 Chapter 23, Part 2 of East Lynne—another thing that may be said to be progressing backward—for it was going on fast to bad instead of good—was the jealousy of Lady Isabel. How could it be otherwise? Kept up, as it was, by Barbara's frequent meetings with Mr. Carlyle, and by Captain Levison's exaggerated whispers of them. Discontented, Illa eased with herself, and with everybody about her, Isabel was living now in a state of excitement—a dangerous resentment against her husband, beginning to rise up in her heart. That very day, the one of Captain Levison's visits to Levison Park, in driving through West Lynne in the pony carriage, she had come upon her husband in close converse with Barbara Hare. So absorbed were they that they never saw her, though her carriage passed close to the pavement where they stood. On the morning following this, as the Hare family were seated at breakfast, the postman was observed coming toward the house. Barbara sprang from her seat to the open window, and the man advanced to her. "'Only one, Miss. It is for yourself.' "'Who's it from?' began the justice, as Barbara returned to her chair. In letters, as in other things, he was always curious to know their contents, whether they might be addressed to himself or not. "'It is from Anne Papa,' replied Barbara, as she laid the letter by her side on the table. "'Why don't you open it and see what she says?' "'I will, directly. I'm just going to pour out some more tea for Mama.' Finally the justice finished his breakfast and strolled out into the garden. Barbara opened her letter. Miss's Hare watched her movements and her countenance. She saw the latter flush suddenly and vividly, and then become deadly pale. She saw Barbara crush the note in her hand when read. "'Oh, Mama!' she uttered. The flush of emotion came also into Miss's Hare's delicate cheeks. "'Barbara, is it bad news?' "'Mama, it is about Richard,' she whispered, glancing at the door and window, to see that none might be with insight or hearing. "'I never thought of him. I only fancied Anne might be sending me some bit of news concerning her own affairs. Good heavens! How fortunate, how providential, that Papa did not see the paper fall, that you did not persist in your inquiries. If he—' "'Barbara, you are keeping me in suspense,' interrupted Miss's Hare, who had also grown white. What should Anne know about Richard?' Barbara smoothed out the writing and held it before her mother. It was as follows. "'I have had a curious note from Anne. It was without date or signature, but I knew his handwriting. He tells me to let you know in the most sure and private manner that I can, that he will soon be paying another night visit. You are to watch the grove every evening when the present moon gets bright.' Miss's Hare covered her face for some minutes. "'Thank God for all his mercies,' she murmured. "'Oh, Mama, but it's an awful risk for him to run. But to know that he is in life. To know that he is in life. And, for the risk, Barbara, I dread it not. The same God who protected him through the last visit will protect him through this. He will not forsake the oppressed, the innocent. Destroy the paper, child. Archibald Carlyle must first see it, Mama. I shall not be easy until it is destroyed, Barbara.' Braving the comments of gossip, hoping the visit would not reach the ears or eyes of the justers, Barbara went that day to the office of Mr Carlyle. He was not there. He was at West Linn. He had gone to Linn and Barra on business, and Mr Dill thought a question if he would be at the office again that day. If so, it would be late in the afternoon. Barbara, as soon as their own dinner was over, took up her patient station at the gate, hoping to see him pass. But the time went by, and he did not. She had little doubt that he had returned home without going to West Linn. What should she do? Go up to East Linn and see him, said her conscience. Barbara's mind was in a strangely excited state. It appeared to her that this visit of Richard's must have been specially designed by Providence, that he might be confronted by Thorn. Mama, she said, returning indoors, after seeing the justice depart upon an evening visit to the Buck's Head, where he and certain other justices and gentlemen sometimes congregated to smoke and chat. I shall go up to East Linn if you have no objection. I must see Mr Carlyle. Away went Barbara. It had struck seven when she arrived at East Linn. Is Mr Carlyle disengaged? Mr Carlyle is not yet home, miss. My lady and Miss Carlyle are waiting dinner for him. A check for Barbara. The servant asked her to walk in, but she declined and turned from the door. She was in no mood for the visit, paying. Lady Isabel had been standing at the window watching for her husband and wondering what made him so late. She observed Barbara approach the house and saw her walk away again. Presently the servant who had answered the door entered the drawing-room. Was not that Miss Hare? Yes, my lady, was the man's reply. She wanted Master. I said your ladyship was at home, but she would not enter. Isabel said no more. She caught the eyes of Francis Leveson fixed on her with as much meaning, compassionate meaning, as they dared express. She clasped her hands in pain and turned again to the window. Barbara was slowly walking down the avenue. Mr Carlyle was then in sight, walking quickly up it. Lady Isabel saw their hands meeting, greeting. Oh, I am so thankful to have met you, Barbara exclaimed to him impulsively. I actually went to your office today, and I have been now to your house. We have such news. Hey, what, about Thorn? No, about Richard, replied Barbara, taking the scrap of paper from the folds of her dress. This came to me this morning from Anne. Mr Carlyle took the document, and Barbara looked over him whilst he read it. Neither of them thinking that Lady Isabel's jealous eyes and Captain Leveson's evil ones were strained upon them from the distant windows. Miss Carlyle's also, for the matter of that. Archibald, it seems to me that Providence must be directing him hither at this moment. Our suspicions with regard to Thorn can now be set at rest. You must contrive that Richard shall see him. What can he be coming again for? More money was the supposition of Mr Carlyle. Does Mrs Hair know of this? She does, unfortunately. I opened the paper before her, never dreaming it was connected with Richard. Poor, unhappy Richard. And not to be guilty. He acted as though he were guilty, Barbara, and that line of conduct often entails as much trouble as real guilt. You do not believe him guilty, she most passionately uttered. I do not. I have little doubt of the guilt of Thorn. Oh, if it could be brought home to him, returned Barbara, so that Richard might be cleared in the sight of day. How can you contrive that he shall see Thorn? I cannot tell. I must think it over. Let me know the instant he arrives, Barbara. Of course I shall. It may be that he does not want money, that his errand is only to see Mama. He was always so fond of her. I must leave you, said Mr Carlyle, taking her hand in token of farewell. Then, as a thought occurred to him, he turned and walked a few steps with her, without releasing it. He was probably unconscious that he retained it. She was not. You know, Barbara, if he should want money, and it be not convenient to Mrs Hare to supply it at so short a notice, I can give it to him, as I did before. Thank you, thank you, Archibald. Mama felt sure you would. She lifted her eyes to his with an expression of gratitude, a warmer feeling for an uncontrolled moment mingled with it. Mr Carlyle nodded pleasantly, and then set off toward his house at the pace of a steam-engine. Two minutes in his dressing-room, and he entered the drawing-room, apologizing for keeping them waiting dinner, and explaining that he had been compelled to go to his office to give some orders subsequent to his return to Lindenborough. Lady Isabel's lips were pressed together, and she preserved an obstinate silence. Mr Carlyle, in his unsuspicion, did not notice it. What did Barbara Hare want? demanded Miss Carlyle during dinner. She wanted to see me on business, was his reply, given in a tone that certainly did not invite his sister to pursue the subject. Will you take some more, fish, Isabel? What was that you were reading over with her? Pursued that you were going to Fatigable Miss Corny, it looked like a note. That would be telling, returned Mr Carlyle, willing to turn it off with gaiety. If young ladies choose to make me party to their love letters, I cannot betray confidence, you know. What rubbish archibald, cost she, as if you could not say outright what Barbara wants without making a mystery of it, and she seems to be always wanting you now. Mr Carlyle glanced at his sister a quick peculiar look. It seemed to her to speak both of seriousness and warning. Involuntarily her thoughts and her fears flew back to the past. Archibald, archibald, she uttered, repeating the name, as if she could not get any further words out in her dread. It, it, is never, that old affair is never being raked up again. Now, Miss Carlyle's old affair referred to one soul and sore point, Richard Hare, and so Mr Carlyle understood it. Lady Isabelle unhappily believing that any old affair could only have reference to the bygone loves of her husband and Barbara. You will oblige me by going on with your dinner, Cornelia, gravely responded, Mr Carlyle. Then, assuming a more laughing tone, I tell you it is unreasonable to expect me to betray a young woman's secrets, although she may choose to confide them professionally to me. What say you, Captain Leveson? The gentleman addressed Boud, a smile and mockery, all too perceptible to Lady Isabelle, on his lips, and Miss Carlyle bent her head over her plate and went on with her dinner as meek as any lamb. That same evening Lady Isabelle's indignant and rebellious heart condescended to speak of it when alone with her husband. What is it that she wants with you so much, that Barbara Hare? It is private business, Isabelle. She has to bring me messages from her mother. Must the business be kept from me? He was silent for a moment, considering whether he might tell her. But it was impossible he could speak, even to his wife, of the suspicion they were attaching to Captain Thorn. It would have been unfair and wrong. Neither could he betray that a secret visit was expected from Richard. To no one in the world could he betray that, however safe and true. It would not make you the happier to know it, Isabelle. There is a dark secret. You are aware, touching the hair family. It is connected with that. She did not put faith in a word of the reply. She believed he could not tell her because her feelings, as his wife, would be outraged by the confession, and it goaded her anger into recklessness. Mr. Carlyle, on his part, never gave a thought to the supposition that she might be jealous. He had believed that nonsense at an end years ago. He was perfectly honourable and true, strictly faithful to his wife, giving her no shadow of cause or reason to be jealous of him. And being a practical matter of fact-man, it did not occur to him that she could be so. Lady Isabelle was sitting the following morning, moody and out of sorts. Captain Levison, who had accompanied Mr. Carlyle in the most friendly manner possible to the park gate on his departure, and then stolen along the hedge walk, had returned to Lady Isabelle with the news of an ardent interview with Barbara, who had been watching for his going by at the gate of the grove. She sat, sullenly digesting the tidings, when a note was brought in. It proved to be an invitation to dinner for the following Tuesday at a Mrs. Jefferson's, for Mr. and Lady Isabelle Carlyle