 CHAPTER 36 PART 2 In the gray parlor, in the dark twilight of the April evening, or it was getting far into the night, were William Carlyle and Lady Isabelle. It had been a warm day, but the spring evenings were still chilly, and a fire burned in the grate. There was no blaze, the red embers were smoldering and half-dead, but Madame Vine did not besture herself to heed the fire. William lay on the sofa, and she sat by, looking at him. Her glasses were off, for the tears wetted them continually, and it was not the recognition of the children she feared. He was tired with the driving to Limborough and back, and lay with eyes shut. She thought asleep. Presently he opened them. How long will it be before I die? The words took her utterly by surprise, and her heart went round in a whirl. What do you mean, William? Who said anything about dying? Oh, I know. I know by the fuss there is over me. You heard what Hannah said the other night. What? When? When she brought in the tea and I was lying on the rug. I was not asleep, though you thought I was. You told her that she ought to be more cautious, for that I might not have been asleep. I don't remember much about it, said Lady Isabelle, at her wits' ends, how to remove the impression Hannah's words must have created had he indeed heard them. Hannah talks great nonsense sometimes. She said I was going on fast to the grave. Did she? Nobody attends to Hannah. She's only a foolish girl. We shall soon have you well when the warm weather comes. Madam Vine. Well, my darling? Where's the use of you trying to deceive me? Do you think I don't see that you are doing it? I'm not a baby. You might if it were archibald. What is the matter with me? Nothing. Only you are not strong. When you get strong again you will be as well as ever. William shook his head in disbelief. He was precisely that sort of child for whom it is next to impossible to disguise facts. Quick, thoughtful, observant, and advanced beyond his ears. Had no words been dropped in his hearing he would have suspected the evil by the care evinced for him. But plenty of words had been dropped. Hence, by which he gathered suspicion, brought assertions, like Hannah's, which had too fully supplied it, and the boy in his inmost heart knew as well that death was coming for him as that death did itself. Then, if there's nothing the matter with me, why could not Dr. Martin speak to you before me today? Why did he send me into the other room while he told you what he thought? Ah, Madam Vine, I am as wise as you. A wise little boy, but mistaken sometimes, she said from her aching heart. It is nothing to die when God loves us. Lord Vine says so. He had a little brother who died. A sickly child who was never likely to live. He had been pale and ailing from a baby, spoke Lady Isabel. Why, did you know him? I... I heard so, she replied, turning off her thoughtless avowal in the best manner she could. Don't you know that I'm going to die? No. Then why have you been grieving since we left Dr. Martin's? And why do you grieve it all for me? I'm not your child. The words, the scene altogether, overcame her. She knelt down by the sofa, and her tears burst forth freely. There, you see? cried William. Oh, William, I... I had a little boy of my own, and when I look at you, I think of him, and that is why I cry. I know. You have told us of him before. His name was William, too. She leaned over him. Her breath mingled with his. She took his little hand in hers. William, do you know that those whom God loves best he takes first? Were you to die, you would go to heaven, leaving all the cares and sorrows of the world behind you. It would have been happier for many of us had we died in infancy. Would it have been happier for you? Yes, she faintly said. I've had more than my share of sorrow. Sometimes I think that I cannot support it. Is it not past then? Do you have sorrow now? I have it always. I shall have it till I die. Had I died a child, William, I should have escaped it. Oh, the world is full of it. Full and full. What sort of sorrow? All sorts. Pain, sickness, care, trouble, sin, remorse, weariness, she wailed out. I cannot enumerate the half that the world brings upon us. When you are very, very tired, William, does it not seem a luxury, a sweet happiness, to lie down at night in your little bed, waiting for the bliss of sleep? Yes, I am often tired. So tired is that. Then just so do we, who are tired of the world's cares, long for the grave in which we shall lie down to rest. We coveted, William, long for it, but you cannot understand that. We don't lie in the grave, Madam Vine. No. No, child. Our bodies lie there to be raised again in beauty at the last day. We go to a blessed place of rest, where sorrow and pain cannot come. I wish. I wish, she uttered, with a bursting heart, that you and I were both there. Who says the world's so sorrowful, Madam Vine? I think it is lovely, especially when the sun shining on a hot day, and the butterflies come out. You should see East Lin on a summer's morning, when you are running up and down the slopes, and the trees are waving overhead, and the sky's blue, and the roses and flowers are all out. You would not call it a sad world. A pleasant world one might regret to leave, if we were not weary by pain and care. But what is this world, take it at its best, in comparison with the other world, heaven? I have heard of some people who are afraid of death. They fear that they shall not go to it. But when God takes a little child there, it is because he loves him. It is a land, as Mrs. Barbald says, where roses are without thorns, where the flowers are not mixed with brambles. I've seen the flowers, interrupted William, rising in his earnestness. They are ten times brighter than our flowers here. Seeing the flowers, the flowers we shall see in heaven, she echoed. I've seen a picture of them. We went to Limborough to see Martin's picture of the last judgment. I don't mean Dr. Martin, said William, interrupting himself. I know. There were three pictures. One was called the Plains of Heaven, and I liked that best. And so we all did. Oh, you should have seen it. Did you ever see them, Madam Vine? No. I have heard of them. There was a river, you know, and boats, beautiful gondolas they looked, taking the redeemed to the shores of heaven. They were shadowy figures in white robes, myriads of them, for they reached all up in the air to the holy city. It seemed to be the clouds coming down from God. The flowers grew on the banks of the river, pink and blue and violet, all colors they were, but so bright and beautiful, brighter than our flowers are. Who took you to see the pictures? Papa. He took me and Lucy, and Mrs. Hare went with us, and Barbara, she was not our mama then, but Madame, dropping his voice. What stupid thing do you think Lucy asked Papa? What did she ask him? She asked whether mama was amongst that crowd in the white robes, whether she was gone up to heaven. Our mama that was, you know, and lots of people could hear what she said. Lady Isabel dropped her face upon her hands. What did your Papa answer? She breathed. I don't know. Nothing, I think. He was talking to Barbara. But it was very stupid of Lucy, because Wilson has told her over and over again that she must not talk of Lady Isabel to Papa. Miss Manning told her so too. When we got home and Wilson heard of it, she said Lucy deserved a good shaking. Why must not Lady Isabel be talked of to him? A moment after the question had left her lips, she wondered what possessed her to give utterance to it. I'll tell you, said William in a whisper. She ran away from Papa. Lucy talks nonsense about her having been kidnapped, but she knows nothing. I do, though they don't think it perhaps. She may be among the redeemed, some time, William, and you with her. He fell back on the sofa pillow with a weary sigh and lay in silence. Lady Isabel shaded her face and remained in silence also. Soon she was aroused from it. William was in a fit of loud sobbing tears. Oh, I don't want to die. I don't want to die. Why should I go and leave Papa and Lucy? She hung over him. She clasped her arms around him. Her tears, her sobs mingled with his. She whispered to him sweet and soothing words. She placed him so that he might sob out his grief upon her bosom. And in a little while the paroxysm had passed. Hark! exclaimed William. What's that? A sound of talking and laughter in the hall. Mr. Carlyle, Lord Mount Severn, and his son were leaving the dining room. They had some committee appointed that evening at West Lynn and were departing to keep it. As the hall door closed upon them, Barbara came into the gray parlor. Up rose Madame Vine, scuffled on her spectacles, and took her seat soberly upon a chair. All in the dark, and your fire going out, exclaimed Barbara, as she hastened to stir the latter and set it into a blaze. Who's on the sofa? William, you ought to be in bed. Not yet, Mama. I don't want to go yet. But it's quite time that you should, she returned, ringing the bell, to sit up at night is not the way to make you strong. William was dismissed. And then she returned to Madame Vine and inquired what Dr. Martin had said. He said the lungs were undoubtedly affected. But like all doctors, he would give no decisive opinion. I could see that he had formed one. Mrs. Carlyle looked at her. The firelight played especially upon the spectacles. And she moved her chair into the shade. Dr. Martin will see him again next week. He is coming to West Lynn. I am sure, by the tone of his voice, by his evasive manner, that he anticipates the worst, although he would not say so in words. I will take William to West Lynn myself, observed Barbara. The Dr. Will, of course, tell me. I came in to pay my debts, she added, dismissing the subject of the child and holding out a five pound note. Lady Isabel mechanically stretched out her hand for it. Whilst we are, as may be said, upon the money topic, resumed Barbara in a gay note, will you allow me to intimate that both myself and Mr. Carlyle very much disapproved of your making presence to the children. I was calculating, at a rough guest, the cost of the toys and things you have bought for them, and I think it must amount to a very large portion of the salary you have received. Pray do not continue this, Madame Vine. I have no one else to spend my money on. I love the children, was Madame's answer, somewhat sharply given, as if she were jealous of the interference between her and the children and would resent it. Nay, you have yourself, and if you do not require much outlay, you have, I should suppose, a reserve fund to which to put your money. Be so kind as to take the hint, Madame, otherwise I shall be compelled to more parameterally forbid your generosity. It is very good of you, very kind, but if you do not think yourself, we must for you. I will buy them less, was the murmured answer. I must give them a little token of love now and then. That you're welcome to do, a little token, once in a way, but not the costly toys you have been purchasing. Have you ever had an acquaintance with Sir Francis Levison, continued Mrs. Carlyle, passing with abruptness from one point to another? An inward shiver, a burning cheek, a heart-pang of wild remorse, and a faint answer, no. I fancied from your manner when I was speaking of him the other day that you knew him, or had known him, no compliment you will say, to assume an acquaintance with such a man. He's a stranger to you, then. Another faint reply. Yes. Barbara paused. Do you believe in fatality, Mrs. Vine? Yes, I do, was the city answer. I don't, and yet the very question proved that she did not wholly disbelieve it. No, I don't, added Barbara Stoutly, as she approached the sofa vacated by William and sat down upon it, thus bringing herself opposite and near to Madam Vine. Are you aware that it was Francis Levison who brought the evil to this house? The evil, stammered Madam Vine. Yes, it was he, she resumed, taking the hesitating answer for an admission that the governess knew nothing, or but little, of past events. It was he who took Lady Isabel from her home, though perhaps she was as willing to go as he was to take her. I don't know. Oh, no, no, broke from the unguarded lips of Madam Vine. At least, I mean, I should think not, she added in confusion. We shall never know. And of what consequence is it? One thing is certain, she went. Another thing, almost equally certain, is that she did not go against her will. Did you ever hear the details? No. Her answer would have been yes, but possibly the next question might have been, from whom did you hear them? He was staying at East Lynn. The men had been abroad, outlawed, dared