 CHAPTER 20 GOING FROM HOME I should recommend a complete change of scene altogether, Mr Carlisle. Say some place on the French or Belgian coast, sea-bathing might do wonders. Should you think it well for her to go so far from home? I should. In these cases of protracted weakness, where you can do nothing but try to coax the strength back again, change of air and scene are of immense benefit. I will propose it to her, said Mr Carlisle. I have just done so, replied Dr Martin, who was the other speaker. She met it with objection, which I expected, for invalids naturally feel a disinclination to move from home, but it is necessary that she should go. The object of their conversation was Lady Isabel. Years had gone on, and there were three children now at East Lynn, Isabel, William, and Archibald. The latter twelve months old. Lady Isabel had, a month or two back, been attacked with illness. She recovered from the disorder, but it had left her in an alarming state of weakness. She seemed to get worse instead of better, and Dr Martin was summoned from Lindborough. The best thing he could recommend, as you have seen, was change of air. Lady Isabel was unwilling to take the advice, more especially to go so far as the French coast, and but for a circumstance that seemed to have happened purposefully to induce her to decide, would probably never have gone. Mrs Ducey, the reader may not have forgotten her name, had, in conjunction with her husband, the Honourable Augustus, somewhat run out at the elbows, and found it convenient to enter for a time on the less expensive life of the continent. For eighteen months she had been staying in Paris, the education of her younger daughters being the plea put forth, and a very convenient plea it is and serves hundreds. Isabel had two or three letters from her during her absence, and she now received another, saying that they were going to spend a month or two at Boulogne-sur-Mer. Mr Carlisle, Mr Wainwright, and Dr Martin, in short, everybody, declared this must remove all Lady Isabel's unwillingness to go from home. For Mrs Ducey's society would do away with the loneliness she had anticipated, which had been the ostensible score of her objection. Boulogne-sur-Mer, of all places in the world, remonstrated Lady Isabel, it is spoken of as being crowded and vulgar. The more amusing for you, my lady, cried Dr Martin, while Mr Carlisle laughed at her, and finding she had no chance against them all she consented to go, and plans were hastily decided upon. Joyce said Lady Isabel to her waiting maid, I shall leave you at home, I must take Wilson instead. Oh, my lady, what have I done? You have done all that you ought, Joyce, but you must stay with the children. If I may not take them, the next best thing will be to leave them in your charge, not Miss Carlisle's, she said, shaking her voice. If it were Wilson who remained, I could not do that. My lady, I must do whatever you think best, I wish I could attend you and stay with them, but of course I cannot do both. I am sent away to get health and strength, but it may be that I shall die, Joyce. If I never come back, will you promise to remain with my children? Joyce felt a creeping sensation in her veins, the sobs rose in her throat, but she swallowed them down and constrained her voice to calmness. My lady, I hope you will come back to us as well as you used to be, I trust you will hope so too, my lady, and not give way to low spirits. I sincerely hope and trust I shall, answered Lady Isabel fervently. Still, there is no telling, for I am very ill. Joyce, give me your promise, in case of the worst, you will remain with the children. I will, my lady, as long as I am permitted, and be kind to them and love them and shield them from any unkindness that may be put upon them, she added, her head full of Mrs. Carlyle, and talked to them sometimes of their poor mother, who is gone. I will, I will, oh my lady, I will! And Joyce sat down in the rocking chair as Lady Isabel quitted her, and burst into tears. Mr. Carlyle and Lady Isabel, with Wilson and Peter in attendance, arrived at Boulogne, and proceeded to the Hotel de Bain. It may be as well to mention that Peter had been transferred from Miss Carlyle's service to theirs, when the establishment was first formed at East Lynn. Upon entering the Hotel, they inquired for Mrs. Ducey, and then a disappointment awaited them. A letter was handed them, which had arrived that morning from Mrs. Ducey, expressing her regret that certain family arrangements prevented her visiting Boulogne. She was proceeding to some of the baths in Germany instead. I might almost have known it, remarked Isabel. She was always the most changeable of women. Mr. Carlyle went out in search of lodgings. Isabel objecting to remain in the bustling Hotel. He succeeded in finding some very desirable ones, situated in the eau de la queue, near the port, and they moved into them. He thought the journey had done her good, for she looked better and said she already felt stronger. Mr. Carlyle remained with her three days. He had promised only one, but he was pleased with everything around him, pleased with Isabel's returning glimpses of health, and amused with the scenes of the busy town. The tide served at eight o'clock the following morning, and Mr. Carlyle left by the Folkstone boat. Wilson made his breakfast, and after swallowing in haste, he returned to his wife's room to say farewell. Goodbye, my love, he said, stooping to kiss her. Take care of yourself. Give my dear love to the darlings, Archibald, and what, he asked, I have not a moment to lose. Do not get making love to Barbara Hare while I am away. She spoke in a tone half-gest, half-serious. Could he but have seen how her heart was breaking? Mr. Carlyle took it wholly as a jest, and went away laughing. Had he believed she was serious, he could have been little more surprised had she charged him not to go about the country on a dromedary. Isabel rose later, and lingered over her breakfast. Listless enough, she was wondering how she would make the next few weeks pass. What she should do with her time. She had taken two sea-baths since her arrival, but they had appeared not to agree with her, leaving her low and shivering afterwards. So it was not deemed advisable that she should attempt more. It was a lovely morning, and she determined to venture on to the pier, to where they had sat on the previous evening. She had not Mr. Carlyle's arm, but it was not far, and she could take a good rest at the end of it. She went, attended by Peter, took her seat, and told him to come for her in an hour. She watched the strollers on the pier as they had done the previous evening, not in crowds now, but stragglers, coming on at intervals. There came a gouty man in a list shoe. There came three young ladies and their governess. There came two fast puppies in shooting jackets and eyeglasses, which they turned with a broad stare on Lady Isabel, but there was something about her which caused them to drop their glasses and their ill manners together. After an interval there appeared another, a tall, handsome, gentlemanly man. Her eyes fell upon him, and what was it that caused every nerve in her frame to vibrate? Every pulse to quicken? Whose form was it that was thus advancing and changing the monotony of her mind into tumult? It was that of one whom she was soon to find had never been entirely forgotten. Queen Leveson came slowly on, approaching the pier where she sat. He glanced at her, not with the hardy hood displayed by the two young men, but with quite sufficiently evident admiration. What a lovely girl thought he to himself. Who can she be sitting there alone? All at once the recollection flashed into his mind. He raised his hat and extended his hand. His fascinating smile in full play. I certainly cannot be mistaken. Have I the honour of once more meeting Lady Isabel Vane? She rose from the seat and allowed him to take her hand, answering a few words at random, for her wits seemed wool-gathering. I beg your pardon, I should have said Lady Isabel Carlisle. He has elapsed since we parted, and in the pleasure of seeing you again so unexpectedly, I thought of you as you were then. She sat down again, the brilliant flush of emotion dying away upon her cheeks. It was the loveliest face Frances Leveson had seen since he saw hers, and he thought so as he gazed at it. What can have brought you to this place, he inquired, taking a seat beside her? I have been ill, she explained, and am ordered to the seaside. We should not have come here but for Mrs. Ducey. We expected to meet her. Mr. Carlisle only left me this morning. Mrs. Ducey is off to Ems. I see them occasionally. They have been fixtures in Paris for some time. You do indeed look ill. He abruptly added in a tone of sympathy, alarmingly ill. Is there anything I can do for you? She was aware that she looked unusually ill at that moment, for the agitation and surprise of meeting him were fading away, leaving her face an ashy whiteness. Exceedingly vexed and angry with herself, did she feel that the meeting should have power to call forth emotion? Till that moment she was unconscious that she retained any sort of feeling for Captain Levison. Perhaps I have ventured out too early, she said, in a tone that would seem to apologize for her looks. I think I will return. I shall meet my servant, no doubt. Good morning, Captain Levison. But indeed you do not appear fit to walk alone, he remonstrated. You must allow me to see you safely home. Having her hand within his own, quite as a matter of course, as he had done many a time in days gone by, he proceeded to assist her down the pier. Lady Isabel, conscious of her own feelings, felt that it was not quite the thing to walk thus familiarly with him, but he was a sort of a relation of the family, a connection at any rate, and she could find no ready excuse for declining. Have you seen Lady Mount Severn, lately, he inquired? I saw her when I was in London this spring with Mr Carlisle. The first time we have met since my marriage, and we do not correspond, Lord Mount Severn had paid us two or three visits at East Linn. They are in town yet, I believe. For all I know I have not seen them, or England either, for ten months. I have been staying in Paris, and got here yesterday, a long leave of absence, she observed. Oh, I have left the army, I sold out. The truth is, Lady Isabel, for I don't mind telling you. Things are rather down with me at present. My old uncle has behaved shamefully. He has married again. I heard that Sir Peter had married. He is seventy-three, the old simpleton. Of course, this materially alters my prospects. For it is just possible he may have a son of his own now, and my creditors all came down upon me. They allowed me to run into debt with complacency when I was heir to the title and estates. But as soon as Sir Peter's marriage appeared in the papers, myself and my consequence dropped a hundred percent. It was stopped and I was done for payment, so I thought I'd cut