 Section 31 of East Linn This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. East Linn by Mrs. Henry Wood Chapter 27 Barbara's Misdoings Part 1 A sunny afternoon in summer, more correctly speaking, it may be said, a summer's evening. For the bright beams were already slanting afoot, the substantial garden of Mr. Justice Hare, and the two-hour seven was passing. Mr. and Mrs. Hare and Barbara were seated at the meal. Somehow meals always did seem in process at Justice Hare's. If it was not breakfast, it was luncheon. If it was not luncheon, it was dinner. If it was not dinner, it was tea. Barbara sat in tears, for the Justice was giving her a peace of his mind. And poor Mrs. Hare differently agreeing with her husband, as she would have done had he proposed to set the house on fire and burn her up in it, yet sympathising with Barbara, moved uneasily in her chair. You do it for the purpose, you do it to anger me, thundered the Justice, bringing down his hand on the tea table and causing the cups to rattle. No, I don't, Papa, sob Barbara. Then why do you do it, Barbara was silent. No, you can't answer, you have nothing to urge. What is the matter, pray, with major thorn. Come, I will be answered. I don't like him, faulted Barbara. You do like him, you are telling me an untruth. You have liked him well enough whenever he has been here. I liked him as an acquaintance, Papa, not as a husband. Like as a husband, repeated the exasperated Justice. Why, bless my heart and body, the girls going mad. Not as a husband, who asked him to like him as a husband before he became such? Did ever you hear that it was necessary or expedient, or becoming for a young lady to act on, and begin to like a gentleman as her husband, Barbara felt a little bewildered. Here's the whole parish saying that Barbara here can't be married, that nobody will have her, on account of that cursed stain left by. I won't trust myself to name him, I should go too far. Now, don't you think that's a pretty disgrace, a fine state of things? But it is not true, said Barbara, people do ask me. But what's the use, they're asking, when you say no, rave the Justice. Is that the way to let the parish know that they ask? You are an ungrateful, rebellious, self-willed daughter, and you'll never be otherwise. Barbara's tears flowed freely. The Justice gave a dash at the bell handle, to order the tea things carried away. And after their removal, the subject was renewed. And together with Barbara's grief, that was the worst of Justice's hair. Letting C's hold of a grievance. It was not often he got upon a real one, and he kept on at it, like a blacksmith hammering at his forge. In the midst of a stormy oration, tongue and hands going together, Mr. Carlyle came in. Not much altered, not much. A year and three quarters had gone by, and they had served to silver his hair upon the temples. His manner, too, would never again be careless and light, as it once had been. He was the same key man of business, the same pleasant, intelligent companion. The generality of people saw no change in him. Barbara rose to escape. No, said Justice Hair, planting himself between her and the door. That's the way you like to get out of my reach when I am talking to you. You won't go, so sit down again. I'll tell you of your ill conduct before Mr. Carlyle, and see if that will shame you. Barbara resumed her seat, a rush of crimson dying her cheeks, and Mr. Carlyle looked inquiringly, seeming to ask an explanation of her distress. The Justice continued after his own fashion. You know, Carlyle, that horrible blow that fell upon us, that shameless disgrace. Well, because the parish can't clack enough about the fact itself, it must begin about Barbara, saying that the disgrace and humiliation are reflected upon her, and that nobody will come near her to ask her to be his wife. One would think, rather than lie under the stigma, and afford the parish room to talk, she'd marry the first man that came, if it was the parish beetle anybody else would. But now, what are the facts? You'll stare when you know them. She has received a bushel of good offers, a bushel of them, repeated the Justice, dashing his hand down on his knee, and she says no to all. The last was today, from Major Thorn, and my young lady takes and puts the stopper upon it, as usual, without reference to me or her mother, without saying with your leave or by your leave. She wants to be kept in her room for a week, upon bread and water, to bring her to her senses. Mr. Carlyle glanced at Barbara. She was sitting meekly under the inflection, her wet eyelashes falling on her flushed cheeks and shading her eyes. The Justice was heated enough, and had pushed his plexon wig nearly high in part before, in the warmth of his argument. What did you say to her, snapped the Justice? Matrimony may not have chance for Barbara, replied Mr. Carlyle half jokingly. Nothing does have chance for her that ought to have, growled Justice here. She's one of the contrary ones. By the way, though, hastily resumed the Justice, leaving the objection or subject as another flashed across his memory. They were coupling your name and matrimony together, Carlyle, last