not to show his face in England, and Mr. Carlyle, in his generosity, invited him to East Lynn as a place of shelter, where he would be safe from his creditors while something was arranged. He was a connection in some way of Lady Isabel's, and they repaid Mr. Carlyle, he and she, by quitting East Lynn together. Why did Mr. Carlyle give that invitation? The words were uttered in a spirit of remorseful wailing. Mrs. Carlyle believed they were a question put, and she rose up hotly against it. Why did he give the invitation? Did I hear you are right, Madam Vine? Did Mr. Carlyle know he was a reprobate? And if he had known it, was not Isabel his wife? Could he dream of danger for her? If it pleased Mr. Carlyle to fill East Lynn with bad men to-morrow, what would that be to me, to my safety, to my well-being, to my love and allegiance to my husband? What were you thinking of, Madam? Thinking of, she leaned her troubled head upon her hand. Mrs. Carlyle resumed. Sitting alone in the drawing-room just now, and thinking matters over, it did seem to me very like what people call a fatality. That man, I say, was the one who wrought the disgrace, the trouble to Mr. Carlyle's family. And it is he, I have every reason now to believe, who brought a nearly equal disgrace and trouble upon mine. Did you know, Mrs. Carlyle lowered her voice, that I have a brother in evil, in shame? Lady Isabel did not dare to answer that she did know it, who had there been likely to inform her, the strange governess, of the tale of Richard Hare. So the world calls it, shame, pursued Barbara, growing excited. And it is shame, but not as the world thinks it. The shame lies with another, who had thrust the suffering and shame upon Richard. And that other is Francis Leveson. I will tell you the tale. It is worth telling. She could only dispose herself to listen. But she wondered what Francis Leveson had to do with Richard Hare. In the days long gone by, when I was little more than a child, Richard took to going after Afi Hallijan. You have seen the cottage in the wood. She lived there with her father and Joyce. It was very foolish for him. But young men will be foolish. As many more went after her, or wanted to go after her, as she could count upon her ten fingers. Among them, chief of them, more favored even than Richard, was one called Thorn, by social position a gentleman. He was a stranger and used to write over in secret. The night of the murder came, the dreadful murder, when Hallijan was shot down dead. Richard ran away. Testimony was strong against him. And the coroner's jury brought him a verdict of willful murder against Richard Hare the younger. We never supposed but that he was guilty. Of the act, mind you, not of the intention. Even Mama, who so loved him, believed he had done it. But she believed it was the result of an accident, not design. Oh, the trouble that has been the lot of my poor Mama, cried Barbara, clasping her hands. And she had no one to sympathize with her. No one, no one. I, as I tell you, was little more than a child. And Papa, who might have done it, took part against Richard. It went on for three or four years, the sorrow, and there was no mitigation. At the end of that period Richard came for a few hours to West Lynn, came in secret. And we learned for the first time that he was not guilty. The man who did the deed was Thorn. Richard was not even present. The next question was, how to find Thorn? Nobody knew anything about him, who he was, what he was, where he came from, where he went to, and thus more years passed. Another Thorn came to West Lynn, an officer in Her Majesty's service, and his appearance tallied with the description Richard had given. I assumed it to be the one, Mr. Carlile assumed it, but before anything could be done or even thought of Captain Thorn was gone again. Barbara paused to take a breath. Madam Vine sat listless enough. What was this tale to her? Again the years went on. The period came of Francis Levison's sojourn at East Lynn. Whilst I was there, Captain Thorn arrived once more on a visit to the Heberts. We then strove to find out points of his antecedents, Mr. Carlile and I, and we became very nearly convinced that he was the man. I had come here often to see Mr. Carlile, for Mama did not dare to stir in the affair, Papa was so violent against Richard. Thus I often saw Francis Levison, but he was visible to scarcely any other visitor, being at East Lynn and Cache. He intimated that he was afraid of encouraging creditors. I now began to doubt whether it was not a false plea. And I remember Mr. Carlile said, at the time, that he had no creditors in or near West Lynn. Then what was his motive for shunning society, for never going out, interrupted Lady Isabel. Too well she remembered that bygone time. Francis Levison had told her that the fear of his creditors kept him up so closely, though he had once said to her they were not in the immediate neighborhood of East Lynn. He had a worse fear upon him than that of creditors, returned Mrs. Carlile. Singular to say, during this visit of Captain Thorn to the Heberts, we received an intimation from my brother, that he was once more about to venture for a few hours to West Lynn. I brought the news to Mr. Carlile. I had to see him and consult with him more frequently than ever. Mama was painfully restless and anxious, and Mr. Carlile as eager as we were for the establishment of Richard's innocence, for Miss Carlile and Papa are related. Consequently the disgrace may be said to reflect on the Carlile name. Back when Lady Isabel's memory and her bitter repentance. She remembered how jealously she had attributed these meetings between Mr. Carlile and Barbara to another source. Oh, why had she suffered her mind to be so falsely and fatally perverted? Richard came. It was hastily arranged that he should go privately to Mr. Carlile's office, after the clerks had left for the night, be concealed there, and have an opportunity given him of seeing Captain Thorn. There was no difficulty, for Mr. Carlile was transacting some matter of business for the Captain, and appointed him to be at the office at eight o'clock. A memorable night that, to Mr. Carlile, Fort was the one of his wife's allotment. Lady Isabel looked up with a start. It was, indeed. She, Lady Isabel, and Mr. Carlile were engaged to a dinner-party, and Mr. Carlile had to give it up, otherwise he could not have served Richard. He is always considerate and kind, thinking of other's welfare, never of his own gratification. Oh, it was an anxious night. Papa was out. I waited at home with Mama, doing what I could to soothe her restless suspense, for there was hazard to Richard in his walk through West Lynn to keep the appointment. And when it was over he was to come home for a short interview with Mama, who had not seen him for several years. Barbara stopped, lost in thought. Not a word spoke, Madame Vine. She still wondered what this affair touching Richard Hare and Thorn could have to do with Francis Loveson. I watched from the window and saw them come in at the garden gate. Mr. Carlile and Richard, between nine and ten o'clock. I think it must have been then. The first words they said to me were that it was not the Captain Thorn spoken up by Richard. I felt a shock of disappointment, which was wicked enough of me. But I had been so sure he was the man, and to hear that he was not seemed to throw us further back than ever. Mr. Carlile, on the contrary, was glad for he had taken a liking to Captain Thorn. Well, Richard went in to Mama, and Mr. Carlile was so kind as to accede to her request that he would remain and pace the garden with me. We were so afraid of Papa's coming home. He was bitter against Richard, and would inevitably have delivered him up at once to justice. Had he come in, Mr. Carlile was to keep him in the garden by the gate whilst I ran in to give notice and conceal Richard in the hall. Richard lingered. Papa did not come, and I cannot tell how long we paced there. But I had my shawl on, and it was a lovely moonlit night. That unhappy listener clasped her hands to pain. The matter of fact tone, the unconscious mention of commonplace trifles, prove that they had not been pacing about in disloyalty to her, or for their own gratification. Why had she not trusted her noble husband? Why had she listened to that false man, as he pointed them out to her walking there in the moonlight? Why had she given vent in the chariot to that burst of passionate tears of angry reproach? Why? Oh, why has she hastened to be revenged? But foreseeing them together, she might not have done as she did. Richard came forward at last, and departed to be again an exile. Mr. Carlyle also departed, and I remained at the gate, watching for Papa. By and by Mr. Carlyle came back. He had got nearly home when he remembered that he had left a parchment at our house. It seemed to be nothing but coming back, for just after he had gone a second time, Richard returned in a state of excitement, stating that he had seen Thorn, a Thorn the murderer, I mean, in Bean Lane. For a moment I doubted him, but not for long, and we ran after Mr. Carlyle. Richard described Thorn's appearance, his evening dress, his white hands and diamond ring, more particularly he described a peculiar motion of his hand as he threw back his hair. In that moment it flashed across me that Thorn must be Captain Levison. The description was exact. Many and many a time sense have I wondered that the thought did not strike Mr. Carlyle. Lady Isabel sat with her mouth open, as if she could not take in the sense of the words, and when it did become clear to her, she utterly rejected it. Francis Levison, a murderer? Oh, no. Bad man as he is. He is not that. Wait! said Mrs. Carlyle. I did not speak of this doubt, nay, this conviction, which had come. How could I mention to Mr. Carlyle the name of the man who did him that foul wrong, and Richard had remained so long in exile, with the ban of guilt upon him. Today, as my carriage passed through West Lynn, Francis Levison was haranguing the people. I saw that very same action, the throwing back of the hair with his white hand. I saw the self-same diamond ring, and my conviction that he was the same man became more firmly seated than ever. It is impossible, murmured Lady Isabel. Wait, I say, said Barbara. When Mr. Carlyle came home to dinner, I, for the first time, mentioned this to him. It was no news, the fact was not. This afternoon, during that same harang, Francis Levison was recognized by two witnesses to be the man thorn, the man who went after Afi Hallijan. It is horrible. Lady Isabel sat and looked at Mrs. Carlyle. Not yet did she believe it. Yes, it does appear to me as being perfectly horrible, continued Mrs. Carlyle. He murdered Hallijan, he, that bad man, and my poor brother has suffered the odium. When Richard met him that night in Mean Lane, he was sneaking to West Lynn in search of the chaise that afterwards bore him away and his companion. Papa saw them drive away. Papa stayed out late, and, in returning home, a chaise in four tore past, just as he was turning in at the gate. If that miserable Lady Isabel had but known with whom she was flying, a murderer, in addition to his other achievements, it is a mercy for her that she is no longer alive. What would her feelings be? What were they, nay, as she sat there, a murderer, and she had, in spite of her caution, of her strife for self-command, she turned of a deadly whiteness and a low, sharp cry of horror and despair burst from her lips. Mrs. Carlyle was astonished. Why should her communication have produced this effect upon Madame Vine? A renewed suspicion that she knew more of Frances Levison than she would acknowledge stole over her. Madame Vine. What is he to you? she asked, bending forward. Madame Vine, doing fierce battle with herself, recovered her outward equanimity. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Carlyle, she said, shivering. I'm apt to picture things too vividly. It is, as you say, so very horrible. Is he nothing to you? Don't you know him? He is nothing to me, less than nothing. As to knowing him, I saw him yesterday when they put him into the pond. A man like that, I should shudder to meet him. I, indeed, said Barbara, reassured. You will understand, Madame Vine, that this history has been given to you in confidence. I look upon you as one of ourselves. There was no answer. Madame Vine sat on, with her white face. She and it wore altogether a ghastly look. It tells like a fable out of a romance, resumed Mrs. Carlyle. Now for him, if the romance be not ended in the give-it. Fancy what it would be for him, Sir Francis Levison, to be hung for murder. Barbara, my dearest. The voice was Mr. Carlyle's, and she flew off on the wings of love. It appeared that the gentleman had not yet departed and now thought they would take coffee first. She flew off to her idolized husband, leaving her who had once been idolized to her loneliness. She sank down on the sofa. She threw her arms up in her heart's sickness. She thought she would faint. She prayed to die. It was horrible, as Barbara had called it. For that man, with the red stain upon his hand and soul, she had flung away Archibald Carlyle. If ever retribution came home to a woman, it came home in that hour to Lady Isabel. CHAPTER XXXVII. Mr. Carlyle invited to some pate de four gras. A sighing morning wind swept round the domains of Isle, bending the tall poplar tearies in the distance, swaying the oak and elms nearer, wrestling the fine old chestnuts in the park, a melancholy sweeping, fitful wind. The weather had changed from brightness and warmth and heavy gathering clouds seemed to be threatening rain, so at least deemed one wayfarer who was journeying on a solitary road that Saturday night. He was on foot, a man attired in the garb of a sailor with black curling ringlets of hair, and black curling whiskers, a progetous pair of whiskers, hiding his neck above his blue-turned collar, hiding partially his face. The glazed hat, brought low upon his brows, concealed it still more, and he wore a loose rough p-jacket, and wide rough trousers hitched up with the belt, bearing steadily on, he struck into bean lane, a bi-way already mentioned in this history, and from thence, passing through a small un-frequented gate, he found himself in the grounds of Isle. Let me see, mused he as he closed the gate behind him, and slipped the bolt, the covered walk, that must be near the e-kacea trees. Then I must wind round to the right. I wonder if either of them will be there waiting for me? Yes. Pacing the covered walk in her bonnet and mantle, as if taking an evening stroll, had anyone encountered her, which was very unlikely, seeing that it was the most retired spot in the grounds, was Mrs. Carlisle. Oh, Richard, my poor brother, locked in a yearning embrace, emotion overpowered both. Barbara sawed like a child, a little while, and then he put her, from him, to look at her. So, Barbara, you are a wife now? Oh, the happiest wife. Richard, sometimes I ask myself what I have done, that God should have showered down blessings so great upon me. But for the sad trouble, when I think of you, my life would be as one long summer's day. I have the sweetest baby, nearly a year old, he is now. I shall have another soon, God willing, and Archibald. Oh, I am so happy. She broke suddenly off with the name Archibald. Not even to Richard could she speak of her intense love for, and happiness in her husband. How is it at the grove? He asked. Quite well, quite as usual. Mama has been in better health lately. She does not know of this visit, but I must see her interrupted Richard. I did not see her the last time you remember. All in good time to talk of that. How are you getting on in Liverpool? What are you doing? Don't inquire too closely, Barbara. I have no regular work, but I get a job at the docks, now and then, and rub on. It is seasonable help that which comes to me occasionally from you. It is from you or Carlisle? Barbara laughed. How are we to disquit English? His money is mine now, and mine is his. We don't have separate purses, Richard. We send to you jointly. Sometimes I have fancied it came from my mother. Barbara shook her head. We have never allowed Mama to know that you left London, or that we hold on a dress where we can write to you. It would not have done. Why have you summoned me here, Barbara? What has turned up? Thorn has, I think. You would know him again, Richard? Know him? Passionately act Richard Hare. Were you aware that a contest for the membership is going on at Westland? I saw it in the newspapers. Carlisle against Francis Levison. I say, Barbara, how could he think of coming here to oppose Carlisle after his doing with Lady Isabel? I don't know, said Barbara. I wonder that he should come here for other reasons also. First of all, Richard, tell me how you came to know Sir Francis Levison. You say you did know him, and that you had seen him with Thorn. So I do know him, answered Richard, and I saw him with Thorn twice. Know him by sight only, I presume. Let me hear how you came to know him. He was pointed out to me. I saw him walk arm in arm with the gentleman, and I showed them to the waterman at the cab stand hard by. Do you know that fellow? I asked him, indicating Thorn, for I wanted to come at who he really is, which I didn't do. I don't know that one. The old chap answered, but the one with him is Levison, the Baronet. They are often together, a couple of swells they looked. And that's how you got to know Levison? That was it, said Richard Hare. Then, Richard, you and the waterman made a mess of it between you. He pointed out the wrong one, or you did not look at the right. Thorn is Sir Francis Levison. Richard started at her with all his eyes. Nonsense, Barbara! He is. I have never doubted it since the night you saw him in Beane Lane. The action you described of his pushing back his hair, his white hands, his sparkling diamond ring, could only apply in my mind to one person, Francis Levison. On Thursday I drove by the raven, when he was speech-ifying to the people, and I noticed the self-same action in the impulse of the moment I wrote off for you, that you might come and set the doubt at rest. I need not have done it, it seems, for when Mr. Kar-La returned home that evening, and I acquainted him with what I had done. He told me that Thorn and Francis Levison are one and the same. Otway Bethel recognized him that same afternoon, and so did Ebb and his other James. They'd both know him, eagerly cried Richard. James, I am positive, would, for he was skulking down to Hylogens often then, and saw Thorn a dozen times. Otway Bethel must have seen him also, though he protested he had not. Barbara. The name was uttered in effray, and Richard plunged and missed the trees. For somebody was in sight, a tall dark form advancing from the end of the walk. Barbara smiled. It was only Mr. Kar-La and Richard emerged again. Fear still, Richard, Mr. Kar-La exclaimed, and he shook Richard cordially by the hand. For you have changed your traveling tawgery. I couldn't venture here again in the old suit. It had been seen, you said. Returned Richard. I bought this rig out yesterday, second hand. Two pounds for the lot. I think they shaved me. Ringlets and all, laughed Mr. Kar-La. It is the old hair oiled and curled, cried Dick. The Barbara charged a shilling for doing it, and cut my hair into the bargain. I told him not to spare grease, for I like the curls to shine. Sailors always do, Mr. Kar-La. Barbara says that Levison and the brute Thorn, the ones as much of a brute as the other, though have turned out to be the same. They have, Richard, as it appears, nevertheless, it may be as well for you to take a private view of Levison before anything is done, as you once did by the other Thorn. It would not do to make a stirrer, and then discover that there was a mistake, that he was not Thorn. When can I see him, asked Richard eagerly? It must be contrived somehow. Where are you to hang about the doors of the raven this evening? Even you'd be sure to get the opportunity, for he is always passing in and out. No one will know you or think of you, either. Their heads are turned with the election. I shall look odd to people's eyes. You don't get many sailors in Westland. Not odd at all. We have a Russian bear here at present, and you'll be nobody beside him. A Russian bear, repeated Richard, while Barbara laughed. Mr. Otway Bethel has returned in what is popularly supposed to be a bear's hide. Hence the new name he is greeted with. Will it turn out, Richard, that he had anything to do with the murder? Richard shook his head. He couldn't have, Mr. Carlyle. I have said so all along. But about Levison, if I find him to be the man Thorn, what steps can then be taken? That's the difficulty, cried Mr. Carlyle. Who will set it going? Who will move in it? You must, Richard. I, uttered Richard Hare, in consternation. I move in it. You yourself, who else is there? I have been thinking it well over, and can hit upon no one. Why, won't you take it upon yourself, Mr. Carlyle? No, being Levison was the answer. Curse him, impetuously, retorted Richard. Curse him doubly, if he be the double villain, but why should you scruple, Mr. Carlyle? Most men, wronged as you have been, would leap at the opportunity for revenge. For the crime perpetrated upon Halijan, I would pursue him to the scaffold, for my own wrong. No, but the remaining negative has cost me something, many a time, since this appearance of his at West Lynn. Have I been obliged to lay violent control upon myself, or I should have horsewhipped him within an ace of his life? If you horsewhipped him to death, he would only meet his deserts. I leave him to a higher retribution, to one who says, vengeance is mine. I believe him to be guilty of the murder, but if the uplifting of my finger would send him to his disgraceful death, I would tie down my hand rather than lift it. For I could not, in my own mind, separate the man from the injury, though I might ostensibly pursue him as the destroyer of Halijan. To me he would appear ever as the destroyer of another, and the world always charitable. Would congratulate Mr. Carlyle upon gratifying his revenge. I stir in it not, Richard. Couldn't Barbara pleaded Richard? Barbara was standing with her arm entwined within her husbands, and Mr. Carlyle looked down as he answered. Barbara is my wife. It was a sufficient answer. Then the things again at an end, said Richard gloomily, and I must give up hope of ever being cleared. By no means, said Mr. Carlyle, the one who ought to act in this is your father, Richard, but we know he will not. Your mother cannot. She has neither health nor energy for it, and if she had a full supply of both, she would not dare to brave her husband and use them in the cause. My hands are tied, Barbara is equally so, as a part of me. There only remains yourself. And what can I do? Well, poor dick, if your hands are tied, I am sure my whole body is, speaking in comparison, hands and legs and neck. It's in jeopardy, that is, every hour. You're acting in this affair. Need not put it any the more in jeopardy. You must stay in the neighborhood for a few days. I dare not, interpose, Richard, in a fright. Stay in the neighborhood for a few days. No, that I never may. Listen, Richard, you must put away these timorous fears, or else you must make up your mind to remain under the ban for good. And remember, your mother's happiness is at stake equally with yours. I could almost say her life. Do you suppose I would advise you for danger? You used to say there was some place, a mile or two from this, where you could sojourn in safety. So there is, but I always feel safer when I get away from it. There your quarters must be, for two or three days at any rate. I have turned matters over in my own mind, and will tell you what I think should be done, so far as the preliminary step goes, though I do not interfere myself. Only the preliminary step, there must be a pretty many, to follow it, sir, if it's to come to anything. Well, what is it? Apply to Ball and Treadman, and get them to take it. They were now slowly pacing the covered walk, Barbara, on her husband's arm. Richard, by the side of Mr. Carlisle, Dick, stopped when he heard the last words. I don't understand you, Mr. Carlisle. You might as well advise me to go before the Bench of Magistrates at once. Ball and Treadman would walk me off there as soon as I showed myself. Nothing of the sort, Richard, I do not tell you to go openly to their office, as another client would, but I would advise is this. Make a friend of Mr. Ball. He can be a good man and true, if he chooses. Tell the whole story to him in a private place and interview, and ask him whether he will carry it through, if he is fully impressed, with the conviction that you are innocent, as the facts appear to warrant. He will undertake it. Treadman need know nothing of the affair at first, and when Ball puts things in motion, he need not know that you are here or where you are to be found. I don't dislike Ball, mused Richard, and if you would only give his word to be true. I know he would be. The difficulty will be who is to get to the promise from him. I will, said Mr. Carlisle. I will so far pave the way for you, that done my