 CHAPTER 1 The smoothness of his expansive brow was defaced by premature wrinkles and his once attractive face bore the pale, unmistakable look of dissipation. One of his feet was cased in folds of linen as it rested on the soft velvet ottoman, speaking of gout as plainly as any foot ever spoke. It would seem, to look at the man as he sat there, that he had grown old before his time, and so he had. His years were barely nine and forty, yet in all save years he was an aged man. A noted character had been the Earl of Mount Severn. Not that he had been a renowned politician, or a great general, or an eminent statesman, or even an active member in the upper house. Not for any of these had the Earl's name been in the mouths of men. But for the most reckless among the reckless, for the spendthrift among spendthrifts, for the gamester above all gamesters, and for a gay man outstripping the gay, by these characteristics did the world know Lord Mount Severn. It was said his faults were those of his head, that a better heart or a more generous spirit never beat in human form, and there was much truth in this. It had been well for him had he lived and died playing William Vane. Up to his five and twentieth year he had been industrious and steady, had kept his terms in the temple, and studied late and early. The sober application of William Vane had been a byword with the embryo barristers around. Judge Vane, they ironically called him, and they strove ineffectually to allure him away to idleness and pleasure. But young Vane was ambitious, and he knew that on his own talents and exertions must depend his own rising in the world. He was of excellent family, but poor, counting a relative in the old Earl of Mount Severn. The possibility of his succeeding to the earldom never occurred to him, for three healthy lives, two of them young, stood between him and the tidal. Yet those have died off, one of apoplexy, one of fever in Africa, the third boating at Oxford, and the young temple student William Vane suddenly found himself Earl of Mount Severn and the lawful possessor of sixty thousand a year. His first idea was that he should never be able to spend the money, that such a sum year by year could not be spent. It was a wonder his head was not turned by adulation at the onset, for he was courted, flattered, and caressed by all classes from a royal duke downward. He became the most attractive man of his day, the lion in society, for independent of his newly acquired wealth and tidal he was of distinguished appearance and fascinating manners. But unfortunately the prudence which had sustained William Vane, the poor law student, in his solitary temple chambers, entirely forsook William Vane, the young Earl of Mount Severn, and he commenced his career on a scale of speed so great that all staid people said he was going to ruin and the deuce headlong. But a peer of the realm, and one whose rent-roll is sixty thousand per year, does not go to ruin in a day. There sat the earl, in his library now, in his ninth and fortieth year, and ruin had not come yet. That is, it had not overwhelmed him. But the embarrassments which had clung to him, and had been the destruction of his tranquility, the bane of his existence, who shall describe them? The public knew them pretty well, his private friends knew better, his creditors best, but none save himself knew, or could ever know, the worrying torment that was his portion, well nigh driving him to destruction. Years ago, by dint of looking things steadily in the face, and by economizing, he might have retrieved his position. But he had done what most people do in such cases, put off the evil days in a dye, and gone on increasing his enormous list of debts. The hour of exposure and ruin was now advancing fast. Perhaps the earl himself was thinking so, as he sat there before an enormous mass of papers, which strewed the library table. His thoughts were back in the past. That was a foolish match of his, that Gretna-green match for love, foolish so far as prudence went. But the Countess had been an affectionate wife to him, had borne with his follies and his neglect, had been an admirable mother to their only child. One child alone had been theirs, and in her thirteenth year the Countess had died. If they had been but blessed with a son, the earl moaned over the long-continued disappointment still, he might have seen a way out of his difficulties. The boy, as soon as he was of age, would have joined with him in cutting off the end-tail, and, my Lord, said a servant entering the room and interrupting the earl's castles in the air, a gentleman is asking to see you. Who! cried the earl sharply, not perceiving the card the man was bringing. No unknown person, although wearing the externals of a foreign ambassador, was ever admitted unceremoniously to the presence of Lord Mount Severn. Years of dunes had taught the servant's caution. His card is here, my Lord. It is Mr. Carlisle of West Lynn. Mr. Carlisle of West Lynn, groaned the earl, whose foot, just then, had an awful twinge. What does he want? Show him up. The servant did as he was bid and introduced Mr. Carlisle. Look at the visitor well-reader, for he will play his part in this history. He was a very tall man of seven and twenty, of remarkably noble presence. He was somewhat given to stooping his head when he spoke to any one shorter than himself. It was a peculiar habit, almost to be called a bowing habit, and his father had possessed it before him. When told of it he would laugh and say he was unconscious of doing it. His features were good, his complexion was pale and clear, his hair dark, and his full eyelids drooped over his deep gray eyes. Altogether it was a countenance that both men and women liked to look upon the index of an honorable, sincere nature, not that it would have been called a handsome face, so much as a pleasing and distinguished one. Though but the son of a country lawyer, and destined to be a lawyer himself, he had received the training of a gentleman, had been educated at rugby, and taken his degree at Oxford. He advanced at once to the earl in the straightforward way of a man of business, of a man who has come on business. Mr. Carlyle, said the latter, holding out his hand, he was always deemed the most affable peer of the age. I am happy to see you. You perceive I cannot rise, at least without great pain and inconvenience. My enemy, the gout, has taken possession of me again. Take a seat. Are you staying in town? I have just arrived from West Lynn. The chief object of my journey was to see your lordship. What can I do for you? asked the earl, uneasy, for a suspicion had crossed his mind that Mr. Carlyle might be acting for some one of his many troublesome creditors. Mr. Carlyle drew his chair nearer to the lord and spoke in a low tone. A rumour came to my ears, my lord, that East Lynn was in the market. A moment, sir, exclaimed the earl with reserve, not to say haughtier in his tone, for his suspicions were gaining ground. Are we to converse confidently together, as men of honour, or is there something concealed behind? I do not understand you, said Mr. Carlyle. In a word, excuse my speaking plainly, but I must feel my ground. Are you here on the part of some of my rascally creditors to pump information out of me, that otherwise they would not get? My lord, uttered the visitor, I should be incapable of so dishonourable in action. I know that a lawyer gets credit for possessing, but lacks notions on the score of honour, but you can scarcely suspect that I should be guilty of underhand work toward you. I never was guilty of a mean trick in my life to my recollection, and I do not think I ever shall be. Pardon me, Mr. Carlyle. If you knew half the tricks and ruses played upon me, you would not wonder at my suspecting all the world. Proceed with your business. I heard that East Lynn was for private sale. Your agent dropped half a word to me in confidence. If so, I should wish to be the purchaser. For whom? inquired the earl. Myself. You, laughed the earl. Eagad! Lawyering can't be such bad work, now. Nor is it, rejoined Mr. Carlyle, with an extensive first-class connection such as ours. But you must remember that a good fortune was left me by my uncle, and a large one by my father. I know, the proceeds of lawyering also. Not altogether my mother brought a fortune on her marriage, and it enabled my father to speculate successfully. I have been looking out for an eligible property to invest my money upon, and East Lynn will suit me well, provided I can have the refusal of it, and we can agree about the terms. Lord Mount Severn mused for a few minutes before he spoke. Mr. Carlyle, he began, my affairs are very bad, and ready money I must find somewhere. Now East Lynn is not entailed, neither is it mortgage to anything like its value, though the latter fact, as you may imagine, is not patent to the world. When I bought it at a bargain, eighteen years ago, you were the lawyer on the other side, I remember. My father, smiled Mr. Carlyle, I was a child at the time. Of course, I ought to have said your father. By selling East Lynn a few thousands will come into my hands, after claims on it are settled. I have no other means of raising the wind, and that is why I have resolved to part with it. But now, understand, if it were known abroad that East Lynn is going from me, I should have a hornet's nest about my ears, so that it must be disposed of privately. Do you comprehend? Perfectly, replied Mr. Carlyle. I would as soon you bought it as anyone else, if, as you say, we can agree about terms. What does your lordship expect for it, at a rough estimate? For particulars I must refer you to my men at business, warburton and ware, not less than seventy thousand pounds. Too much, my lord, cried Mr. Carlyle decisively, and that's not its value, returned the Earl. These forced sales never do fetch their value, answered the plain speaking lawyer. Until this hint was given me by Beauchamp I had thought East Lynn was settled upon your lordship's daughter. There's nothing settled on her, rejoined the Earl, the contraction on his brow standing at more plainly. That comes of your thoughtless runaway marriages. I fell in love with General Conaway's daughter, and she ran away with me like a fool. That is, we were both fools together for our pains. The general objected to me, and said I must sew my wild oats before he would give me Mary, so I took her to Gretna Green and she became Countess of Mount Severn without a settlement. It was an unfortunate affair, taking one thing with another. When her elopement was made known to the general, it killed him. Killed him! interrupted Mr. Carlyle. It did. He had disease of the heart and the excitement brought on the crisis. My poor wife was never happy from that hour. She blamed herself for her father's death, and I believe it led to her own. She was ill for years. The doctors called it consumption, but it was more like a wasting insensibly away, and consumption had never been in her family. No luck ever attends runaway marriages. I have noticed it since, in many, many instances, something bad is sure to turn up from it. There might have been a settlement executed after the marriage, observed Mr. Carlyle, for the Earl had stopped and seemed lost in thought. I know there might, but there was not. My wife had possessed no fortune. I was already deep in my career of extravagance and neither of us thought of making provision for our future children, or if we thought of it, we did not do it. There is an old saying, Mr. Carlyle, that what may be done at any time is never done. Mr. Carlyle bowed. So my child is portionless, resumed the Earl with a suppressed sigh. The thought that it may be an embarrassing thing for her, where I to die before she is settled in life crosses my mind when I am in a serious mood. That she will marry well there is little doubt, for she possesses beauty in a rare degree and has been reared as an English girl should be, not to frivolity and faupery. She was trained by her mother, who, save for the mad act she was persuaded into by me, was all goodness and refinement, for the first twelve years of her life, and since then by an admirable governess, no fear that she will be decamping to Gretna Green. She was a very lovely child, observed the lawyer, I remember that. I, you have seen her at East Lynn in her mother's lifetime. But to return to business, if you become the purchaser of the East Lynn estate, Mr. Carlyle, it must be under the rose. The money that it brings after paying off the mortgage I must have, as I tell you, for my private use, and you know I should not be able to touch a farthing of it if the confounded public got an inkling of the transfer. In the eyes of the world the proprietor of East Lynn must be Lord Mount Severn, at least for some little time afterwards. Perhaps you will not object to that. Mr. Carlyle considered before replying, and then the conversation was resumed, when it was decided that he should see Warburton and wear the first thing in the morning and confer with them. It was growing late when he rose to leave. Stay and dine with me, said the Earl. Mr. Carlyle hesitated and looked down at his dress, a plain gentlemanly morning attire, but certainly not a dinner costume for a pierce-table. Oh, that's nothing, said the Earl. We shall be quite alone except my daughter. Mrs. Vane of Castle Marling is staying with us. She came up to present my child at the last drawing-room, but I think I heard something about her dining out to-day. If not, we will have it by ourselves here. Oblige me by touching the bell, Mr. Carlyle. The