it all together, and I sold out and came abroad. Leaving your creditors? What else could I do? My uncle would not pay them, or increase my allowance. What are your prospects, then, resumed Lady Isabel? Prospects? Do you see that little ragged boy throwing stones into the harbour? It is well the police don't drop upon him, ask him what his prospects are, and he will stare you in the face and say, none. Mine are on a like-par. You may succeed Sir Peter yet. I may, but I may not, when those old idiots get a young wife. Have you quarreled with Sir Peter, interrupted Lady Isabel? I should quarrel with him as he deserves, if it would do any good, but I might get my allowance stopped. Self-interest, you see, Lady Isabel, is the order of the day with most of us. Do you propose staying in Boulogne long? I don't know. As I may find amusement, Paris is a fast capital, with its heated rooms and its late hours, and I came down for the refreshment of a few seed dips. Am I walking too fast for you? You increased your pace alarmingly when you spoke of Sir Peter's marriage, and I am not sorry for it, she added, good-naturedly. For it has proved to me how strong I am getting. A week ago I could not have walked half so fast. He interrupted with eager apologies, and soon they reached her home. Captain Leveson entered with her and invited. He probably deemed between connections great ceremonies might be dispensed with, and he sat a quarter of an hour chatting to amuse her. When he rose, he inquired what she meant to do with herself in the afternoon. To lie down, replied Isabel, I am not strong enough to sit up all day. Should you be going out afterwards, you must allow me to take care of you, he observed. I am glad that I happened to be here, for I am sure you are not fit to wander out without an arm, and only followed by a servant. When Mr. Carlisle comes, he will thank me for my pains. What was she to urge in objection? Simply nothing. He spoke, let us not doubt, from a genuine wish to serve her, in a plain, easy tone, as any acquaintance might speak. Lady Isabel schooled herself severely. If these old feelings were not quite dead within her, why she must smother them down again as effectually as if they were. The very fact of recognizing such to her own heart brought a glow of shame to her brow. She would meet Captain Levison and suffer his companionship as she would that of the most indifferent stranger. It was just the wrong way for her to go to work, though. As the days passed on, Lady Isabel improved wonderfully. She was soon able to go to the sands in the morning and sit there to enjoy the sea air, watching the waves come up to reside with the tide. She made no acquaintance whatever in the place, and when she had a companion it was Captain Levison. He would frequently join her there, sometimes take her, almost always give her his arm home. Of all things, she disliked the having to take his arm. Would a thousand times over rather have taken good old Peter's, a secret prick of the conscience, whispered it might be better if she did not. One day she said in a joking sort of manner, she would not say it in any other, that now she was strong she had no need of his arm and his escort. He demanded in evident astonishment what had arisen that he might not still afford it, seeing her husband was not with her to give her his. She had no answer in reply to this, no excuse to urge, and in default of one took his arm as usual. In the evening he would be ready to take her to the pier, but they sat apart, mixing not with the bustling crowd. He lending to his manner as he conversed with her, all that he would call up of fascination, and fascination such as Francis Levison's might be dangerous to any ear in the sweet evening twilight. The walk over, he left her at her own door. She never asked him in in the evening, and he did not intrude without as he sometimes would of a morning. Now where was the help for this? You may say that she should have remained indoors, and not have subjected herself to his companionship, but the remaining indoors would not have brought her health, and it was health that she was staying in Boulogne to acquire, and the sooner it came the better pleased she would be, for she wanted to be at home with her husband and children. In a fortnight from the period of his departure Mr Carlisle was expected in Boulogne, but what marvellous change had this fortnight wrought in Lady Isabel? She did not dare to analyse her feelings, but she was conscious that all the fresh emotions of her youth had come again. The blue sky seemed as of the sweetest sapphire. The green fields and waving trees were of an emerald brightness. The perfume of the flowers was more fragrant than any perfume had yet seemed. She knew that the sky, that the grassy plains, the leafy trees, the brilliant flowers were but as they ever had been. She knew that the sunny atmosphere possessed no more of loveliness, or power of imparting delight than of old, and she knew that the change, the sensation of ecstasy, was in her own heart. No wonder that she shrank from self-examination. The change from listless languor to her present feeling brought the hue and contour of health to her face far sooner than anything else could have done. She went down with Captain Levison to meet Mr Carlisle the evening he came in, and when Mr Carlisle saw her behind the cords as he was going to the Custom House, he scarcely knew her. Her features had lost their sharpness, her cheeks wore a rosy flush, and the light of pleasure in meeting him again shone in her eyes. What can you have been doing to yourself, my darling, he uttered in delight, as he emerged from the Custom House and took her hands in his. You look almost well. Yes, I am much better archibald, but I am warm now and flushed. We have waited here some time, and the setting sun was full upon us. How long was the boat in coming in? The wind was against us, replied Mr Carlisle, wondering who the exquisite was at his wife's side. He thought he remembered his face. Captain Levison said Lady Isabel, I wrote you word in one of my letters that he was here. Have you forgotten it? Yes, it had slipped from his memory. And I am happy that it happened so, said that gentleman, interposing, for it has enabled me to attend Lady Isabel in some of her walks. She is stronger now, but at first she was unfit to venture alone. I feel much indebted to you, said Mr Carlisle warmly. The following day was Sunday, and Francis Levison was asked to dine with them. The first meal he had been invited to in the house. After dinner, when Lady Isabel left them, he grew confidential over his cleric to Mr Carlisle, laying open all his intricate affairs and his cargo of troubles. This compulsory exile abroad is becoming intolerable, he concluded. And a Paris life plays the very deuce with one. Do you see any chance of my getting back to England? Not the least was the counter-answer, unless you could manage to satisfy, or partially satisfy, those claims you have been telling me of. Will not Sir Peter assist you? I believe he would, were the case fairly represented to him. But how am I to get over to do it? I have written several letters to him lately, and for some time I got no reply. Then came an epistle from Lady Levison, not short and sweet, but short and sour. It was to the effect that Peter was ill, and could not at present be troubled with business matters. He cannot be very ill, remarked Mr Carlisle. He passed through West Lynn in his open carriage a week ago. He ought to help me, rumbled Captain Levison. I am his heir, so long as Lady Levison does not give him one. I do not hear that she has expectations. You should contrive to see him. I know I should, but it is not possible under present circumstances, with these thunder clouds hanging over me. I dare not set foot in England, and run the risk to be dropped upon. I can stand a few things, but I shudder at the bare idea of a prison. Something peculiar in my idiosyncrasy I take it. For those who have tried it say it's nothing when you're used to it. Someone might see him for you. Someone who? I have quarreled with my lawyers, sharp and steel, of Lincoln's inn. Keen practitioners, put in Mr Carlisle. Too keen for me, I'd send them over the herring pond if I could. They have used me shamefully since my uncle's marriage. If ever I do come into the Levison estates they'll be ready to eat their ears off. They would like a finger in a pie with such property as that. Will I see Peter Levison for you? Will you? Returned Captain Levison, his dark eyes lighting up. If you like, as your friend you understand. Not as your solicitor, that I decline. I have a slight knowledge of Sir Peter. My father was well acquainted with him, and if I can render you any little service, I shall be happy in return for your kind attention to my wife. I cannot promise to see him for those two or three weeks, though, resumed Mr Carlisle, for we are terribly busy. I never was so driven, but for being so, I should stay here with my wife. Francis Levison expressed his gratitude, and the prospect, however remote, of being unable to return to England increased his spirits to exaltation. While they continued to converse, Lady Isabel sat at the window in the adjoining room, listlessly looking out on the crowds of French, who were crowding to and from the port in their Sunday holiday attire, looking at them with her eyes, not with her senses. Her senses were holding commune with herself, and it was not altogether satisfactory. She was aware that a sensation all too warm, a feeling of attraction towards Francis Levison, was working within her. Not a voluntary one, she could no more repress it than she could repress her own sense of being, and mixed with it was the stern voice of conscience overwhelming her with the most lively terror. She would have given all she possessed to be able to overcome it. She would have given half the years of her future life to separate herself at once and forever from the man. But do not mistake the word terror, or suppose that Lady Isabel Carlisle applied it here in the vulgar acceptation of the term. She did not fear for herself, none could be more conscious of self-rectitude of principle and conduct, and she would have believed it as impossible for her ever to forsake her duty as a wife, a gentle woman, and a Christian, as for the sun to turn round from west to east. That was not the fear which possessed her, it had never presented itself to her mind. What she did fear was that further companionship with Francis Levison might augment the sentiments she entertained for him to a height that her life, for perhaps years to come, would be one of unhappiness, a sort of concealment, and more than all, she shrank from the consciousness of the bitter wrong that these sentiments cast upon her husband. Archibald, I have a favour to ask you, she said, after Captain Levison's departure. Take me back with you. Impossible, my love, the change is doing you so much good, and I took the apartments for six