and Ms. Carlyle. Do you go? asked Ms. Carlyle. Yes, replied Isabelle. Mr. Carlyle and I both want a change of some sort. She added in a mocking sort of spirit. It may be well to have it, if only for an evening. In truth, this unhappy jealousy, this distrust of her husband, appear to have altered Lady Isabelle's very nature. And leave Captain Levison? returned Ms. Carlyle. Lady Isabelle went over to her desk, making no reply. What will you do with him? I asked, persisted Ms. Carlyle. He can remain here. He can dine by himself. Shall I accept the invitation for you? No, I shall not go, said Ms. Carlyle. Then, in that case, there can be no difficulty in regard to Captain Levison, coldly spoke Lady Isabelle. I don't want his company. I am not fond of it, cried Ms. Carlyle. I would go to Mrs. Jefferson's, but that I should want a new dress. That's easily had, said Lady Isabelle. I shall want one myself. You want a new dress? uttered Ms. Carlyle. Why? you have a dozen. I don't know that I could count a dozen in all, returned Lady Isabelle, shafing at the remark, and the continual thwarting put upon her by Ms. Carlyle, which had laterally seemed more than hard to endure. Petty evils are more difficult to support than great ones. Take notice. Lady Isabelle concluded her note, folded, sealed it, and then rang the bell. As the man left the room with it, she decided that Wilson might be sent to her. Is it this morning, Wilson, that the dressmaker comes to try on Ms. Isabelle's dress? she inquired. Wilson hesitated and stammered and glanced from her mistress to Ms. Carlyle. The latter looked up from her work. The dressmaker's not coming, spoke she sharply. I countermanded the order for the frock, for Isabelle does not require it. She does require it, answered Lady Isabelle, in perhaps the most displeased tone she had ever used to Ms. Carlyle. I am a competent judge of what is necessary for my children. She no more requires a new frock than that table requires one, or that you require the one you are longing for, stoically persisted Ms. Carlyle. She has got ever so many lying by, and her striped silk turned will make up as handsome as ever. Wilson backed out of the room and closed the door softly, but her mistress caught a compassionate look directed toward her. Her heart seemed bursting with indignation and despair. There seemed to be no sight on which she could turn for refuge. Pitted by her own servants. She reopened her desk and dashed off a haughty, peremptory note for the attendance of the dressmaker at East Lynn, commanding its immediate dispatch. Ms. Carlyle groaned in her wrath. You will be sorry for not listening to me, ma'am, when your husband shall be brought to poverty. He works like a horse now, and with all his slaving, can scarcely, I fear, keep expenses down. Poor Lady Isabel, ever sensitive, began to think they might, with one another, be spending more than Mr. Carlyle's means would justify. She knew their expenses were heavy. The same tale had been dined into her ears ever since she married him. She gave up in that moment all thought of a new dress for herself and for Isabel. But her spirit, in her deep unhappiness, felt sick and faint within her. Wilson, meanwhile, had flown to Joyce's room, and was exercising her dearly beloved tongue in an exaggerated account of the matter. How Ms. Carlyle put upon my lady, and had forbidden a new dress to her, as well as the frock to Ms. Isabel. And yet a few more days passed on. CHAPTER XXI. Bright was the moon on that genial Monday night. Bright was the evening star, as they shone upon a solitary wayfare, who walked on the shady side of the road with his head down, as though he did not care to cold observation. A labourer, apparently, for he wore a smock frock, and had hopped nails 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 drew near the dwelling of Richard Hare Esquire, plunged rapidly over some palings, after looking well to the right and to the left, into a field, and thence over the side wall into Mr. Hare's garden, where he remained amidst the thick trees. Now, by some mischief of his spirit of intuition or contrariety, Justice Hare was spending this evening at home, a thing he did not do once in six months, unless he had friends with him. Things in real life do mostly go by the rules of country, as children say in their play, holding the corners of the handkerchief. Here we go round and round by the rules of country. If I tell you to hold fast, you must lose. If I tell you to lose, you must hold fast. Just so in the play of life. When we want people to hold fast, they lose. And when we want them to lose, they hold fast. Barbara, anxious, troubled, worn out almost, with the suspense of looking and watching for her brother, feeling a feverish expectation that night would bring him. But so had she felt for the two or three nights past, would have given her hand for her father to go out. But no, things were going by the rule of country. There set the stern Justice in full view of the garden and the grove, his chair drawn precisely in front of the window, his wig awry and her long pipe in his mouth. Are you not going out, Richard? Mrs. Herve mentioned to say. No. Mama, shall I ring for the shutters to be closed? asked Barbara, by and by. Shutters closed? said the Justice. Who'd shut out this bright moon? You've got to lamp at the far end of the room, young lady, and can go to it. Barbara ejaculated an inward prayer for patience, for safety of Richard, if he did come, and waited on, watching the grove in the distance. It came, the signal. Her quick eye caught it, a movement as if some person or thing had stepped out beyond the trees and stepped back again. Barbara's face turned white and her lips dry. I am so hot, she exclaimed, in her confused eagerness for an excuse. I must take a turn in the garden. She's still out, throwing a dark shawl over her shoulders that might render her less conspicuous to the Justice and her dress that evening was a dark silk. She did not dare to stand still when she reached the trees or to penetrate them, but she caught glimpses of Richard's face and her heart ached at the change in it. It was white, thin, and full of care, and his hair, he told her, was turning grey. Oh, Richard, darling, and I may not stop to talk to you. She wailed in a deep whisper. Papa is at home, you see, of all the nights in the world. Can't I see my mother? How can you? You must wait till tomorrow night. I don't like waiting a second night, Barbara. There's danger in every inch of ground that this neighbourhood contains. But you must wait, Richard, for reasons. That man who caused all the mischief. Thorn. Hang him, gloomily interrupted Richard. He's at West Lynn. At least there is a thorn. 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's a tall man, very good-looking, very fond of dress and ornament, especially of diamonds. That's he, cried Richard, eagerly. Mr. Carlyle will contrive that you shall see him, she continued. Stupid as with the entire shoe. Should it prove to be the same? Perhaps nothing can be done, immediately done, to it clearing you, but it shall be a great point of certain. Are you sure you should know him again? Sure? That I should know him, uttered Richard Hare? Should I know my own father? Should I know you? And are you not engraving on my heart and letters of blood, as is he? How and when am I to see him, Barbara? I can tell you nothing till I've seen Mr. Carlyle. Be here to-morrow, as soon as ever the dust will permit you. Perhaps Mr. Carlyle will contrive to bring him here, if— The window was thrown open, and the stentorian voice of just his hair was heard from it. Barbara, are you wondering about there to take cold? Come in. Come in, I say. Oh, Richard, I'm so sorry, she lingered to whisper. But Papa is sure to be out to-morrow evening. He would not stay in two evenings running. Good night, dear. There must be no delay now, and the next day Barbara, brave in comments, appeared once more at the office of Mr. Carlyle. Terribly did the rules of contrary seem in action just then. Mr. Carlyle was not in, and the clerks did not know when to expect him. He 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, Miss Barbara. I expect him then. Is it anything I can do? No, no, sighed Barbara. At that moment Lady Isabel and her little girl passed in the chariot. She saw Barbara at her husband's door. What should she be doing there, unless paying him a visit? A slight haughty bow took Barbara, a pleasant nod, and smiled to Mr. Dill, and the carriage bowled on. It was four o'clock before Barbara could see Mr. Carlyle, and communicated tidings that Richard had arrived. Mr. Carlyle held the seat and all underhand doings in a special abhorrence, yet he deemed that he was acting right under the circumstances, in allowing Captain Thorne to be secretly seen by Richard Hare. In haste he arranged his plans. It was the evening of his own dinner engagement at Mrs. Jefferson's, but that he must give up. Telling Barbara to dispatch Richard to his office, as soon as he should make his appearance at the Grove, and to urge him to come boldly, and not fear, for none would know him in his disguise. He wrote a hurried note to Thorne, requesting him also to be at his office at eight o'clock that evening, as he had something to communicate to him. The letter plea was no fiction, for it received an important communication that morning relative to the business on which Captain Thorne had consulted him, and his own absence from the office in the day had alone prevented his sending for him earlier. Other matters were calling the attention of Mr. Carlyle, and it was five o'clock area departed for East Lynn. He would not have gone so early, but that he must inform his wife of his inability to keep his dinner engagement. Mr. Carlyle was one who never hesitated to sacrifice personal gratification, to friendship, or to business. The chariot was at the door, and Lady Isabel dressed and waiting for him in a dressing-room. Did you forget that the Jefferson's dined at six, as a greeting? No, Isabel, but it was impossible for me to get here before, and I should not have come so soon but to tell you that I cannot accompany you. You must make my excuses to Mrs. Jefferson. 