servant entered. Inquire whether Mrs. Vane dines at home, said the Earl. Mrs. Vane dines out, my lord, was the man's immediate reply. The carriage is at the door now. Very well, Mr. Carlyle remains. At seven o'clock the dinner was announced, and the Earl wheeled into the adjoining-room. As he and Mr. Carlyle entered it at one door, someone else came in by the opposite one. Who? What was it? Mr. Carlyle looked, not quite sure whether it was a human being. He almost thought it more like an angel. A light, graceful, girlish form, a face of surpassing beauty, beauty that is rarely seen, save from the imagination of a painter, dark, shining curls falling on her neck and shoulders, smooth as a child's, fair, delicate arms decorated with pearls, and a flowing dress of costly white lace. All together the vision did indeed look to the lawyer as one from a fairer world than this. My daughter, Mr. Carlyle, the Lady Isabel. They took their seats at the table, Lord Mount Severn at its head, in spite of his gout and his footstool, and the young lady in Mr. Carlyle opposite each other. Mr. Carlyle had not deemed himself a particular admirer of women's beauty, but the extraordinary loveliness of the young girl before him nearly took away his senses and his self-possession. Yet it was not so much the perfect contour or the exquisite features that struck him, or the rich damask of the delicate cheek, or the luxuriant falling hair. No, it was the sweet expression of the soft dark eyes. Never in his life had he seen eyes so pleasing. He could not keep his gaze from her, and he became conscious, as he grew more familiar with her face, that there was in its character a sad, sorrowful look. Only at times was it to be noticed when the features were at repose, and it lay chiefly in the very eyes he was admiring. Never does this unconsciously mournful expression exist, but it is a sure index of sorrow and suffering. But Mr. Carlyle understood it not. And who could connect sorrow with the anticipated brilliant future of Isabel Vane? Isabel, observed the earl, you are dressed. Yes, papa, not to keep old Mrs. Levinson wanting tea. She likes to take it early, and I know Mrs. Vane must have kept her waiting dinner. It was half past six when she drove from here. I hope you will not be late to-night, Isabel. It depends upon Mrs. Vane. Then I am sure you will be. When the young ladies in this fashionable world of ours turn night into day it is a bad thing for their roses. What say you, Mr. Carlyle? Mr. Carlyle glanced at the roses on the cheeks opposite to him. They looked too fresh and bright to fade lightly. At the conclusion of dinner a maid entered the room with a white cashmere mantle, placing it over the shoulders of her young lady, as she said the carriage was waiting. Lady Isabel advanced to the earl. Good-bye, papa. Good-night, my love, he answered, drawing her towards him and kissing her sweet face. Tell Mrs. Vane I will not have you kept out till morning hours. You are but a child yet. Mr. Carlyle will you ring? I am debarred from seeing my daughter to the carriage. If your lordship will allow me, if Lady Isabel will pardon the attendance of one little use to wait upon young ladies, I shall be proud to see her to her carriage. Was a somewhat confused answer of Mr. Carlyle as he touched the bell. The earl thanked him, and the young lady smiled, and Mr. Carlyle conducted her down the broad, lighted staircase and stood bare-headed by the door of the luxurious chariot, and handed her in. She put out her hand in her frank, pleasant manner as she wished him good-night. The carriage rolled on its way, and Mr. Carlyle returned to the earl. Well, is she not a handsome girl? Handsome is not the word for beauty such as hers, was Mr. Carlyle's reply in a low, warm tone. I never saw a face half so beautiful. She caused quite a sensation at the drawing-room last week, as I hear. This everlasting gout kept me indoors all day, and she is as good as she is beautiful. The earl was not partial. Lady Isabel was wondrously gifted by nature, not only in mind and in person but in heart. She was as little like a fashionable young lady as it was possible to be, partly because she had hitherto been secluded from the great world, partly from the care bestowed upon her training. During the lifetime of her mother, she had lived occasionally at East Lynn, but mostly at a larger seat of the earls in Wales, Mount Severn. Since her mother's death, she had remained entirely at Mount Severn under the charge of a judicious governess, a very small establishment being kept for them, and the earl paying them in prompt to and flying visits. Generous and benevolent she was, timid and sensitive to a degree, gentle and considerate to all. Do not cavill at her being thus praised, admire and love her whilst you may, she is worthy of it now, in her innocent girlhood. The time will come when such praise would be misplaced. Could the fate that was to overtake his child have been foreseen by the earl, he would have struck her down to death in his love, as she stood before him, rather than suffer her to enter upon it. CHAPTER II. THE BROKEN CROSS. Lady Isabel's carriage continued its way, and deposited her at the residence of Mrs. Leveson. Mrs. Leveson was nearly eighty years of age, and very severe in speech and manner, or, as Mrs. Vane expressed it, crabbed. She looked the image of impatience when Isabel entered, with her cap pushed all her eye, and pulling at the black satin gown, for Mrs. Vane had kept her waiting dinner, and Isabel was keeping her from her tea. And that does not agree with the aged, with their health or with their temper. I fear I am late, exclaimed Lady Isabel, as she advanced Mrs. Leveson. But a gentleman dined with Papa today, and it made us rather longer at the table. You are twenty-five minutes behind your time, cried the old lady sharply, and I want my tea. Emma, order it in. Mrs. Vane rang the bell, and did as she was bid. She was a little woman of six and twenty, very plain in face, but elegant in figure, very accomplished, and vain to her fingers' ends. Her mother, who was dead, had been Mrs. Leveson's daughter, and her husband, Raymond Vane, was presumptive heir to the earldom of Mount Severn. Won't you take that tippet off, child? asked Mrs. Leveson, who knew nothing of the new-fashioned names for such articles, mantles, burnests, and all the string of them, and Isabel threw it off and sat down by her. The tea is not made, Grandma Ma, exclaimed Mrs. Vane, in an accent of astonishment, as the servant appeared with the tray and the cover-earn. You surely do not have it made in the room. Where should I have it made? inquired Mrs. Leveson. It is much more convenient to have it brought in, ready made, said Mrs. Vane. I dislike the embarrass of making it. Indeed, was the reply of the old lady, and get it slopped over in the saucers, and as cold as milk. You always were lazy, Emma, and given to use those French words. I'd rather stick a printed label on my forehead for my part, I speak French, and let the world know it in that way. Who makes tea for you in general? asked Mrs. Vane, telegraphing a contemptuous glance to Isabel behind her grandmother. But the eyes of Lady Isabel fell timidly, and a blush rose to her cheeks. She did not like to appear to differ from Mrs. Vane, her senior, and her father's guest, but her mind revolted at the bare idea of ingratitude or ridicule cast on an aged parent. Harriet comes in and makes it for me, replied Mrs. Leveson. I, and sits down and takes it with me when I am alone, which is pretty often. What do you say to that, Madame Emma? You with your fine notions. Just as you please, of course, Grandma Ma. And there's the tea-caddy at your elbow and the urns fizzing away, and if we are to have any tea tonight it had better be made. I don't know how much to put in, grumbled Mrs. Vane, who had the greatest horror of soiling her hands or her gloves. Who, in short, had a particular antipathy to doing anything useful. Shall I make it, dear Mrs. Leveson? said Isabel, rising with alacrity. I had used to make it quite as often as my governess at Mount Severn, and I make it for Papa. Do, child! replied the old lady. You are worth ten of her. Isabel laughed merrily, drew off her gloves and sat down to the table, and at that moment a young and elegant man lounged into the room. He was deemed handsome, with his clearly cut features, his dark eyes, his raven hair, and his white teeth. But to a keen observer those features had not an attractive expression, and the dark eyes had a great knack of looking away while he spoke to you. It was Francis, Captain Leveson. He was grandson to the old lady, the first cousin to Mrs. Vane. Few men were so fascinating in manners. At times and seasons, in face and in form, few men won so completely upon their hearers' ears, and few were so heartless in their hearts of hearts. The world courted him, and society honored him. For though he was a graceless spendthrift, and it was known that he was, he was the presumptive heir to the old and rich Sir Peter Leveson. The ancient lady spoke up. Captain Leveson, Lady Isabel Vane. They both acknowledged the introduction in Isabel, a child yet in the ways of the world, flushed crimson at the admiring looks cast upon her by the young guardsmen. Strange, strange that she should make the acquaintance of these two men in the same day, almost in the same hour. The two, of all the human race, who were to exercise so powerful an influence over her future life. That's a pretty cross, child, cried Mrs. Leveson, as Isabel stood by her when tea was over, and she and Mrs. Vane were about to depart on their evening visit. She alluded to a golden cross set with seven emeralds, which Isabel wore on her neck. It was of light, delicate texture, and was suspended from a thin, short gold chain. Is it not pretty? answered Isabel. It was given me by my dear mama just before she died. Stay, I will take it off for you. I only wear it upon great occasions. This, her first appearance at the Grand Dukes, seemed a very great occasion to the simply reared and inexperienced girl. She unclasped the chain and placed it with the cross in the hands of Mrs. Leveson. Why, I declare, you have nothing on but that cross and some rubbishing pearl bracelets, uttered Mrs. Vane to Isabel. I did not look at you before. Mama gave me both. The bracelets are those she used frequently to wear. You old fashioned child, because your mama wore those bracelets years ago, is that a reason for your doing so? retorted Mrs. Vane. Why did you not put on your diamonds? I did put on my diamonds. But I took them off again, stammered Isabel. What on earth for? I did not like to look too fine, answered Isabel, with a laugh and a blush. Pay glittered so. I feared it might be thought I had put them on to look fine. Ah, I see you mean to set up in that class of people who pretend to despise ornaments, scornfully remarked Mrs. Vane. It is the refinement of affectation, Lady Isabel. The sneer fell harmlessly on Lady Isabel's ear. She only believed something had put Mrs. Vane out of temper. It certainly had. And that something, though Isabel little suspected it, was the evident admiration Captain Levison evinced for her fresh, young beauty. It quite absorbed him, and rendered him neglectful even of Mrs. Vane. Dear child, take your cross, said the old lady. It is very pretty. Prettyer on your neck than diamonds would be. You don't want embellishing. Never mind what Emma says. Frances Levison took the cross and chain from her hand to pass them to Lady Isabel. Whether he was awkward or whether her hands were full, for she held her gloves, her handkerchief, and had just taken up her mantle, certain it is that it fell. And the gentleman, in his too quick effort to regain it, managed to set his foot upon it, and the cross was broken in two. There! Now whose fault was that? cried Mrs. Levison. Isabel did not answer. Her heart was very full. She took the broken cross, and the tears dropped from her eyes. She could not help it. Why, you are never crying over a stupid bobble of a cross, uttered Mrs. Vane, interrupting Captain Levison's expression of regret at his awkwardness. You can have it mended, dear, interposed Mrs. Levison. Lady Isabel chased away the tears and turned to Captain Levison with a cheerful look. Pray do not blame yourself, she good-naturedly said, The fault was as much mine as yours, and, as Mrs. Levison says, I can get it mended. She disengaged the upper part of the cross from the chain as she spoke and clasped the ladder round her throat. You will not go with that thin string of gold on and nothing else, uttered Mrs. Vane. Why not, returned Isabel, if people say anything I can tell them an accident happened to the cross. Mrs. Vane burst into a laugh of mocking ridicule. If people say anything, she repeated in a tone according with the laugh. They are not likely to say anything, but they will deem Lord Mount Severn's daughter unfortunately short of jewelry. Isabel smiled and shook her head. They saw my diamonds at the drawing-room. If you had done such an awkward thing for me, Frank Levison, burst forth the old lady, my doors should have been closed against you for a month. There, if you are to go, Emma, you had better go, dancing off to begin an evening at ten o'clock at night. In my time we used to go out at seven, but it's the custom now to turn night and to-day. When George III dined at one o'clock upon boiled mutton and turnips, put in the graceless captain, who certainly held his grandmother in no greater reverence than did Mrs. Vane, he turned to Isabel as he