weeks. You must at least remain that time. The colour flowed painfully into her cheek. I cannot stay without you, Archibald. Tell me why. I am so dull without you, was all she could say. He felt that this was not reason enough for altering an arrangement that was so beneficial to her, so he left the following morning commending her to the continued care of Captain Levison. Lady Isabelle was seated on one of the benches of the petit con, as it is called underneath the ramparts of the upper tower. A week or ten days had passed away since the departure of Mr Carlisle, and in her health there was a further visible improvement. It was still evening, cool for July. No sound was heard save the hum of the summer insects, and Lady Isabelle sat in silence with her companion, her rebellious heart beating with a sense of its own happiness. But for the voice of conscience strong within her, but for the sense of right and wrong, but for the existing things in short, but that she was a wife, she might have been content to sit by his side forever, never to wish to move or to break the silence. Did he read her feelings? He told her, months afterward, that he did, but it may have been a vain boast and excuse. Do you remember the evening Lady Isabelle, just such a one as this, that we all passed at Richmond, he suddenly asked? Your father, Mrs. Vane, you and I and others? Yes, I remember it. We had spent a pleasant day. The two Miss Chaloners were with us. You drove Mrs. Vane home, and I went with Papa. You drove recklessly, I recollect, and Mrs. Vane said when we got home that you should never drive her again, which meant not until the next time. Of all capricious Vane-exacting women, Emma Vane was the worst, and Emma Mount Severin is no improvement upon it. She's a systematic flirt and nothing better. I drove recklessly on purpose to put her in a fright and pay her off. What had she done? Put me in a rage. She had saddled herself upon me. When I wanted, I wished for another to be my companion. Blanche Chaloner? Blanche Chaloner? Echoed Captain Levison in a mocking tone? What did I care for Blanche Chaloner? Isabelle remembered that he had been supposed in those days to care a great deal for Miss Blanche Chaloner, a most lovely girl of seventeen. Mrs. Vane used to accuse you of caring too much for her, she said aloud. She accused me of caring for someone else more than for Blanche Chaloner. He significantly returned, and for once her jealous surmises were not misplaced. No, Lady Isabelle. It was not Blanche Chaloner I had wished to drive home. Could you not have given a better guess than that at the time? He added, turning to her, there was no mistaking the tone of his voice or the glance of his eye. Lady Isabelle felt a crimson flush rising, and she turned her face away. The past is gone, and cannot be recalled, he continued. But we both played our cards like simpletons. If ever two beings were formed to love each other, you and I were. I sometimes thought you read my feelings. Surprise had kept her silent, but she interrupted him now, haughtily enough. I must speak, Lady Isabelle. It is but a few words, and then I am silent forever. I would have declared myself had I dared, but my uncertain position, my debts, my inability to keep a wife weighed me down. And instead of appealing to Sir Peter, as I ought to have done for the means to assume a position that would justify me in asking Lord Mount Severn's daughter, I crushed my hopes within me and suffered you to escape. I will not hear this, Captain Levison. She cried, rising from her seat in anger. He touched her arm to place her on it again. One single moment yet I pray you. I have for years wished that you should know why I lost you, a loss that tells upon me yet. I have bitterly worked out my own folly, since I knew not how passionately I loved you until you became the wife of another. Isabelle, I love you passionately still. How dare you presume to address me? She spoke in a cold, dignified tone of auteur, as it was her boundened duty to speak, but nevertheless she was conscious of an undercurrent of feeling, whispering that under other auspices the avowal would have brought to her heart the most intense bliss. What I have said can do no hurt now, resumed Captain Levison. The time has gone by for it, for neither you nor I are likely to forget that you are a wife. We have each chosen our path in life, and must abide by it. The gulf between us is impossible, but the fault was mine. I ought to have avowed my affection, and not have suffered you to throw yourself away upon Mr. Carlyle. Throw myself away? She indignantly uttered, roused to the retort. Mr. Carlyle, as my dear husband, esteemed, respected, and beloved, I married him of my own free choice, and I have never repented it. I have grown more attached to him day by day. Look at his noble nature, his noble form. What are you by his side? You forget yourself, Francis Levison. He bit his lip. No, I do not. You are talking to me as you have no right to talk, she exclaimed in agitation. Who but you would so insult me, taking advantage of my momentarily unprotected condition? Would you dare to do it to a Mr. Carlyle within reach? I wish you good evening, sir. She walked away as quickly as her tired frame would permit. Captain Levison strode after her. He took forcible possession of her hand, and placed it within his arm. I pray you forgive and forget what has escaped me, Lady Isabel. Hurt me to be, as before, the kind friend, the anxious brother endeavouring to be of service to you in the absence of Mr. Carlyle. It is what I have suffered you to be, looking upon you, as I may say, a relative. She coldly rejoined, withdrawing her hand from his contact. Not else should I have permitted your incessant companionship, and this is how you have repaid it. My husband thanked you for your attention to me. Could he have read what was in your false heart? He had offered you a different sort of thanks, I fancy. I ask your pardon, Lady Isabel. I have acknowledged my fault, and I can do no more. I will not so offend again. But there are moments when our dearest feelings break through the covenances of life, and betray themselves, in spite of our sober judgment. Suffer me to support you down this deep hill, he added, for they were then going over the sharp stones of the Grand Rue. You are not strong enough to proceed alone after this evening's long walk. You should have thought of that before, she said, with some sarcasm in her tone. No, I have declined. So she had to put his arm back, which he was holding out, as she walked on unsupported, with what strength she had, he continuing by her side. Looking at her door, she wished him a cool good evening, and he turned away in the direction of his hotel. Lady Isabel brushed past Peter and flew upstairs, startling Wilson, who had taken possession of the drawing-room, to aid her smart cap at its windows in the absence of her lady. My desk, Wilson immediately cried she, bearing off her gloves, her bonnet, and her shawl. Tell Peter to be in readiness to take a letter to the post, and he must walk fast, or he will not catch it before the English mail is closed. The symptoms of sinful happiness, throbbing at her heart while Francis Levison told her of his love, spoke plainly to Lady Isabel of the expediency of withdrawing entirely from his society, and his dangerous sophistries. She would be away from the very place that contained him, put the sea between them. So she dashed off a letter to her husband, and urgent summons that he should come to her without delay, for remain away longer she would not. It is probable she would have started alone not waiting for Mr. Carlyle, but for fear of not having sufficient funds for the journey after the rent and other things were paid. Mr. Carlyle, when he received the letter and marked its earnest tone, wondered much. In reply he stated that he would be with her on the following Saturday, and then her returning or not with him would be settled. Fully determined not to meet Captain Levison, Isabel in the intervening days only went out in a carriage. He called once and was shown into the drawing-room, but Lady Isabel, who happened to be in her own chamber, sent out a message which was delivered by Peter, my lady's compliments, that she must decline receiving visitors. Sunday morning it had been impossible for him to get away before, brought Mr. Carlyle. He strongly combated her wish to return home until six weeks should have expired. He nearly said he would not take her, and she grew earnest over it, almost to agitation. Isabel, he said, let me know your motive, for it appears to me you have one. The sojourn here is evidently doing you a vast deal of good, and what you urge about being dull sounds very like nonsense. Tell me what it is. A sudden impulse flashed over her that she would tell him the truth. Not tell him that she loved Frances Levison, or that he had spoken to her as he did. She valued her husband too greatly to draw him into any unpleasantness whose end could not be seen, but own to him that she had once felt a passing fancy for Frances Levison, and preferred not to be subjected to his companionship now. Oh, that she had done so. Her kind, her noble, her judicious husband. Why did she not? The whole truth as to her present feelings, it was not expedient that she should tell, but she might have confided to him quite sufficient. He would only have cherished her the more deeply, and sheltered her under his fostering care, safe from harm. Why did she not? In the impulse of the moment she was about to do so, when Mr Carlisle, who had been taking a letter from his pocketbook, put it into her hand. Upon what slight threads the events of life turn. Her thoughts diverted, she remained silent while she opened the letter. It was from Miss Carlisle, who had handed it to her brother in the moment of his departure, to carry to Lady Isabel and save postage. Mr Carlisle had nearly dropped it into the Folkstone Post Office. A letter as stiff as Miss Corny herself. The children were well, and the house was going on well, and she hoped Lady Isabel was better. It filled three sides of note paper, but that was all the news it contained. And it wound up with the following sentence, I would continue my epistle, but Barbara Hare, who is to spend the day with us, has just arrived. Barbara Hare spending the day at East Lynn. That item was quite enough for Lady Isabel, and her heart and her confidence closed to her husband. She must go home to her children, she urged. She could not remain longer away from them, and she urged it at length with tears. Nay, Isabel, said Mr Carlisle, if you are so much in earnest as this, you shall certainly go back with me. Then she was like a child let loose from school. She laughed, she danced in her excessive content. She showered kisses on her husband, thanking him in her gleeful gratitude. Mr Carlisle set it down to her love for him. He arrived at the conclusion that, in reiterating that she could not bear to be away from him, she