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 a bit of dinner at home, I must hasten back to the office. Was he making this excuse to spend the hours of her absence with Barbara Hare? The idea that it was so took firm possession of her mind and remained there. Her face expressed a variety of feelings, the most prominent that of resentment. Mr. Carlyle saw it. You must not be vexed, Isabel. I assure you it is no fault of mine. It is important private business which cannot be put off, and which I cannot delegate to Dill. I am sorry it should have so happened. You never return to the office in the evening, she remarked with pale lips. No, because of anything arises to take us there after hours, Dill officiates, for the business tonight must be done by myself. Another pause. Lady Isabel suddenly broke it. Shall you join us later in the evening? I believe I shall not be able to do so. She drew her light shull 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 out straight before her with a stony look. What time I lay, inquired the footman, as he alighted the Mrs. Jefferson's. Early, half past nine. A little before eight o'clock, Richard Hare, in his smockfrog and his slouching head and his false whiskers, rang dubiously at the outer door of Mr. Carlyle's office. The gentleman instantly opened it. He was quite alone. Come in, Richard, said he, grasping his hand. Did you meet any whom you knew? I never looked at all my mats, sir, was the reply. I thought that if I looked at people they might look at me, so I came straight ahead with my eyes before me. How the place is altered! There's a new brick house on the corner where old Morgan's shop used to stand. Well, that's a new police station. West Lynn, I assure you, is becoming grand in public buildings. And how have you been, Richard? Ailing and wretched, answered Richard Hare. How can it be otherwise, Mr. Carlyle, with so false an accusation attached to me, and working like a slave as I have to do? You may take off the disfiguring head, Richard. No one is here. Richard slowly heaved it from his brows, and his fair face, so like his mother's, was disclosed. But the moment he was uncovered, he turned shrinkingly towards the entrance door. If anyone should come in, sir? Impossible, replied Mr. Carlyle. The front door is fast, and the office is supposed to be empty at this hour. For if I should be seen and recognised, it might come to hanging, you know, sir. You're expecting that cursed thorn here, Barbara told me. Directly, replied Mr. Carlyle, observing the mode of addressing him, sir, it spoke plainly of the scale of society in which Richard had been mixing, that he was with those who said it habitually, nay, that he used it habitually himself. From your description of the lieutenant thorn who destroyed Hallijohn, we believe this captain thorn to be the same man, pursued Mr. Carlyle, in person he appears to tell you exactly, and I have a certain that a few years ago he was a deal at Swainson, and got into some surplus crepe. He's in John Herbert's regiment, and is here with him on a visit. But what an idiot he must be to venture here, added Richard. Here, of all places in the world. He counts, no doubt, on not being known. So far as I can find out, Richard, nobody here did know him, save you and Afi. I shall put you in Mr. Dills' room. You may remember the little window in it, and from thence you can take a full view of thorn whom I shall keep in the front office. You are sure you would recognise him at this distance of time? I should know him if it were fifty years to come. I should know him where he disguised as I am disguised. We cannot, Richard sank his voice. Forget a man who has been the object of our frenzied jealousy. What has brought you to East Linn again, Richard, any particular object? Chiefly a hankering within me that I could not get rid of, replied Richard. It's not so much to see my mother and Barbara, though I did want that, especially since my illness, as that a feeling was within me that I could not rest away from it. So I said I'd risk it again just for a day. I thought you might possibly want some assistance as before. I do want that also, said Richard. Not much. My illness has run me into death, and if my mother can let me have a little, I shall be thankful. I'm sure she will, answered Mr. Carlile. You shall have it for me tonight. What has been the matter with you? The beginning of it was a kick from a horse, sir. That was last winter, and had been up for six weeks. Then in the spring, after I got well and was at work again, I caught some sort of fever, and down again I was for six weeks. I have not been to say well since. How is it you've never written or sent me your address? Because I dared not, answered Richard, timorously. I should always be in fear. Not of you, Mr. Carlile, but of it becoming known some way or other. The time is getting on, sir. Is that thorn sure to come? He sent me word that he would, in reply to my note, and there he is, as at Mr. Carlile, as a ring was heard at the bell. Now, Richard, come this way. Bring your hat. Richard, complied by putting his head on his head, pulling it so low that it touched his nose, he felt himself safer in it. Mr. Carlile showed him into Mr. Dill's room, and then turned the key upon him, and put it in his pocket. Whether this precautionary measure was intended to prevent any possibility of Captain Thorn's finding his way in, or of Richard's finding his way out, was best known to himself. Mr. Carlile came to the front door, opened it, and admitted Captain Thorn. He brought him into the clerk's office, which was bright with gas, keeping him in conversation for a few minutes, standing, and then asking him to be seated, all in view of the little window. I must beg your pardon for being late, Captain Thorn observed. I am half an hour beyond the time you mentioned, but the Herbert said two or three friends at dinner, and I could not get away. I hope, Mr. Carlile, you have not come to your office tonight purposely from me. Business must be attended to, somewhat evasively, answered Mr. Carlile. I have been out myself near the old day. We received a communication from London this morning, relative to your affair, and I am sorry to say anything but satisfactory. They will not wait. Bet I am not liable, Mr. Carlile, not liable in justice. No, if what you tell me be correct. But justice and law are sometimes in opposition, Captain Thorn. Captain Thorn sat in perplexity. They will not get me arrested here, will they? They would have done it, beyond doubt. But I have caused a letter to be written, and a spatch to them, which must bring forth an answer before any violent proceedings are taken. That answer will be here the morning after to-morrow. And what am I to do then? I think it is probable there may be a way of checkmaging them. But I am not sure, Captain Thorn, that I can give my attention further to this affair. I hope and trust you will, was the reply. You have not forgotten that I told you at first I could not promise to do so, rejoined Mr. Carlile. You shall hear from me to-morrow. If I carry it on for you, I will then appoint an hour for you to be here on the following day. If not, why, I dare say you will find a solicitor as capable of assisting you as I am. Bet why will you not? What is the reason? I cannot always give reasons for what I do, was the response. You will hear from me to-morrow. He rose as he spoke. Captain Thorn also rose. Mr. Carlile detained him yet a few moments, and then saw him out at the front door, and fastened it. He returned and released Richard. A letter took off his head as he advanced into the blaze of light. Well, Richard, is it the same man? No, sir. Not in the least like him. Mr. Carlile, though little given to emotion, felt a strange relief. Relief for Captain Thorn's sake. He had rarely seen one whom we could so little associate with the notion of a murderer as Captain Thorn, and he was a man who exceedingly won upon the regard. He would hardly help him out of his dilemma now. Accepting that they are both tall, with nearly the same colour of 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, had the expression at times of a demon. But this one's expression is the best part of his face. Halligan's murder had a curious look here, sir. Where? questioned Mr. Carlile, for Richard had only pointed to his face generally. Well, I cannot say precisely where it lay, whether in the eyebrows or the eyes. I could not tell when I used to have him before me. But it was in one of them. Ah, Mr. Carlile, I thought when Barbara told me Thorn was here, it was too good news to be true. Depend upon it, he won't venture to West Lynn again. This man is no more like that other villain than you are like him. Then, as that is said at rest, we'd better be going, Richard. You have to see your mother, and she must be waiting on anxiety. How much money do you want? Twenty-five pounds would do, but Richard stopped in hesitation. But what? asked Mr. Carlile. Speak out, Richard. Thirty would be more welcome. Thirty would put me at ease. You shall take thirty, said Mr. Carlile, counting out the notes to him. Now, will you walk with me to the Grove, or will you walk alone? I mean to see you there in safety. Richard thought he would prefer to walk alone. Everybody they met might be speaking to Mr. Carlile. The letter inquired why he chose Moonlight Nights for his visit. It was pleasant after travelling, and had I chosen Dark Nights, Barbara could not have seen my signal from the trees, was the answer of Richard. They went out and proceeded unmolested to the house of just his hair. It was past nine then. I am so much obliged to you, Mr. Carlile, whispered Richard, as they walked up the path. I wish I could help you more effectively, Richard, and clear up the mystery. Barbara on the watch? Yes, there's the door slowly opening. Richard still across the hall and into the parlour to his mother. Barbara approached and softly whispered to Mr. Carlile, standing just outside the portico. Her voice trembled with the suspense of what the answer might be. Is it the same man, the same thorn? No, Richard says this man bears no resemblance to the real one. Oh! uttered Barbara, inner surprise and disappointment. Not the same, and for the best part of poor Richard's evening they've been taken up for nothing. Not quite nothing, said Mr. Carlile. The question is now set at rest. Set at rest, repeated Barbara, it is left in more uncertainty than ever. Set at rest so far as regards to Captain Thorn, and whilst our suspicions were concentrated upon him, we thought not of looking to other quarters. When they entered the sitting room Mrs. Hare was crying over Richard, and Richard was crying over her, but she seized the hand of Mr. Carlile. You've been very kind. I don't know whatever we should do without you, and I want to text your kindness further. Has Barbara mentioned it? I could not talk in the hall, Mama. The servants might have overheard. Mr. Hare is not well, and we terribly fear he will be home early in consequence. Otherwise, we should have been quite safe until after ten, for he's gone to the buck's head, and they never leave, you know, till that hour has struck. Should he come in and see Richard? Oh! I need not enlarge upon the consequences to you, Archibald. The very thought sends me into a shiver. Barbara and I have been discussing it all the evening, and we can only think of one plan. It is that you'll 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 we'll run in with the warning, and Richard can go inside the closet in the hall till Mr. Hare has entered, and is safe in this room, and then he can make his escape. Will you do this, Archibald? Certainly I will. I cannot part with him before ten o'clock unless I am forced, she whispered, pressing Mr. Carlyle's hands in her earnest gratitude. You don't know what it is, Archibald, to have a lost son home for an hour but once in seven years. At ten o'clock we will part. Mr. Carlyle and Barbara began to pace in the path in compliance with the wish 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. Bunchally to the minute, half after nine, Lady Isabel's carriage arrived at Mrs. Jefferson's, and she came out immediately, a headache being the plea for her early departure. She had not far to go to reach East Lynn, about two miles, and 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 at first recognize him, for he wore this figured fur cap, the ears of which were tied over his ears and cheeks. It was Frances Levison. She put down the window. I thought it must be your carriage. How early are you returning? Are you tired of her, your entertainers? Why, he knew what time my lady was returning, thought John to himself. He asked me, a full sort of a chap that I have in notion. I came out for a midnight stroll, and I've tired myself, he proceeded, while he'd take compassion on me, and give me a seat home. She acquiesced. She could not do otherwise. The footmen sprang from behind the door, and Frances 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 head, which high road would cause them to pass Mr. Hares. 