interference is over. How will he go about it? Thank you, if he does take it up. That is his affair. I know how I should. How, sir, you cannot expect me to say, Richard, I might as well act for you. I know, you'd go, add it, slapdash, and arrest Levison offhand on the charge. A smile parted Mr. Carlisle's lips, for Dick had just guessed it, but his continents gave no clue, by which anything could be gathered. A thought flashed across Richard's mind, a thought which rose. Up on end, even his fall's hair, Mr. Carlisle he uttered in an accent of horror, if Ball should take it up, in that way, against Levison, he must supply to the bench for a warrant. Well, quietly returned Mr. Carlisle, and they'd send and clap me into prison. You know the warrant is always out against me. You'd never make a conjure, Richard. I don't pretend to say, or guess at, what Ball's proceedings may be, but in applying to the bench for a warrant against Levison, should that form part of them, is there any necessity for him to bring you in to say, gentlemen, Richard hair is within reach, ready to be taken? Your fears run away with your common sense, Richard. Ah, well, if you had lived with the cord around your neck this many a year, not knowing any one hour, but it might get tied the next, you'd lose your common sense, too, at times. Humbly sighed poor Richard. What's to be my first move, sir? Your first move, Richard, must speak to go to this place of concealment, which you know of, and remain quiet there until Monday. On Monday at dusk be here again, meanwhile, I will see Ball. By the way, though, before speaking to Ball, I must hear from yourself that Thorn and Levison are one. I will go down to the raven at once, eagerly cried, Richard. I'll come back here to this walk, as soon as I have obtained sight of him. With the last words he turned, and was speeding off when Barbara caught him, you will be so tired, Richard. Tired, echoed Richard hair, a hundred miles on foot would not tire me if Thorn was at the end of them. Waiting to be identified, I may not be back for two or three hours, but I will come and wait here till you come out to me. You must be hungry and thirsty, returned Barbara, the tears in her eyes. How I wish we dare have you in, and shelter you, but I can manage to bring some refreshments out here. I don't require it, Barbara. I left the train at the station next before Westland, and dropped into a rowside public house as I walked, and got a good supper. Let me go, dear. I am all in a fever. Richard departed, reached the part of Westland, where the raven was situated, and was so far favored by fortune that he had not longed away. Scarcely had he taken up his lounge outside, when two gentlemen came forth from it, arm in arm, being the headquarters of one of the candidates, the idolers of the place, thought they could not do better than make it their headquarters also. And the road and pavement were never free from the loitering starters, and gossipers, Richard Hare, his hat, well over his eyes, and his black ringlets, made the most of, only added one to the rest. Two gentlemen came forth, arm in arm, the loiterers raised a feeble shout of Levison forever. Richard did not join in the shout, but his pulses were beating, and his heart leaped up within him. The one was Thorn, the other, the gentleman he had seen with Thorn, in London, pointed out to him, as he had believed as Sir Francis Levison. Which of those two is Levison? He inquired of a man near whom he stood. Don't you know him? Him with the hat off, bowing his thanks to us, is Levison. No need to inquire further. It was the thorn of Richard's memory. His ungloved hand, raised to his hat, was as white as ever, more sparkling than ever, as it flashed in the street gaslight, was the diamond ring. By the handed ring alone Richard would have sworn to the man. Had it been needful. Who is the other one, he continued? Some gent, as came down from London with him, his name's Drake, B. U. Yellow Sailor, or B. U. Scarlet and Purple. I am neither. I am only a stranger, passing through the town. On the tramp? Tramp? No. And Richard moved away, to make the best of his progress to Eastland, and the reports of Mr. Carlisle. Now it happened, on that windy night, that Lady Isabel, her mind disordered. Her brow, fevered, with its weight of care, stole out into the grounds, after the children had left her for the night, courting any discomfort she might meet. As if they could, even for a moment, cool the fire within, to the solitude of this very covered walk, bent she her steps, and, not long, had she paced it, when she described some man advancing in the garb of a sailor, not caring to be seen. She turned short off and missed the trees, intending to emerge again, when he had passed. She wondered who he was, and what brought him there. But he did not pass. He lingered in the walk, keeping her a prisoner. A minute more, and she saw him joined by Mrs. Carlisle. They met with a loving embrace. Embrace of a strange man? Mrs. Carlisle? All the blood, and Lady Isabel's body, rushed to her brain, was she, his second wife, falls to him, more shamelessly false than even herself had been, and as much as she had, had the grace to quit him, and Eastland before, as the servant girls say, when they changed their sweethearts, taking up with another, the positive conviction that such was the case, seized firm, hold upon her fancy. Her thoughts were in a tumult, her mind was a chaos, was there any small corner of rejoicing in her heart, that it was so? And yet, what was it to her? It could not alter, by one iota, her own position. It could not restore to her the love she had forfitted, coupled lovingly together. They were now sauntering up the walk, the sailor's arm, thrown round the waist of Mrs. Carlisle. Oh, the shameless woman! I, she could be bitter enough upon graceless doings, when enacted by another. But what was her astonishment when she saw Mr. Carlisle advance, and that his appearance caused not the slightest change in their gracelessness, for the sailor's arm was not withdrawn. Two or three minutes they stood, the three talking together in a group. Then the good nights were exchanged. The sailor left them, and Mr. Carlisle, his own arm, lovingly pressed, where the others had been, with through with his wife. The truth, that it was Barbara's brother, dashed to the mind of Lady Isabel. Was I mad, she cried, with a hollow laugh? She falls to him? No, no, that fate was reserved for me alone. She followed them to the house. She glanced in at the windows of the drawing room. Lights and fire were in the room, but the curtains and windows were not closed for the night, for it was, though, those windows that Mr. Carlisle and his wife had passed in and out in their visits to the covered walk. There they were, alone in their happiness, and she stopped to glance in upon it. Lord Mount Severn had departed for London to be down again early in the week. The tea was on the table, but Barbara had not begun to make it. She sat on the sofa, by the fire, her face, with its ever-loving gaze upon it, turned up to her husband's. She stood near, was talking with apparent earnestness, and looking down at Barbara, another moment, and a smile across his lips, the same sweet smile so often bent upon her in the bygone days. Yes, they were together in their unclouded happiness, and she, she turned away toward her own lonely sitting-room, sick and faint at heart. Ball and Treadman, as the brass plate on their office door intimated, were convey-answers and attorneys at law. Mr. Treadman, who attended chiefly to the convey-ancing, lived at the office. With his family, Mr. Ball, a bachelor, lived away. Lawyer Ball, West Lynn, styled him. Not a young bachelor, midway, he may have been between forty and fifty. A short stout man, with a keen face and green eyes, he took up any practice that was brought to him. Dirty odds and ends that Mr. Carlyle would not have touched with his toe, but as that gentleman had remarked, he could be honest and true upon occasion, and there was no doubt that he would be so to Richard Hare. To his house on Monday morning, early, so as to catch him before he went out, preceded Mr. Carlyle a high respect for Mr. Carlyle had Lawyer Ball, as he had had for his father before him. Many a good turn had the Carlyles done him, if only helping him and his partner to clients whom they were too fastidious to take up, but the two, Mr. Carlyle and Lawyer Ball, did not rank alike, though their profession was the same. Lawyer Ball knew that they did not, and was content to feel humble, the one was a received gentleman, the other was a country attorney. Lawyer Ball was at breakfast when Mr. Carlyle was shown in Halo, Carlyle. You are here, betimes. Sit still, don't disturb yourself, don't ring, I have breakfasted. The most delicious pat d'foy urged Lawyer Ball, who was a regular gourmand. I get him direct from Statsborg. Mr. Carlyle resisted the offered, dainty with a smile. I have come on business, said he, not to feast. Before I enter upon it, he will give me your word, Ball, that my communication shall be held sacred in the event of your not consenting to pursue it further. Certainly I will. What business is it? Some that offends the delicacy of the Carlyle office, he added with a laugh, a would-be client, whom you turn over to me in your exclusiveness. It is a client for whom I cannot act, but not from the motives you assume. It concerns that affair of Halijohn's. Mr. Carlyle continued, bending forward and somewhat dropping his voice. The murder, Lawyer Ball, who had just taken in, a delicious bonnet-bouche of the d'foy gras, bolted it, whole in his surprise. Why, that was enacted ages and ages ago. It is past and done with, he exclaimed. Not done with, said Mr. Carlyle. Circumstances have come to light, which tend to indicate that Richard Hare was innocent, that it was another who committed the murder. In conjunction with him, interrupted the attorney. No, alone, Richard Hare had nothing whatever to do with it. He was not even present at the time. Do you believe that? asked Lawyer Ball. I have believed it for years. Then who did do it? Richard accuses one of the name of Thorn. Many years back, ten at least, I had him beating with Richard Hare, and he disclosed certain facts to me, which, if correct, could not fail to prove that he was not guilty. Since that period, this impression had been gradually confirmed by little and by little trifle upon trifle, and I would now stake my life upon his innocence. I should, long ago, have moved in this matter, hit or miss, could I have lighted upon Thorn, but he was not to be found, neither any clue to him. And we now know that this name, Thorn, was as assumed one. Is he to be found? He is found. He is at Westland. Mark you, I don't accuse him. I do not offer an opinion upon his guilt. I only state my belief in Richard's innocence. It may have been another who did it, neither Richard nor Thorn. It was my firm intention to take Richard's case up. The instant I saw my way clearly in it, and now that that time has come, I am debarred from doing so. What debars you? Hence I come to you, continued Mr. Carlyle, disregarding the question. I come on the part of Richard Hare. I have seen him lately, and conversed with him. I gave him my reasons for not personally acting, advised him to apply to you, and promised to come here and open the matter. Will you see Richard in good faith and hear his story, giving the understanding that he shall depart unmolested as he came, although you do not decide to entertain the business? I'll give it with all the pleasure in life, freely returned the attorney. I'm sure I don't want to harm poor Dick Hare, and if he can convince me of his innocence, I'll do my best to establish it. Of his own tale, you must be the judge. I do not wish to bias you. I have stated my belief in his innocence, but I repeat that I give no opinion myself, as to who else may be guilty. Hear this account, and when take up the affair or not, as you may think fit, he would not come to you without your previous promise to hold him harmless to be his friend in short, for the time being, when I bear this promise to him for you. My part is done. I give it to you, in all honor, Carlisle. Tell Dick he has nothing to fear from me. Quite the contrary, for if I can be friend him, I shall be glad to do it, and I won't spare trouble. What can possibly be your objection to act for him? My objection applies not to Richard. I would willingly appear for him, but I will not take proceedings against the man he accuses, if that man is to be denounced and brought before justice. I will hold neither act nor part in it. The