spoke to hand her downstairs. Thus she was conducted to her carriage the second time that night by a stranger. Mrs. Vane got down by herself, as best she could, and her temper was not improved by the process. Good night, she said to the captain. I shall not say good night. You will find me there almost as soon as you. You told me you were not coming, some bachelor's party in the way. Yes, but I have changed my mind. Farewell for the present, lady Isabel. What an object you will look with nothing on your neck but a schoolgirl's chain! began Mrs. Vane returning to the grievance as the carriage drove on. Oh, Mrs. Vane, what does it signify? I can only think of my broken cross. I am sure it must be an evil omen. An evil what? An evil omen! Mama gave me that cross when she was dying. She told me to let it be to me as a talisman, always to keep it safely. And when I was in any distress or in need of counsel, to look at it and strive to recall what her advice would be and to act accordingly. And now it is broken. Broken! A glaring gaslight flashed into the carriage right into the face of Isabel. I declare, uttered Mrs. Vane, you are crying again. I tell you what it is, Isabel. I am not going to chaperone red eyes to the Duchess of Dartford's. So if you can't put a stop to this, I shall order the carriage home and go on alone. Isabel meekly dried her eyes, sighing deeply as she did so. I can have the pieces joined, I dare say, but it will never be the same cross to me again. What have you done with the pieces? Errassibly asked Mrs. Vane. I folded them in the thin paper Mrs. Levison gave me and put it inside my frock. Here it is, touching the body. I have no pocket on. Mrs. Vane gave vent to a groan. She never had been a girl herself. She had been a woman at ten and she complimented Isabel on being little better than an imbecile. Put it inside my frock, she uttered in a torrent of scorn. And you, 18 years of age, I fancied you left off frocks when you left the nursery. For shame, Isabel. I meant to say my dress corrected Isabel. Meant to say you were a baby idiot, was the inward comment of Mrs. Vane. A few minutes and Isabel forgot her grievance. The brilliant rooms were to her as an enchanting scene of dreamland, for her heart was in its spring tide of early freshness and the satiety of experience had not come. How could she remember trouble even the broken cross as she bent to the homage offered her and drank in the honeyed words poured forth into her ear? Hello! I thought you had given up coming to these places. So I had, replied the fast nobleman addressed, the son of a marquee. But I am on the lookout so I am forced into them again. I think a ballroom the greatest bore in life. On the lookout for what? I thought you had given up coming to these places. I thought you had given up on the lookout for what? For a wife. My governor has stopped supplies and had vowed by his beard not to advance another shilling or pay a debt till I reform. As a preliminary step towards it he insists upon a wife and I am trying to choose one for I am deeper in debt than you imagine. Take the new beauty then. Who is she? Lady Isabel Vane. Much obliged for the suggestion, replied the Earl. But one likes a respectable father-in-law and Mount Severn is going to smash. He and I are too much in the same line and might clash in the long run. One can't have everything. The girl's beauty is beyond common. I saw that rake, Levison, make up to her. He fancies he can carry all before him where women are concerned. So he does often, was his quiet reply. I hate that fellow. He thinks so much of himself with his curled hair and shining teeth and his white skin and he's as heartless as an owl. What was that hushed up business about Miss Charteris? Who's to know? Levison slipped out of the escapade like an eel and the woman left then sinning. Three-fourths of the world believed them. And she went abroad and died and Levison, here he comes, amounts Severn's daughter with him. They were approaching at that moment Frances Levison and Lady Isabelle. He was expressing his regret at the untoward accident of the cross for the tenth time that night. I feel that it could never be known for, whispered he, that the heartfelt homage of my whole life would not be sufficient compensation. He's spoken a tone of thrilling gentleness, gratifying to the ear but dangerous to the heart. Lady Isabelle glanced up and caught his eyes gazing upon her with the deepest tenderness. A language hers had never yet encountered. Her cheek, her eyelids fell and her timid words died away in silence. Take care, take care, my young lady Isabelle, murmured the oxanion under his breath as they passed him. That man is as false as he is fair. I think he is a rascal, remarked the earl. I know he is. I know a thing or two about him. She would ruin her heart for the renown of the exploit because she's a beauty and then fling it away broken. He has none to give in return for the gift. Just as much as my new racehorse has, concluded the earl, she is very beautiful. End of chapter two Recording by Rhonda Federman CHAPTER III OF EAST LIN West Lin was the town of some importance, particularly in its own eyes. Though being neither a manufacturing one nor a cathedral one, town of the county, it was somewhat primitive in its manners and customs. Passing out of the town toward the east, you came upon several detached gentlemen's houses, in the vicinity of which stood the church of St. Jude, which was more aristocratic in the matter of its congregation, than the other churches of West Lynn. For about a mile these houses were scattered, the church being situated at their commencement. Close to that busy part of the place, and about a mile further on, you came upon the beautiful estate which was called East Lynn. Between the gentlemen's houses mentioned, and East Lynn, the mile of road was very solitary, being much overshadowed with trees. One house alone stood there, and that was about three-quarters of a mile before you came to East Lynn. It was on the left hand side, a square, ugly red brick house with a weather-cock on the top, standing some little distance from the road. A flat lawn extended before it, and close to the palings, which divided it from the road, was a grove of trees, some yards in depth. The lawn was divided by a narrow middle gravel path, to which you gained access from the portico of the house. You entered upon a large flagged hall, with a reception room on either hand, and the staircase, a wide one facing you. By the side of the staircase you passed on to the servants' apartments and offices. That place was called the grove, and was the property and residence of Richard Hare Esquire, commonly called Mr. Justice Hare. The room to the left hand, as you went in, was the general sitting-room. The other was very much kept boxed up in Lavender and Brown Holland, to be opened on state occasions. Justice and Mrs. Hare had three children, a son and two daughters. Annie was the elder of the girls, and had married young. Barbara, the younger, was now nineteen, and Richard the eldest, but we shall come to him hereafter. In this sitting-room, on a chilly evening, early in May, a few days subsequent to that which should witness the visit of Mr. Carlyle to the Earl of Mount Severn, sat Mrs. Hare, a pale, delicate woman, buried in shawls and cushions, but the day had been warm. At the window sat a pretty girl, very fair, with blue eyes, light hair, a bright complexion, and small aquiline features. She was listlessly turning over the leaves of a book. Barbara, I am sure it must be tea-time now. The time seems to move slowly with you, Mama. It is scarcely a quarter of an hour since I told you it was but ten minutes past six. I am so thirsty, announced the poor invalid. Do go and look at the clock again, Barbara. Barbara Hare rose with a gesture of impatience, not suppressed, opened the door, and glanced at the large clock in the hall. It wants nine and twenty minutes to seven, Mama. I wish you would put your watch on of a day, four times you have sent me to look at that clock since dinner. I am so thirsty, repeated Mrs. Hare with a sort of sob. If seven o'clock would but strike, I am dying for my tea. It may occur to the reader that a lady in her own house, dying for her tea, might surely order it brought in, although the customary hour had not struck. Not so, Mrs. Hare. Since her husband had first brought her home to that house, four and twenty years ago, she had never dared to express a will in it, scarcely on her own responsibility to give an order. Just as Hare was stern, imperative, obstinate, and self-conceited, she, timid, gentle, and submissive. She had loved him with all her heart, and her life had been one long yielding of her will to his. In fact, she had no will, his was all in all. Far was she from feeling the servitude a yoke. Some natures do not, and to do Mr. Hare justice, his powerful will that must bear down on all before it was in fault, not his kindness. He never meant to be unkind to his wife. Of his three children, Barbara alone had inherited his will. Barbara began Mrs. Hare again, when she thought another quarter of an hour at least must have elapsed. Well, Mama, ring and tell them to be getting it in readiness so that when seven strikes there may be no delay. Goodness, Mama, you know that they always do have it ready, and there's no such hurry, for Papa may not be at home. But she rose and rang the bell with a petulant motion, and when the man answered it told him to have tea into its time. If you knew, dear, how dry my throat is, how parched my mouth, you would have more patience with me. Barbara closed her book with a listless air, and turned listlessly to the window. She seemed tired, not with fatigue, but with what the French expressed by the word ennui. Here comes Papa, she presently said. Oh, I am so glad, cried poor Mrs. Hare, perhaps he will not mind having the tea in at once if I told him how thirsty I am. The justice came in, a middle-sized man with pompous features and a pompous walk and a flaxen wig. In his aquiline nose compressed lips and pointed chin might be traced to resemblance to his daughter, though he never could have been half so good-looking as was pretty Barbara. Richard, spoke up Mrs. Hare from between her shawls the instant he opened the door. Well? Would you please let me have in tea now? Would you very much mind taking it a little earlier this evening? I am feverish again, and my tongue is so parched I don't know how to speak. Oh, it's near seven, you won't have long to wait. With a succeedingly gracious answer to an invalid's request, Mr. Hare quitted the room again and banged the door. He had not spoken unkindly or roughly, simply with indifference. But air Mrs. Hare's meek sigh of disappointment was over. The door reopened, and the flaxen wig was thrust in again. I don't mind if I do have it now. It will be a fine moonlit night, and I am going with Pinner as far as Beecham's to smoke a pipe. Order it in, Barbara. The tea was made and partaken of, and the justice departed for Mr. Beecham's, squire Pinner calling for him at the gate. Mr. Beecham was a gentleman who farmed a great deal of land, and who was also Lord Mount Severn's agent or steward for East Lynn. He lived higher up the road, some little distance beyond East Lynn. I am so cold, Barbara, shivered Mrs. Hare, as she watched the justice down the gravel path. I wonder if your papa would say it was foolish of me if I told them to light a bit of a fire. Have it lighted if you like, responded Barbara, ringing the bell. Papa will know nothing about it, one way or the other, for he won't be home till after bedtime. Jasper, Mama is cold, and would like a fire lighted. Plenty of sticks Jasper, that it may burn up quickly, said Mrs. Hare in a pleaning voice, as if the sticks were Jasper's and not hers. Mrs. Hare got her fire, and she drew her chair in front, and put her feet on the fender to catch its warmth. Barbara, listless still, went into the hall, took a woollen shawl from the stand there, threw it over her shoulders, and went out. She strolled down the straight formal path, and stood at the iron gate, looking over it into the public road. Not very public in that spot, and at that hour, but as lonely as one could wish. The night was calm and pleasant, though somewhat chilly for the beginning of May, and the moon was getting high in the sky. When will he come, she murmured, as she leaned her head upon the gate. Oh, what would life be like without him? How miserable these few days have been! I wonder what took him there. I wonder what is detaining him. Cornie said he was only gone for a day. The faint echo of footsteps in the distance stole upon her ear, and Barbara drew a little back, and hid herself under the shelter of the trees, not choosing to be seen by any stray passer-by. But as they drew near, a sudden change came over her. Her eyes lighted up, her cheeks were dyed with crimson, and her veins tinkled with excess of rapture, for she knew those footsteps, and loved them only too well. Slowly peeping over the gate again she looked down the road. A tall form, whose very height and strength bore a grace of which its owner was unconscious, was advancing rapidly toward her from the direction of West Lynn. Again she shrank away, true love is ever timid, and whatever may have been Barbara Hare's other qualities, her love at least was true and deep. But instead of the gate opening with a firm quick motion peculiar to the hand which guided it, the footsteps seemed to pass, and not to have turned at all toward it. Barbara's heart sank, and she stole to the