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 his hand. Disguise? Oh, no. I have no creditors in the immediate neighborhood of East Lynn. False as ever. It was one as a disguise, and he knew it. Is Mr. Carlyle at home? She inquired. No. Then, after a pause, I expect he's more agreeably engaged. The tone, a most significant one, brought the tingling blot to the cheeks of Lady Isabel. She wished to preserve a dignified silence, and did for a few moments, but the jealous question broke out. Engaged in what manner? As I came by Hares' house just now, I saw two people, a gentleman and a young lady, coupled lovingly together, enjoying a tete-a-tete by moonlight. Unless I'm mistaken, he was the favored individual, mew-call Lord and Master. Lady Isabel almost gnashed her teeth. The jealous doubts which had been tormenting her all the evening were confirmed. The man whom she hated. Yes, in her blind anger she hated him then. She'd so impose upon her. She'd excuse himself by lies. Lies, bays, and fools as he was, from accompanying her out, on purpose to pass the hours of Barbara Hares. Had she been alone in the carriage, a torrent of passion had probably escaped her. She lent back, pounding her emotion, but hiding it from Captain Levison. As they came opposite to Justice Hares, 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 Hares. With a choking sob that could no longer be controlled or hidden, Lady Isabel sunk back again. He, that bold, bad man, dared to put his arm around 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 was betrayed by Mr. Carlisle. He 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. The minutes flew on, a quarter to ten, now a quarter past ten, and still Richard Hares lingered on with his mother, and still Mr. Carlisle and Barbara paced patiently the garden path. At half past ten, Richard came forth, after having taken his last farewell. Then came Barbara's tearful farewell, which Mr. Carlisle witnessed. And then a hard grasp of the gentleman's hand, and Richard plunged amidst the trees to depart the way he came. End of Chapter 24 Part 1 Chapter 24 Part 2 of East Lynn This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Anna Simon. East Lynn by Mrs. Henry Wood. Chapter 24 Richard Hares at Mr. Dill's window. Part 2 Good night, Barbara, said Mr. Carlisle. Will you not come in, and say good night to Mama? Not now. It is late. Tell her how glad I am, things have gone off so well. He started off at a strapping pace towards his home, and Barbara lent on the gate to indulge her tears. Not a soul passed to interrupt her, and the justice did not come. What could have become of him? What could the Bucks had been thinking of to retain respectable elderly justices from their beds, who ought to go home early, and set a good example to the parish? Barbara knew the next day that Justice Hares, with a few more gentlemen, had been seduced from the state old inn to a friend's house, to an entertainment of supper, pipes, and wist, two tables, plenty points, and it was between twelve and one ere the party rose from the fascination. So far, well, as had happened. Barbara knew not how long she lingered at the gate. Ten minutes it may have been. Nobody summoned her. Mrs. Hares was indulging her grief in doors, giving no thought to Barbara, and the justice did not make his appearance. Excellently surprised was Barbara to hear fast footsteps, and to find that they were Mr. Carlisle's. The more haste, the less speed, Barbara, he called out as he came up. I got half-way home, and had to come back again. When I went into your sitting-room, I left a small parcel containing a parchment on the side-board. Will you get it for me? Barbara ran in doors, and brought forth the parcel, and Mr. Carlisle, with a brief word of thanks, sped away with it. She leaned on the gate as before, the reddy tears flowing again. Her heart was aching for Richard. It was aching for the disappointment that night had brought forth, respecting Captain Thorn. Still nobody passed. Still the steps of her father were not heard, and Barbara stayed on. But what was that figure, cowering in the shade of the hedge at a distance, and seemingly watching her? Barbara strained her eyes, while her heart beat as if it burst its bounds. Surely, surely it was a brother! What had he ventured back for? Richard's hair it was. When fully assured that Barbara was standing there, he knew the justice was still absent, and ventured to advance. He appeared to be in a strange state of emotion, his breath laboured, his whole frame trembling. Barbara! Barbara! they called. I've seen Thorn! Barbara thought him demented. I know you saw him, she slowly said. But it was not the right Thorn. Not he breathed at Richard, and not the gentleman I saw tonight in Carla's office. I've seen the fellow himself. Why do you stare at me so, Barbara? Barbara was in truth, scanning his face keenly. It appeared to her a strange tale that he was telling. When I left here, I cut across into Bean Lane, which is more private for me than this road, proceeded Richard. Just as I 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 West Lynn, and I looked out upon him. I knew him long before he was abreast of me. It was Thorn! Barbara made no comment, just 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 Halladion, went on Richard, in the same excited manner. But I resisted it, or perhaps my courage failed. One of the reproaches against me it used to be that I was a physical coward, you know Barbara, he added, in a tone of bitterness. In a struggle Thorn would have had the best of it. He's taller and more powerful than I, and might have battered me to death. A man who could commit one murder won't hesitate at its second. Richard, do you think you could have been deceived? she arched. 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 not tell you who was stamped here, touching his breast. Do you think me for a child, or an imbecile, that I should fancy I see Thorn in every shadow, or meet people where I do not? He had his head off, as if he'd been walking fast, and got hot. Fast he was walking, and he carried the head in one hand, and what looked like a small parcel. With the other hand he was pushing the hair from his brow, in this way, a peculiar way, at Richard, slightly lifting his own head, and pushing back his hair. By that action alone I should have known him, for he was always doing it in the old days, and there was his white hand adorned with his diamond ring. Barbara, the diamond glittered in the moonlight. Richard's voice, in a manner, was 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 old, it say, 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 in 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 appearances it would have, her flying along the public road at that hour of the night, should she meet any who knew her. Forgetting what the consequence might be, that just as her return and finder absent, Barbara set off with her fleet-food, Richard more stealthily following her, his eyes cast in all directions. Fortunately Barbara wore a bonnet and mantle, which she had put on to paste the garden with Mr. Carlyle. Fortunately also the road was remarkably empty of passengers. She succeeded in reaching Mr. Carlyle before he turned into East Lynn Gates. Barbara, he exclaimed in extreme of astonishment. Barbara! Archibald! Archibald! she panted, gasping for breath. I'm not out of my mind, but do come and speak to Richard. He's just seen the real Thorn. Mr. Carlyle, amazed and wondering, turned back. They got over the field-style, nearly opposite the gates, drew behind the hedge, and there Richard told his tale. Mr. Carlyle did not appear to doubt it, as Barbara had done. Perhaps he could not, in the face of Richard's agitated and intense earnestness. I'm sure there's no one named Thorn in a neighborhood, save the gentleman you saw in my office tonight, Richard, observed Mr. Carlyle, after some deliberation. It is very strange. He may be staying here under a faint name, replied Richard. There can be no mistake that it was Thorn whom I've just met. How was he dressed, as a gentleman? Catch him dressing as anything else, returned Richard. It was 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 grey alpaca, it looked like. As I've 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 fleshing of the 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 trek 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'm 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 was full of fears. He described the man as accurately as he could to Mr. Carlyle and Barbara, and told them they must look out. With some trouble Mr. Carlyle caught 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 farewell, and quitted them, his way lying past East Linn. And now to see you back, Barbara, said Mr. Carlyle. Indeed, you shall not do it. Late as it is, and tired as she must be. I came here alone. Richard did not come 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 11 o'clock at night. What are you thinking of? He gave Barbara his arm, and they pursued their way. How late Lady Isabel will thank you, observed Barbara. I do not know that Lady Isabel has returned home yet, my being late once in a while is of no consequence. Not another word was spoken, save I, Barbara. Whatever excuse can I make, should papa come home? Both were buried in their own reflections. Thank you very greatly, she said, as they reached her gate, and Mr. Carlyle finally turned away. Barbara still in, and found the coast clear. Her papa had not arrived. Lady Isabel was in her dressing room, and Mr. Carlyle entered. She was seated at the table, writing a few questions as to her evening's visit, which she answered in the briefest way possible, and then he asked her if she was not going to bed. Bye and bye. I am not sleepy. I must go at once, Isabel, for I am dead, tired, and no wonder. Here you can go, was her answer. He bent down to kiss her, but she dexterously turned her face away. He supposed that she felt hurt that he had not gone with her to the party, and placed his hand on her shoulder with a pleasant 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 along. Her head was bent over her writing again, and she made no reply. Mr. Carlile went into his bedroom and shut the door. Some time after, Lady Isabel went softly upstairs to Joyce's room. Joyce, fast in her first sleep, was suddenly aroused from it. There stood her mistress, a wax-light in her hand. Joyce wrapped her eyes, and collected her senses, and finally set up in bed. My Lady, are you ill? Ill, yes, ill and wretched, answered Lady Isabel, and ill she did look, for she was perfectly white. Joyce, I want a promise from you. If anything should happen to me, stay at East Lynn with my children. Joyce stared at amazement, too much astonished to make any reply. Joyce, you promised it once before. Promise it again. Whatever be tied to you, 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-bye, Joyce, murmured Lady Isabel, gliding from the chamber as quietly as she had entered it, and Joyce, after an hour of perplexity, dropped to sleep again. Joyce was not the only one whose rest was disturbed that eventful night. Mr. Carlisle 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 the absence of sound, unoccupied. Isabel! No reply. Nothing but the echo of his own voice in the silence of the night. He struck a match, and lighted a taper, partially dressed himself, and went about to look for her. He feared she might have been taken ill, or else that she had fallen asleep in some one of the rooms. But nowhere could he find her, and, feeling perplexed, he proceeded to his sister's chamber to be when knocked. Miss Carlisle was a slight sleeper, and rose up in bed at once. Who's that? cried out she. It is only I, Cornelia, said Mr. Carlisle. You! cried Miss Cornie. What in the name of fortune do you want? You can come in. Mr. Carlisle 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 Cornie. Why, what's the time? Is she not in bed? It's three o'clock. She's not been to bed. I cannot find her in the sitting-rooms. 