night, at the Buck's Head. A very perceptible tinge of red rose to the face of Mr. Carlyle, telling of inward emotion, but his voice and manner betrayed none. Indeed, he carelessly said, Ah, you are a sly one, you are Carlyle. Remember how sly you were over your first marriage, Justice here was going to bring out? But it suddenly occurred to him that all circumstances considered it was not precisely the topic to recall to Mr. Carlyle. So he stopped himself in the utterance, coughed and went on again. There you go, over to see Sir John Doe Bede, not to see Sir John, but paying court to Mr. Bede. So the Buck's Head was amusing itself with that. Good, naturally, observed Mr. Carlyle. Well, Mr. Bede is going to be married, and I am drawing up the settlements. It's not she, she marries, young Somerset, everybody knows that. That's the other one, Louisa, a nice girl, Carlyle. Very responded Mr. Carlyle, and it was all the answer he gave. The Justers, tired of sitting indoors, tired, perhaps, of extracting nothing satisfactory from Mr. Carlyle, rose, shook himself, set his wig a right before the chimney glass, and quitted the house on his customary evening visit to the Buck's Head. Barbara, who watched him down the path, saw that he encountered someone who happened to be passing the gate. She could not at first distinguish who it might be. Nothing but an arm and shoulder cased in velveteen met her view. But as their positions changed in conversation, he's and her father's, she saw, that it was loxley. She had been the chief witness, not a vindictive one. He could not help himself against her brother Richard, touching the murder of Halla John. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hare had drawn Mr. Carlyle into a chair close by her own. Archibald, will you forgive me if I say a word upon the topic introduced by Mr. Hare? She said, in a low tone, as she shook his hand. You know how fondly I have ever regarded you, second only to my poor Richard, your welfare and happiness are precious to me. I wish I could in any way promote them. It occurs to me sometimes that you are not at present so happy as you might be. I have some sources of happiness, said Mr. Carlyle. My children and I have plenty of sources of interest. What do you mean, dear Mrs. Hare? Your home might be made happier. Mr. Carlyle smiled, nearly laughed. Cornelia takes care of that, as she did in the old days, you know. Yes, I know. Would it not be as well to consider whether she would not be better in a home of her own, and for you to give East Lynn another mistress? He shook his head. It would be happier for you. It would indeed. It is only in new ties that you can forget the past. You might find recompense, yet for the sorrow you have gone through, and I know none, repeated Mrs. Hare, emphatically, more calculated to bring it you, than that sweet girl, Louisa DeVede. So long as Mr. Carlyle was beginning, had not got so far in his sentence, when he was interrupted by an exclamation from Barbara. What can be the matter with Papa? Loxley must have said something to anger him. He is coming in the greatest passion, Mama. His face crimson, and his hands and arms working. Oh, dear Barbara, was all poor, Mrs. Hare's reply. The justice's great bursts of passion frightened her. When he came, closed the door, and stood in the middle of the room, looking alternately at Mrs. Hare and Barbara. What is this cursed report that's being whispered in the place, quote he, in a tone of suppressed rage, but not unmixed with awe? What report? Asked Mr. Carlyle, for the justice waited for an answer, and Mrs. Hare seemed unable to speak. Barbara took care to keep silence. She had some misgivings that the justice's words might be referring to herself, to the recent grievance. A report that he, he has been here disguised as a labourer, has dared to show himself in the place where he'll come yet, to the give it. Mrs. Hare's face turned as white as death. Mr. Carlyle rose dexterously, contrived to stand before her, so that it should not be seen. Barbara silently locked her hands, one within the other, and turned to the window. Of whom did you speak, asked Mr. Carlyle, in a matter of fact tone, as if he were putting the most matter-of-fact question. He knew too well, but he thought to temporise for the sake of Mrs. Hare. Of whom do I speak, uttered the exasperated justice, nearly beside himself with passion. Of whom would I speak but the bastard dick? Who else in West Lynn is likely to come to a felon's death? O Richard, sob forth, Mrs. Hare, as she sunk back in her chair, be merciful. He is our own true son, never a true son of the heirs, brave the justice, a true son of wickedness and cowardness and blight and evil. If he has dared to show his face at West Lynn, I'll set the whole police of England upon his track, that he may be brought here as he ought, if he must come. When Locke Slee told me of it just now, I raised my hand to knock him down. So infamously false did I deem the report. Do you know anything of his having been here, continued the justice to his wife, in a pointed, resolute tone? How Mrs. Hare would have extricated herself, or what she would have answered, cannot