gate again, and looked out with a yearning look. Yes, sure enough he was striding on, not thinking of her, not coming to her, and she, in the disappointment and impulse of the moment, called to him, Archibald! Mr. Carlyle, it was no other, turned on his heel and approached the gate. Is it you, Barbara, watching for thieves and poachers? How are you? How are you? She returned, holding the gate open for him to enter as he shook hands, and striving to calm down her agitation. When did you return? Only now, by the eight o'clock train, which got in beyond its time having drawled unpardonably at the stations. They little thought they had me in it as their looks betrayed when I got out. I have not been home yet. No? What will Cornelia say? I went to the office for five minutes, but I have a few words to say to Beecham, and am going up at once. Thank you, I cannot come in now. I intend to do so on my return. Papa has gone up to Mr. Beecham's? Mr. Hare, has he? He and Squire Pinner, continued Barbara, they have gone to have a smoking-bout, and if you wait there with Papa it will be too late to come in, for he is sure not to be home before eleven or twelve. Mr. Carlyle bent his head in deliberation. Then I think it is of little use my going on, said he, for my business with Beecham is private. I must defer it until to-morrow. He took the gate out of her hand, closed it, and placed the hand within his own arm to walk with her to the house. It was done in a matter-of-fact, real sort of way. Nothing of romance or sentiment hallowed it, but Barbara Hare felt that she was in Eden. And how have you all been, Barbara, these few days? Oh, very well. What made you start off so suddenly? You never said you were going, or came to wish us good-bye. You have just expressed it, Barbara, suddenly. A matter of business suddenly arose, and I suddenly went upon it. Cornelia said you were only gone for a day. Did she? When in London I find so many things to do. Is Mrs. Hare better? Just the same. I think Mama's ailments are fancies half of them. If she would rouse herself she would be better. What is in that parcel? You are not to inquire, Miss Barbara. It does not concern you. It only concerns Mrs. Hare. Is it something you have brought for Mama, Archibald? Of course. A countryman's visit to London entails buying presents for his friends. At least it used to be so, in the old-fashioned days. When people made their wills before starting, and were a fortnight doing the journey in a wagon, laughed Barbara, Grandpa Pa used to tell us tales of that when we were children. But is it really something for Mama? Don't I tell you so? I have brought something for you. Oh! What is it? She uttered her colour-rising and wondering whether he was ingest or earnest. There is an impatient girl. What is it? Wait a moment, and you shall see what it is. He put the parcel, or roll he was carrying, upon a garden chair, and proceeded to search his pockets. Every pocket was visited, apparently in vain. Barbara, I think it is gone. I must have lost it somehow. Her heart beat as she stood there, silently looking up at him in the moonlight. Was it lost? What had it been? But upon a second search he came upon something in the pocket of his coattail. Here it is, I believe, what brought it there. He opened a small box, and taking out a long gold chain threw it around her neck. A locket was attached to it. Her cheeks crimson went and came. Her heart beat more rapidly. She could not speak a word of thanks, and Mr. Carlyle took up the roll, and walked on into the presence of Mrs. Hare. Barbara followed in a few minutes. Her mother was standing up, watching with pleased expectation the movements of Mr. Carlyle. No candles were in the room, but it was bright with fire-light. Now don't laugh at me, quote he, and tying the string of the parcel. It is not a roll of velvet for a dress, and it is not a roll of parchment conferring twenty thousand pounds a year. But it is an air-cushion! It was what poor Mrs. Hare, so worn with sitting and lying, had often longed for. She had heard such a luxury was to be bought in London, but never remembered to have seen one. She took it almost with a greedy hand, casting a grateful look at Mr. Carlyle. How am I to thank you for it? She murmured through her tears. If you thank me at all, I will never bring you anything again, cried he gaily. I have been telling Barbara that a visit to London entails bringing gifts for friends, he continued. Do you see how smart I have made her? Barbara hastily took off the chain, and laid it before her mother. What a beautiful chain, muttered Mrs. Hare, in surprise. Archibald, you are too good, too generous. This must have cost a great deal. This is beyond a trifle. Constance, laughed Mr. Carlyle, I'll tell you both how I happened to buy it. I went into a jeweler's about my watch, which is taken to lose lately in a most unceremonious fashion, and there I saw a whole display of chains hanging up, some ponderous enough for a sheriff, some light and elegant enough for Barbara. I disliked to see a thick chain on a lady's neck. They put me in mind of the chain she lost, the day she and Cornelia went with me to Lynchboro, which lost Barbara persisted in declaring was my fault for dragging her through the town sightseeing, while Cornelia did her shopping, for it was then that the chain was lost. But I was only joking when I said so, was the interruption of Barbara. Of course it would have happened had you not been with me. The links were always snapping. Well, these chains in the shop in London put me in mind of Barbara's misfortune, and I chose one. Then the shopman brought forth some lockets, and enlarged upon their convenience for holding deceased relatives' hair, not to speak of sweethearts, until I told him he might attach one. I thought it might hold that piece of hair, you prized Barbara, he concluded, dropping his voice. What peace! asked Mrs. Hare. Mr. Carlyle glanced round the room, as if fearful that the very walls might hear his whisper. Richards. Barbara showed it to me one day when she was turning out her desk, and said it was a curl taken off in that illness. Mrs. Hare sank back in her chair, and hid her face in her hands, shivering visibly. The words evidently awoke some poignant source of deep sorrow. Oh, my boy, my boy, she wailed, my boy, my unhappy boy. Mr. Hare wonders at my ill health archibald, Barbara ridicules it, but there lies the source of all my misery, mental and bodily. Oh, Richard, Richard! There was a distressing pause for the topic admitted of neither hope nor consolation. Put your chain on again, Barbara, Mr. Carlyle said after a while, and I wish you health to wear it out. Health and reformation, young lady! Barbara smiled and glanced at him with her pretty blue eyes, so full of love. What have you brought for Cornelia, she resumed? Something splendid, he answered, with a mock serious face, only I hope I have not been taken in. I bought her a shawl. The vendors vowed it was true Parisian cashmere. I gave eighteen guineas for it. That is a great deal, observed Mrs. Hare. It ought to be a very good one. I never gave more than six guineas for a shawl in all my life. And Cornelia, I daresay, never more than half-six, left Mr. Carlyle. Well, I shall wish you good evening and go to her, for if she knows I am back all this while I shall be lectured. He shook hands with them both. Barbara, however, accompanied him to the front door and stepped outside with him. You'll catch cold, Barbara, you have left your shawl in doors. Oh, no, I shall not. How very soon you are leaving, you have scarcely stayed ten minutes. But you forget I have not been at home. You were on your road to Beecham's, and would not have been at home for an hour or two in that case, spoke Barbara in a tone that savored of resentment. That was different. That was upon business. But, Barbara, I think your mother looks unusually ill. You know she suffers a little thing to upset her, and last night she had what she calls one of her dreams, answered Barbara. She says that it is a warning that something bad is going to happen, and she has been in the most unhappy, feverish state possible all day. Papa has been quite angry over her being so weak and nervous, declaring that she ought to rouse herself out of her nerves. Of course we dare not tell him about the dream. It related to the Mr. Carlyle stopped, and Barbara glanced round with a shudder, and drew closer to him as she whispered. He had not given her his arm this time. Yes, to the murder. You know Mama has always declared that Bethel had something to do with it. She says her dreams would have convinced her of it if nothing else did, and she dreamt she saw him with, you know, Hallijohn whispered Mr. Carlyle, with Hallijohn, assented Barbara with a shiver. He was standing over him as he lay on the floor, just as he did lay on it, and that wretched afe he was standing at the end of the kitchen looking on. But Mrs. Herot not to suffer dreams to disturb her peace by day, remonstrated Mr. Carlyle, it is not to be surprised that she dreams of the murder, because she is always dwelling upon it, but she should strive and throw the feeling from her with the night. You know what Mama is. Of course she ought to do so, but she does not. Papa wonders what makes her get up so ill and trembling of a morning, and Mama has to make all sorts of evasive excuses, for not a hint, as you are aware, must be breathed to him about the murder. Mr. Carlyle gravely nodded. Mama does so harp about Bethel, and I know that dream arose from nothing in the world but because she saw him pass the gate yesterday. Not that she thinks that it was he who did it, unfortunately there is no room for that, but she will persist that he had a hand in it some way, and he haunts her dreams. Mr. Carlyle walked on in silence. Indeed there was no reply that he could make. A cloud had fallen upon the house of Mr. Hare, and it was an unhappy subject. Barbara continued, but for Mama to have taken it into her head that some evil is going to happen, because she had this dream, and to make herself miserable over it is so absurd that I felt quite cross with her all day. Such nonsense you know, Archibald, to believe that dreams give sign of what is going to happen, so far behind these enlightened days. Your Mama's trouble is great, Barbara, and she is not strong. I think all our troubles have been great since that dark evening, responded Barbara. Have you heard from Anne, inquired Mr. Carlyle, willing to change the subject? Yes, she's very well. What do you think they're going to name the baby, Anne, after her Mama? So very ugly a name, Anne. I do not think so, said Mr. Carlyle. It is simple and unpretending. I like it much. Look at the long, pretentious names of our family. Archibald, Cornelia, and yours too, Barbara. What a mouthful they all are. Barbara contracted her eyebrows. It was equivalent to saying that he did not like her name. They reached the gate, and Mr. Carlyle was about to pass out of it, when Barbara laid her hand upon his arm to detain him, and spoke in a timid voice. Archibald, what is it? I have not said a word of thanks to you for this, she said, touching the chain and locket. My tongue seems tied. Do not deem me ungrateful. You foolish girl, it is not worth them. There, now I am paid. Good night, Barbara. He had bent down and kissed her cheek, swung through the gate, laughing, and strode away. Don't say I never gave you anything. He turned his head round to say, good night. All her veins were tingling, all her pulses beating, her heart was throbbing with the sense of bliss. He had never kissed her that she could remember since she was a child, and when she returned indoors her spirits were so extravagantly high that Mrs. Hare wondered, Ring for the lamp, Barbara, and you can get to your work. But don't have the shutters closed. I like to look out on these light nights. Barbara, however, did not get to her work. She also, perhaps, liked looking out on a light night, for she sat down at the window. She was living the last half hour over again. Don't say I never gave you anything, she murmured. Did he allude to the chain or to the kiss? Oh, Archibald, why don't you say that you love me? Mr. Carlisle had been all his life upon intimate terms with the Hare family. His father's first wife, for the late lawyer Carlisle had been twice married, had been a cousin of justice to the Pairs, and this had caused them to be much together. Archibald, the child of the second Mrs. Carlisle, had alternately teased and petted Anne and Barbara Hare boy fashion. Sometimes he quarreled with the pretty little girls, sometimes he caressed them, as he would have done had they been his sisters, and made no scruple of declaring publicly to the Pair that Anne was his favourite. A gentle, yielding girl she was, like her mother, whereas Barbara displayed her own well and it sometimes clashed with young Carlisles. The clock struck ten. Mrs. Hare took her customary sup of brandy and water, a small tumbler three parts full. Without it she believed she could never get to sleep. It deadened unhappy thought, she said. Barbara, after making it, had turned to the window, but she did not resume her seat. She stood right in front of it her forehead bent forward against its middle pane. The lamp, casting a bright light, was behind her, so that her figure might be distinctly observable from the lawn had any one been there to look upon it. She stood there in the midst of dreamland, giving way to all its enchanting and most delusive fascinations. She saw herself in anticipation, the wife of Mr. Carlisle, the