl. 
 
 On the Friday the following letter was dispatched 
 to Mrs. Carlyle : 
 
 "My Dearest: — I find I shall not be able to get to 
 you on Saturday afternoon as I promised, but will 
 leave here by the late train that night. Mind you don't 
 sit up for me. Lord Mount Severn is here for a few 
 days ; he sends his regards to you. 
 
 "And now, Barbara, prepare for news that will 
 prove a shock. Madame Vine is dead. She grew rap- 
 idly worse, they tell me, after our departure, and died 
 on Wednesday night. I am glad you were away. 
 
 "Love from the children. Lucy and Archie are still 
 at Cornelia's; Arthur wearing out Sarah's legs in the 
 nursery. Ever yours, my dearest, 
 
 "Archibald Carlyle." 
 
 Of course, as Madame Vine, the governess, died at 
 Mr. Carlyle's house, he could not in courtesy do less 
 than follow her to the grave. So decided West Lynne, 
 when they found which way the wind was going to 
 blow. Lord Mount Severn followed also, to keep him 
 company, being on a visit to him. And very polite, 
 indeed, of his lordship to do it! Condescending also! 
 AV«st Lynne remembered another funeral at which 
 
416 EAST LYNNE 
 
 these two had been the only mourners — that of the 
 late earl. By some curious coincidence, the French 
 governess was buried close to the earl's grave. As 
 good there as anywhere else, quoth West Lynne; there 
 happened to be a vacant spot of ground. 
 
 The funeral took place on the Saturday morning. 
 A plain, respectable funeral. A hearse and pair, and 
 mourning coach and pair, with a chariot for the Rev. 
 Mr. Little. No pall -bearers, or mutes, or anything 
 of that show-off kind, and no plumes on the horses, 
 only on the hearse. West Lynne looked on with 
 approbation, and conjectured that the governess had 
 left sufficient money to bury herself; but of course 
 that was Mr. Carlyle's affair, not West Lynne's. 
 Quiet enough lay she in her last resting-place. 
 
 They left her in it, the earl and Mr. Carlyle, and 
 entered the mourning-coach to be conveyed back 
 again to East Lynne. 
 
 "Just a little upright stone of white marble, two feet 
 high by a foot and a half broad," remarked the earl, 
 on the road, pursuing a topic they were speaking upon. 
 "With the initials 1. V. and the date of the year. 
 Nothing more. What do you think?" 
 
 "1. M. v.," corrected Mr. Carlyle. "Yes." 
 
 At that moment the bells of another church, not St. 
 Jude's, broke out in a joyous peal, and the earl inclined 
 his ear to listen. "What can they be ringing for?" he 
 cried. They were ringing for a wedding. Afy Halli- 
 john, by the help of two clergymen and six bridesmaids 
 (of whom you may be sure Joyce was not one), had 
 just been converted into Mrs. Joe Jiffin. When Afy 
 took a thing in her head, she somehow contrived to 
 carry it through, and to bend even clergymen and 
 bridesmaids to her will. Mr. Jiffin was blessed at 
 last. 
 
 In the afternoon the earl left East Lynne, and some- 
 what later Barbara arrived. Wilson scarcely gave her 
 mistress time to step into the house before her, and 
 she very nearly left the baby in the fly. Curiously 
 anxious was Wilson to hear all particulars, as to what 
 
EAST LYNNE 417 
 
 could have taken off that French governess. Mr. Car- 
 lyle was much surprised at their arrival. 
 
 '*How could I stay away, Archibald, even until 
 Monday, after the news you sent me?" said Barbara. 
 "What did she die of? It must have been awfully 
 sudden." 
 
 "I suppose so," was his hungry answer. He was 
 debating a question with himself, one he had thought 
 over a great deal since Wednesday night. Should he, 
 or should he not, tell his wife? He would have pre- 
 ferred not to tell her, and, had the secret been con- 
 fined to his own breast, he would decidedly not have 
 done so. But it was known to three others; to Miss 
 Carlyle, to Lord Mount Severn, and to Joyce. All 
 trustworthy and of good intention ; but it was impossi- 
 ble for Mr. Carlyle to make sure that not one of them 
 would ever, through any chance unpremeditated 
 word, let the secret come to the knowledge of Mrs. 
 Carlyle. That would not do; if she must hear it at 
 all, she must hear it from him, and at once. 
 
 *'Are you ill, Archibald?" she asked, noting his face. 
 It wore a pale, worn look. "I have something to tell 
 you, Barbara," he answered, drawing her hand into his 
 as they stood together. They were in her dressing- 
 room, where she was taking off her things. "On 
 Wednesday evening, when I got home to dinner, 
 Joyce told me that she feared Madame Vine was 
 dying, and I thought it right to see her." 
 