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 tonight. Mr. Carlisle was in full retreat toward Joyce's room, of the 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 there, 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 should tell him? He stepped inside the room and called to her. Joyce started up in a fright, which changed to astonishment when she recognized her master. He inquired whether Lady Isabel had been there, and for a few moments Joyce did not answer. She had been dreaming of Lady Isabel, and could not at first attach the dream from the visit which had probably given rise to it. What did you say, sir? Is my lady worse? I asked if she had been here. I cannot find her. What 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 still quicker, and Joyce was giving the reins to both. Her mistress's gloomy and ambiguous words were crowding on her brain. Three o'clock, and she had not been in bed, and was not to be found in the house. A nameless horror struggled to Joyce's face. Her eyes were dilating with it. She seized and threw on a large flannel gown which lay on a chair by the bed, and, forgetful of her 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. Class springing the flannel gown tied around 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. Persistence of Joyce, her own face, lived with emotion. I can understand her words now. I could not be fooled. She came here, and her face was like a corpse as the light fell upon it. Saying she had come to get a promise from me to stay with her children when she was gone, I asked whether she was ill, and she answered, Yes, ill and wretched. Oh, sir, I may heaven support you under this dreadful trial! Mr. Carlyle felt bewildered, perplexed. Not a syllable did he believe. He was not angry with Joyce, for he thought she had lost her reason. It is so, sir, incredible as she may deem my words. Pursued Joyce, bringing 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 stern as in his tone. Your lady, miserably unhappy, what do you mean? 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 a 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. This lady Isabel found. She's not found, and she'll never will be found but in her winding sheet. Returned Joyce, whose lamentable and unusual state of excitement completely overpowered her customary quiet respect and plain good sense. And, ma'am, I'm glad that you have come up. For what I was about to say to my master, I would prefer to say in your presence. And my lady is brought into this house, and laid before is dead. What will your feelings be? My master is done as duty by her in love, but you—you have made her life a misery. Yes, ma'am, you have! Hoity, toity, muttered Miss Carlyle, staring at Joyce in consternation. What is all this? Where's my lady? She's gone, and taken a life that was not hers to take, sub-Joyce, and I say she's been driven to it. She has not been allowed to indulge a will of her own, poor thing, since she came to East Lynn. In her own house, she's been less free than either of her servants. You've curbed her, ma'am, and snubbed at her, and you made her feel that she was but a slave to your caprices and temper. All these years she's been crossed and put upon—everything in short but beaten. Ma'am, you know she has, and is born at 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 all felt for her, and my master's heart would have bled had he suspected what she had to put up with, day after day, and year after year. Miss Carlyle's tongue was glued to her mouth. Her brother, confounded at the rapid words, could scarcely gather in their sense. What is it that you're saying, Joyce? he asked, in a low tone. I do not understand. I've longed to say it to you many a hundred times, sir, but it's right that you'd hear it. Now things have come to this dreadful ending. Since the very night Lady Isabel came home here, your wife, she had been tarned with the cost she has brought to the East Linn 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-part of it she went to tonight, she wished for a new dress, and your cruel words, ma'am, forbade her having it. She ordered a new frock from Miss Isabel, and you countermanded it. You've told her that Master worked like a dog to support her extravagances, when you know that she never was extravagant, that none were less inclined to go beyond proper limits than she. I've seen her, ma'am, come away from your approaches, 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 I know 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, probably, in Miss Carlyle's life, her words failed her. May God forgive you, Cornelia! he muttered, as he went out of the chamber. He descended to his own. That his wife had laid violent hands upon herself, his reason utterly repudiated. She was one of the least likely to commit so great a sin. He believed that, in her unhappiness, she might have wandered out in the grounds, and was lingering there. By this time, the house was aroused, and the servants were astir. Joyce, surely a supernatural strength was given her, for though she had been able to put her foot to the ground, she had not yet walked upon it. Crap 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 ceremony that night. I found this in a dressing-glass drawer, sir. It's my lady's writing. He took it in his hand, and looked at the address. Archibald Carlyle. Though a calm man, one who had his emotions under his own control, he was no stoic, and his fingers shook as he broke the seal. When years go on, and my children ask where their mother is, and why she left them, tell them that you, their father, goaded her to it. If they inquire what she is, tell them also, if you so will. But tell them, at the same time, that you outraged and betrayed her, driving her to the very depths of desperation is she quitted them in her despair. The handwriting, his wives, swam before the eyes of Mr. Carlyle. All saved the disgraceful fact that she had flown, and a horrible suspicion against the dawn upon him with whom was totally incomprehensible. How had he outraged her? In what manner had he goaded her to it? The discomforts alluded to by Joyce, and 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 clue. At that moment the voices of the servants in the corridor outside penetrated his ears. Of course they were peering about and making their own comments. Wilson, with a long tongue, the busiest. They were saying that Captain Levison was not in his room, that his bed had not been slept in. Joyce sat on the edge of a chair. She could not stand, watching her master with a blanched face. Never had she seen him betray agitation so powerful. Not the faintest suspicion of the dreadful truth yet dawned upon her. He walked to the door, the open note in his hand. Then turned, wavered, and stood still, as if he did not know what he was doing. Probably he did not. Then he took out his 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's this?' added Joyce. It was little Isabel, stealing in with a frightened face in her right nightgown. The commotion had aroused her. "'What's the matter?' she asked. "'Where's Mama?' "'Child, you'll catch her at death of cold,' said Joyce. "'Go back to bed.' "'But I want Mama!' "'In the morning, dear,' evasively returned Joyce. "'Sir, please, must not Isabel go back to bed.' Mr. Carlisle made no replies to the question. Most likely he never heard it so important. But he touched Isabel's shoulder to draw Joyce's attention to the child. "'Joyce? Miss Lucy in future.' He left the room, and Joyce remained silent from amazement. She heard him go out at the whole 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 back and disturbed Joyce from her reverie. "'Joyce, is it true?' "'Is what true, my dear?' "'They are saying that Captain Levison has taken away my Mama.' 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 kidnap, as who took people. "'Child, child, go to bed.' "'Oh, Joyce, I want Mama. When will she come back?' Joyce hit her face in her hands to conceal its emotion from the motherless child, and just then Miss Carlyle entered on tiptoe, and humbly sat down in a low chair, her green face, green that night, and its grief, its remorse, and its horror, looking nearly as dark as her stockings. She broke into a subdued will. "'God, be merciful to this dishonoured house!' Mr. Justice's hair turned into the gate between twelve and one, turned in with a jaunty air, for the Justice was in spirit, he having won nine sixpences, and his friend's tap of ill having been unusually good. When he reached his bedroom he told Mrs. Hair of a chase and foal which had gone tearing past at a furious pace as it was closing the gate, coming from the direction of East Lynn. He wondered where it could be going at midnight hour, and whom it contained. End of Chapter 24. Chapter 25 of East Lynn. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda McDaniel. East Lynn by Mrs. Henry Wood. Chapter 25 Charming Results Nearly a year went by, Lady Isabelle Carlyle had spent it on the continent. That refuge for such fugitives, now moving about from place to place with her companion, now stationary and alone, quite half the time, taking one absence with the other, he had been away from her, chiefly in Paris, pursuing his own course and his own pleasure. How faired it with, Lady Isabelle? Just as it must be expected to fare, and does fare, when a high-principled gentlewoman falls from her pedestal. Never had she experienced a moment's calm, or peace, or happiness, since the fatal night of quitting her home. She had taken a blind leap in a moment of wild passion, when, instead of the garden of roses, it had been her persuaders' pleasure to promise her she would fall into, but which, in truth, she had barely glanced at, for that had not been her moving motive. She had found herself plunged into a yawning abyss of horror, from which there was never more any escape, never more, never more. The very instant, the very night of her departure, she awoke to what she had done, the guilt, whose aspect had been shunned in the perspective, 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 your home, so will you awake. Whatever trials may be the lot of your married life, though they may magnify themselves to your crushed spirit as beyond the nature, the endurance of woman to bear, resolve to bear them, fall down upon your knees, and pray to be unable to bear them, pray for patience, pray for strength to resist the demon that would tempt you to escape. Bear until death, rather than forfeit your fair name and your good conscience, for be assured that the alternative, if you do rush on to it, will be found worse than death. Poor thing, poor lady Isabel, she had sacrificed husband, children, reputation, home, all that makes life of value to woman, she had forfeited her duty to God, and deliberately broken his commandments for the one poor, miserable mistake of flying with Frances Levison. But the instant the step was irrevocable, the instant she had left the barrier behind, repentance set in. Even in the first days of her departure, in the fleeting moments of abandonment, when it may be supposed she might momentarily forget conscience, it was sharply wounding her with its outer stings, and she knew that her whole future existence, whether spent with that man or without him, would be a dark course of gnawing retribution. 