spoke the fond truth. Isabel, he said, smiling tenderly upon her, do you remember in the first days of our marriage, you told me that you did not yet love me, but that the love would come? I think this is it. Her face flushed nearly to tears at the words, a bright glowing, all too conscious flush. Mr Carlisle mistook its source, and caught her to his heart. Lady Isabel had returned home to bodily health, to the delight of meeting her children, to the glad sensation of security, but as the days went on, a miserable feeling of apathy stole over her, a feeling as if all whom she had loved in the world had died, leaving her living and alone. She did not encourage these reflections. Knowing what you do know of her, you may be sure of that, but they thrust themselves continually forward. The form of Frances Levison was ever present to her. Not a minute of the day, but it gave the colouring to her thoughts, and at night it made the subject of her dreams. Oh, those dreams. They were painful to wake from, painful from the contrasts they presented to reality, and equally painful to her conscience, in its strife after what was right. Mr Carlisle mounted his horse one morning, and rode over to Levison Park. He asked for Sir Peter, but was shown into the presence of Lady Levison, a young and pretty woman dressed showily. She inquired his business. My business, madam, is with Sir Peter. But Sir Peter is not well enough to attend to business. It upsets him, worries him. Nevertheless, I am here by his own appointment, twelve o'clock he mentioned, and the hour has barely struck. Lady Levison bit her lip and bowed coldly, and at that moment a servant appeared to conduct Mr Carlisle to Sir Peter. The matter which had taken Mr Carlisle with her was entered upon immediately. Frances Levison, his debts, and his gracelessness, Sir Peter, an old gentleman in a velvet skullcap, particularly enlarged upon the latter. I'd pay his debts today, and set him on his legs again, but that I know I should have to do the same thing over and over again, to the end of the chapter, as I have done it repeatedly hither-toe, cried Sir Peter. His grandfather was my only brother, his father my dutiful and beloved nephew, but he is just as bad as they were estimable. He is a worthless fellow, and nothing else, Mr Carlisle. His tale drew forth my compassion, and I promised I would see you and speak for him, returned Mr Carlisle. Of Captain Levison's personal virtues or vices, I know nothing. And the less you know, the better, growled Sir Peter. I suppose he wants me to clear him and start him afresh. Something of that sort, I conclude. But how is it to be done? I am at home, and he is over there. His affairs are in a state of confusion, and nobody can come to the bottom of them without an explanation from him. Some liabilities, for which I have furnished the money, the creditors swear have not been liquidated. He must come over if he wants anything done. Where is he to come to? He must be in England sub-roser? He can't be here, hastily rejoined Sir Peter. Lady Levison would not have him for a day. He might be at East Lynn, good-naturedly observed Mr Carlisle. Nobody would think of looking for him there. I think it is a pity that you should not meet if you do feel inclined to help him. You are a deal more considerate to him than he deserves, Mr Carlisle. May I ask if you intend to act for him in a professional capacity? I do not. A few more words, and it was decided that Captain Levison should be immediately sent for. As Mr Carlisle left Sir Peter's presence, he encountered Lady Levison. I can scarcely be ignorant that your conference with my husband has reference to his grand-nephew, she observed. It has, replied Mr Carlisle. I have had a very bad opinion of him, Mr Carlisle. At the same time, I do not wish you to carry away a wrong impression of me. Francis Levison is my husband's nephew, his presumptive heir. It may therefore appear strange that I set my face against him. Two or three years ago, previous to my marriage with Sir Peter, in fact, before I knew Sir Peter, I was brought into contact with Francis Levison. He got acquainted with some friends of mine, and at their house I met him. He behaved shamefully ill. He repaid their hospitality with gross ingratitude. Other details and facts regarding his conduct also became known to me. Altogether I believe him to be a base and despicable man, both by nature and inclination, and that he will remain such to the end of time. I know very little indeed of him, observed Mr Carlisle. May I inquire the nature of his ill conduct in that instance? He ruined them. He ruined them, Mr Carlisle. They were simple, unsuspicious country people, understanding neither fraud nor vice, nor the ways of an evil world. Francis Levison got them to put their names to bills as a matter of form, to accommodate him for a month or so, he stated, and so they believed. They were not wealthy, they lived upon their own small estate, with none too much of superfluous money to spare, and when the time came for them to pay, as come it did, it brought ruin and they had to leave their home. He deliberately did it, knowing what would be the end, and I could tell you of other things. Sir Peter may have informed you that I object to receive him here. I do. My objection is to the man, to his character, not owing, as I hear it has been said, to any jealous paltry feeling touching his being the heir. I must lose my own self-respect before I admit Francis Levison to my house as an inmate. Sir Peter may assist him in welcome, may pay his debt and get him out of his scrapes as often as he pleases, but I will not have him here. Sir Peter said you declined to receive him, but it is necessary that he should come to England if his affairs are to be set straight, and also that he should see Sir Peter. Come to England, interrupted Lady Levison, how can he come to England under present circumstances, unless indeed he comes en cachette? En cachette, of course, replied Mr Carlisle, there is no other way. I have offered to let him stay at East Lynn. He is, you may be aware, a sort of a connection of Lady Isabel's. Take care that he does not repay your hospitality with ingratitude, warmly returned Lady Levison. It would only be in accordance with his practice. Mr Carlisle laughed. I do not see what harm he could do me, allowing that he had the inclination. He would not scare my clients from me, or beat my children, and I can take care of my pocket. A few days no doubt will be the extent of his sojourn. Lady Levison smiled too, and shook hands with Mr Carlisle. In your house perhaps there may be no field for his vagaries, but rely on it. Where there is one, he is sure to be at some mischief or other. This visit of Mr Carlisle's to Levison Park took place on a Friday morning, and on his return to his office he dispatched an account of it to Captain Levison at Boulogne, telling him he had better come over. But now Mr Carlisle, like many another man whose mind has had its share of work, was sometimes forgetful of trifles, and it entirely slipped his memory to mention the expected arrival at home. The following evening, Saturday, he and Lady Isabel were dining in the neighborhood, and the conversation at table turned upon the doosies and their embarrassments. The association of ideas led Mr Carlisle's thoughts to Boulogne, to Captain Levison and his embarrassments, and it immediately occurred to him that he had not told his wife of the anticipated visit. He kept it in his mind then, and spoke as soon as they were in the chariot returning home. Isabel began he, I suppose, we always have rooms ready for visitors, because I am expecting one. Oh yes, or if not, they are soon made ready. Ah, but tomorrow's Sunday, and I have no doubt that's the day he will take advantage of to come. I am sorry I forgot to mention it yesterday. Who is coming then? Captain Levison. Who? Repeated Lady Isabel in a sharp tone of consternation. Captain Levison, Sir Peter consents to see him with a view to the settlement of his liabilities, but Lady Levison declines to receive him at the park, so I offered to give him house room at East Linn for a few days. There is an old saying, the heart leaping into the mouth, and Lady Isabel's leapt into hers. She grew dizzy at the words. Her senses seemed momentarily to desert her. Her first sensation was as if the dull earth had opened up and shown her away into paradise. Her second, a lively consciousness that Francis Levison ought not to be suffered to come again into companionship with her. Mr Carlisle continued to converse of the man's embarrassments of his own interview with Sir Peter and Lady Levison, but Isabel was as one who had heard not. She was debating the question, how could she prevent his coming? Archibald. She presently said, I do not wish Francis Levison to stay at East Linn. It will only be for a few days, perhaps but a day or two. Sir Peter is in the humour to discharge the claims, and the moment his resolve is known, the ex-captain can walk on Her Majesty's dominions, an unmolested man free to go where he will. That may be, interrupted Lady Isabel in an accent of impatience. But why should he come to our house? I proposed it myself. I had no idea you would dislike his coming. Why should you? I don't like Francis Levison, she murmured. That is, I don't care to have him at East Linn. My dear, I fear there is no help for it now. He is most likely on his road and will arrive tomorrow. I cannot turn him out again after my own voluntary invitation. Had I known it would be disagreeable to you, I would not have proposed it. Tomorrow? She exclaimed, all the words that caught her ear, is he coming tomorrow? Being Sunday, a free day, he will be sure to take advantage of it. What has he done that you should object to his coming? You did not say in Boloin that you disliked him? He had done nothing was her faltering answer, feeling that her grounds of opposition must melt under her one by one. Lady Levison appears to possess a very ill opinion of him, resumed Mr Carlisle. She says she knew him in years gone by. She mentioned one or two things which, if true, must be bad enough, but possibly she may be prejudiced. She is prejudiced, said Isabel. At least Francis Levison told me so at Boloin. There appeared to be no love lost between them. At any rate, his ill-doings or well-doings cannot affect us for the short period. He is likely to remain. You have taken a prejudice against him also, I suppose, Isabel. She suffered Mr Carlisle to remain in the belief and sat with clasped hands and a despairing spirit feeling that fate was against her. How could she accomplish her task of forgetting this man if he was thus to be thrown into her home and her companionship? Suddenly she turned to her husband and laid her cheek upon his shoulder. He thought she was tired. He passed his arm around her waist, drew her face to a more comfortable position, and bent his own lovingly upon it. It came to her mind as she lay there to tell him a portion