 "Certainly," returned Barbara. "Quite right." 
 
 "I went into her room, and I found that she was 
 dying. But I found something else, Barbara. She 
 was not Madame Vine." 
 
 "Not Madame Vine!" echoed Barbara. 
 
 "It was my former wife, Isabel Vane." 
 
 Barbara's face flushed crimson, and then grew white 
 as marble, and she drew her hand from Mr. Carlyle's. 
 He did not appear to notice the movement, but stood 
 with his elbow on the mantelpiece, while he talked, 
 giving her a rapid summary of the interview; not its 
 details. 
 
 27 Juynne 
 
418 EAST LYNNE 
 
 *'She could not stay away from her children, she 
 said, and came back as Madame Vine. What with 
 the effects of the railway accident in France, and 
 those spectacles she wore, and her style of dress, and 
 her gray hair, she felt secure in not being recognized. 
 I am astonished now that she was not discovered. 
 Were such a thing related to me 1 should refuse cred- 
 ence to it." 
 
 ■Rj^rhpra'?^ hp'^rt felt f^int with its utter sickness, and 
 she turned her face from the view of her husband. 
 Her first confused thoughts were as Mr. Carlyle's had 
 been — that she had been living in his house with 
 another wife. "Did you suspect her?" she breathed, in a 
 low tone. "Barbara! Had I suspected it, should I have 
 allowed it to go on? She implored my forgiveness for 
 the past, and for having returned here ; and I forgave 
 her fully. I went to West Lynne to telegraph for 
 Mount Severn. She was dead when I came back. 
 She said her heart was broken. Barbara, we cannot 
 wonder at it." 
 
 There was a pause. Mr. Carlyle began to perceive 
 that his wife's faco was hidden from him. Still there 
 was no reply. Mr. Carlyle took his arm from the 
 mantelpiece, and moved so that he could see her coun- 
 tenance ; a wan countenance then telling of pain. 
 
 He laid his hand upon her shoulder and made her 
 look at him. "My dearest, what is this?" 
 
 "Oh, Archibald!" she uttered, clasping her hands 
 together, all her pent-up feelings bursting forth, and 
 the tears streaming from her eyes, "has this taken 
 your love from me?" He took both her hands in one 
 of his, he put the other around her waist and held her 
 there before him, never speaking, only looking gravely 
 into her face. Who could look at its sincere truthful- 
 ness, at the sweet expression of his lips, and doubt 
 him? Not Barbara. 
 
 '*I had thought my wife possessed entire trust 
 in me." 
 
 "Oh, I do, I do; you know I do. Forgive me, Archi- 
 bald," she softly whispered. "I deemed it better to 
 
EAST LYNNE 419 
 
 impart this to you, Barbara. My darling, I have told 
 it you in love." She was leaning on his breast, 
 sobbing gently, her repentant face turned toward him. 
 He held her there in his strong protection, his endur- 
 ing tenderness. 
 
 "My wife! my darling! now, and always." 
 
 "It was a foolish feeling to cross my heart, Archi- 
 bald. It is done with, and gone." 
 
 "Never let it come back again, Barbara. Neither 
 need her name be m^entioned again between us. A 
 barred name it has hitherto been; let it so continue." 
 
 "Anything you will. My earniest wish is to please 
 you; to be worthy of your esteem and love, Archi- 
 bald," she timidly added, her eyelids drooping as she 
 made the confession, while the color rose in her fair 
 face; "there has been a feeling in my heart against 
 your children, a sort of jealous feeling — can you under- 
 stand? — because they were hers; because she had once 
 been your wife. I knew how wrong it was, and I 
 have tried earnestly to subdue it. I have, indeed, and 
 I think it is nearly gone. I" — her voice sunk lower — 
 "constantly pray to be helped to do it; to love them 
 and care for them, as if they were my own. It will 
 corne wich time.'" 
 
 "Every good thing will come with time that we \ 
 earnestly seek," saia Mr. Cariyie. ''Oh, Baroara, 
 never forget — never forget that the only way to insure j 
 peace in the end, is to strive always to be doing right, ; h 
 unselfishly, under God." 
 
 THE END 
 
We are the Sole Publishers of Ella Wheeler Wilcox^s Book s 
 
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 is the secret of all success and happiness. It is this idea which 
 many of the verses endeavor to inculcate and to illustrate. 
 
 "The lines of Mrs. Wilcox show both sweetness and 
 strength."— CA?V'«i'<9 American. "Ella Wheeler Wilcox has a 
 strong grip upon ;he affections of thousands all over the 
 world. Her productions are read to-day just as eagerly as 
 they were when her fame was new. no other divinity having 
 yet risen to take her lA^c^."— Chicago Record-Herald. 
 