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 staying now at Grenoble. Taking that town on their way to Switzerland through Savoy, it had been Captain Levison's pleasure to halt in it. He engaged apartments, furnished, in the vicinity of the Plas Grenette. A windy old house it was, full of doors and windows, chimneys and cupboards, and he said he should remain there. Lady Isabel remonstrated. She wished to go farther on, where they might get quicker news from England. But her will now was as nothing. She was looking like the ghost of her former self. Talk of her having looked ill when she took the voyage over the water with Mr. Carlisle, 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 surrounded by a black circle. Care was digging caves for them. A stranger might have attributed these signs to the state of her health. She knew better. Knew that they were the effects of her wretched mind and heart. It was very late for breakfast. But why should she rise early only to drag through another endless day? Languidly she took her seat at the table, just as Captain Leveson's servant, a Frenchman whom he had engaged in Paris, entered the room with two letters. Pointe de Gazette, Pierre? She said. Norma Lady. And all the time 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 Leveson'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 through Captain Leveson's room, and Lady Isabel took up the letters and examined their superscription with interest. It was known to her that Mr. Carlyle had not lost a moment in seeking a divorce, and the announcement that it was granted was now daily expected. She was anxious for it, anxious that Captain Leveson should render her the only reparation in his power before the birth of her unhappy child. Little thought she 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 chosen to sacrifice herself was bad, but she had not learned all his badness yet. Captain Leveson unwashed, unshaven, with a dressing gown loosely flung on, lounged into breakfast. The decked out dandies before the world are frequently the greatest slavans 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 attend the first go-off of these promising unions last out a whole ten months, you are in egregious error. Compliments the very opposite to honey and sweetness have generally supervened long before. Try it if you don't believe me. Two letters, she continued, and they are both in the same handwriting. Your solicitors, I believe. Up went his hand at the last word, and he made a sort of grab at the letters, stalked to the farthest window, opened it, and glanced over its contents. Sir, we beg to inform you that the suit Carlisle versus Carlisle is at an end. The divorce was pronounced without opposition. According to your request, we hasten to forge you the earliest intimation of the fact. We are, sir, faithfully yours, moss, and grab. F. Levison Esquire. It was over, then, and all claim to the name of Carlisle 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 receive tidings of the demise of Sir Peter Levison, your grand-uncle. He expired this afternoon in town, where he had come for the benefit of medical advice. We have much pleasure in congratulating you upon your accession to the title and estates, and beg to state that should it not be convenient to you to visit England at present, we will be happy to transact all necessary matters for you on your favoring us with instructions, and we remain, Sir, most faithfully yours, moss and grab. Sir Francis Levison barked. The outside of the letter was superscribed as the other, F. Levison Esquire. No doubt with a view to its more certain delivery. At last, thanked the pigs, was the gentleman's euphonious expression as he tossed the letter open on the breakfast table. The divorce is granted, feverishly uttered Lady Isabel. He made no reply but seated himself to breakfast. May I read the letter? Is it for me to read? For what else should I have thrown it there? He said. A 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 own a better now. What one? Pray! You can look and see. Lady Isabel took up the letter and read it. Sir Francis swallowed down his coffee and rang the table handbell, the only bell you generally meet with in France. Pierre answered it. Put me up a change of things, said he, in French. I start for England in an hour. It 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 in her cheeks. You do not mean what you say. You will not leave me yet. I cannot do otherwise, he answered. There is a mountain of business to be attended to, now that I have come into power. Massen Graves say they will act for you. Had there been a necessity for you going they would not have offered that. Aye, they do say so, with a fair eye to the feathering of their pockets. Besides, I should not choose for 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 home be agreeable to you yet awhile. She felt the force of the objections, resuming after a moment's pause. Were you to go to England, you might not be back in time. In time for what? Oh, how can you ask? She rejoined in a sharp tone of reproach. You know too well. In time to make me your wife when the divorce shall appear. I shall 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 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 suddenly 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 returned. I cannot help the delay. There has been no delay, quite the contrary, but it may be expected hourly now. You are worrying yourself for nothing, Isabel. I shall be back in time. He quitted the room as he spoke, and Lady Isabel remained in it, the image of despair, nearly an hour elapsed 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 my lady looked. Where is Pierre? my lady asked. Pierre was making himself ready to attend Monsieur to England. Scarcely had she closed the door upon herself and the tray once her Francis Levison appeared equipped for traveling. Good-bye, Isabel, said he, without further circumlocution or ceremony. Lady Isabel, excited beyond all self-control, slipped the bolt to the door, and half-leaning against it, half-leaning at his feet, held up her hand in supplication. Francis, have you any consideration left for me, any in the world? How can you be so alarmed, 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 still care for me, you will wait. I cannot wait, he replied, his tone changing to one of determination. It is useless to urge it. 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 was too late. She was right. It was too late by weeks and months. December came in. The Alps were covered with snow. Grenoble borrowed the shade and looked cold and white and sleety and sloppy. The gutters running through the middle of certain of the streets were unusually black, and the people crept along especially dismal. Close to the fire in the barn of a French bedroom, full of windows and doors and drafts, 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 had an invalid cap on and a thick woollen invalid shawl, and she shook and shivered 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 she had sat so looking since she began to get better. She had had a long illness, terminating in a low fever, but the attendants whispered among themselves that my lady would soon get about if she would only rouse herself. She had got so far about as to sit up in the windy chamber, and it seemed to be to her 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 her appetite failed, and had dozed to sleep in the armchair when a noise arose from below like a carriage driving into the courtyard through the Port Couchere. It instantly aroused her. Had he come? Who is it? she asked of the nurse. M'lady it is M'chur, and Pia is with him. I have begged M'lady often and often not to fret, for M'chur would surely come, M'lady. See, I am right. The girl departed closing the door, and Lady Isabel sat looking at it, schooling her patience. Another moment, and it was flung open. Sir Francis Leveson approached to greet her as he came in. She waved him off, begging him, in a subdued, quiet tone, not to draw too near, as any little excitement made her faint now. He took a seat opposite to her and began pushing the logs together with his boot, as he explained that he really could not get away from town before. 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 at least would have been glad to welcome me, Isabel. End of East Linn Chapter 25 Part 1 Recording by Linda McDaniel, Atlanta, Georgia February 2009 Part 2 of Chapter 25 of East Linn This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda McDaniel East Linn by Mrs. Henry Wood Chapter 25 Part 2 Sir Francis, she rejoined, speaking still with almost a natural 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 effort the struggle cost her. Sir Francis, I am glad, for one reason, to welcome you. We must come to an understanding one with the other, and so far I am pleased that you are here. It is my intention to have communicated 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, bending her eyes determinately upon him. It must be. With all my heart, rejoined Sir Francis, it is you who have thrown out the challenge, mind. When you left in July you gave me a sacred promise to come back in time for our marriage. You know what I mean when I say in time, but of course I meant to do so when I gave the promise. He interrupted, but no sooner had I set my foot in London than I found myself overwhelmed with business, and away from it I could not get. Even now I can only remain with you a couple of days, for I must hasten back to town. You are breaking faith already, she said, after hearing him calmly to the end. Your words are not words of truth, but of deceit. You did not intend to be back in time for the marriage, or otherwise you would have caused it to take place ere you went at all. What fancies you do take up, uttered Francis Levison. Sometimes subsequent to your departure, she quietly went on, one of the maids was setting to writes, the clothes in your dressing closet, and she brought me a letter she found in one of the pockets. I saw by the date that it was one of those two which you received on the morning of your departure. It contained the information that the divorce was pronounced. She spoke so quietly, so apparently without feeling or passion, that Sir Francis was agreeably astonished. He should have less trouble in throwing off the mask. But he was an ill-tempered man, and to hear that the letter had been found to have the falseness of his fine protestations and promises laid bare did not improve his temper now. Lady Isabelle continued, It would have 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 that I should aspire to be the wife of Sir Francis Levison? He rose and began kicking at the logs with the heel of his boot this time. Well, Isabelle, you must be aware that it is an awful sacrifice for a man in my position to marry a divorced woman. The hectic flushed into her thin cheeks, but her voice sounded calm as before. When I expected or wished for the sacrifice it was not for my own sake I told you so then, but it was not made and the child's inheritance is that of sin and shame. There he lies. Sir Francis half turned to where she pointed and saw an infant's cradle by the side of the bed. He did not take the trouble to look at it. I am the representative now of an ancient and respected baronetcy. He resumed in a tone as of apology for his previous heartless words, and to make you my wife would so offend all my family that stay, interrupted Lady Isabelle. You need not trouble yourself to find needless excuses. Had you taken this journey for the purpose of making me your wife, were you to propose to do so this day and bring a clergyman into the room to perform this 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 being compelled to pass it with you. If you have taken this aversion to me it cannot be helped. He coldly said, inwardly congratulating himself, let us not doubt, at being spared the work of trouble he had anticipated. You made commotion enough once about me 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 the 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. If you mean that as a reproach to me it's rather out of place. Chavesur 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 so much as in your jealous anger toward your husband. Quite true, was her reply. And I believe you were on the wrong sin, Isabel, if it will be any satisfaction to you to hear it, since we are mutually on this complementary discourse it is of no consequence to smooth over facts. I do not understand what you would imply, she said, drawing her shawl around her with a fresh shiver. How on the wrong sin? With regard to your husband and that hair, girl, you were blindly outrageously jealous of him. Go on. And I say I think you are on the wrong sin. I do not believe Mr. 