words aroused the curiosity of Laura Ball, and he began to turn over all persons, likely and unlikely in his mind, never according to usage, giving a suspicion to the right one. I cannot fathom you, Carlisle. You will do that better, possibly, when Richard shall have made his disclosure. It's never his own father that he accuses justice-hair. Your wits must be wool-gathering ball. Well, so they must, to give utterance to so preposterous a notion, acquisited the attorney, pushing back his chair, and throwing his breakfast napkin on the carpet. But I don't know a soul you could object to go against except the justice. What's anybody else in Westland to you, in comparison to restoring Dick-hair to his fair fame? I give it up. So do I for the present, said Mr. Carlisle, as he rose, and now, about the ways and means, for your meeting, to this poor fellow, where can you see him? Is he at Westland? No, but I can get a message conveyed to him, and he could come. When, tonight, if you like, then let him come here to his house. He will be perfectly safe. So be it. My part is now over, concluded Mr. Carlisle, and with the few more preliminary words, he departed. Lawyer Ball looked after him. It's a queer business. One would think Dick accuses some old flame of Carlisle's, some demoiselle, or dame, he daren't go against. End of Chapter 37. Chapter 38 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 Caroline Driggs. East Lynn by Mrs. Henry Wood. Chapter 38. The world turned upside down. On Monday evening, the interview between Lawyer Ball and Richard Hare took place. With some difficulty would the Lawyer believe his tale, not as to its broad details. He saw that he might give credit to them, but as to the accusation against Sir Francis Leveson, Richard Persisted mentioned every minute particular he could think of, his meeting him the night of the elopement in Bean Lane, his meetings with him again in London, and Sir Francis' evident fear of him, and thence pursuit, and the previous Saturday night's recognition of the door of the raven, not forgetting to tell of the anonymous letter received by Justice Hare the morning that Richard was in hiding at Mr. Carlisle's. There was no doubt in the world it had been sent by Francis Leveson to frighten Mr. Hare into dispatching him out of West Lynn, had Richard taken refuge in his father's home. None had more cause to keep Dick from falling into the hands of Justice than Francis Leveson. I believe what you say. I believe all you say, Mr. Richard, touching thorn, debated the attorney, but it's next to impossible to take in so astounding a fact as that he is Sir Francis Leveson. You can satisfy yourself of the fact from other lips than mine, said Richard. Ottway Bethel could testify up to it if he would, though I doubt his willingness, but there's Ebenezer James. What does he know about it? asked the attorney in surprise. Ebenezer James is in our office at present. He saw thorn often enough in those days, and has, I hear, recognized him as Leveson. You had better inquire of him. Should you object to take cause against Leveson? Not a bit of it. Let me be assured that I am upon safe grounds as to the identity of the man, and I'll proceed in it forthwith. Leveson is an out-and-out scoundrel, as Leveson, and deserves hanging. I will send for James at once and hear what he says, he concluded, after a pause of consideration. Richard Hare started wildly up. Not while I'm here. He must not see me. For heaven's sake, consider the peril to me, Mr Ball. Poo-poo, laughed the attorney. Do you suppose I have but this one reception room? We don't let cats into cages where canary birds are kept. Ebenezer James returned with the messenger dispatched after him. He will be sure to find him at the singing saloon, Mr Ball had said, and there the gentleman was found. Is it any copying, sir, wanted to be down in a hurry? cried James when he came in. No, replied the attorney. I wish a question or two answered, that's all. Did you ever know Sir Francis Leveson to go by any name but his own? Yes, sir. He's gone by the name of Thorn. A pause. When was this? It was the autumn when Hallijohn was killed. Thorn used to be prowling about there in an evening, in the wood and at the cottage, I mean. What did he prowl for? Ebenezer James laughed, for the same reason that several more did, either one. He was sweet upon Afie Hallijohn. Where was he living at the time? I never remember him in West Lynn. He was not at West Lynn, sir. On the contrary, he seemed to take precious good care that West Lynn and he kept separate. A splendid horsey road, a thoroughbred, and he used to come galloping into the wood at dusk, get over his chat with Miss Afie, mount and gallop away again. Where to? Where did he come from? From somewhere towards Swainson, a ten-mile ride, Afie used to say he had. Now that he has appeared here in his own plumage, of course, I can put two and two together and not be at much fault for the exact spot. And where's that? asked the lawyer. Levison Park, said Mr. Ebenezer. There's little doubt he was stopping at his uncles, and you know that is close to Swainson. Lawyer Ball thought things were becoming clearer, or darker, whatever you may please to call it. He paused again and then put a question impressively. James, have you any doubt whatever or shadow of doubt that Sir Francis Levison is the same man you know as Thorne? Sir, have I any doubt that you are Mr. Ball or that I am Eb James, retorted Mr. Ebenezer? I am a certain of that man's identity as I am of your identity as I am of yours. Are you ready to swear to that fact in a court of justice? Ready and willing in any court in the world, tomorrow, if I'm called upon? Very well, you may go back to your singing club now. Keep a silent tongue in your head. All close, sir. Answered Mr. Ebenezer, James. Far into the middle of the night sat Lawyer Ball and Richard Hare. The former chiefly occupied in taking notes of Richard's statement. It's half a crochet this objection of Carlisle's to interfere with Levison, suddenly uttered Richard in the midst of some desultory conversation. Don't you think so, Mr. Ball? The lawyer pursed up his lips. A delicate point. Carlisle was always fastidiously honourable. I should go at him, thunder and fury in his place, but I and Carlisle are different. The following day, Tuesday, Mr. Ball was much occupied. Putting, to use nearly Ebenezer James's words, that and that together. Later in the day, he took a journey to Levison Park, ferreted out some information and came home again. On that same day at evening, Richard departed for Liverpool. He was done with for the present, Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle being, as before, a lone cognizant of his address. Wednesday morning witnessed the arrival again of the Earl of Mount Severn, Lord Vane, too. The latter ought to have gone back to Eden, but he had teased and prayed to be allowed to see the fun out, meaning the election. And that devil's discomforture when he finds himself beaten, he surreptitiously added behind his father's back, who was a great stickler for the boys always being gentlemanly. So the Earl had yielded. They arrived as before about breakfast time having travelled all night. Subsequently, they and Mr. Carlisle walked into West Lynn together. West Lynn was alive and a stir. The election was to come off that week and people made it their business to be in a bustle over it, collectively and individually. Mr. Carlisle's committee sat at the buck's head and the traffic in and out was enough to wear the stones away. The bench of justices were remarkably warm over it, neglecting the judicial business and showing themselves at the buck's head windows in purple and scarlet streamers. I'll be with you in 10 minutes, said Mr. Carlisle, with drawing his arm from Lord Mount Sevens as they approached his office, but I must go in and read my letters. So the Earl went on to the buck's head and Lord Vane took a foot canter down to the raven to reconnoiter it outside. He was uncommonly fond of planting himself where Sir Francis Levison's eyes were sure to fall upon him, which eyes were immediately dropped, while the young gentlemen's would be fixed in an audacious stare. Being Lord Vane, or it may be more correct to say, being the Earl of Mount Sevens' son and under control, he was debarred from dancing and jeering after the yellow candidate as the unwashed gentry of his own age indulged him, but his tongue and his feet itched to do it. Mr. Carlisle took his seat in his private room, opened his letters, assorted them, marked on the back of some what was to be the perpet of their answer, and then called in Mr. Dill. Mr. Carlisle put the letters in his hand, gave some rapid instructions, and rose. You're in a hurry, Mr. Archibald? They want me at the buck's head, why? A curious incident occurred to me last evening, sir. I was an ear witness to a dispute between Levison and Ottway Bethel. Indeed, carelessly replied Mr. Carlisle, who was busy at the time looking for something in the deep drawer of the desk. And what I heard would go far to hang Levison, if not Bethel, as sure as we're here, Mr. Archibald, they hold the secret of Halla John's murder. It appears that Levison, stop, interposed Mr. Carlisle. I would prefer not to hear this. Levison may have murdered him, but it is no affair of mine. Neither shall I make it such. Old Dill felt checkmated. Meanwhile Richard Hare suffers, Mr. Archibald, he observed in a remonstrating tone. I am aware he does. Is it right that the innocent should suffer for the guilty? No, very wrong, but the case is all too common. If someone would take up Richard Hare's cause now, he might be proved innocent, added the old man with a wistful look at Mr. Carlisle. It is being taken up, Dill. A pause and a glad look. That's the best news I've had for many a day, sir. But my evidence will be necessary to your case. Levison, I'm not taking up the case. You must carry your news elsewhere. It is no affair of mine, I say. Then who is taking it up, echoed Mr. Dill in astonishment? Boar. He has had a meeting with Richard and is now acting for him under the rose. Mr. Dill's eyes sparkled. Is he going to prosecute Mr. Archibald? I tell you, I know nothing. I will know nothing. When the affair comes out to the public, if it ever does come out, I shall share in the information, Dill, and that is all. Ah, well, I can understand. But I shall go on to their office at once, Mr. Archibald, and inform them of what I overheard, spoke old Dill in vehement decision. That is not my affair, either, laughed Mr. Carlisle. It is yours. But remember, if you do go, it is Boar, not Treadman. Waiting only to give certain orders to the head clerk, Mr. Dill proceeded to the office of Boar and Treadman. A full hour was he closeted there with the senior partner. Not until three o'clock that afternoon did the justices take their seats on the bench. Scarcely were they seated when lawyer Boar bustled in and craved a secret hearing. His application was of the last importance, he promised, but that the ends of justice might not be defeated, it was necessary their worship should entertain it in private. He therefore craved the bench to accord it to him. The bench consulted, looked wise, and possibly possessing some latent curiosity themselves upon the point, graciously acceded. They adjourned to a private room, and it was full half past four before they came out of it. Very long faces, scared and grim were their worships, as if lawyer Boar's communication had both perplexed and confounded them. This is the afternoon we had to meet Dr. Martin at Papa's office. William Carlisle had suddenly exclaimed that day at dinner. Do we walk in, Madame Bein? I do not know, William. Mrs. Carlisle is going to take you. No, she's not. You are going to take me. A flush passed over Lady Isabel's face at the bare thought, though she did not believe it. She, to go to Mr. Carlisle's office? Mrs. Carlisle told me herself that she should take you, was the reply. All I know is, Mama told me this morning, you would take me to West Lynn today, persisted William. The discussion was interrupted by the appearance of Mrs. Carlisle. Interrupted and decided also. Madame Bein, she said, you will be ready at three o'clock to go in with William? Lady Isabel's heart beat. I understood you to say that you should go with him yourself, Madame. I know I did. I intended to do so, but I heard this morning that some friends from a distance are coming this afternoon to call upon me. Therefore I shall not go out. How she, Lady Isabel, wished that she dare say also, I shall not go out either. For that might not be. Well, she must go