 Presentation Edition, 12mo, dark blue cloth $1.00 
 
 De Luxe Edition, white vellum, gold top 1-50 
 
 THREE WOMEN, a story in verse. 
 
 "Three Women is the best thing I have ever done."— Ella 
 Wheeler Wilcox. 
 
 This marvelous dramatic poem will compel instant praise 
 "because it touches every note in the scale of human emotion, 
 it is intensely interesting, and will be read with sincere relish 
 and admiration. 
 
 Presentation Edition, 12mo, light red cloth $1.00 
 
 Pe Luxe Edition, white vellum, gold \on. 1.60 
 
PCEA1S OF T^LEASURE. 
 
 Many of the best poetic creations of Ella Vv^heeler V/ilcox 
 are to be found in this charn-iing collection. Besides many 
 admirable specimens of romantic verse, there are several 
 
 f)oems of rare beauty, dealing with every-day topics. Every 
 ine of these poems pulsates v,'ith life and throbs with emollcn. 
 
 "Mrs. Wilcox is an artist with a touch that reminds one 
 of Byron's impassionate strains."— Paris Register. 
 
 "Everything that she writes has the mark of her unique, 
 powerful personality impressed upon it. and this volume will 
 not be a disappointment to those acquainted with her."— iV^ew 
 York Press. 
 
 "The book is replete with good things and. though a book 
 of fewer than two hundred pages, it is worth whole reams of 
 the sentimentalism flourishing under the misnomer of liter- 
 ature. ' ' — Western Bookseller. 
 
 "Mrs. Wilcox takes her raptures with a full heart, revel- 
 ing in blisses and draining sorrows deeply; not morbidiy but 
 liopefully. Skeptic as she is of all formal creeds, she does 
 ■T)ot become cynical or pessimistic, but makes a glad religion 
 -^ut of evolution and human fellowship."— aVi?i0 York Daily 
 I^eivs. 
 
 Presentation Edition. 12mo, maroon cloth $1 OC 
 
 De Luxe Edition, white vellum, gold top 1.50 
 
 POEf/sS OF P(^SS10N. 
 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox is known as the greatest living poet 
 of passion. To her the human heart seems to have revealed 
 its mysteries, for she has the power to picture love in all its 
 moods and variations as no other has done since Byron. 
 
 "Only a woman of genius could produce such a remark- 
 able v^ory^."— Illustrated London News. 
 
 Beside many others, there are some fifty poems which 
 treat entirely of that emotion which has been denominated 
 "the grand passion"— love. Among the most popular poems 
 in the book are Delilah, Ad Finem, Conversio?7, and Communism. 
 These vibrant poems have attained a reputation fhat is above 
 ^;nd beyond criticism. 
 
 "Her name is a household word. Her great power lies in 
 depicting human emotions; and in handling that grandest of 
 all passions— love, she wields the pen of a master. "Saturday 
 Record. 
 
 Many thousands of the book have been issued in the plain 
 edition. The author's numerous admirers called for a de luxe 
 impression, and in the New Illustrated Edition the demand 
 is met by a 
 
 8EALTIFULLY FRODVCED AND CHARMimLY EMBELLISHED ED/T/Oh 
 
 certain to satisfy the most fastidious taste. In its new form, 
 the book is sure to find additional favor. 
 
 Presentation Edition, 12m.o, blue cloth $1.00 
 
 De Ldixe Edition, white veilum, gold top 150 
 
 New Illustrated Edition, extra cloth, gold top 1.50 
 
 De Luxe New Illustrated Edition, white vellum, gold top, 2.00 
 
EVERY-DAY THOUGHTS~In Prose 
 and Verse. 
 
 Her latest, largest and greatest prose work. This brilliant 
 work consists of a series of forceful, logical and fascinating 
 "talks" to every member of the household, in which the 
 author fearlessly, but with delicacy, discusses every-day sub- 
 jects, and directs attention to those evils which menace the 
 peace and safety of the home. "Every-day Thoughts" is not a 
 mere book of advice, neither does it attempt to preach, but it 
 contains more good counsel and v/holesome moral lessons 
 than are to be found in the average sermon. 
 
 "These thoughts, lofty and uplifting, are stated with viril- 
 ity, both in prose and verse. The noble sentiments expressed 
 in this volume will widen the circle of her didm\vevs."—2ioches' 
 ter Times. 
 
 "Fev.' people are so good as not to be made better by a stu- 
 dious perusal of this useful and iotercsting booK, which is. in 
 brief, a short and vigorous dissertaUoo oo rooral cooduct and the 
 springs of right living. Mrs. Wilcox's latest publication is a 
 worthy additioo to the best works of moral philosophy and her 
 treatise deserves wide reading."— AVzi/ York Daily News. 
 