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 perpetually, related to that and that alone. Her face was more flush than it had been throughout the interview. He spoke quietly now, quite in an equal tone of reasoning. It was his way when the ill temper was upon him, and the calmer he spoke, the more cutting were his words. He need not have told her this. What was the secret, she inquired in a low tone? Nay, I can't explain all. They did not take me into their confidence. They did not even take you. Better, perhaps, that they had, though, as things have turned out, or seem to be turning. There's some disreputable secret attached to the hair family, and Carlyle was acting in it under the rose for Mrs. Hair. She could not seek out Carlyle herself, so she sent the young lady. That's all I know. How did you know it? I had reason to think so. What reason? I must request you to tell me. I overheard scraps of their conversation now and then in those meetings, and so gathered my information. You told a different tale to me, Sir Francis, was her remark, as she turned her indignant eyes toward him. Sir Francis laughed. All stratagems are fair in love and war. She dared not immediately trust herself to reply, and a silence ensued. Sir Francis broke it, pointing with his left thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the cradle. What have you named that young article there? The name which ought to have been his by inheritance, Francis Levison, was her icy answer. Let's see, how old is he now? He was born on the last day of August. Sir Francis threw up his arms and stretched himself, as if a fit of idleness had overtaken him, then advanced to the cradle and pulled down the clothes. Who is he like, Isabelle, my handsome self? Were he like you in spirit, I would pray that he might die ere he could speak or think. She burst forth, and then remembering the resolution marked out for herself, subsided outwardly into calmness again. What else? reported Sir Francis. You know my disposition pretty well by this time, Isabelle, and may be sure that if you deal out small change to me, you will get it back with interest. She made no reply. Sir Francis put the clothes back over the sleeping child, returned to the fire, and stood a few moments with his back to it. Is my room prepared for me, do you know? He presently asked. No, it is not. She quietly rejoined. These apartments are mine now. They have been transferred into my name, and they can never again afford you accommodation. Will you be so obliging, I am not strong, as to hand me that writing-case? Sir Francis walked to the table, she indicated, which was at the far end of the great barn of a room, and taking the writing-case from it gave it to her. She reached her keys from the stand at her elbow, unlocked the case, and took from it some banknotes. I received these from you a month ago, she said, they came by post. And 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 for what? inquired Sir Francis in amazement. I have no longer anything whatever to do with you in any way. Do not make my arm ache, holding out these notes to you so long. Take them. Sir Francis took the notes from her hand, and placed them on a stand near her. If it be your wish that all relations should end between us, why let it be so, he said, I must confess I think it may be the wisest course as things have come to this pass, for a cat and dog life, which would seemingly be ours, is not agreeable. Remember, though, that it is your doing, not mine. But you cannot think I am going to see you starve, Isabelle. A sum, we will fix upon them that amicably, shall be placed in your credit half-yearly, and I beg of you to cease, she passionately interrupted. What do you take me for? Take you for? Why, how can you live? You have no fortune. You must receive assistance from someone. I will not receive it from you, if the whole world denied me, and I could find no help from strangers, or means of earning my own bread, and it was necessary that I should still exist, I would apply to my husband for means rather than to you. In saying this, it ought to convince you that the topic may cease. Your husband, sarcastically rejoins Sir Francis, generous man. A flush deep and painful died 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 hundred a year with him. She beat her hands before her, as if beating off the man and his words. Not a farthing now or ever. Were you to attempt to send money to him? I would throw it in the nearest river. Whom do you take me for? What do you take me for? She repeated rising in her bitter mortification. If you have put me beyond the pale of the world, I am still Lord Mount Severn's daughter. 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 herself, clasping together her shaking hands. Well, if you will persist in this perverse resolution, I cannot mend it, resumed Sir Francis. In a little time you may probably wish to recall it. In which case, a line addressed to me at my bankers will, Lady Isabel, drew herself up. Put away those notes, if you please. She interrupted, not allowing him to finish his 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 is that to be it? To be strangers, she replied, correcting him. I wish you a good day. So you will not even shake hands with me, Isabel. I would prefer not. And thus they parted. Sir Francis left the room, but not immediately the house. He went into a distant 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 my lady 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 a hotel, and the same night he and Pierre departed on their journey home again. Sir Francis thanking his lucky star that he had so easily got rid of a vexatious annoyance. And, Lady Isabel, she passed her evening alone, sitting in the same place, close to the fire and the sparks. The attendant remonstrated that Milady was remaining up too late for her strength, but Milady ordered her and her remonstrances into an adjoining room. When Lady Isabel lay down to rest, she sank into a somewhat calmer sleep than she had known of late, also into a dream. She thought she was back at Eastland, not back in one sense, but that she seemed never to have gone away from it, walking in the flower garden with Mr. Carlisle while the three children played on the lawn. Her arm was within her husbands, and he was relating something to her. What the news was, she could not remember afterward, accepting that it was connected with the office and ol' Mr. Dill, and that Mr. Carlisle 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 Eastland, a proud woman, an honored wife, as recollection flashed across her with its piercing stings she gave vent to a sharp cry of agony, of unavailing despair. This concludes the reading of part two of chapter twenty-five of Eastland. Recording by Linda McDaniel, Atlanta, Georgia, February 2009. Chapter twenty-six of Eastland. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. Eastland by Mrs. Henry Wood. Chapter twenty-six. Alone for Evermore. A surprise awaited Lady Isabel Vane. It was on a windy day in the following March that a traveller arrived at Grenoble and inquired his way of a porter to the best hotel in the place, his French being such as only an Englishman can produce. Hotel, let's see, returned the man politely but with native indifference. There are two hotels nearly contiguous to each other, and Monsieur would find himself comfortable at either. There is the Trodolphine, and there is the ambassadeur. Monsieur chose haphazard, the hotel-day ambassadeur, and was conducted to it. Shortly after his arrival there, he inquired his road to the Place Grenette, and was offered to be shown, but he preferred that it should be described to him and to go alone. The Place was found, and he thence turned to the apartments of Lady Isabel Vane. Lady Isabel was sitting where you saw her the previous December in the precise spot, courting the warmth of the fire, and it seemed, courting the sparks also, for they appeared as fond of her as formerly. The marvel was how she had escaped spontaneous combustion, but there she was yet, and her clothes likewise. You might think that but a night had passed when you looked at the room, for it wore precisely the same aspect now as then. Everything was the same, even to the child's cradle in the remote corner, partially hidden by the bed-curtains, and the sleeping child in it. Lady Isabel's progress toward recovery was remarkably lingering, as is frequently the case when mind and body are both diseased. She was so sitting when Suzanne entered the room and said that her Monsieur Anglais had arrived in the town to see her, and was waiting below in the saloon. Lady Isabel was startled, an English gentleman, to see her. English, for certain, was Suzanne's answer, for she had difficulties to comprehend his French. Who could be desirous to see her, one out of the world and forgotten? Suzanne, she cried aloud, a thought striking her. It is never sa fran—it is not Monsieur. Not in the least, like Monsieur, complacently answered Suzanne, it is a tall, brave English gentleman, proud and noble-looking, like a prince. Every pulse within Lady Isabel's body throbbed rebelliously, her heart bounded till it was like to burst her side, and she turned sick with astonishment. Tall, brave noble, could that description apply to any but Mr. Carlyle? Strange that so unnatural an idea should have occurred to her, it would not have done so in a calmer moment. She rose, tottered across the chamber, and prepared to descend. Suzanne's tongue was let loose at the proceeding. Was Milady out of her senses, to attempt going downstairs would be a pretty ending, for she'd surely fall by the way. Milady knew that the bottom step was of lead, and that no head could pitch down upon that, without ever never being ahead any more, except in the hospitals. Let Milady sit still in her place, and she'd bring the Monsieur up. What did it signify? He was not a young petty maître, to quiz things. He was fifty if he was a day, his hair already turned to fine gray. This set the question touching Mr. Carlyle at rest, and her heart stilled again. The next moment she was inwardly laughing in her bitter mockery at her insensate folly. Mr. Carlyle come to see her—her! Francis Levison might be sending over some man of business regarding the money question was her next thought, if so she should certainly refuse to see him. Go down to the gentleman and ask him his name, Suzanne. Ask also from whence he came. Suzanne disappeared, and returned, and the gentleman behind her, whether she had invited him, or whether he had chosen to come uninvited, there he was. Lady Isabel caught a glimpse, and flung her hands over her burning cheeks of shame. It was Lord Mount Seven. 