through with it, as she had to go through with the rest. William wrote his pony into West Lynn, the groom attending to take it back again. He was to walk home with Madame Bein, who walked both ways. Mr. Carlisle was not in when they arrived at the office. The boy went boldly on to the private room leaving Madame Bein to follow him. Presently, Mr. Carlisle appeared. He was talking to Mr. Dill, who followed him. Oh, you're here, Madame Bein. I left word that you were to go to enter Miss Carlisle's. Did I not leave word, Dill? Not with me, sir. I forgot then. I meant to do so. What is the time? He looked at his watch, ten minutes to four. Did the doctor say at what hour he should call? Mr. Carlisle added to Madame Bein. Not precisely. I gathered that it would be very early in the afternoon. Here he is, exclaimed Mr. Carlisle with a lacquerty as he went into the hall. She supposed he alluded to the physician. Suppose he had seen him pass the window. Their entrance together woke up William. Well, said the doctor, who was a little man with a bald head, and how fares it with my young patient? Bonjour, Madame. Bonjour, Monsieur, responded she. She wished everybody would address her in French and take her for French. There seemed less chance of recognition. She would have to speak in good plain English however if she must carry on conversation with the doctor. Beyond a familiar phrase or two, he was something like just his hair, non-parly-français-me. And how does the cod liver oil get on? Asked the doctor of William as he drew him to the light. Is it nicer now than it used to be, eh? No, said William. It is nastier than ever. Dr. Martin looked at the boy. Felt his pulse, his skin, listened to his breathing. There, said he, presently, you may sit down and have your nap out. I wish I might have something to drink. I'm very thirsty. May I ring for some water, papa? Go and find your aunts maid and ask her for some, said Mr. Carlisle. Ask her for milk, called out Dr. Martin, not water. Away went William. Mr. Carlisle was leaning against the side of the window. Dr. Martin folded his arms before it. Lady Isabel stood near the latter. The broad, full light was cast upon all, but the thick veil hid Lady Isabel's face. It was not often she could be caught without that veil, for she seemed to wear her bonnet at all sorts of seasonable and unseasonable times. What is your opinion, doctor? asked Mr. Carlisle. Well, began the doctor in a very professional tone. The boy is certainly delicate, but stay. Dr. Martin was the interruption, spoken in a low, impressive voice. You will deal candidly with me. I must know the truth, without disguise. Tell it me freely. Dr. Martin paused. The truth is not always palatable, Mr. Carlisle. True, but for that very reason all the more necessary. Let me hear the worst. And the child has no mother, you know, to be shocked with it. I fear that it will be the worst. Death. I, the seeds of consumption, must have been inherent in him. They are showing out too palpably. Is there no hope for the child? Dr. Martin looked at him. You bade me give you the truth. Nothing else, nothing but the truth, returned Mr. Carlisle. His tone one of mingled pain and command. Then there is none, no hope whatever. The lungs are extensively diseased. And how long? That I cannot say interrupted the doctor, defining what the next question was to be. He may linger on for months, for a year it may even be. Or a very short period may see the termination. Don't worry him with any more lessons and stuff of learning. He'll never want it. The doctor cast his eyes on the governess as he spoke. The injunction concerned her as much as it did Mr. Carlisle. And the doctor started for he thought she was fainting. Her face had become so ghastly white he could see it through her veil. You are ill, madame. You are ill? Truf malade, don't you? She opened her lips to speak. Her trembling lips that would not obey her. Dr. Martin in his concern pulled off the blue spectacles. She caught them from him with one hand, sat down on the nearest chair and hid her face with the other. Mr. Carlisle, scarcely understanding the scuffle came forward. Are you ill, madame Vine? She was putting her spectacles under her veil, her face whiter than ever. Pray do not interrupt your conversation to pay attention to me. I thank you. I thank you both. I am subject to slight spasms and they do make me look ill for the moment. It has passed now. The doctor turned from her. Mr. Carlisle resumed his place by the window. What should be the treatment? Asked the latter. Almost anything you please that the boy himself likes. Let him play or rest, ride or walk, eat and drink, or let it alone. It cannot make much difference. Doctor, you yielded as a last hope, very lightly. Dr. Martin shook his head. I speak as I know. You insisted on having my true opinion. A warmer climate, suggested Mr. Carlisle eagerly, the idea crossing his mind. It might prolong the end for a little while. A few weeks, perhaps. Averted it could not. And who could take him? You could not go, and he has no mother. No, I should not advise it. I wish she would see Wainwright, with reference to William. I have seen him. I met him this afternoon by chance and told him my opinion. How is Mrs. Carlisle? Pretty well. She is not in robust health. You are aware just now. Dr. Martin smiled. These things will happen. Mrs. Carlisle has a thoroughly good constitution. A far stronger one than... than... than what, said Mr. Carlisle, wondering why he hesitated. You must grant me pardon. I may as well finish. Now I have begun. But I was not thinking when I spoke. She is stronger than was Lady Isabel. I must be off to catch the sixth train. You will come over from time to time to East Lynn to see William. If you wish it, it may be a satisfaction perhaps. Bonjour, Madame. Lady Isabel bowed to him as he left the room with Mr. Carlisle. How fun that French governess of yours is of the boy. The doctor whispered as they crossed the hall. I detected it when she brought him to Lynnborough. And you saw her just now. That emotion was all because he could not live. Goodbye. Mr. Carlisle grasped his hand. Doctor, I wish you could save him. He passionately uttered. Ah, Carlisle, if we humble mites of doctors could but keep those who matters the great physician's pleasure to take, how we should be run after. There's hidden mercy, remember, in the darkest cloud. Farewell, my friend. Mr. Carlisle returned to the room. He approached Lady Isabel, looking down upon her as she sat. Not that he could see much of her face. These are grievous tidings. But you were more prepared for them, I fancy, than I was. She started suddenly up, approached the window, and looked out, as if she saw somebody passing whom she would gaze at. All of emotion was stirred up within her. Her temples throbbed, her throat beat, her breath became hysterical. Could she bear thus to hold confidential converse with him over the state of their child? She pulled off her gloves for coolness to her burning hands. She wiped the moisture from her pale forehead. She struggled manfully for calmness. What excuse could she offer to Mr. Carlisle? I had begun to like the boy so very much, sir, she said, half turning round. And the doctor's fiat, too plainly pronounced, has given me pain, pain to agitation. Again Mr. Carlisle approached her, following close up to where she stood. You are very kind, thus to feel an interest in my child. She did not answer. Here, papa, papa, I want you, cried William, breaking into the room. Let me walk home with you. Are you going to walk? How could he find it in his heart to deny anything to the child then? Very well, he said, stay here till I come for you. We are going home with papa, proclaimed William to Madam Vine. Madam Vine did not relish the news, but there was no help for it. In a very short time, Mr. Carlisle appeared and they set off. He held in William's hand, madam walking on the other side of the child. Where's William Vane, papa? Asked the boy. He has gone on with Lord Mount Seven. Scarcely had the words been spoken when someone came bolting out of the post office and met them face to face. Almost ran against them, in fact, creating some hindrance. The man looked confused and slunk off into the gutter. And you will not wonder that he did when you hear that it was Francis Levison. William, childlike, turned his head to gaze at the intruder. I would not be an ugly bad man like him for the world, quote he, as he turned his back again. Would you, papa? Mr. Carlisle did not answer, and Isabelle cast an involuntary glance upon him from her white face. His was impassive, save that a cast of ineffable scorn marred the delicate beauty of his lips. If humiliation for the past had never wrung Lady Isabelle's heart before, it would have wrung it then. And Mr. Justice's hair's gate they encountered that gentleman who appeared to be standing there to give himself an airing. William caught sight of Mrs. Hair seated on the garden bench outside the window and ran to kiss her. All the children loved Mrs. Hair. The Justice was looking not pale. That would not be a term half strong enough, but yellow. The curls of his best wig were limp, and all his pomposity appeared to have gone out of him. I say, Carlisle, what on earth this? cried he in a tone that for him was wonderfully subdued in meek. I was not on the bench this afternoon, but Pinner has been telling me of an application that was made to them in private. It's not true, you know. It can't be. It's too far fetched to tail. What do you know about it? Nothing, said Mr. Carlisle. I do not know what you're talking of. I have been privy to know application. It seems they want to make out now that Dick never murdered Halla John. Proceeded the justice in a half whisper, glancing round as if to be sure that there were no eavesdroppers amidst the trees. Oh, said Mr. Carlisle. But that Levison did. Levison! Mr. Carlisle made no reply, saved by a gesture. His face more impassive than before. Not so another face beside him, a fair face that turned white again with emotion as she listened. But it can't be, you know. It can't, I say. So far as Richard's innocence goes, of that I have long been convinced, spoke Mr. Carlisle. And that Levison's guilty, returned the justice, opening his eyes in puzzled wonderment. I have no opinion upon that point was the cold rejoinder. It's impossible, I say. Dick can't be innocent. You may as well tell me that the world's turned upside down. It is, sometimes, I think. That Richard was not the guilty man will be proved yet, justice in the broad face of day. If that other did do it, I should think you'd take the warrant out at the hands of the police and capture him yourself. I would not touch him with a pair of tongs, spoke Mr. Carlisle, his lips curling again. If the man goes to his punishment, he goes, but I do not help him on his road thither. Can Dick be innocent? Muse the justice, returning to the thought which so troubled his mind. Then why has he kept away? Why did he not come back and say so? That you might deliver him up, justice, you know you took an oath to do it. The justice looked green and remarkably humble. Oh, but Carlisle impulsively spoke he, the thought occurring to him. What an awful revenge this would have been for you on somebody had she lived. How her false step would have come home to her now. False steps come home to most people, responded Mr. Carlisle, as he took William by the hand who then ran up and lifting his hat to Mrs. Hair in the distance, he walked on. She, Lady Isabel, walked on too by the side of the child, as before, walked on with a shivering frame and a heart sick unto death. The justice looked after her, his mind unoccupied. He was an amaze of bewilderment, Richard innocent, Richard whom he had striven to pursue to a shameful end, and that other the guilty one, the world was turning upside down. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 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. Eastland by Mrs. Henry Wood, Chapter 39 Mrs. Carlisle in full dress, AFI also. Merrily rose Westland on Thursday morning, merrily rang out the bells, clashing and chiming. The street was alive with people, the windows were crowded with heads, something unusual was a stir. It was the day of the nomination of the two candidates, and everybody took the opportunity to make a holiday. Ten o'clock was the hour names, but before that hour struck, Westland was crammed. The country people had come in, thick and three-fold, rich and poor, people of note, and people of none. Voters and non-voters, all eager to mix themselves up with the day's proceedings. You see the notorious fact of Sir Francis Levison's having come forward to oppose Mr. Carlisle caused greater interest in this election than is usual, even in small country places, and that need not be. Barbara drove in her carriage, the two children with her, and the governess. The governess said she preferred to remain at home. Barbara would not hear of it. Almost felt inclined to resent it as a slight. Besides, if she took no interest in Mr. Carlisle, she must go to take care of Lucy. She, Barbara, would be too much occupied to look after children. So Madame Weing, per force, stepped into the Baroque, and sat opposite to Mrs. Carlisle, her thick veil shading her features, and their pallor contrasting with the blue spectacles. They alighted at the residence of Mrs. Carlisle. Quite a gathering was already there. Lady and Miss Dobied, the Herbert's, Mrs. Hare, and many others, for the house was in a good spot for seeing the fun. And all the people were eager to testify their respect to Mr. Carlisle, in contradiction to that other one. Miss Carlisle was in full rig, a brocaded dress, and a scarlet and purple bow in front of it, the size of a pumpkin. It was about the only occasion in all Miss Carlisle's life that she deemed it necessary to attire herself beyond common. Barbara wore no bow, but she exhibited a splendid bouquet of scarlet and purple flowers. Mr. Carlisle had himself given it to her that morning. Mr. Carlisle saw them all at the windows of the large upper drawing room and came in. He was then on his way to the town hall, shaking hands, laughter, hearty and hasty good wishes, and he quitted the room again. Barbara still laughed at him for a sweeter farewell. God bless you and prosper you, Archibald, my dearest. The business of the day began. Mr. Carlisle was proposed by Sir John Dobied, and seconded by Mr. Herbert, Lord Mount Severn, then whom not a busier man was there, would willingly have been prosper, and seconder too, but he had no local influence in the place. Sir Francis Levison was proposed also by two gentlemen of standing. The show of hands was declared to be in favor of Mr. Carlisle. It just was in favor of him about twenty to win. Upon which the Baronet's friends demanded a poll. Then all was bustle and scuffle and confusion. Everyone tearing away to the hustings, which had been fixed in a convenient spot. The town hall not affording the accommodation necessary for a poll. Candidates and proposers and seconders, and gentlemen and officers, and mob hustling and jostling each other. Mr. Carlisle was linked arm in arm with Sir John Dobied. Sir John's arm was within Lord Mount Severn's, but as to order it was impossible to observe any to gain the place they had to pass the house of Miss Carlisle. Young Bane, who was in the thick of the crowd, of course, cast his eyes up to its lined windows, took off his hat and waved it. Carlisle, in honor forever, shouted he. The ladies laughed and nodded, and shook their handkerchiefs and displayed their scarlet in purple colors. The crowd took up the show, till the very air echoed with it. Carlisle, in honor forever, Barbara's tears were falling, but she smiled through them at one pair of loving eyes, which sought out hers. A galaxy of beauty whispered Mr. Drake in the ear of Sir Francis. How did the woman rally round him? I tell you what, Levison, you and the government were stupid to go on with the contest, and I said so days ago, you have no more chance against Carlisle than that bit of straw has against the wind. You ought to have withdrawn in time. Like a coward, angrily returned Sir Francis. No, I'll go on with it to the last, though I do get beaten. How lovely his wife is, observed Mr. Drake, his admiring eyes cast up at Barbara. I say Levison was the first one as charming. Sir Francis looked perfectly savage. The illusion did not please him, but ere another word could be spoken, someone in the garb of a policeman who had wound his way through the crowd laid his hand upon the baronet. Sir Francis Levison, you are my prisoner. Nothing worse than debt occurred at that moment to the mind of Sir Francis, but that was quite enough, and he turned purple with rage. Your hands off, vermin, how dare you! A quick moment, a slight click, a hustle from the wandering crowd more immediately around, and the handcuffs swore on. Utter amazement alone prevented Mr. Drake from knocking down the policeman. A dozen vitu-parading tongues, assailed him. I'm sorry to do it in this public place and manner, spoke the officer, partly to Sir Francis, partly to the gentleman around, but I couldn't come across you last night, do as I would, and the warrant has been in my hand since five o'clock yesterday afternoon. Sir Francis Levison, I arrest you for the willful murder of George Hallijohn. The crowd fell back, the crowd was paralyzed with consternation. The word was passed from one extreme to the other, and back and across again, and the excitement grew high. The ladies, looking from Miss Carlile's windows, saw what had happened, though they could not divine the cause. Some of them turned pale at sight of the handcuffs, and Mary Pinner, an excitable girl, fell into a screaming fit. Pale, what was their gentle paleness compared with the frightfully livid one of Francis Levison? His agitation was pitable to witness his face a terror to look upon. Once or twice he gasped, as if in agony, and then his eyes happened to fall on Otway Bethel, who stood near, shorn of his adornments, which might not be thought adornments upon paper. The following was the sentence that burst involuntarily from his lips. You hound, it is you who have done this. No, by whether Mr. Otway Bethel was about to swear by Jupiter or Juno, never was decided. The sentence being cut ignominiously short at the above two words. Another policeman, in the summary manner, exercised towards Sir Francis, had clapped a pair of handcuffs upon him. Mr. Otway Bethel, I arrest you as an accomplice in the murder of George Hallijong. You may be sure that the whole assembly was arrested too figuratively, and stood with eager gaze and open ears. Colonial Bethel, quitting the scarlet and purple, flashed into those of the yellows. He knew his nephew was graceless enough, but to see him with a pair of handcuffs on. What does all this mean, he authoritatively demanded of the officers? It's no fault of ours, colonel. We have but executed the warrant, answered one of them. The magistrate issued it yesterday against these two gentlemen, on suspicion of their being concerned in the murder of Hallijong. In conjunction with Richard Hare, cried the astounded colonel, gazing from one to the other, prisoners and officers in scared bewilderment. It's alleged now that Richard Hare didn't have nothing to do with it, returned the ma'am. It said he is innocent. I'm sure I don't know. I swear that I am innocent, passionately uttered Otway Bethel. Well, sir, you have only got to prove it, simply rejoin the policemen. Miss Carlisle and Lady Isabel lean from the window, their curiosity too much excited to remain silent longer. Mrs. Hare was standing by their side. What is the matter? Both asked of the upturned faces immediately beneath. Them too, the fine member, as wanted to be, and young Bethel, be arrested for murder, spoke a man's clear voice and answer. The tale runs as they murdered Hallijong, and then laid it on the shoulders of young Dick Hare, who didn't do it after all. A faint-wheeling cry of startled pain and Barbara flew to Mrs. Hare, from whom it proceeded. Oh, Mama, my dear Mama, take comfort. Do not suffer this to agitate you to illness. Richard is innocent, and it will surely be so approved, archibald. She added, beckoning to her husband in her alarm. Come, if you can, and say a word of assurance to Mama. It was impossible that Mr. Carlisle could hear the words, but he could see the words that his wife was greatly agitated and wanted him. I will be back with you in a few moments, he said to his friends, and he began to elbow his way through the crowd, which made way when they saw who the elbower was. Into another room, away from the gay visitors, they got Mrs. Hare and Mr. Carlisle locked the door to keep them out, unconsciously taking the key. Only himself and his wife were with her, except Madame Vine, in her bonnet, who had been despatched by somebody with a bottle of smelling salts. Barbara knelt at her Mama's feet. Mr. Carlisle leaned over her hands, held sympathizingly in his. Madame Vine would have escaped, but the key was gone. Oh, archibald, tell me the truth. You will not deceive me, she gasped in earnest entreaty. The cold dew gathering on her pale, gentle face, is the time come to prove my boy's innocence? It is. Is it possible that it can be that false, bad man who is guilty? From my soul I believe him to be, replied Mr. Carlisle, glancing round to make sure that none could hear the assertion. Save those percent. But what I say to you and Barbara, I would not say to the world. Whatever be the man's guilt, I am not his nemesis. Dear Mrs. Hare, take coverage, take comfort. Happier days are coming round. Mrs. Hare was weeping silently. Barbara rose and laid her Mama's head, lovingly upon her bosom. Take care of her, my darling. Mr. Carlisle whispered to his wife. Don't leave her for a moment, and don't let that chattering crew in from the next room. I beg your pardon, Madame. His hand had touched Madame Vine's neck in turning round, that is, had touched the jacket that encased it. He unlocked the door and regained the street, while Madame Vine sat down with her beating and rebellious heart. It missed the shouts, the jeers, and the escort of the mob, Sir Francis Levison and Otway Bethel were lodged in the station house, preparatory to their examination before the magistrates. Never sure was so mortifying an interruption known. So thought Sir Francis's party, and they deemed it well, after some consultation amongst themselves, to withdraw his name as a candidate for the membership, that he never had a shadow of chance from the first, most of them knew. But there is an incident yet to tell of the election day. You have seen Ms. Carlisle in her glory, her brocaded silk standing on end with richness, her displayed colors, her pride in her noble brother, but now could you, or she, which it is more to the purpose, have divined who and what was right above her head at an upper window. I know not what the consequence would have been. No less an eyesore to Ms. Carlisle than that brazen hussy, Afi Halijon, smuggled in by Ms. Carlisle's servants, there she was, in full dress, too, a green and white-checked scarcenet, flounce up to the waist over a crinoline, extending from here to yonder, a fancy bonnet, warm on the plate of her hair behind, with a wreath, and a veil, delicate white gloves, and a swinging handkerchief of lace, redolent of musk. It was well for Ms. Cornie's peace of mind ever after that she remained in ignorance of that daring act. There stood Afi, bold as a sunflower, exhibiting herself and her splendor to the admiring eyes of the mob below, gentle and simple. He is a handsome man after all, quoth she, to Ms. Carlisle's maids. When Sir Francis Levison arrived opposite the house, but such a horrid creature was a response, and to think that he should come here to oppose Mr. Archibald. What's that? cried Afi. What are they stopping for? There are two policemen there. Oh, shrieked Afi. If they haven't put handcuffs on him, whatever has he done? What can he have been up to? Where, who, what? cried the servants, bewildered with the crowd, put handcuffs on which? Sir Francis Levison, hush, what is that they say? Listening, looking, turning from white to red, from red to white, Afi stood, but she could make nothing of it. She could not divine the cause of the calm motion. The man's answer to Ms. Carlisle and Lady Dobid, clear though it was, did not quite reach her ears. What did he say? she cried. Good heavens! cried one of the maids, whose hearing had been quicker than Afi's. He says they are arrested for the willful murder of Hal, of your father, Ms. Afi, Sir Francis Levison, an aught-way Bethel. What? shrieked Afi, her eyes starting. Levison was the man who did it, he says. He continued the servant, bending her ear to listen. And young Richard Hare, he says, has been innocent all along. Afi slowly gathered in the sense of the words. She gasped twice, as if her breath had gone, and then, with a stagger and a shiver, fell heavily to the ground. Afi Hallijohn recovered from her fainting fit, had to be smuggled out of Ms. Carlisle's, and she had been smuggled in. She was of an elastic nature, and the shock or the surprise or the heat, whatever it may have