of the truth, like it had done once before. It was a strong arm of shelter that round her, a powerful pillar of protection, him upon whom she leaned. Why did she not confide herself to him as trustingly as a little child? Simply because her courage failed. Once, twice, the opening words were upon her lips, but come forth they did not, and then the carriage stopped at East Lynn, and the opportunity was over. Oh, how many a time in her after years did Lady Isabel recall that midnight drive with her husband, and wish, in her vain repentance, that she had opened his eyes to that dangerous man. On Sunday Captain Leveson arrived at East Lynn. End of Chapter 21. The next day rose bright, warm and cloudless, and the morning sun streamed into the bedroom of Mrs. Hare. Mr. and Mrs. Hare were off the old-fashioned class, who knew nothing about dressing rooms. Their bedrooms were very large, and they never used the dressing room in their lives, or found the want of one. The justice rubbed his face to a shining brilliancy, settled on his morning wig and his dressing gown, and then turned to the bed. What will you have for breakfast? Thank you, Richard. I do not think I can eat anything. I shall be glad of my tea. I am very thirsty." All nonsense responded the justice, alluding to the intimation of not eating. Have a poached egg. Mrs. Hare smiled at him, and gently shook her head. You are very kind, Richard, but I could not eat this morning. Barbara may send up the smallest bit of dry toast. Would you please throw the window open before you go down? I should like to feel the air. You will get the air too near from this window," replied Mr. Justice Hare, opening the further one. Had his wife requested that the further one to be open, he would have opened the other. His own will and opinions were ever paramount. Then he descended. Aminorotu and Aparambabra, looking bright and fair as the morning, her pink muscle and dress with its ribbon and its open white lace sleeves as pretty as she was. She leaned over to kiss her mother. Mama, are you ill? And you have been so well lately. You went to bed so well last night, Papa says. Barbara, dear, interrupted Mrs. Hare, glancing around the room with dread and speaking in a deep whisper. I have had one of those dreadful dreams again. Oh, Mama, how can you, exclaimed Barbara, starting up in vexation, how can you suffer a foolish dream to overcome you as to make you ill? You have good sense in other matters, but in this you seem to put all sense away from you. Child, will you tell me how I am to help it? Returned Mrs. Hare, taking Barbara's hand and drawing her to her again. I do not give myself the dreams. I cannot prevent them making me sick, prostrate and feverish. How can I help these things, I ask. At this moment the bedroom door was flung open and the face of the justice, especially stern and cross, then was pushed in. So startled was Mrs. Hare, that she shook till she shook the pillow, and Barbara sprang away from the bed. Surely he had not distinguished their topic of conversation. Are you coming to make the breakfast today or not, Barbara? Do you expect me to make it? She is coming this instant, Richard, said Mrs. Hare, her voice more faint than usual, and the justice turned and stamped down again. Barbara, could your Papa have heard me mention Richard? No, no, Mama, impossible. The door was shut. I will bring up your breakfast myself, and then you can tell me the dream. Barbara flew after Mr. Hare, poured out his coffee, saw him settled at his breakfast, with a plate full of grass pie before him, and then returned upstairs with a Mama's tea and dry toast. Go on with your dream, Mama, she said. But your breakfast will be cold, child. Oh, don't mind that. Did you dream of Richard? Not very much of Richard, except that the old and continuous trouble of his being away and unable to return, seemed to pervade it all through. You remember, Barbara, Richard asserted to us in that short, hidden night visit, that he did not commit the murder, that it was another who did. Yes, I remember it, replied Barbara. Barbara, I am convinced he spoke the truth. I trust him implicitly. I feel sure of it also, Mama. I asked him, you remember, whether it was Otway Bethel who committed it, for I have always doubted Bethel in an indefinite vague manner. Richard replied it was not Bethel, but a stranger. Well, Barbara, in my dream I thought that stranger came to West Lynn, that he came to this house here, and we were talking to him off him, conversing as we might with any other visitor. And you, we seem to know that he was the one who actually did it, but he denied it. He wanted to put it upon Richard, and I saw him. Yes, I did, Barbara, whisper to Otway Bethel. But oh, I cannot tell you the sickening horror that was upon me throughout, and seemed to be upon you also, lest he should make good his own apparent innocence and crush Richard his victim. I think the dread and horror awoke me. What was he like, this stranger, asked Barbara in a low tone. Well, I cannot quite tell. The recollection of his appearance seemed to pass away from me with a dream. He was dressed as a gentleman, and we conversed with him as an equal. Barbara's mind was full of Captain Thorn, but his name had not been mentioned to Mrs. Hare, and neither would she mention it now. She fell into deep thought, and Mrs. Hare had to speak twice before she could be aroused. Barbara, I say, don't you think this dream, coming uncalled for, uninduced, must forebode some ill? Rely upon it. Something connected with that wretched murder is going to be stirred up again. You know I do not believe in dreams, was Barbara's answer. I think when people say this dream is a sign of such and such a thing, it is the greatest absurdity in the world. I wish you could remember what the man seemed like in your dream. I wish I could, answered Mrs. Hare, breaking off a particle off a dry toast. All I can remember is that he appeared to be a gentleman. Was he tall? Had he black hair? Mrs. Hare shook her head. I tell you, my dear, remembrance has passed from me. So whether his hair was black or light, I cannot say. I think he was tall, but he was sitting down, and Ottway Bethel stood behind his chair. I seem to feel that Richard was outside the door in hiding, trembling lest the man should go out and see him there. And I trembled too. Oh, Barbara, it was a distressing dream. I wish you could avoid having the mama, for they seemed to upset you very much. Why did you ask whether the man was tall and had black hair? Barbara returned an evasive answer. It would not do to tell Mrs. Hare that her suspicions pointed to one particular quarter. It would have agitated her too greatly. So vivid was the dream she could scarcely persuade herself when she awoke that it was not real, and the murderer actually at West Lynn. Oh, Barbara, Barbara, she exclaimed in a wailing tone. When will this mystery be cleared, and my own restored to me? Seven years since he stole here to see us, and no tidings yet. He'll say that changes come every seven years, Mama, said Barbara, hopefully. But I will go down and send you up some more tea. And guard your countenance well, returned her mother. Don't let your father suspect anything. Remember his oath to bring Richard to justice. If he thought we'd dwelt on his innocence, there is no knowing what he might do to find him. He is so very just. So very cruel and unnatural, I call it, Mama. But never fear my betraying anything. But have you heard about Joyce? No, what is it? She had a severe fall while playing with little Isabel, and it is said she will be confined to bed for several weeks. I am very sorry for her. And composing her face, she descended to the breakfast room. The dinner hour at the hares when they were alone was four o'clock, and it arrived that day as usual, and they sat down to table. Mrs. Hare was better then. The sunshine and the business of stirring life had in some measure effaced the visions of the night, and restored her to her wanted frame of mind. The cloth removed the justice sat but a little while over his port wine, for he was engaged to smoke enough the dinner pipe with the brother magistrate, Mr. Justice Herbert. Will you be home to tea, Papa? inquired Barbara. Is there any business of yours, young lady? Oh, not in the least, answered Miss Barbara. Only if you had been coming home to tea, I suppose we must have waited, had you not been in time. I thought you said, Richard, that you were going to stay the evening with Mr. Herbert, observed Mrs. Hare. So I am, responded the Justice. But Barbara has a great liking for the sound of her own tongue. The Justice departed, striding pompously down the gravel walk. Barbara waltzed around the large room to a gleeful song, as if she felt his absence a relief. Perhaps she did. You can have tea now, Mama, at any time you please. If you are thirsty, without waiting till seven, quoth she. Barbara, said Mrs. Hare, what, Mama? I am sorry to hear of the calamity which has fallen upon Joyce. I should like to walk to easel in this evening, and inquire after her, and see her, if I may. It would be but neighborly. I feel quite equal to it. Since I have accustomed myself to take more exercise, I feel better for it, you know. And we have not been out today. Poor Joyce. What time shall we go, Barbara? If we were to get there by, by seven, I should think, their dinner will be over then. Yes, answered Mrs. Hare. The Lackrity, who was always pleased when somebody else decided for her. But I should like some tea before we start, Barbara. Barbara took care that her Mama should have some tea, and then they proceeded towards easel in. It was a lovely evening. The air warm, and the humming-knat sported in it, as if to make the most of the waning summer. Mrs. Hare enjoyed it at first, but ere she reached easel in, she became aware that the walk was too much for her. She did not usually venture upon half so long a one, and probably the fever and agitation off the morning had somewhat impaired her day's strength. She laid her hand upon the iron gate as they turned into the park, and stood still. I did wrong to come, Barbara. Lean on me, Mama. When you reach those benches, you can take a good rest before proceeding to the house. It is very warm, and that may have fatigued you. They gained the benches, which were placed under some of the park trees, in front of the gates and the road, but not off the house. And Mrs. Hare sat down. Another minute, and they were surrounded. Mr. Carlyle, his wife and sister, who were taking an after-dinner stroll, and missed the flowers with their guest, Frances Levison discerned them, and came up. The children, except the youngest, were off the party. Lady Isabel warmly welcomed Mrs. Hare. She had become quite attached to the delicate and suffering woman. A pretty one I am. Am I not archable to come inquiring after one invalid, and am so much of an invalid myself that I have to stop half way?" Mrs. Hare exclaimed, as Mr. Carlyle shook her hand. I was so greatly