envied, thrice envied of all West Lynn, for, like as he was the dearest on earth to her heart, so was he the greatest match in the neighbourhood around. Not a mother but what coveted him for her child, and not a daughter but would have said yes and thank you to an offer from the attractive Archibald Carlisle. I never was sure, quite sure of it till to-night, murmured Barbara, caressing the locket, and holding it to her cheek. I always thought he meant something, or he might mean nothing. But to give me this, to kiss me, oh Archibald! A pause, Barbara's eyes were fixed upon the moonlight. If he would but say he loved me, if he would but save the suspense of my aching heart. But it must come, I know it will, and if that cantankerous toad of a corny Barbara Hairstopped, what was that at the far end of the lawn, just in advance of the shade of the thick trees? Their leaves were not causing the movement, for it was a still night. It had been there some minutes, it was evidently a human form. What was it? Surely it was making signs to her. Or else it looked as though it was, that was certainly its arm moving, and now it advanced a pace nearer, and raised something which it wore on its head, a battered hat with a broad brim, a wide awake, and circled with a wisp of straw. Barbara Hairstart leaped as the saying runs into her mouth, and her face became deadly white in the moonlight. Her first thought was up to alarm the servants, her second to be still, for she remembered the fear and mystery that attached to the house. She went into the hall, shedding her mamma in the parlor, and stood in the shade of the portico, gazing still, but the figure evidently followed her movement with its sight, and the hat was again taken off and waved violently. Barbara Hairstart turned sick with utter terror. She must fathom it, she must see who and what it was, for the servants she dared not call, and those movements were imperative, and might not be disregarded. But she possessed more innate courage than falls to the lot of some young ladies. Mamma, she said, returning to the parlor and catching up her shawl while striving to speak without emotion, I shall just walk down the path and see if Papa is coming. Mrs. Hare did not reply. She was musing upon other things, in that quiescent happy mood which a small portion of spirits will impart to one weak in body, and Barbara softly closed the door and stole out again to the portico. She stood a moment to rally her courage, and again the hat was waved impatiently. Barbara Hare commenced her walk towards it, in dread unutterable, an undefined sense of evil filling her sinking heart, mingling with which came, with a rush of terror, a fear of that other undefinable evil, the evil Mrs. Hare had declared was foreboded by her dream. CHAPTER IV THE MOONLIGHT INTERVIEW Old and still looked the old house in the moonbeams. Never was the moon brighter. It lighted the far-stretching garden, it illuminated even the weathercock aloft. It shone upon the portico, and upon one who appeared in it. Stealing to the portico from the house had come Barbara Hare, her eyes strained in dread affright of the grove of trees at the foot of the garden. What was it that had stepped out of that grove of trees, mysteriously beckoned to her as she stood at the window, turning her heart to sickness as she gazed? Was it a human being, one to bring more evil to the house, or so much evil had already fallen? Was it a supernatural visitant, or was it but a delusion of her own eyesight? Not the latter, certainly, for the figure was now emerging again, motioning to her as before, and with a white face and shaking limbs, Barbara clutched her shawl around her and went down that path in the moonlight. The beckoning form retreated within the dark recess as she neared it, and Barbara halted. Who and what are you? She asked under her breath. What do you want? Barbara was the whispered eager answer. Don't you recognize me? Too surely she did, the voice at any rate, and a cry escaped her, telling more of sorrow than of joy, though betraying both. She penetrated the trees and burst into tears as one in the dress of a farm laborer caught her in his arms. In spite of his smock frock and his straw-wisp hat and his false whiskers, black as arabus, she knew him for her brother. Oh, Richard, where have you come from? What brings you here? Did you know me, Barbara? Was his rejoinder. How was it likely in this disguise, a thought crossed my mind that it might be someone from you, and even that made me sick with terror? How could you run such a risk as to come here? She added, wringing her hands. If you were discovered it is certain death, death upon, you know, upon the gibbet, returned Richard Hare. I do know it, Barbara. Then why risk it? Should mama see you, it will kill her outright. I can't live on as I am living, he answered gloomily. I have been working in London ever since. In London, interrupted, Barbara. In London, and have never stirred out of it. But it is hard work for me, and now I have an opportunity of doing better if I can get a little money. Perhaps my mother can let me have it. It is what I have come to ask for. How are you working? What at? In a stable yard. A stable yard, she uttered, in a deeply shocked tone. Richard, did you expect it would be as a merchant or a banker, or perhaps as secretary to one of Her Majesty's ministers, or that I was a gentleman at large living on my fortune? Retorted Richard Hare, in a tone of chafed anguish, painful to hear. I get twelve shillings a week, and that has to find me in everything. Poor Richard, poor Richard, she wailed, caressing his hand and weeping over it. Oh, what a miserable night's work that was. Our only comfort is, Richard, that you must have committed the deed in madness. I did not commit it at all, he replied. What? She exclaimed. Barbara, I swear that I am innocent. I swear I was not present when the man was murdered. I swear that from my own positive knowledge, my eyesight, I know no more who did it than you. The guessing at it is enough for me, and my guess is as sure and true a one as that the moon is in the heavens. Barbara shivered as she drew close to him. It was a shivering subject. You surely do not mean to throw the guilt on Bethel. Bethel, lightly returned Richard Hare. He had nothing to do with it. He was after his gins and his snares that night, though poacher as he is. Bethel is no poacher, Richard. Is he not? rejoined Richard Hare significantly. The truth as to what he is may come out sometime. Not that I wish it to come out. The man has done no harm to me, and he may go on poaching with impunity till doomsday for all I care. He and loxley Richard interrupted his sister in a hushed voice. Mama entertains one fixed idea which she cannot put from her. She is certain that Bethel had something to do with the murder. Then she is wrong. Why should she think so? How the conviction arose at first, I cannot tell you. I do not think she knows herself, but you remember how weak and fanciful she is. And since that dreadful night, she is always having what she calls dreams, meaning that she dreams of the murder. And all these dreams, Bethel is prominent, and she says she feels an absolute certainty that he was, in some way or other, mixed up in it. Barbara, he was no more mixed up in it than you. And you say that you were not? I was not even at the cottage at the time. I swear it to you. The man who did the deed was Thorn. Thorn echoed Barbara, lifting her head. Who is Thorn? I don't know who. I wish I did. I wish I could unearth him. He was a friend of Aphe's. Barbara threw back her neck with a haughty gesture. Richard, what? You forget yourself when you mentioned that name to me. Well, returned Richard, it was not to discuss these things that I put myself in jeopardy. And to assert my innocence can do no good. It cannot set aside the coroner's verdict of willful murder against Richard Haier the Younger. Is my father as bitter against me as ever? Quite. He never mentions your name or suffers it to be mentioned. He gave his orders to the servants that it was never to be spoken in the house again. Eliza could not or would not remember, and she persisted in calling your room Mr. Richards. I think the woman did it heedlessly, not maliciously, to provoke Papa. She was a good servant and had been with us three years, you know. The first time she transgressed, Papa warned her. The second, he thundered at her as I believe nobody else in the world can thunder. And the third, he turned her from the doors, never allowing her to get her bonnet. One of the others carrying her bonnet in shawl to the gate, and her boxes were sent away the same day. Papa took an oath. Did you hear of it? What oath? He takes many. This was a solemn one, Richard. After the delivery of the verdict, he took an oath in the justice room in the presence of his brother, magistrates, that if he could find you, he would deliver you up to justice, and that he would do it, though you might not turn up for 10 years to come. You know his disposition, Richard, and therefore may be sure he will keep it. Indeed, it is most dangerous for you to be here. I know that he never treated me as he ought, cried Richard bitterly. If my health was delicate, causing my poor mother to indulge me, ought that to have been a reason for his ridiculing me on every possible occasion, public and private? Had my home been made happier, I should not have sought the society I did elsewhere. Barbara, I must be allowed an interview with my mother. Barbara Hare reflected before she spoke. I do not see how it can be managed. Why can't she come out to me as you have done? Is she up or in bed? It is impossible to think of it tonight, returned Barbara, in an alarmed tone. Papa may be in at any moment. He is spending the evening at Beecham's. It is hard to have been separated from her for 18 months and to go back without seeing her, returned Richard, and about the money. It is a hundred pounds that I want. You must be here again tomorrow night, Richard. The money, no doubt, can be yours, but I am not so sure about your seeing, Mama. I am terrified for your safety. But if it is as you say that you are innocent, she added, after a pause, could it not be proved? Who is to prove it? The evidence is strong against me, and Thorn, did I mention him, would be as a myth to other people. Nobody knew anything of him. Is he a myth, said Barbara, in a low voice. Are you and I myths, retorted Richard, so even you doubt me? Richard, she suddenly exclaimed, why not tell the whole circumstances to Archibald Carlyle? If anyone can help you or take measures to establish your innocence, he can, and you know that he is true as steel. There's no other man living should be trusted with the secret that I am here except Carlyle. Where is it they suppose that I am, Barbara? Something that you are dead, some that you are in Australia, the very uncertainty has nearly killed Mama. A report arose that you had been seen at Liverpool in an Australian-bound ship, but we could not trace it to any foundation. It had none. I dodged my way to London, and there I have been. Working in a stable yard? I could not do better. I was not brought up to anything, and I did understand horses. Besides a man that the police-runners were after could be more safe in obscurity considering that he was a gentleman then. Barbara turned suddenly and placed her hand upon her brother's mouth. Be silent for your life, she whispered. Here's Papa. Voices were heard approaching the gate, those of Justice Hare and Squire Pinner. The latter walked on, the former came in. The brother and sister cowered together, scarcely daring to breathe. You might have heard Barbara's heart beating. Mr. Hare closed the gate and walked on up the path. I must go, Richard, said Barbara hastily. I dare not stay another minute. Be here again tomorrow night, and meanwhile I will see what can be done. She was speeding away, but Richard held her back. You did not seem to believe my assertion of innocence. Barbara, we are here alone in this still night, with God above us, as truly as that you and I must sometime meet him face to face, I told you the truth. It was Thorn murdered Hallijohn, and I had nothing whatever to do with it. Barbara broke out of the trees and flew along, but Mr. Hare was already in, locking and barring the door. Let me in, Papa, she called out. The Justice opened the door again, and, thrusting forth his flaxen wig, his aquiline nose, and his amazed eyes, gazed at Barbara. Hello, what brings you out at this time of night, young lady? I went down to the gate to look for you, she panted, and had strolled over to the side path. Did you not see me? Barbara was truthful by nature and habit, but in such a cause, how could she avoid dissimulation? Thank you, Papa, she said, as she went in. You ought to have been in bed an hour ago, angrily responded Mr. Justice Hare. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of East Lynn. In the center of West Lynn stood two houses adjoining each other, one large, the other much smaller. The large one was the Carlisle residence, and the small one was devoted to the Carlisle offices. The name of Carlisle bore a lofty standing in the county. Carlisle and Davidson were known as first-class practitioners. No petty-fogging lawyers were they. It was Carlisle and Davidson in the days gone by. Now it was Archibald Carlisle. The old firm were brothers-in-law, the first Mrs. Carlisle having been Mr. Davidson's sister. She had died and left one child. The second Mrs. Carlisle died when her son was born, Archibald, and his half-sister reared him, loved him, and ruled him. She bore for him all the authority of a mother, the boy had known no other, and when a little child he had called her Mama Corny. Mama Corny had done her duty by him, that was undoubted. But Mama Corny had never relaxed her rule, with an iron hand she liked to rule him now, in great things, as in small, just as she had done in the days of his babyhood. And Archibald generally submitted, for the force of habit is strong. She was a woman of strong sense, but in some things weak of judgment, and the ruling passions of her life were love of Archibald and love of saving money. Mr. Davidson had died earlier than Mr. Carlisle, and his fortune, he had never married, was left equally divided between Cornelia and Archibald. Archibald was no blood relation to him, but he loved the open-hearted boy better than his niece Cornelia. Of Mr. Carlisle's property, a small portion only was bequeathed to his daughter, the rest to his son, and in this perhaps there was justice, since the twenty thousand pounds brought to Mr. Carlisle by his second wife had been chiefly instrumental in the accumulation of his large fortune. Miss Carlisle, or as she was called in town, Miss Corny, had never married. It was pretty certain she never would. People thought that her intense love of her young brother kept her single, for it was not likely that the daughter of the rich Mr. Carlisle had wanted for offers. Other maidens confessed to soft and tender impressions. Not so, Miss Carlisle. All who had approached her with the lovelorn tale she sent quickly to the right about. Mr. Carlisle was seated in his own private room in his office the morning after his return from town. His confidential clerk and manager stood near him. It was Mr. Dill, a little, meek-looking man with a bald head. He was on the rolls, had been admitted years and years ago, but he had never set up for himself. Perhaps he deemed the post of head manager in the office of Carlisle and Davidson with its substantial salary sufficient for his ambition, and manager he had been to them when the present Mr. Carlisle was in long petticoats. He was a single man and occupied handsome apartments near. Between the room of Mr. Carlisle and that of the clerks was a small square space or hall having ingress also from the house passage. Another room opened from it a narrow one which was Mr. Dill's own peculiar sanctum. Here he saw clients when Mr. Carlisle was out or engaged, and here he issued private orders. A little window, not larger than a pane of glass, looked out from the clerk's office. They called it old Dill's peephole and wished it anywhere else for his spectacles might be discerned at it more frequently than was agreeable. The old gentleman had a desk also in their office and there he frequently sat. He was sitting there in state the same morning keeping a sharp look out around him when the door timidly opened and the pretty face of Barbara Hare appeared at it rosy with blushes. Can I see Mr. Carlisle? Mr. Dill rose from his seat and shook hands with her. She drew him into the passage and he closed the door. Perhaps he felt surprised, for it was not the custom for ladies young and single to come there after Mr. Carlisle. Presently, Miss Barbara, he is engaged just now. The Justices are with him. The Justices uttered Barbara in alarm and Papa won. Whatever shall I do? He must not see me. I would not have him see me here for the world. An ominous sound of talking. The Justices were evidently coming forth. Mr. Dill laid hold of Barbara, whisked her through the clerk's room, not daring to take her the other way, lest he should encounter them and shut her in his own. What the plague brought Papa here at this moment, thought Barbara, whose face was crimson. A few minutes and Mr. Dill opened the door again. They are gone now, and the coasts clear, Miss Barbara. I don't know what opinion you must form of me, Mr. Dill, she whispered, but I will tell you, in confidence, that I am here on some private business for Mama, who was not well enough to come herself. It is a little private matter that she does not wish Papa to know of. Child, answered the manager, a lawyer receives visits from many people, and it is not the place of those about him to think. He opened the door as he spoke, ushered her into the presence of Mr. Carlisle, and left her. The latter rose in astonishment. You must regard me as a client, and pardon my intrusion, said Barbara with a forced laugh, to hide her agitation. I am here, on the part of Mama, and I nearly met Papa in your passage which terrified me out of my senses. Mr. Dill shut me into his room. Mr. Carlisle motioned to Barbara to seat herself, then resumed his own seat beside his table. Barbara could not help noticing how different his manners were in his office, from his evening manners, when he was off duty. Here he was the staid, calm man of business. I have a strange thing to tell you, she began in a whisper. But it is impossible that anyone can hear us. She broke off with a look of dread. It would be—it might be death! It is quite impossible, calmly replied Mr. Carlisle. The doors are double doors. Did you notice that they were? Nevertheless she left her chair and stood close to Mr. Carlisle, resting her hand upon the table. He rose, of course. Richard is here. Richard, repeated Mr. Carlisle. At West Lynn. He appeared at the house last night in disguise and made signs to me from the grove of trees. You may imagine my alarm. He has been in London all this while, half-starving, working. I feel ashamed to mention it to you in a stable-yard. And oh, archibald! He says he is innocent. Mr. Carlisle made no reply to this. He probably had no faith in the assertion. Sit down, Barbara, he said, drawing her chair closer. Barbara sat down again, but her manner was hurried and nervous. Is it quite sure that no stranger will be coming in? It would look so peculiar to see me here, but Mama was too unwell to come herself, or rather, she feared Papa's questioning, if he found out that she came. Beaties, replied Mr. Carlisle. This room is sacred from the intrusion of strangers. What of Richard? He says that he was not in the cottage at the time the murder was committed, that the person who really did it was a man of the name of Thorn. What Thorn? asked Mr. Carlisle, suppressing all signs of incredulity. I don't know. A friend of Afie's, he said. Archibald, he swore to it in the most solemn manner, and I believe, as truly that I am now repeating it to you, that he was speaking the truth. I want you to see Richard if possible. He is coming to the same place tonight. If he can tell his own tale to you, perhaps you may find out a way by which his innocence may be made manifest. You are so clever. You can do anything. Mr. Carlisle smiled. Not quite anything, Barbara. Was this the porpet of Richard's visit, to say this? Oh, no. He thinks it is of no use to say it, for nobody would believe him against the evidence. He came to ask for a hundred pounds. He says he has an opportunity of doing better, if he can have that sum. Mama has sent me to you. She is not the money by her, and she dare not ask Papa for it, as it is for Richard. She bade me say that if you will kindly oblige her with the money to-day, she will arrange with you about the repayment. Do you want it now, asked Mr. Carlisle? If so, I must send to the bank. Dill never keeps much money in the house when I am away. Not until evening. Can you manage to see Richard? It is hazardous, mused Mr. Carlisle, for him, I mean. Still, if he is to be in the Grove tonight, I may as well be there also. What disguise is he in? A farm-labourer's, the best he could adopt about here, with large black whiskers. He is stopping about three miles off, he said, in some obscure hiding-place. And now, continued Barbara, I want you to advise me. Had I better inform Mama that Richard is here, or not? Mr. Carlisle did not understand, and said so. I declare I am bewildered, she exclaimed. I should have premised that I have not yet told Mama it is Richard himself who is here, but that he has sent a messenger to beg for this money. Would it be advisable to acquaint her? Why should you not? I think you ought to do so. Then I will. I was fearing the hazard, for she was sure to insist upon seeing him. Richard also wishes for an interview. It is only natural. Mrs. Hare must be thankful to hear so far that he is safe. I never saw anything like it, returned Barbara. The change is akin to magic. She says it has put life into her anew. And now, for the last thing. How can we secure Papa's absence from home to-night? It must be accomplished in some way. You know his temper. Were I or Mama to suggest to him to go and see some friend, or to go to the club, he would immediately stop at home. Can you devise any plan? You see, I appealed to you in all my troubles, she added, like I and Anne used to do when we were children. It may be questioned if Mr. Carlisle heard the last remark. He had dropped his eyelids and thought. Have you told me all, he asked presently, lifting them? I think so. Then I will consider it over, and I shall not like to come here again, interrupted Barbara. It might excite suspicions. Someone might see me, too, and mention it to Papa. Neither ought you to send to our house. Well, contrive to be in the street at four this afternoon. Stay. That's your dinner-hour. Be walking up the street at three. Three precisely. I will meet you. He rose, shook hands, and escorted Barbara through the small hall, along the passage to the house-door, a courtesy probably not yet shown to any client by Mr. Carlisle. The house-door closed upon her, and Barbara had taken one step from it, when something large loomed down upon her, like a ship in full sail. She must have been the tallest lady in the world, out of a caravan, a fine woman in her day, but angular and bony now. Still, in spite of the angles in the bones, there was majesty in the appearance of Miss Carlisle. Why, what on earth began she? Have you been with Archibald for? Barbara Hare, wishing Miss Carlisle over in Asia, stammered at the excuse she had given Mr. Dill. Your mama sent you on business? I never heard of such a thing. Twice I have been to see Archibald, and twice did Dill answer that he was engaged and must not be interrupted. I shall make old Dill explain his meaning for observing a mystery over it to me. There is no mystery, answered Barbara, feeling quite sick lest Miss Carlisle should proclaim there was, before the clerks or her father. Mama wanted Mr. Carlisle's opinion upon a little private business, and not feeling well enough to come herself, she sent me. Miss Carlisle did not believe a word. What business, asked she unceremoniously? It is nothing that could interest you, a trifling matter, relating to a little money. It's nothing, indeed. Then, if it's nothing, why were you closeted so long with Archibald? He was asking the particulars, replied Barbara, recovering her equanimity. Miss Carlisle sniffed, as she invariably did, when dissenting from a problem. She was sure there was some mystery as to her. She turned and walked down the street with Barbara, but was none the more likely to get anything out of her. Mr. Carlisle returned to his room, deliberated a few moments, and then rang his bell. A clerk answered it. Go to the buck's-head. If Mr. Hare and the other magistrates are there, ask them to step over to me. The young man did as he was bid, and came back with the noted justices at his heels. They obeyed the summons with alacrity, for they believed they had got themselves into a judicial scrape, and that Mr. Carlisle alone could get them out of it. I will not request you to sit down, began Mr. Carlisle, for it is barely a moment I shall detain you. The more I think about this man's having been put in prison, the less I like it. And I have been considering that you had better all five come and smoke your pipes at my house this evening, when we shall have time to discuss what must be done. Come at seven, not later, and you will find my father's old jar replenished with the best broad cut and half a dozen churchwarden pipes. Shall it be so? The whole five accepted the invitation eagerly, and they were filing out when Mr. Carlisle laid his finger on the arm of Justice Hare. You will be sure to come, Hare, he whispered. We could not get on without you, all heads, with a slight inclination toward those going out, are not gifted with the clear good sense of yours. Sure and certain, responded the gratified Justice, fire and water shouldn't keep me away. Soon after Mr. Carlisle was left alone, another clerk entered. Miss Carlisle is asking to see you, sir, and Colonel Bethel's come again. Send in Miss Carlisle first, was the answer. What is it, Cornelia? Ah! You may well ask, what? Saying this morning that you could not dine at six as usual and then marching off and never fixing the hour, how can I give my orders? I thought business would have called me out, but I am not going now. We will dine a little earlier, though, Cornelia. Say, a quarter before six. I have invited. What's up, Archibald? Interrupted Miss Carlisle. Up. Nothing that I know of. I am very busy, Cornelia, and Colonel Bethel is waiting. I will talk to you at dinner time. I have invited a party for tonight. A party? Echoed Miss Carlisle. Four or five of the Justices are coming in to smoke their pipes. You must put out your father's leaden tobacco box, and they shan't come, screamed Miss Carlisle. Do you think I'll be poisoned with tobacco smoke from a dozen pipes? You need not sit in the room. Nor they either. Clean curtains are just put up throughout the