been, being over, Afi was herself again. Not very far removed from the residence of Ms. Carlisle was a shop in the cheese and ham and butter and bacon-lime, a very respectable shop, too, and kept by a very respectable man, a young man of mild continence, who had purchased the goodwill of the business through an advertisement, and come down from London to take possession. His predecessor had amassed enough to retire, and people foretold that Mr. Jiffin would do the same. To say that Ms. Carlisle Dell at the shop will be sufficient to proclaim the good quality of the articles kept in it. When Afi arrived opposite the shop, Mr. Jiffin was sunning himself at the door, his shopman inside being at some urgent employment, over the continents of a butter cask. Afi stopped. Mr. Jiffin admired her uncommonly, and she, always ready for anything in that way, had already enjoyed several passing flirtations with him. Good day, Ms. Hallijohn, cried he, warmingly, chucking up his white apron, and pushing it round to the back of his waist, in the best manner he could, as he held out his hand to her, for Afi had once hinted in terms of disparagement at that very apron. Oh, how are you, Jiffin? cried Afi loftily, pretending not to have seen him standing there, and she condescended to put the tips of her white gloves into the offered hand, as she co-quitted with her handkerchief, her veil and her ringlets. I thought you would have shut up your shop today, Mr. Jiffin, and taken a holiday. Business must be attended to, responded Mr. Jiffin. Quite lost in the contemplation of Afi's numerous attractions, unusually conspicuous as they were. Had I known that you were abroad, Ms. Hallijohn, and enjoying a holiday, perhaps I might have done it, too, in the hope of coming across you somewhere or other. His words were bona fide as his admiration. Afi saw that, so she could afford to treat him, rather, de-hot and buzz. And he's as simple as a calf, thought she. The greatest pleasure I have in life, Ms. Hallijohn, is to see you go by the shop window. Continue, Mr. Jiffin. I'm sure it's like as if the sun itself passed. Dear me, bridal Afi with a simper, I don't know any good that can do you. You might have seen me go by an hour or two ago, if you had possessed eyes. I was on my way to Ms. Carliles. She continued with the air of one who proclaims the fact of a morning call upon a duchess. Where could my eyes have been? exclaimed Mr. Jiffin, in an agony of regret. In some of those precious bitter tubs, I shouldn't wonder. We have had a bad lot in, Ms. Hallijohn, and I am going to return them. Oh, said Afi, conspicuously resenting the remark. I don't know anything about that sort of thing. Butter tubs are beneath me. Of course, of course, Ms. Hallijohn. De-procated poor Jiffin. They are very profitable, though, to those who understand the trade. What is all that shouting? cried Afi, alluding to the tremendous noise in the distance, which had continued for some little time. It's the voters cheering Mr. Carlile. I suppose you know that he's elected. Ms. Hallijohn? No, I didn't. The other was withdrawn by his friends, so they made short work of it. And Mr. Carlile is our member. God bless him. There's not many like him. But I say, Ms. Hallijohn, whatever it is that the other one has done, murder, they say. I can't make top nor tail of it. Of course we know he was bad enough before. Don't ask me, said Afi. Murder's not a pleasant subject for a lady to discuss. Are all these customers? Dear me, you'll have enough to do to attend to them. Your man can't do it all. So I won't stay talking any longer. With the gracious flourish of her finances, and wave of the handkerchief, Afi sailed off. And Mr. Jiffin, when he could withdraw his fascinated eyes from following her, turned into his shop to assist in serving four or five servant girls who had entered it. It wouldn't be such a bad catch after all. So little acquires Afi, as she and her crinoline swayed along. Of course, I'd never put my nose inside the shop, unless it was to order things like another customer. The worst is the name. Jiffin. Joe Jiffin. How could I ever bear to be called Mrs. Joe Jiffin? Not but. Goodness me. What do you want? The intention to Afi's chickens was caused by Mr. Ebenezer James, that gentleman, who had been walking with quick steps to overtake her, gave her flounces a twitch behind, to let her know somebody had come up. How are you, Afi? I was going after you to Mrs. Landmers. Not knowing, but you had returned home. I saw you this morning at Miss Corny's windows. Now I don't want any of your sauce, Ebenezer James. Afiing me. The other day, when you were on with your nonsense, I said you should keep your distance. You took and told Mr. Jiffin, that I was an old sweetheart of yours. I heard of it. So you were, laughed Mr. Ebenezer. I never was, flashed Afi. I was the company of your betters in those days. And if there had been no betters in the case, I should have scorned you. Why you have been a strolling player. And what have you been? Returned Mr. Ebenezer, a quiet tone of meaning, running through his good-humored laughter. Afi's cheeks flushed scarlet, and she raised her hand with a quick menacing gesture. But that they were in the public street. Mr. Ebenezer might have found his ears boxed. Afi dropped her hand again and made a dead stand still. If you think any vile, false insinuations that you may concoct, will injure me, you are mistaken. Ebenezer James, I am too much respected in the place, so don't try it on. Why Afi, what has put you out? I don't want to injure you. Couldn't do it if I tried as you say, he added with another quiet laugh. I have been in too many scrapes myself to let my tongue bring other folks onto one. There, that's enough. Just take yourself off. It's not over reputable to have you at one side in public. Well, I will relive you of my company, if you'll let me deliver my commission. Though as too reputable, however, I won't put you out further. You are wanted at the justice room at three o'clock this afternoon, and don't fail, please. Wanted at the justice room, retorted Afi. I, what for? And must not fail, as I say, repeated Mr. Ebenezer. You saw Levison taken up your old flame. Afi stabbed her foot in indignation interruption. Take care what you say, Ebenezer James. Flame, he, I'll have you put up for defamation of the character. Don't be a goose, Afi. It's of no use riding the high horse with me. You know where I saw you and saw him. People here said you were with dick hair. I could have told them better, but I did not. It was no affair of mine that I should proclaim it. Neither is it now. Levison, alias, thorn, is taken up for your father's murder, and you are wanted to give evidence. There, that is your subpoena. Baal thought you would not come without one. I will never give evidence against Levison, she uttered, tearing the subpoena to pieces, and scattering them in the street. I swear I won't. There, for you. Will I help to hang an innocent man, when it was dick hair who was the guilty one? No, I'll walk myself off a hundred miles away first, and stop in hiding till it's over. I shan't forget this turn that you have chosen to play me, Ebenezer James. I've chosen. Why do you suppose I have anything to do with it? Don't take up that notion, Afi. Mr. Baal put that subpoena in my hand and told me to serve it. He might have given it to the other clerk, just as he gave it to me. It was all chance. If I could do you a good turn, I'd do it, not a bad one. Afi strode on at railroad speed, waving him off. Mind you don't fail, Afi. He said, as he prepared to return. Fail, answered she, with flashing eyes. I shall fail, giving evidence. If you mean that. They don't give me up to their justice room, neither by force or strategium. Ebenezer James stood and looked after her as she tore along. What a spirit that Afi has got when it's put up. Quafie. She'll be doing, as she said, make off unless she stops. She's a great simpleton. Nothing particular need come out about her and thorn, unless she lets it out herself in her tantrums. Here comes Baal, I declare. I must tell him. On went Afi and gained Mrs. Latimer's. That lady, suffering from indisposition, was confined to the house. Afi, dive-staying herself of certain little odds and ends of her finery, made her way into Mrs. Latimer's presence. Oh, ma'am, such heart-trending news have I had. Began she. A relation of mine is dying, and wants to see me. I ought to be away by the next train. Dear me, cried Mrs. Latimer, after a pause of dismay. But how can I do without you, Afi? It's a dying request, ma'am, pleaded Afi, covering her eyes with her handkerchief, not the lace one, as if the death of Woe. Of course I wouldn't ask you under any other circumstances, severing as you are. Where is it to, asked Mrs. Latimer, how long shall you be away? Afi mentioned the first town that came up her most, and hoped she might be back tomorrow. What relation is it, continued Mrs. Latimer? I thought you had no relatives except Joyce and your aunt, Mrs. Cain. This is another aunt, cried Afi softly. I have never mentioned her, not being friends. Differences divided us, of course. That makes me all the more anxious to obey her request. An uncommon good hand at an impromptu tale was Afi, and Mrs. Latimer, consented to her demand. Afi flew upstairs, attired herself once more, put one or two things in a small other bag, placed some money in her purse, and left the house. Sauntering idly on the pavement on the sunny side of the street was a policeman. He crossed over to Afi, with whom he had a slight acquaintance. Good day, Miss Hallijong, a fine day, is it not? Fine enough, returned Afi, provoked at being hindered. I can't talk to you now, for I am in a hurry. The faster she walked, the faster he walked, keeping at her side. Afi's pace increased to a run, his increased to a run too. Whatever are you in such haste over? Hasty? Well, it's nothing to you, and I am sure. I don't want you to dance attendance upon me just now. There's a time for all things. I'll have some chatter with you another day. One would think you were hurrying to catch a train. So I am. If you must have your curiosity satisfied, I'm going on a little pleasure excursion, Mr. Inquisitive. For long? Um, home tomorrow, perhaps. It is true that Mr. Carlisle's elected? Oh yes, don't go up by that way, please. Not up this way, repeated Afi. It's the nearest road to the station. It cuts off all that corner. The officer laid his hand upon her, gently. Afi thought he was venturing upon it in sport, as if he deemed her too charming to be parted with. What do you mean by your nonsense? I tell you, I have not time for it now. Take your hand off me, she added grimly, for the hand was clasping her closer. I'm sorry to hurt a lady's feelings, especially yours, Miss, but I dare not take it off, and I dare not part with you. My instructions are to take you on at once to the witness room. Your evidence is won at this afternoon. If you ever saw a ghost more livid than ghosts and ordinary, you may picture, to your mind, the appearance of Afi Hallijon just then. She did not faint, as she had done once before that day, but she looked as if she should die. One sharp cry, instantly suppressed, for Afi did retain some presence of mind, and remembered that she was in the public road. One sharp tuzzle for liberty, over as soon, and she resigned herself, perforce to her fate. I have no evidence to give, she said, in a calmer tone. I know nothing of the facts. I am sure I don't know anything of them, return the man. I don't know why you are wanted. When instructions are given us, Miss, we can't ask what they mean. I was bid to watch that you didn't go off out of the town, and to bring you on to the witness room if you attempted it, and I have tried to do it as politely as possible. You don't imagine I'm going to walk through Westlin with your hand upon me. I'll take it off, Miss Hallijohn. If you'll give me a promise not to bolt, you see. Twound would come to nothing if he did, for I should be up with you in a couple of yards. Besides, it would be drawing folks' attention on you. You couldn't hope to outrun me, or be a match for me in strength. I will go quietly, said Afi. Take it off. She kept her word. Afi was no simpleton, and knew that she was no match for him. She had fallen into the hands of the Philistines, was powerless, and must make the best of it, so they walked through the street as if they were taking a quiet stroll. He gallantly, bearing the leather bag, Miss Carlyle's shocked eyes happened to fall upon them as they passed her window. She wondered where could be the eyes of the man's inspector.