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 up her one face, now colorless again. Do not think worse of me than I am. He was here in December for an hours recriminating interview, and we parted for life. What have you heard of him lately? Not anything. I never know what is passing in the world at home. I have no newspaper, no correspondence, and he would scarcely be so bold as to write to me again. I shall not shock you, then, by some tidings I bring you regarding him," returned Lord Mount Seven. The greatest shock to me would be to hear that I should ever again be subjected to the sight of him, she answered. He is married. Heaven have pity on his poor wife, was all the comment of Lady Isabel. He has married Alice Chalona. She lifted her head, then, in simple surprise. Alice, not Blanche? The story runs that he has played Blanche very false, that he has been with her much during the last three or four months, leading on her expectations, and then suddenly proposed for her younger sister. I know nothing of the details myself, it is not likely, and I 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 the Lady Isabel. Certainly not. I had no power to attempt anything of the sort. I went to demand an answer to my question, what he had done with you, and where you were. He gave me this address, but said he knew nothing of your movement 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 down. Why did you seek me out, she presently break forth? I am not worth it. I have brought enough disgrace upon your name. And upon your husbands, and upon your children's, he rejoined, in the 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, as far as I can, that you do not lapse lower. He might have spared her that stab, but she scarcely understood him. She looked at him, wondering whether she did understand. You have not a shilling in the world, he resumed. How do you propose to live? I have some money 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 look out to get a living in some way, by teaching, probably. Trinkets, repeated Lord Mount Severn. Mr. Carlisle told me that you carried nothing away with you from East Lynn. Nothing that he had given me. These were mine before I married. You have seen Mr. Carlisle, then, she faltered. Seeing him, echoed the indignant tale, when such a blow was dealt him by a member of my family, could I do less than hasten to East Lynn to tender my sympathies. I went with another subject, too, to discover what could have been the moving springs of your conduct, for I protest, when the black tidings reached me, I believe that you must have gone mad. You were one of the last whom I should have feared to trust. But I learned nothing, and Carlisle was as 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 to Mr. Carlisle it must have been. She was feeling it in all its bitter intensity. Lord Mount Severn read her repentant looks. Isabel, he said, in a tone which had lost something of its harshness, and it was the first time he had called her by her Christian name. I see that you are reaping the fruits. Tell me how it happened. What demon prompted you to sell yourself to that bad man? He is a bad man, she exclaimed, a base heartless man. I warned you at the commencement of your married life to avoid him, to shun all association with him, not to admit him to your house. His coming to East Lynn was not my doing, she whispered, Mr. Carlisle invited him. I know he did, invited him in his unsuspicious confidence, believing his wife to be his wife, a trustworthy woman of honour, was the severe remark. She did not reply, she could not gaince it, she only sat with her meek face of shame and her eyelids drooping. If ever a woman had a good husband in every sense of the word you had in Carlisle, 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 warm 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 Lynn, and he blamed you much, if it was so, for not giving him your full confidence on the point that he might set matters on the right footing. But it was impossible, and there was the evidence in the note besides, that the presence of Miss Carlisle at East Lynn could be any excuse for your disgracing us all and ruining yourself. Do not let us speak of these things, said Lady Isabel faintly, it cannot redeem the past. But I must speak of them, I came to speak of them, persisted the earl. I could not do it as long as that man was here, when these inexplicable things take place in the career of a woman, it is a father's duty to look into motives and causes and actions, although the events in themselves may be, as in this case, irreparable. Your father is gone, but I stand in his place, there is no one else to stand in it. Her tears began to fall, and she let them fall in silence, the earl resumed, but for that extraordinary letter I should have supposed you had been actuated by a mad infatuation for the Kerr Leverson, its tenor gave the matter a different aspect. To what did you elude 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, honourable man than Carlisle does not exist on the face of the earth. When he told me then, in his agony of grief, that he was unable to form even a suspicion of your meaning, I could have staked my earl 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 Seven, when he was resolute in there being answered, 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 murmured answer. Desertion of a fiddle-stick retorted his lordship. The interpretation we gave to the note, I and Carlisle, was that you had been actuated by motives of jealousy, had penned it in a jealous mood. I put the question to Carlisle, 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 whole thoughts had been of you, and of you alone. It is more than many a husband can say, significantly coughed Lord Mount Seven. Her pulses were beating wildly, a powerful conviction that the words were true, that her own blind jealousy had been utterly mistaken and unfounded, was forcing its way to her brain. After that, I could only set your letter down as subterfuge resumed the earl, a false, bare-faced plea put forth to conceal your real motives, and I told Carlisle 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, and would have trusted you with the creature around the world, I with any one else. She entwined her hands one within the other, pressing them to pain. It would not deaden the pain at her heart. Carlisle 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 private business for a family in the neighbourhood, and he had repeatedly to see them, more particularly the daughter, after office hours. Very old acquaintances of his, he said, relatives of the Carlisle family, and he was as anxious about the secret, a painful one, 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 very evening of the—the catastrophe, he ought to have gone with you to a dinner-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, though. Rabbit? Ribbit? 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, and seeing that he intended to go in afterward, but was prevented. 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 that he should be there, exclaimed Lord Mount Severn, with mocking reproach, as he detected her mood. Listen, he whispered, bending his head toward her. While you may have thought, as your present tone would seem to intimate, that they were pacing there to enjoy each other's society, know that they, Carlisle, at any rate, was pacing the walk to keep guard. One was within that house for a short half-hour's interview with his poor mother, one who lives in danger of the scaffold, to which his own father would be the first to deliver him up. They were keeping the path against that father, Carlisle 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. Carlisle, 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 murmured, by way of some faint excuse. I have mentioned so. She had to see him upon this affair. Her mother could not, for it was obliged to be kept from the father. And so you construed business-interviews into assignations, continued Lord Mount Seven, with cutting derision. I had given you credit for better sense. But was this enough to hurl you on the step you took? Surely not. You must have yielded in the persuasions of that wicked man. It is all over now, she wailed. Carlisle was true and faithful to you, and to you alone. Few women have the chance of happiness in their married life, in the degree that you had. He is an upright and good man, one of nature's gentlemen, one that England may be proud of as having grown upon her soil. The more I see of him, the greater becomes my admiration of him, and of his thorough honour. Do you know what he did in the matter of the damages? She shook her head. He did not wish to proceed for damages, or only for the trifling some demanded by law. But the jury, feeling for his wrongs, gave unprecedentedly heavy ones. Since the fellow came into his baronetsi, they have been paid. Carlisle immediately handed them over to the county hospital. He holds the apparently obsolete opinion that money cannot wipe out a wife's dishonour. Let us close those topics, implored the poor invalid. I acted wickedly and madly, and have the consequences to bear for ever. 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 I am well enough. I cannot be pleasant for you to remain under the eyes of its inhabitants. You were here with him, were you not? They think I am his wife, she murmured. The servants think it. That's well so far. How many servants have you? Two. I am not strong enough yet to do much myself, so I 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 painful to her to hear. Isabel, is there a child? Not less painful was her own emotion as she hid her face. Lord Mount Seven 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 asked, stopping short in his strides to put the question. Yes. Coward! Sneak! May good men shun him from henceforth? May his queen refuse to receive him? You, an Earl's daughter! Oh, Isabel, how utterly you have lost yourself! Lady Isabel started from her chair in a burst of hysterical sobs, her hands extending beseechingly toward 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 her chair. We shall go to the point I chiefly came here to settle. What sum will it take you to live upon? Quietly, as, of course, you would now wish to live, but comfortably. I will not accept anything, she replied. I will get my own living. And the Earl's irascibility again arose at the speech. He spoke in a sharp tone. Absurd, Isabel, do not add romantic folly to your own mistakes. Get your own living, indeed. As much as is necessary for you to live upon, I shall supply. No remonstrance. I tell you I am acting as for your father. Do you suppose he would have abandoned you to starve or to work? The illusion 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 the day. And a fine keep it would be. You shall have that sum every quarter. No, no, no. No, I do not deserve it. I could not accept it. I have forfeited all claim to assistance. Not to mine. Now it is of no use to excite yourself. My mind is made up. I never willingly forgo a duty. And I look upon this not only as a duty, but as an imperative one. Upon my return I shall immediately settle four hundred upon you, and you can draw it quarterly. Then half that sum, she reflected, knowing how useless it was to contend with Lord Mount Seven, 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, Isabelle, 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, said he, laying down some notes on the table. He took her hand within his, in token of farewell, turned, and was gone. And Lady Isabelle remained in her chamber alone, alone, alone, alone, for evermore.