 Presentation Edition. 12mo, gray cloth, gold top $1.50 
 
 De Luxe Edition, white vellum, gold top 2.00 
 
 KINGDOM OF LOVE, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 A Ttagnificent colkction of poems suitable for recitations andrea^^ 
 Ings, true to the very best there is in human nature. 
 
 In the preface to this collection, the author says: "I am 
 constantly urged by readers and impersonators to furnish 
 them with verses for recitation. In response to this ever- 
 increasing demand, I haVe selected for this volume the poems 
 which seem suitable for such a purpose. In making my col- 
 lection of them. I have been obliged to use, not those which 
 are among my best efforts in a literary or artistic sense, but 
 those which contain the best dramatic possibilities for profes- 
 sionals." 
 
 "Her fame has reached all parts of the world, and her pop- 
 ularity seems to grow with each succeeding yQdiV."— American 
 Bookseller. 
 
 Presentation Edition, dark red cloth $1.00 
 
 De Luxe Edition, white vellum, gold top 1.50 
 
 AN AMBITIOUS MAN— Prose. 
 
 A realistic novel of the modern school of fiction. Although 
 the plot borders on the sensational, the motive of the story is 
 a good one. It teaches that hereditary tendencies can be 
 overcome; that one can conquer passion and impulse by the 
 use of the divine inheritance of Will, and compel public re- 
 spect by lofty ideals; in other words, that one may rise on the 
 "stepping-stones of a dead self to higher things." Ivlrs. Wilcox 
 is a successtul novel-writer as well as a poet, and this story is 
 another evidence of her wide range of thought. "In 'An 
 Ambitious Man' the central figure is a woman, who becomes 
 cha-itened through suffering and purified through sin." 
 
 "Vivid realism stands forth from every page of this fasci- 
 nating and interesting boo^."— Every Day. 
 .t-'resentation Edition, green silk cioth $1.00 
 
AN ERRING WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 
 There is always a fascination in Mrs. Wi4cox's verse, but 
 in these beautiful examples of her genius she shows a wonder* 
 ful knowledge of the human heart. 
 
 "Ella Wheeler Wilcox has impressed many thousands of 
 people with the extreme beauty of her philosophy and the 
 exceeding usefulness of her point of wie-w."~Boston Globe. 
 
 "Mrs. Wilcox stands at the head of feminine writers, and 
 her verses and essays are more widely copied and read than 
 those of any other American literary woman." — New Yor." 
 World. "Power and pathos characterize this magnificeni 
 poem. A deep understanding of life and an intense sympath^r 
 are beautifully expressed."— C/zzVczjS'l? Tribune. 
 
 Presentation Edition, 12mo, light brown cloth Sl.OO 
 
 De Luxe Edition, white vellum, gold top 1.50 
 
 MEN, WOMEN AND EMOTIONS. 
 
 A skilful analysis of social habits, customs and follies. A 
 
 common-sense view of life from its varied standpoints full 
 
 of sage advice. 
 
 "These essays tend to meet difficulties that arise in almost 
 
 every life Full of sound and helpful admonition, and is 
 
 sure to assist in smoothing the rough ways of life wherever it 
 be read and heeded." — Pittsburg Times. 
 
 12mo, heavy enameled jpaoer $0.50 
 
 Presentation Edition, dark brown cloth 1.00 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF NOD. 
 
 A collection of poems, songs, stories, and allegories dealingr 
 with child life. The work is profusely illustrated with dainty 
 line engravings and photographs from life. 
 
 "The delight of the nursery; the foremost baby's book in 
 the world." — N. O. Picayune. 
 Quarto, sage green cloth $1.00 
 
 AROUND THE YEAR WITH 
 ELLA V/HEELER WILCOX 
 
 A Birthday Book Compiled from the 
 Poetical and Prose Writings of 
 Ella Wheeler Wilcox 
 
 The many admirers of Mrs. Wilcox will welcome this vo!» 
 time with genuine enthusiasm. It epitomizes her inspiring 
 optimistic philosophy with an apposite Quotation for every 
 day in the circling year. 
 
 The book is a small quarto in size, beautifully printed on 
 excellent paper with red-line borders, and handsomely bouna 
 in cloth, with exquisite half-tone illustrations prefacing eacS» 
 month, and with author's portrait. 
 
 Presentation Edition, olive green cloth $1.00 
 
 De Luxe Edition, white vellum, gold top 1.60 
 
 Autograph Edition, full leather, gold top 3.00 
 
 W. B. CONKEY COlViPANY, Hammond, IsmI- 
 
UNT^^^ T TFT? ' 
 
 I 
 LOAN! DCPT