concerned to hear of poor Joyce. You must stay the evening. Now you are here, cried Lady Isabel. It will afford you a good rest, and tea will refresh you. Oh, thank you, but we have taken tea, said Mrs. Hare. There is no reason why you should not take some more, she laughed. Indeed, you seem too fatigued to be anything but a prisoner with us for the next hour or two. I fear I am, answered Mrs. Hare. Who the dickens are they? Captain Levison was muttering to himself, as he contemplated the guests from a distance. It is a juiced pretty girl, whoever she may be. I think I'll approach. They don't look formidable. He did approach, and the introduction was made. Captain Levison, Mrs. Hare, Mrs. Hare, a few formal words, and Captain Levison disappeared again, challenging little William Carlyle to a foot race. How very poorly your mama looks, Mr. Carlyle exclaimed to Barbara, when they were beyond the hearing of Mrs. Hare, who was busy talking with Lady Isabel and Mrs. Carlyle. And she appeared so much stronger lately, altogether better. The walk here has fatigued her. I feared it would be too long, so that she looks unusually pale, replied Barbara. But what do you think it is that has upset her again, Mr. Carlyle? He turned his inquiring eyes upon Barbara. Papa came downstairs this morning, saying mama was ill, that she had one of her older tacks of fever and restlessness. I declare, as papa spoke, I thought to myself, could mama have been dreaming some foolish dream again? Will you remember how ill she used to be after them? I ran upstairs, and the first thing that mama said to me was that she had had one of those dreadful dreams. I fancied she must have outlived her fear of them, that her own plain sense had come to her aid long ago, showing her how futile dreams are, meaning nothing, even if hers do occasionally touch upon that unhappy mystery. You may just as well reason with the post as reason with mama when she is suffering from the influence of one of those dreams, returned Barbara. I tried it this morning. I asked her to call up, as you observe, good sense to her aid. And her reply was, how could she help her feelings? She did not induce the dream by thinking of Richard, or in any other way. And yet it came and shattered her. Of course, so far mama is right, for she cannot help the dreams coming. CHAPTER 22 PART II Mrs. Hare's dream continued. Mr. Carlyle made no immediate reply. He picked up a ball belonging to one of the children which lay in his path, and began tossing it gently in his hand. It is a singular thing, he observed presently, that we do not hear from Richard. Oh, very, very, and I know mama distresses over it, a few words which you let fall this morning betrayed it plainly. I am no believer in dreams, continued Barbara. But I cannot deny that these which take such a hold upon mama, do bear upon the case in a curious manner, the one she had last night especially. What was it? Asked Mr. Carlyle. She dreamed that the real murderer was at West Lynn. She thought he was at our house, as a visitor, she said, all like one making a morning call. When we, she and I, were conversing with him about the murder, he wanted to deny it, to put it on Richard, and he turned and whispered to Ottway Bethel, who stood behind his chair. This is another strange thing, added Barbara, lifting her blue eyes in the deep earnestness to the face of Mr. Carlyle. What is strange? You speak in enigmas, Barbara. I mean that Ottway Bethel should invariably appear in her dreams, all that stolen visit of Richard's. We had no idea he was near the spot at the time, and yet he had always made a prominent feature in these dreams. And who was the murderer? In your mama's dream, continued Mr. Carlyle, speaking as gravely as though he were upon a subject that men ridicule not. She cannot remember, except that he seemed a gentleman, and that we held into course with him as such. Now, that again is remarkable. We never told her, you know, of our suspicions of Captain Thorn. I think you must be becoming a convert to the theory of dreams yourself, Barbara. You are so very earnest, smiled Mr. Carlyle. No, not to dreams, but I am earnest for my dear brother Richard's sake. That Thorn does not appear in a hurry again to favour Westlin with his Mr. Carlyle post, for Barbara had hurriedly laid her hand upon his arm with a warning gesture. In talking they had wandered across the park to its ornamental grounds and were now in a quiet path, overshadowed on the other side by a chain of imitation rocks. Seated astride on the summit of these rocks, right above where Mr. Carlyle and Barbara were standing, was Francis Leverson. His face was turned from them, and he appeared in tent upon a child's whip, winding leather around its handle. Whether he heard the footsteps or not, he did not turn. They quickened their pace and quitted the walk, bending their steps backward toward the group of ladies. Could he have heard what we were saying? ejaculated Barbara below her breath. Mr. Carlyle looked down upon the concerned flushed cheeks with a smile. Barbara was so evidently perturbed. But for a certain episode off their lives, some years ago, he might have soothed her tenderly. I think he must have heard a little, Barbara, unless his wits were wall-gathering. He might not be attending. What if he did hear? It is of no consequence. I was speaking, you know, of Captain Thorne, of his being the murderer. You were not speaking of Richard or his movements, so never mind. Leverson is a stranger to the whole. It is nothing to him. If he did hear the name of Thorne mentioned, or even distinguished the subject, he would bear for him no interest, would go, as the saying runs, in at one ear and out at the other, be at rest, Barbara. He really did look somewhat tenderly upon her as he spoke, and they were near enough to Lady Isabel for her to note the glance. She need not have been jealous. It bore no treachery to her. But she did note it. She had noted also their wandering away together, and she jumped to the conclusion that it was premeditated, that they had gone beyond her sight to enjoy each other's society for a few stolen moments. Wonderfully attractive looked Barbara that evening, for Mr. Carlyle or anyone else to steal away with. Her tasty, elegant, airy summer attire, her bright blue eyes, her charming features, and her damasked cheeks. She had untied the strings off her pretty white bonnet, and was restlessly playing with them, more in thought than nervousness. Barbara, love, how are we to get home? asked Mrs. Hare. I do fear I shall never walk it. I wish I had told Benjamin to bring the faton. I can send to him, said Mr. Carlyle. But it is too bad of me, Archibald, to take you and Lady Isabel by storm in this unceremonious manner, and to give your servants trouble besides. A great deal too bad, I think, returned Mr. Carlyle with mock gravity. As to the servants, the one who has to go will never get over the trouble, depend upon it. You always were more concerned for others than for yourself, dear Mrs. Hare. And you were always kind, Archibald, soothing difficulties for all, and making a trouble of nothing. Ah, Lady Isabel, where I, a young woman, I should be ennobling you, your good husband. There are not many like him. Possibly the sentence reminded Lady Isabel that another, who was young, might be envying her. For her cheeks, Isabel's, flushed crimson. Mr. Carlyle held out his strong arm of help to Mrs. Hare. If sufficiently rested, I fancy you would be more comfortable on a sofa indoors. Allow me to support you thither. And you can take my arm on the other side, cried Mrs. Carlyle, placing her tall form by Mrs. Hare. Between us both we will pull you bravely along. The feet need scarcely touch the ground. Mrs. Hare laughed, but said she thought Mr. Carlyle's arm would be sufficient. She took it, and they were turning toward the house, when her eye caught the form of a gentleman passing along the road by the park gate. Barbara, run! She hurriedly exclaimed. There's Tom Herbert going toward our house. And he will just call in and tell them to send the fate and, if you ask him, which will save the trouble to Mr. Carlyle's servants of going expressly. Make haste, child. You will be up with him in half a minute. Barbara, thus urged, set off on the spur of the moment toward the gates, before the rest of the party well knew what was being done. It was too late for Mr. Carlyle to stop her and repeat that the servant should go, for Barbara was already up with Mr. Tom Herbert. The latter had seen her running toward him and waited at the gate. Are you going past our house? Barbara, then, perceived the Otway Bethel also stood there, but just beyond the view of the women. Yes, why? replied Tom Herbert, who was not famed for his politeness, being blunt by nature and fast by habit. Mama would be so much obliged to you if you could just call in and leave word that Benjamin is to bring up the faton. Mama walked here, intending to walk home, but she finds herself so fatigued as to be unequal to it. All right, I'll call and send him. What time? Nothing had been said to Barbara about the time, so she was at liberty to name her own. Ten o'clock, we shall be home then before Papa. That you will, responded Tom Herbert. He and the Governor and two or three more old codgers are blowing clouds till you can't see across the room, and they are sure to get at it after supper. I say, Miss Barbara, are you engaged for a few picnics? Good for a great many, returned Barbara. Our girls want to get up some in the next week or two. Jack's home, you know. Is he? said Barbara in surprise. We had a letter yesterday, and he came today. A brother offers a with him. Jack vows, if the girls don't cater well for them in the way of amusement, he'll never honour them by spending his leave at home again. So mind you keep yourself in readiness for any fund that may turn up. Good evening. Good evening, Miss Hare, added Ottway Bethel. As Barbara was returning the salutation, she became conscious of other footsteps advancing from the same direction that they had come, and moved her head hastily round. Two gentlemen walking arm in arm were close upon her, in one of whom she recognised. Jack! Otherwise, Major Herbert, he stopped and held out his hand. It is some year since we met, but I have not forgotten the pretty face of Miss Barbara, he cried. A young girl's face it was then, but it is the stately young ladies now. Barbara laughed. Your brother has just told me you had arrived at Wesselin, but I did not know you were so close to me. He has been asking me if I am ready for some pick. Barbara's voice faltered, and the rushing crimson died her face. Whose face was that? Who was he standing opposite to her, side by side with John Herbert? She had seen the face but once, yet it had implanted itself upon her memory in characters of fire. Major Herbert continued to talk, but Barbara for once lost her self-possession. She could not listen. She could only stare at that face as he fascinated to