house, and I'll have no horrid pipes to blacken them. I'll buy you some new curtains, Cornelia, if their pipes spoil these, he quietly replied. And now, Cornelia, I really must beg you to leave me. When I have come to the bottom of this affair with Barbara Hare, resolutely returned Miss Corny, dropping the point of the contest as to the pipes, you are very clever, Archie, but you can't do me. I asked Barbara what she came here for. Business for Mama, touching money matters, was her reply. I ask you. To hear your opinion about the scrape the bench have got into is yours. Now it's neither one nor the other, and I tell you, Archibald, I'll hear what it is. I should like to know what you and Barbara do with a secret between you. Mr. Carlisle knew her and her resolute expression well, and he took his course to tell her the truth. She was, to borrow the words Barbara had used to her brother with regard to him, true as steel, confide to Miss Carlisle a secret, and she was trustworthy and impervious as he could be, but let her come to suspect that there was a secret which had been kept from her, and she would set to work like a ferret and never stop until it was unearthed. Mr. Carlisle bent forward and spoke in a whisper. I will tell you if you wish, Cornelia, but it is not a pleasant thing to hear. Richard Hare has returned. Miss Carlisle looked perfectly aghast. Richard Hare, is he mad? It is not a very sane proceeding. He wants money from his mother, and Mrs. Hare sent Barbara to ask me to manage it for her. No wonder poor Barbara was flurried and nervous, for there's danger on all sides. Is he at their house? How could he be there and his father in it? He is hiding two or three miles off disguised as a labourer, and will be at the Grove tonight to receive this money. I have invited the Justices to get Mr. Hare safe away from his own house. If he saw Richard, he would undoubtedly give him up to justice, and, putting graver considerations aside, that would be pleasant for neither you nor for me. To have a connection gibbeted for a willful murder would be an ugly blot on the Carlisle eschuchin, Cornelia. Miss Carlisle sat in silence, revolving the news, a contraction on her ample brow. And now you know all, Cornelia, and I do beg you to leave me, for I am overwhelmed with work today. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 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. East Lynn by Mrs. Henry Wood. Chapter 6 Richard Hare the Younger The bench of Justices did not fail to keep their appointment. At seven o'clock they arrived at Miss Carlisle's, one following closely upon the heels of another. The reader may dissent from the expression Miss Carlisle's, but it is the correct one, for the house was hers, not her brother's. Though it remained his home as it had been in his father's time, the house was among the property bequeathed to Miss Carlisle. Miss Carlisle chose to be present in spite of the pipes and the smoke, and she was soon as deep in the discussion as the Justices were. It was said in the town that she was as good a lawyer as her father had been. She undoubtedly possessed sound judgment in legal matters and quick penetration. At eight o'clock a servant entered the room and addressed his master. Mr. Dill is asking to see you, sir. Mr. Carlisle rose and came back with an open note in his hand. I'm sorry to find that I must leave you for half an hour. Some important business has arisen, but I will be back as soon as I can. Who has sent for you immediately demanded Miss Corny. He gave her a quiet look which she interpreted into a warning not to question. Mr. Dill is here and will join you to talk the affair over, he said to his guests. He knows the law better than I do, but I will not be long. He quitted his house and walked with a rapid step toward the grove. The moon was bright as in the previous evening. After he had left the town behind him and was passing the scattered villas already mentioned, he cast an involuntary glance at the wood which rose behind them on his left hand. It was called Abbey Wood from the circumstance that in old days and Abbey had stood in its vicinity, all traces of which, saved tradition, had passed away. There was one small house or cottage just within the wood, and in that cottage had occurred the murder for which Richard Hare's life was in jeopardy. It was no longer occupied, for nobody would rent it or live in it. Mr. Carlisle opened the gate of the grove and glanced at the trees on either side of him, but he neither saw nor heard any signs of Richard's being concealed there. Barbara was at the window, looking out, and she came herself and opened the door to Mr. Carlisle. Mama is in the most excited state, she whispered to him as he entered. I knew how it would be. Has he come yet? I have no doubt of it, but he has made no signal. Mrs. Hare feverish and agitated with a burning spot on her delicate cheeks, stood by the chair, not occupying it. Mr. Carlisle placed a pocketbook in her hands. I have brought it chiefly in notes, he said. They will be easier for him to carry than gold. Mrs. Hare answered only by a look of gratitude, and clasped Mr. Carlisle's hand in both hers. Archibald, I must see my boy. How can it be managed? Must I go into the garden to him, or may he come in here? I think he might come in. You know how bad the night air is for you. Are the servants a stir this evening? Things seem to have turned out quite kindly, spoke up Barbara. It happens to be Anne's birthday, so my ma sent me just now into the kitchen with a cake and a bottle of wine, desiring them to drink her health. I shut the door and told them to make themselves comfortable, that if we wanted anything, we would ring. Then they are safe, observed Mr. Carlisle, and Richard may come in. I will go and ascertain whether he has come, said Barbara. Stay where you are, Barbara. I will go myself, interpose Mr. Carlisle. Have the door open when you see us coming up the path. Barbara gave a faint cry and, trembling, clutched the arm of Mr. Carlisle. There he is, see, standing out from the trees just opposite this window. Mr. Carlisle turned to Mrs. Hare. I shall not bring him in immediately, for if I am to have an interview with him, it must be got over first, that I may go back home to the Justices and keep Mr. Hare all safe. He proceeded on his way, gained the trees, and plunged into them, and, leaning against one, stood Richard Hare. Apart from his disguise and the false and fierce black whiskers, he was a blue-eyed, fair, pleasant-looking young man, slight, and of middle height, and quite as yielding and gentle as his mother. In her this mild yieldingness of disposition was rather a graceful quality. In Richard it was regarded as a contemptible misfortune. In his boyhood he had been nicknamed Leafy Dick, and when a stranger inquired why, the answer was that, as a leaf was swayed by the wind, so he was swayed by everybody about him, never possessing a will of his own. In short, Richard Hare, though of an amiable and loving nature, was not overburdened with what the world calls brains. Brains he certainly had, but they were not sharp ones. Is my mother coming out to me, asked Richard, after a few interchanged sentences with Mr. Carlisle? No, you're to go indoors. Your father is away, and the servants are shut up in the kitchen and will not see you. Though if they did, they could never recognize you in that trim. A fine pair of whiskers, Richard. Let us go in, then. I am all on a Twitter till I get away. Am I to have the money? Yes, yes. But, Richard, your sister says you wish to disclose to me the true history of that lamentable night. You had better speak while we are here. It was Barbara herself who wanted you to hear it. I think it of little moment. If the whole place heard the truth from me, it would do no good, for I should get no belief, not even from you. Try me, Richard, in as few words as possible. Well, there was a row at home about my going so much to Hallijohn's. The governor and my mother thought I went after Afi. Perhaps I didn't, perhaps I didn't. Hallijohn had asked me to lend him my gun, and that evening, when I went to see someone, never mind. Richard interrupted Mr. Carlisle. There's an old saying, and it is sound advice. Tell the whole truth to your lawyer and your doctor. If I am to judge whether anything can be attempted for you, you must tell it to me. Otherwise, I would rather hear nothing. It shall be sacred trust. Then if I must, I must, return their yielding, Richard. I did love the girl. I would have waited till I was my own master to make her my wife, though it had been for years and years. I could not do it, you know, in the face of my father's opposition. Your wife, rejoined Mr. Carlisle, with some emphasis. Richard looked surprised. Why, you don't suppose I meant anything else. I wouldn't have been such a blaggard. Well, go on, Richard. Did she return your love? I can't be certain. Sometimes I thought she did, sometimes not. She used to play and shuffle, and she liked too much to be with—him. I would think her capricious, telling me I must not come this evening and I must not come the other, but I found out they were the evenings when she was expecting him. We were never there together. You forget that you have not indicated him by any name, Richard. I am at fault. Richard Hare bent forward till his black whiskers brushed Mr. Carlisle's shoulder. It was that cursed thorn. Mr. Carlisle remembered the name Barbara had mentioned. Who was thorn? I never heard of him. Neither had anyone else I expect in West Lynn. He took precious good care of that. He lived some miles away and used to come over in secret. Courting Afie? Yes, he did come courting her, returned Richard in a savage tone. Distance was no barrier. He would come galloping over at dusk, tie his horse to a tree in the wood, and pass an hour or two with Afie. In the house, when her father was not at home, roaming about the woods with her, when he was. Come to the point, Richard, to the evening. Hallijohn's gun was out of order, and he requested the loan of mine. I had made an appointment with Afie to beat her house that evening, and I went down after dinner, carrying the gun with me. My father called after me to know where I was going. I said, out with young Beecham, not caring to meet his opposition, and the lie told against me at the inquest. When I reached Hallijohn's, going the back way along the fields and through the wood path, as I generally did go, Afie came out, all reserve, as she could be at times, and said she was unable to receive me then that I must go back home. We had a few words about it, and as we were speaking, lock-sleep past, and saw me with the gun in my hand, but it ended in my giving way. She could do just what she liked with me, for I loved the very ground she trod on. I gave her the gun, telling her it was loaded, and she took it indoors, shutting me out. I did not go away. I had a suspicion that she had got thorn there, though she denied it to me, and I hid myself in some trees near the house. Again, lock-sleep came in view, and saw me there, and called out to know why I was hiding. I shied further off, and did not answer him. What were my private movements to him? And that also told against me at the inquest. Not long afterwards, twenty minutes perhaps, I heard a shot, which seemed to be in the direction of the cottage. Somebody having a late pop at the partridges thought I, for the sun was then setting, and at the moment I saw a Bethel emerge from the trees and run in the direction of the cottage. That was the shot that killed Hallijohn. There was a pause. Mr. Carlisle looked keenly at Richard there in the moonlight. Very soon, almost in the same moment as it seemed, someone came panting and tearing along the path leading from the cottage. It was thorn. His appearance startled me. I had never seen a man show more utter terror. His face was livid, his eyes seemed starting, and his lips were drawn back from his teeth. Had I been a strong man, I should surely have attacked him. I was mad with jealousy, for I then saw that Afie had sent me away that she might entertain him. I thought you said this thorn never came but a dusk, observed Mr. Carlisle. I never knew him to do so until that evening. All I can say is, he was there then. He flew along swiftly, and I afterwards heard the sound of his horse's hoof scalloping away. I wondered what was up that he should look so scared and scutter away so that the deuce was after him. I wondered whether he had quarreled with Afie. I ran to the house, leaped up the two steps, and Carlisle, I fell over the prostrate body of Hallijohn. He was lying just within, on the kitchen floor, dead. Blood was round about him, and my gun, just as charged, was thrown near. He had been shot in the side. Richard stopped for breath. Mr. Carlisle did not speak. I called to Afie. No one answered. No one was in the lower room, and it seemed that no one was in the upper. A sort of panic came over me, a fear. You know they always said at home I was a coward. I could not have remained another minute with that dead man, had it been to save my own life. I caught up the gun, and was making off when. Why did you catch up the gun? interrupted Mr. Carlisle. Ideas passed through our minds quicker than we can speak them, especially in these sorts of moments, was the reply of Richard Hare. Some vague notion flashed on my brain that my gun ought not to be found near the murdered body of Hallijohn. I was flying from the door, I say, when Loxley emerged from the wood, full in view, and what possessed me I can't tell, but I did the worst