even be imagined? But Mr. Carlyle interposed. You are frightening, Mrs. Hare, sir. Don't you see that she knows nothing of it, that the very report of such a thing is alarming her into illness? But allow me to inquire what it may be that Locke Slee said. I met him at the gate, retorted justice Hare, turning his attention upon Mr. Carlyle. He was going by as I reached it. Oh, justice, I am glad I met you. That's a nasty report in the place that Richard has been here. I'd see what I could do toward hushing it up, sir, if I were you, for it may only serve to put the police in mind of bygone things, which it may be better they should forget. Carlyle, I went, as I tell you, to knock him down. I asked him how he could have the hardy hood to repeat such slander to my face. He was on the high horse directly, said the parish, spoke the slander, not he, and I got out of him what it was he had heard. And what was it, interrupted Mr. Carlyle, more eagerly than he generally spoke. Why, they say the fellow showed himself here some time ago, a year or so, disguised as a farm labourer, confounded feelves. Not but what, he'd have been the feel had he done it. To be sure he would, repeated Mr. Carlyle, and he is not feel enough for that, sir. Let West Lynn talk, Mr. Hare, but do not put faith in a word of its gossip. I never do. Poor Richard, wherever he may be, I won't have him pitted in my presence, burst forth the justice. Poor Richard, indeed, villain Richard, if you please. I was about to observe that, wherever he may be, whether in the backwoods of America, or digging for gold in California, or wondering about the United Kingdom, there is little fear that he will quit his place of safety to dare the dangerous ground of West Lynn. Had I been you, sir, I would have laughed at Loxley and his words. Why does West Lynn invent such lies? Ah, there's the rub. I daresay West Lynn could not tell why, if it were paid for doing it, but it seems to have been a lame story it had got up this time. If they must have concocted a report that Richard had been seen at West Lynn, why put it back to a year ago? Why not have fixed it for today or yesterday? If I heard anything more, I would treat it with the silence and contempt it deserves, Justice. Silence and contempt were not greatly in the Justice's line. Noise and explosion were more so, but he had a high opinion at the judgment of Mr. Carlyle. And growling a sort of assent, he once more set forth to pay his evening visit. Oh, archable uttered Mrs. Hare, when her husband was half way down the path. What a mercy that you were here. I should inevitably have betrayed myself. Barb returned round from the window, but what could have possessed Loxley to say what he did? She exclaimed. I have no doubt Loxley spoke with a motive, said Mr. Carlyle. He's not unfriendly to Richard and thought, probably, that by telling Mr. Hare of the report, he might get it stopped. The rumour had been mentioned to me. Barb returned cold all over. How can it have come to light? She breathed. I am at a loss to know, said Mr. Carlyle. The person to mention it to me was Tom Herbert. I say, said he meeting me yesterday. What's this row about Dick Hare? What now? I asked him. Why? That Dick was at West Linn some time back, disguised as a farm labourer. Just the same, you see, that Loxley said to Mr. Hare. I laughed at Tom Herbert, continued Mr. Carlyle, turned his report into ridicule also, before I had done with him. Will it be the means of causing Richard's detection, murmured Mrs. Hare from between her dry lips? No, no, warmly responded Mr. Carlyle. Had the report arisen immediately after he was really here, it might not have been so pleasant. But nearly two years have elapsed since the period. Be under no uneasiness, dear Mrs. Hare, for rely upon it there is no cause. But how could it have come out archable? She urged, and at this distant period of time, I assure you I am quite at a loss to imagine. Had anybody at West Linn seen and recognised Richard, they would have spoken of it at the time. Do not let it trouble you, the rumour will die away. Mrs. Hare sighed deeply, and left the room to proceed to her own chamber. Barbara and Mr. Carlyle were alone. Oh, that the real murderer could be discovered, she aspirated, clasping her hands. To be subjected to these shocks of fear is dreadful. Mama will not be herself for days to come. End of Chapter 27, Part 1, Section 32 of East Linn. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. East Linn, by Mrs. Henry Wood. Chapter 27, Barbara's Mist doings, Part 2. I wish the right man could be found, but it seems as far off as ever, remarked Mr. Carlyle. Barbara sat ruminating. It seemed that she would say something to Mr. Carlyle, but a feeling caused her to hesitate. When she did at length speak, it was in a low, timid voice. You remember the description Richard gave, that last night of the person he had met, the true thorn? Yes. Did it strike you then, as it ever occurred to you, to think that it accorded with someone? In what way, Barbara? He asked, after a pause. It accorded with the description Richard always gave at the man's thorn. Richard spoke at the peculiar movement of throwing off the hair from the forehead, in this way. Did that strike you as being familiar, in connection with the white hand and the diamond ring? Many have a habit of pushing off their hair. I think I do it myself sometimes. Barbara, what do you mean? Have you a suspicion of anyone? Have you, she returned, answering the question by asking another? I have not, since Captain Thorn was disposed of. My suspicions have not pointed anywhere. This sealed Barbara's lips. She had hers, vague doubts, bringing wonder more than anything else. At times, she had thought the same doubts might have occurred to Mr Carlisle. She now found that they had not. The terrible domestic calamity which had happened to Mr Carlisle the same night that Richard protested he had seen Thorn had prevented Barbara's discussing the matter with him then, and she had never done so since. Richard had never been further heard of and the affair had remained in abeyance. I begin to despair of its ever being discovered, she observed. What will come of poor Richard? We can but wait and hope that time may bring forth its own elucidation, continued Mr Carlisle. Ah, sighed Barbara, but it is weary waiting, weary, weary. How is it you can try to get under the paternal displeasure he resumed in a gayer tone? She blushed vividly and it was their only answer. The major thorn alluded to by your papa is our old friend, I presume, Barbara inclined her head. He is a very pleasant man, Barbara. Many a young lady in West Lynn would be proud to get him. There was a pause, Barbara brokered, but she did not look at Mr Carlisle as she spoke. The other rumour, is it a correct one? What other rumour? That you are to marry Louise at the bead? It is not, I have no intention of marrying anyone. Nah, I will say it more strongly. It is my intention not to marry anyone, to remain as I am. Barbara lifted her eyes to his, in the surprise of the moment. You look amused, Barbara. Have you been lending your credence to the gossips, who have so kindly disposed of me to Louise at the bead? Not so, but Louise at the bead is a girl to be coveted, and as Mama says it might be happier for you if you were married again. I thought you would be sure to do so. No, she, who was my wife, lives. What of that? uttered Barbara in simplicity. He did not answer for a moment, and when he did, it was in a low, almost imperceptible tone, as he stood by the table at which Barbara sat, and looked down on her. Whosoever puteth away his wife, and marath another, committed adultery. And before Barbara could answer, if indeed, she had found any answer to make, or had recovered her surprise, he had taken his hat and was gone. To return for a short while to Lady Isabel, as the year advanced she grew stronger, and in the latter part of the summer, she made preparations for quitting Grenoble. Where she would fix her residence, or what she would do, she knew not. She was miserable and restless, and cared little what became of her. The remotest spot on earth, one unpenetrated by the steps of civilised man, appeared the most desirable for her. Where was she to find this? She set out on her search. She and the child and its nurse, not Susan. Susan had a sweetheart in Grenoble, and declined to leave it, so a girl was engaged for the child in her place. Lady Isabel wound up her housekeeping, had her things packed and forwarded to Paris, there to wait her orders, and finally quitted Grenoble. It was a fine day when she left it, all too fine for the dark ending it was to bring. When a railway accident does take place in France, there is an accident. None of your milk and water affairs, where a few bruises and a great fright, are the extent of the damages, but too often a calamity, whose remembrance lasts a lifetime. Lady Isabel had travelled a considerable distance that first day, and at the dusk of evening, as they were approaching a place, Camilla, where she proposed to halt the night, a dreadful accident occurred. The details need not be given, and will not be. It is sufficient to say that some of the passengers were killed, her child and nurse being amongst them, and she herself was dangerously injured. The injuries lay chiefly in her left leg, and in her face, the lower part of her face. The surgeons, taking their cursory view with her, as they did of the rest of the sufferers, were not sparing in their remarks, for they believed her to be insensible. She had gathered that the leg was to be amputated, and that she would probably die under the operation, but her turn to be attended to was not yet. How she contrived to write she never knew, but she got a pen and ink brought to her, and did succeed in scrolling a letter to Lord Mount Saboon. She told him that a sad accident had taken place, she could not say how, all was confusion, and that her child and maid were killed. She herself was dangerously injured, and was about to undergo an operation, which the doctors believed she could not survive, only in case of her death would the letter be sent to Lord Mount Saboon. She could not die, she said, without a word of thanks for all his kindness, and she begged him, when he saw Mr. Carlisle, to say that with her last breath, she