the gaze, looking herself something like a simpleton, her shy blue eyes anxious and restless, and her lips turning to an ashy whiteness. A strange feeling of wonder, a superstition was creeping over Barbara. Was that man behind her in sober, veritable reality, or was it but a phantom called up in her mind by the associations rising from her mama's dream, or by the conversation held not many moments ago with Mr. Carlyle? Major Herbert may have deemed that Barbara, who evidently could not attend to himself, but was attending to his companion, which for an introduction, and he accordingly made it. Captain Thorn? Miss Hare. Then Barbara roused herself, her senses were partially coming to her, and she became alive to the fact that they must deem her behaviour unorthodox for a young lady. I looked at Captain Thorn, for I thought I remembered his face, she stammered. I was in West Linn for a day or two, some five years ago, he observed. Ah, yes, return Barbara, are you going to make a long stay now? We have several weeks' leave of absence, whether we shall remain here all the time, I cannot say. Barbara parted from them, thought upon thought, crowded upon her brain as she flew back to East Linn. She ran up the steps to the hall, gliding toward a group which stood near its further end, her mother, Miss Carlyle, Mr. Carlyle, and little Isabelle. Lady Isabelle, she did not see, Mrs. Hare was then going up to see Joyce. In the agitation of the moment she stealthily touched Mr. Carlyle, and he stepped away from the rest to speak to her. She drew him back toward the door of one of the reception rooms and motioning him to approach. Oh, Archibald, I must speak to you alone. Could you not come out again for a little while? He nodded and walked out openly by her side. Why should he not? What had he to conceal? But, unfortunately, Lady Isabelle, who had but gone into the same room for a minute, and was coming out again to join Mrs. Hare, both saw Barbara's touch upon her husband's arm, marked her agitation, and heard her words. She went to one of the hall windows and watched them saunter toward the more private part of the ground. She saw her husband send back Isabelle, never since her marriage had Lady Isabelle's jealousy been excited as it was excited that evening. Oh, I feel I scarcely know whether I am awake or dreaming, began Barbara, putting up her hand to her brow and speaking in a dreamy tone. Pardon me for bringing you out in this unceremonious fashion. What state secrets have you to discuss? asked Mr. Carlyle in a jesting manner. We were speaking of Mama's dream. She said that impression it had left upon her mind that the murderer was in West Lynn was so vivid that in spite of common sense she could not persuade herself that he was not. Well, just now. Barbara, what can be the matter? uttered Mr. Carlyle, perceiving that her agitation was so great as to impede her words. I have just seen him, she rejoined. Seen him? echoed Mr. Carlyle, looking at her fixedly, a doubt crossing his mind where the Barbara's mind might be as uncollected as her manner. What were nearly my last words to you? That if ever that thorn did come to West Lynn again, I would leave no stone unturned to bring it home to him. Here he is archibald. Now when I went to the gate to speak to Tom Herbert, his brother Major Herbert was also there, and with him Captain Thorn, Bethel also. Do you wonder I say that I know not whether I am awake or dreaming? They have some weeks holiday and are here to spend it. It is a singular coincidence, exclaims Mr. Carlyle. Had anything been wanting to convince me that Thorn is the guilty man, this would have done it, went on Barbara in her excitement. Mama's dream, with a steadfast impression and left upon her, that Hallie John's murderer was now at West Lynn. In turning the sharp corner of the covered walk they came in contact with Captain Levison, who appeared to be either standing or sauntering there. His hands underneath his coattails, again Barbara felt vexed, wondering how much he had heard, and beginning in her heart to dislike the man. He accosted them familiarly, and appeared as if he would have turned with them, but none could put down presumption more effectually than Mr. Carlyle, calm and gentlemanly though he always was. I will join you presently, Captain Levison, he said with a wave of the hand, and he turned back with Barbara toward the open parts of the park. Do you like that Captain Levison? She abruptly inquired, when they were beyond hearing. I cannot say I do, was Mr. Carlyle's reply. He is one who does not improve upon acquaintance. To me it looks as though he had placed himself in our way to hear what we were saying. No, no, Barbara. What interest could it bear for him? Barbara did not contest the point. She turned to the one nearer at heart. What must be our cause with regard to thorn? It is more than I can tell you, replied Mr. Carlyle. I cannot go up to the man and unceremoniously accuse him of being Hallie John's murderer. They took their way to the house, for there was nothing further to discuss. Captain Levison entered it before them, and saw Lady Isabel standing at the hall window. Yes, she was standing and looking still, brooding over her fancied rongs. Who is that Miss Hare? He demanded in a cynical tone. They appear to have a pretty good understanding together. Twice this evening I have met them enjoying a private walk and a private comfab. What did you say? Sharply and haughtily returned Lady Isabel. No, I did not mean to offend you, was the answer, for he knew that she heard his words distinctly in spite of her question. CHAPTER XXIII In talking over a bygone misfortune, we sometimes make the remark, or hear it made to us, circumstances worked against us. Such and such a thing might have turned out differently, we say, had the surrounding circumstances been more favourable. But they were in opposition, they were dead against it. Now if ever attendant circumstances can be said to have borne a baneful influence upon any person in this world, they most assuredly did at this present time against Lady Isabel Carlyle. Co-evil, you see, with the arrival of the ex-captain, Leveson, at East Linn, all the jealous feeling touching her husband and Barbara Hare was renewed, and with greater force than ever. Barbara painfully anxious that something should be brought to light. It would have puzzled her to say how or by what means, by which her brother should be exonerated from the terrible charge under which he lay, fully believing that Frederick Thorne, captain in her majesty service, was the man who had committed the crime, as asserted by Richard, was in a state of excitement bordering upon frenzy. Too keenly she felt the truth of her own words, that she was powerless, that she could herself do nothing. When she rose in the morning, after a night passed in troubled reflection, more than in sleep, her thoughts were, oh, that I could this day find out something certain. She was often at Herbert's, frequently invited there, sometimes going uninvited. She and the Herbert's were intimate, and they pressed Barbara into all the impromptu gay-doings. Now their brother was at home. There she, of course, saw Captain Thorne, and now and then she was enabled to pick up scraps off his past history. Only were the scraps carried to Mr. Carlyle. Not at his office, Barbara would not appear there. Perhaps she was afraid of the gossiping tongues of Westlin, or that her visits might have come to the knowledge of that stern prying and questioning old gentleman whom she called Sire. It may be, too, that she feared, if seen haunting Mr. Carlyle's office, Captain Thorne might come to hear of it and suspect the agitation. That was the float. Four, who could know better than he, the guilt that was falsely attaching to Richard. Therefore, she chose rather to go to Eastlin, or to wailay Mr. Carlyle as he passed to and from business. It was little she gathered to tell him. One evening she met him with the news that Mr. Thorne had been in former years at Westlin, though she could not fix the date. Another time she went boldly to Eastlin in eager anxiety, ostensibly to make a call on Lady Isabel, and a very restless one it was, contriving to make Mr. Carlyle understand that she wanted to see him alone. He went out with her when she departed, and accompanied her as far as the park gates. The two evidently absorbed in Erna's converse. Lady Isabel's jealous eyes saw that. The communication Barbara had to make was that Captain Thorne had let fall the avowal that he had once been in trouble, though off its nature there was no indication given. Another journey of hers took the scrap of news that she had discovered he knew Swainson well. Part of this, nay, perhaps the whole of it, Mr. Carlyle had found out for himself. Nevertheless, he always received Barbara with vivid interest. Richard Hare was related to Ms. Carlyle, and if his innocence could be made clear in the sight of men, it would be little less gratifying to them than to the heirs. Of Richard's innocence Mr. Carlyle now entertained little, if any doubt, and he was becoming impressed with the guilt of Captain Thorne. The latter spoke mysteriously of a portion of his past life, when he could be brought to speak of it at all. And he bore evidently some secret that he did not care to have alluded to. But now look at the mean treachery of that man, Frances Levison. The few meetings that Lady Isabel did witness between her husband and Barbara would have been quite enough to excite her anger and jealousy to trouble her peace. But in addition, Frances Levison took care to tell her of those she did not see. It pleased him. He could best tell with what motive, to watch the movements of Mr. Carlyle and Barbara. There was a hedged pathway through the fields on the opposite side of the road to the residence of Justice Hare, and as Mr. Carlyle walked down the road to business in his unsuspicion, not one time in fifty did he choose to ride. The walk to and fro kept him in health, he said. Captain Levison would be strolling down like a serpent behind the hedge, watching all his movements, watching his interviews with Barbara, did any take place. Watching Mr. Carlyle turn into the grove as he sometimes did, and perhaps watch Barbara run out of the house to meet him. It was all related over, and with miserable exageration, to Lady Isabel, whose jealousy as a natural sequence grew feverish in its extent. It is scarcely necessary to explain that, of this feeling of Lady Isabel's, Barbara knew nothing. Not a shadow of suspicion had ever penetrated to her mind that Lady Isabel was jealous of her. Had she been told that such was the fact, she would have laughed in derision at her informant. Mr. Carlyle's happy wife proudly secure in her position and in his affection, jealous of her, of her, to whom he had never given an admiring look or a loving word. It would have taken a great deal to make Barbara believe that. How different were the facts in reality? These meetings of Mr. Carlyle's