thing I could do. Flung the gun indoors again, and got away, although Loxley called after me to stop. Nothing told against you so much as that, observed Mr. Carlisle. Loxley deposed that he had seen you leave the cottage, gun in hand, apparently in great commotion, that the moment you saw him you hesitated, as from fear, flung back the gun, and escaped. Richard stamped his foot, I, and all owing to my cursed cowardice, they had better have made a woman of me and brought me up in petticoats. But let me go on. It came upon Bethel. He was standing in that half circle where the trees had been cut. Now I knew that Bethel, if he had gone straight in the direction of the cottage, must have met Thorne quitting it. Did you encounter that hound, I asked him? What hound, returned Bethel? That fine fellow, that Thorne, who comes after Afie, I answered, for I did not mind mentioning her name and my passion. I don't know any Thorne, returned Bethel, and I did not know anybody was after Afie but yourself. Did you hear a shot, I went on? Yes, I did, he replied. I suppose it was Loxley, for he's about this evening. And I saw you, I continued, just the moment the shot was fired, turn round the corner in the direction of Hallijan's. So I did, he said, but only to strike into the wood a few paces up. What's your drift? Did you not encounter Thorne running from the cottage, I persisted? I have encountered no one, he said, and I don't believe anybody's about but ourselves and Loxley. I quitted him and came off, concluded Richard Hare. He evidently had not seen Thorne and knew nothing. And you decamped the same night, Richard. It was a fatal step. Yes, I was a fool. I thought I'd wait quiet and see how things turned out, but you don't know all. Three or four hours later I went to the cottage again, and I managed to get a minute's speech with Afie. I never shall forget it. Before I could say one syllable she flew out at me, accusing me of being the murderer of her father, and she fell into hysterics out there on the grass. The noise brought people from the house. Plenty were in it then, and I retreated. If she can think me guilty, the world will think me guilty was my argument. And that night I went right off to stop and hiding for a day till I saw my way clear. It never came clear. The coroner's inquest sat, and the verdict floored me over. And Afie, but I won't curse her, fanned the flame against me by denying that anyone had been there that night. She had been at home, she said, and it strolled out at the back door to the path that led from West Lynn, and was lingering there when she heard a shot. Five minutes afterwards she returned to the house and found Loxley standing over her dead father. Mr. Carlisle remained silent, rapidly running over in his mind the chief points of Richard Harris' communication. Four of you, as I understand it, were in the vicinity of the cottage that night, and from one or the other the shot no doubt proceeded. You were at a distance, you say, Richard. Bethel also could not have been. It was not Bethel who did it, interrupted Richard. It was an impossibility. I saw him, as I tell you, in the same moment that the gun was fired. But now, where was Loxley? It is equally impossible that it could have been Loxley. He was within my view at the same time, at right angles from me, deep in the wood, away from the paths altogether. It was thorn did the deed, beyond all doubt, and the verdict ought to have been willful murderer against him. Carlisle, I see you don't believe my story. What you say has startled me, and I must take time to consider whether I believe it or not, said Mr. Carlisle, in his straightforward manner. The most singular thing is, if you witnessed this, thorns running from the cottage in the manner you describe, that you did not come forward and denounce him. I didn't do it because I was a fool, a weak coward, as I have been all my life for John Richard. I can't help it. It was born with me, and will go with me to my grave. What would my word have availed that it was thorn when there was nobody to corroborate it? And the discharged gun, mine, was a damnatory proof against me. Another thing strikes me as curious, cried Mr. Carlisle. If this man, thorn, was in the habit of coming to West Lynn evening after evening, how was it that he never was observed? This is the first time I've heard any stranger's name mentioned in connection with the affair, or with Afi. Thorn chose byroads, and he never came save that once but at dusk and dark. It was evident to me at the time that he was striving to do it on the secret. I told Afi so, and that it augured no good for her. You are not attaching credit to what I say, and it is only as I expected. Nevertheless, I swear that I have related the facts. As surely as that we, I, Thorn, Afi, and Hallijohn must one day meet together before our maker, I have told you the truth. The words were solemn, their tone earnest, and Mr. Carlisle remained silent, his thoughts full. To what end else should I say this? went on Richard, and can do me no service. All the assertion I could put forth would not go a jot toward clearing me. No, it would not, assented Mr. Carlisle. If ever you were cleared, it must be by proofs. But I would keep my thought on the matter, and should anything arise. What sort of a man was this Thorn? In age he might be three or four and twenty, tall and slender, and out and out aristocrat. And his connections? Where did he live? I never knew. Afi in her boasting way would say he had come from Swainson a ten-mile ride. From Swainson? Quickly interrupted Mr. Carlisle? Could it be one of the Thorns of Swainson? None of the Thorns that I know. He was a totally different sort of man, with his perfumed hands and his ring and his dainty gloves. That he was an aristocrat, I believe, but of bad taste and style, displaying a perfusion of jewelry. A half-smile flitted over Carlisle's face. Was it Rio Richard? It was. He would wear diamond shirt studs, diamond rings, diamond pins, brilliance, all of the first water. My impression was that he'd put them on to dazzle Afi. She told me once that she could be a grander lady if she chose than I could ever make her. A lady on the cross, I answered, but never on the square. Thorn was not a man to entertain honest intentions to one of the station of Afi halogen, but girls are simple as geese. By your description, it could not have been one of the Thorns of Swainson. Wealthy tradesmen, fathers of young families, short, stout and heavy as Dutchmen, stayed in most respectable. Very unlikely men are they to run into an expedition of that sort. What expedition? questioned Richard. The murder? The riding after Afi. Richard, where is Afi? Richard's hair lifted his eyes in surprise. How should I know? I was just going to ask you. Mr. Carlisle paused. He thought Richard's answer an evasive one. She disappeared immediately after the funeral, and it was thought. In short, Richard, the neighborhood gave her credit for having gone after and joined you. No, did they? What a pack of idiots! I've never seen or heard of her, Carlisle, since that unfortunate night, if she went after anybody it was after Thorn. Was the man good-looking? I suppose the world would call him so. Afi thought such an Adonis had never been coined out of fable. He had shiny black hair and whiskers, dark eyes and handsome features. But his vain dandyism spoiled him. Would you believe that his handkerchiefs were soaked in scent? They were the finest cambrick, silky as a hair, as fine as the one Barbara bought at Lindborough and gave a guinea for. Only hers had a wreath of embroidery around it. Mr. Carlisle could ascertain no more particulars, and it was time Richard went indoors. They proceeded up the path. What a blessing it is the servants' windows don't look this way, shivered Richard, treading on Mr. Carlisle's heels. If they should be looking out upstairs! His apprehensions were groundless, and he entered unseen. Mr. Carlisle's part was over. He left the poor band-exile to his short interview with his hysterical and tearful mother, Richard nearly as hysterical as she, and made the best of his way home again, pondering over what he had heard. The magistrates made a good evening of it. Mr. Carlisle entertained them to supper, mutton chops and bread and cheese. They took up their pipes for another whiff when the meal was over, but Mr. Carlisle retired to bed. The smoke, to which she had not been accustomed since her father's death, had made her head ache and her eyes smart. About eleven they wished Mr. Carlisle good night and departed, but Mr. Dill, an obedience to a nod from his superior, remained. Sit down a moment, Dill. I want to ask you a question. You were intimate with the thorns of Swainson. Do they happen to have any relative, a nephew or cousin, perhaps, a dandy young fellow? I went over last Sunday fortnight to spend the day with young Jacob, was the answer of Mr. Dill, one wider from the point that he generally gave. Mr. Carlisle smiled. Young Jacob, he must be forty, I suppose. About that. But you and I estimate age differently, Mr. Archibald. They have no nephew, the old man never had, but those two children, Jacob and Edward, neither have they any cousin. Rich men they are growing now. Jacob has set up his carriage. Mr. Carlisle mused, but he expected the answer, for neither had he heard of the brother's thorn, tanners, couriers and leather-dressers, possessing a relative of the name. Dill, said he, something has arisen which, in my mind, cast a doubt upon Richard Hare's guilt. I question whether he had anything to do with the murder. Mr. Dill opened his eyes, but his flight, Mr. Archibald, and his stopping away? Suspicious circumstances, I grant. Still, I have good cause to doubt. At the time it happened, some dandy fellow used to come courting Afi Hallijon in secret, a tall, slender man, as he has described to me, bearing the name of Thorn and living at Swainson. Could it have been one of the Thorn family? Mr. Archibald, remonstrated the old clerk, as if those two respected gentlemen with their wives and babies would come sneaking after that flyaway Afi. No reflection on them, returned Mr. Carlisle. This was a young man, three or four and twenty, a head tall of an either. I thought it might be a relative. I have repeatedly heard them say that they are alone in the world, that they are the two last of the name. Depend upon it, it was nobody connected with them. And, wishing Mr. Carlisle good night, he departed. The servant came in to remove the glasses and the obnoxious pipes. Mr. Carlisle sat in a brown study. Presently he looked round at the man. Is Joyce gone to bed? No, sir, she is just going. Send her here when you have taken away those things. Joyce came in, the upper servant, and Miss Carlisle's. She was a middle height and would never see five and thirty again. Her forehead was broad, her gray eyes were deeply set, and her face was pale. Altogether she was plain but sensible looking. She was the half-sister of Afi Hallijohn. Shut the door, Joyce. Joyce did as she was bid, came forward and stood by the table. Have you ever heard from your sister, Joyce, began Mr. Carlisle, somewhat abruptly? No, sir, was the reply. I think it would be a wonder if I did hear. Why so? If she would go off after Richard Hare, who had sent her father into his grave, she would be more likely to hide herself in her doings and to proclaim them to me, sir. Who was that other, that fine gentleman, who came after her? The color mantled in Joyce's cheeks, and she dropped her voice. Sir, did you hear of him? Not at that time. Since. He came from Swainson, did he not? I believe so, sir. Afi never would say much about him. We did not agree upon the point. I said a person of his rank would do her no good, and Afi flew out when I spoke against him. Mr. Carlisle caught her up. His rank? What was his rank? Afi bragged of his being next door to a lord, and he looked like it. I only saw him once. I had gone home early, and there sat him and Afi. His white hands were all glittering with rings, and his shirt was finished off with shining stones where the buttons ought to be. Have you seen him since? Never since, never but once, and I don't think I should know him if I did see him. He got up, sir, as soon as I went into the parlor, shook hands with Afi, and left. A fine, upright man he was, nearly as tall as you, sir, but very slim. Those soldiers always carry themselves well. How do you know he was a soldier, quickly rejoined Mr. Carlisle? Afi told me so. The captain she used to call him. But she said he was not a captain yet awhile. The next grade to it—uh, Lieutenant—suggested Mr. Carlisle? Yes, sir, that was it, Lieutenant Thorn. Joyce, said Mr. Carlisle, has it never struck you that Afi is more likely to have followed Lieutenant Thorn than Richard Hare? No, sir, answered Joyce. I have felt certain always that she is with Richard Hare, and nothing can turn me from the belief. All Westland is convinced of it. Mr. Carlisle did not attempt to turn her from her belief. He dismissed her and sat on still, revolving the case in all its bearings. Richard Hare's short interview with his mother had soon terminated. It lasted but a quarter of an hour, both dreading interruption from the servants. And with a hundred pounds in his pocket and desolation in his heart, the ill-fated young man once more quitted his childhood's home. Mrs. Hare and Barbara watched him steal down the path in the telltale moonlight and gain the road, both feeling that those farewell kisses they had pressed upon his lips would not be renewed for years and might not be forever.