and Barbara's, instead of episodes of lovemaking and tender speeches, were positively painful, especially to Barbara, from the unhappy nature of the subject to be discussed. Far from feeling a reprehensible pleasure at seeking the meetings with Mr. Carlyle, Barbara shrank from them, but that she was urged by dire necessity in the interest of Richard. She would wholly have avoided such. Poor Barbara, in spite of that explosion of bottled-up excitement years back, was a lady, possessed of a lady's ideas and feelings, and, remembering the explosion, it did not accord with her pride at all to be pushing herself into what might be called secret meetings with Archibald Carlyle. But Barbara, in her sisterly love, pressed down all thought of self and went preservingly forward for Richard's sake. Mr. Carlyle was seated one morning in his private room at his office, when his head clerk, Mr. Dill, came in. A gentleman is asking to see you, Mr. Archibald. I am too busy to see anybody for this hour to come. You know that, Dill. So I told him, sir, and he says he'll wait. It is that Captain Thorn who is staying here with John Herbert. Mr. Carlyle raised his eyes, and they encountered those of the old man. A peculiar expression was in the face of both. Mr. Carlyle glanced down at the parchment he was perusing, as if calculating his time. Then he looked up again and spoke. I will see him, Dill. Send him in. The business leading to the visit was quite simple. Captain Frederick Thorn had got himself into some trouble and vexation about a bill, as too many captains will do. And he had come to crave advice of Mr. Carlyle. Mr. Carlyle felt dubious about giving it. This Captain Thorn was a pleasant, attractive sort of a man, who won much on acquaintance, or one who Mr. Carlyle would have been pleased in a friendly point of view, and setting professional interest apart, to help out of his difficulties. But if he were the villain they suspected him to be, the man with crime upon his hand, then Mr. Carlyle would have ordered his office door held wide for him to slink out of it. Can not you advise me what my course ought to be? He inquired, detecting Mr. Carlyle's hesitation. I could advise you, certainly. But you must excuse my being plain Captain Thorn. I like to know who my clients are before I take up their course or accept them as clients. I am able to pay you, was Captain Thorn's reply. I am not short of ready money. Only this bill, Mr. Carlyle laughed out after having bit his lip with annoyance. It was a natural inference of yours, he said, but I assure you I was not thinking off your purse or my pocket. My father held it right never to undertake business for a stranger, unless a man was good, in a respectable point of view, and his course was good. He did not mention it, and I have acted on the same principle. By these means the position and character of our business is really attained by a solicitor. Now, in saying that you are a stranger to me, I am not casting any doubt upon you, Captain Thorn. I am merely upholding my common practice. My family is well connected, was Captain Thorn's next venture. Excuse me, family has nothing to do with it. If the poorest day labourer, if a pauper out of the workhouse came to me for advice, he should be heartily welcome to it, provided he were an honest man in the face of the day. Again, I repeat, you must take no offence at what I say, for I cast no reflection on you. I only urge that you and your character are unknown to me. Curious words from a lawyer to a client aspirant, and Captain Thorn found them so. But Mr. Carl Holstone was so courteous, his manner so affable. In fact, he was so thoroughly the gentleman that it was impossible to feel hurt. Well, how can I convince you that I am respectable? I have served my country ever since I was 16, and my brother officers have found no course of complaint. Any position as an officer and a gentleman would be generally deemed as a sufficient guarantee. Inquire of John Herbert. The Herbert's, too, are friends of yours, and they have not disdained to give me room amidst their family. True, returned Mr. Carl Holstone, feeling that he could not well object further, and also that all men should be deemed innocent until proved guilty. At any rate, I will advise you what must be done at present," he added. Though, if there fear is one that must go on, I do not promise that I can continue to act for you. I am very busy just now. Captain Thorn explained his dilemma, and Mr. Carl Holstone told him what to do in it. Were you not at West Lynn some ten years ago? He suddenly inquired at the close of the conversation. You denied it to me once at my house, but I concluded from an observation you let fall that you had been there. Yes, I was," replied Captain Thorn in a confidential tone. I don't mind owing it to you in confidence, but I do not wish it to get abroad. I was not at West Lynn, but in its neighbourhood. The fact is, when I was a careless young fellow, I was stopping a few miles from here, and got into a scrape, though in short it was an affair of gallantry. I did not show out very well at the time, and I don't care that it should be known in the country again. Mr. Carl Holstone's pulse, for Richard Hairsake, beat a shade quicker. The avowal of an affair of gallantry was almost a confirmation of his suspicions. Yes, he pointedly said, the girl was Aifee Hallijohn. Aifee who? repeated Captain Thorn, opening his eyes and fixing them on Mr. Carl Holstone's. Aifee Hallijohn. Captain Thorn continued to look at Mr. Carl Holstone, an amused expression rather than any other, predominant on his features. You are mistaken, he observed. Aifee Hallijohn? I never heard the name before in my life. Did you ever hear or know that a dreadful tragedy was enacted in this place about that period? replied Mr. Carl Holstone in a low-meaning tone, that Aifee Hallijohn's father was, oh, stay, stay, stay, hastily interrupted Captain Thorn. I am telling a story in saying I never heard her name. Aifee Hallijohn? Why, that's the girl Tom Herbert was telling me about. Who, what was it, disappeared after her father was murdered? Murdered in his own cottage, almost in Aifee's presence. Murdered by Mr. Carl Holstone recollected himself. He had spoken more impulsively than was his custom. Hallijohn was my father's faithful clerk for many years. He more calmly concluded, and he who committed the murder was young hair, son of Justice Hair, and brother to that attractive girl Barbara. Your speaking of this has recalled what they told me to my recollection the first evening I was at the Herbert's. Justice Hair was there, smoking, half a dozen pipes there were going at once. I also saw Miss Barbara that evening at your park gates, and Tom told me of the murder, an awful calamity for the hairs. I suppose that is the reason the young lady is Miss Hairstill. One with her good fortune and good looks ought to have changed her name ere this. No, it is not the reason, returned Mr. Carl Holstone. What is the reason then? A faint flush tinged the brow of Mr. Carl Hol. I know more than one who would be glad to get Barbara, in spite of the murder. Do not depreciate Miss Hair. Not I, indeed. I like the young lady too well, replied Captain Thorn. The girl, Afie, has never been heard of since, has she? Never, said Mr. Carl Hol. Do you know her well? He deliberately added. I never knew her at all, if you mean Afie Hallijohn. Why should you think I did? I never heard of her till Tom Herbert amused me with the history. Mr. Carl Hol most devoutly wished he could tell whether the man before him was speaking the truth or falsehood. He continued, Afie's favours. I speak in no invidious sense. I mean her smiles and chatter. We're pretty freely dispersed, for she was heedless and vain. Amidst others who got the credit for her occasional basking in her race was a gentleman of the name of Thorn. Was it not yourself? Captain Thorn stroked his moustache with an air that seemed to say he could boast of his share of such baskings. In short, as if he felt half inclined to do it. Upon my word, he simpered, You do me too much honour. I cannot confess to having been favoured by Miss Afie. Then she was not the damsel you speak of who drove you, if I understand right from the locality. Resumed Mr. Carl Hol fixing his eyes upon him. So was to take in every tone of the answer and shade of countenance as he gave it. I should think not indeed. It was a married lady, most the pity. Young, pretty, vain and heedless as you represent this Afie. Things went smoother after a time, and she and her husband, a stupid country yeoman, became reconciled. But I have been ashamed of it since I have grown wiser. I do not care ever to be recognised as the actor in it, or to have it raked up against me. Captain Thorn rose and took a somewhat hasty leave. Was he or was he not the man? Mr. Carl Hol could not solve the doubt. Mr. Dill came in as he disappeared, closed the door, and advanced to his master, speaking in an undertone. The archibald has struck you that the gentleman just gone out may be the lieutenant Thorn you once spoke to me about, he who had used to gallop over from Swainson to court Afie Halla-John. It has struck me so, most forcibly, replied Mr. Carl Hol. Dill, I would give five hundred pounds out of my pocket this moment to be assured of the fact, if he is the same. I have seen him several times since he has been staying with the herbits, pursued the old gentleman, and my doubts have naturally been excited as to whether it could be the man in question. Curious enough, Basant, the doctor, was over here yesterday from Swainson, and as I was walking with him, arm in arm, we met Captain Thorn. The two recognised each other and bowed, merely as distant acquaintances. Do you know that gentleman, said I, to Basant? Yes, he answered, it is Mr. Frederick. With something added on to it, said I, his name is Thorn. I know that, returned Basant, but when he was in Swainson some years ago he chose to drop the Thorn, and the town in general knew him only as Mr. Frederick. What was he doing there, Basant? I asked. Amusing himself and getting into mischief, was the answer. Nothing very bad, only the random scrapes of young men. Was he often on horseback, riding to a distance? Was my next question. Yes, that he was, replied Basant. None more fond of galloping across the country than he. I used to tell him he'd ride his horse's tail off. Now, Mr. Archibald, what do you think, concluded the old clerk, and so far as I could make out, this was about the very time of the tragedy at Hallijohn's. Think, replied Mr. Carlisle, what can I think but that it is the same man. I am convinced of it now. And leaning back into his chair he fell into a deep reverie, regardless of the parchment that lay before him. The weeks went on, two or three, and things seemed to be progressing backward rather than forward, if that's not Irish. Francis Leverson's affairs, that is, the adjustment of them, did not advance at all. End of chapter 23, part 1