humbly implored his forgiveness, and his children, whom she no longer dared to call hers. Now this letter, by the officiousness of the servant at the inn, to which the sufferers were carried, was taken at once to the post, and, after all, things turned out not quite so bad as anticipated, for when the doctors came to examine the state of Lady Isabel, adversarily, they found there would be no absolute necessity that the operation contemplated. Fond, as the French surgeons are of the night, to resort to it, in this instance, would have been cruel, and they proceeded to other means of cure. The letter was duly delivered at the townhouse of Lord Mount Saboon, where it was addressed. The Countess was subjoining there for a few days. She had quitted it after the season, but some business or pleasure had called her again to town. Lord Vane was with her, but the earl was in Scotland. They were at breakfast, she and her son, when the letter was brought in, 18 pence to pay. Its scrawled address, its foreign aspect, its appearance altogether, exited her curiosity. In her own mind, she believed she had dropped upon a nice little pindugal mare's nest. I shall open this, cried she. Why, it is addressed to Papa, exclaimed Lord Vane, who possessed all his father's notions of honour. But such an odd letter, it may require an immediate answer, or if some begging petition perhaps. Get on with your breakfast. Lady Mount Saboon opened the letter, and with some difficulty spelt through its contents. They shocked even her. How dreadful, she uttered, in the impulse of the moment. What is dreadful, asked Lord Vane, looking up from his breakfast. Lady Isabel, Isabel, Vane, you have not forgotten her. Forgotten her, he echoed, why, Mama, I must possess a funny memory to have forgotten her already. She is dead, she has been killed in a railway accident in France. His large blue eyes, honest and true, as they had been in childhood, filled, and his face flushed. He said nothing, for emotion was strong within him. But, shocking as it is, it is better for her, went on the countess. The poor creature, what could her future life had been? O, don't say it, impetuously broke out the young vicount, killed in a railway accident, and for you to say that, it is better for her. So it is better, said the countess, don't go into her rowicks, William. You are quite old enough to know that she had brought misery upon herself and disgrace upon all connected with her. No one could ever have taken notice of her again. I would, said the boy's doubly, Lady Mount Savne smiled derisively. I would, I never liked anybody in the world half so much as I liked Isabelle. That's past and gone. You would not have continued to like her after the disgrace she wrought. Somebody else wrought more of the disgrace than she did, and had I been a man, I would have shot him dead, flashed the vicount. You don't know anything about it. Don't I return to he, not over dutifully, but Lady Mount Savne had not brought him up to be dutiful. May I read the letter, Mama? He demanded, after a pause. If you can read it, she'd replied, tossing it to him. It is written in the strangest style, syllables divided, and the words running one into the other. She wrote it herself when she was dying. Lord Vaing took the letter to a window and stayed looking over it for some time. The countess ate an egg and a plate of ham meanwhile. Presently he came back with it, folded it, and laid it on the table. You will forward it to Puppet today, he observed. I shall forward it to him, but there's no hurry, and I don't exactly know where your Puppet may be. I shall send the notice of her death to the papers, and I'm glad to do it. It is the blight removed from the family. Mama, I do think you are the unkindest woman that ever breathed. I'll give you something to call me unkind for, if you don't mind. Retort at the countess, her colour rising. Doc you with your holiday, and pack you back to school today. A few mornings after this, Mr Carlisle left East Linn and proceeded to his office as usual. Scarcely was he seated when Mr Dill entered, and Mr Carlisle looked at him inquiringly, for it was not Mr Carlisle's custom to be intruded upon by any person until he had opened his letters. Then he would ring for Mr Dill. The letters and the times newspaper were on the table before him. The old gentleman came up in a cupboard, timid sort of way, which made Mr Carlisle look all the more. I beg pardon, sir, will you let me ask if you have heard any particular news? Yes, I have heard it, replied Mr Carlisle. Then, sir, I beg your pardon a thousand times over. I have heard to me that you probably had not, Mr Archibald, and I thought I would have said a word to prepare you before you came upon it suddenly in the paper. To prepare me, echoed Mr Carlisle, as old Dill was turning away. Why, what has come to you, Dill? Are you afraid my nerves are growing delicate, or that I shall faint over the loss of a hundred pounds? At the very most, we shall not suffer above that extent. Old Dill, turn back again. If I don't believe you are speaking of the failure of Kent and Green, it's not that, Mr Archibald. They won't affect as much, and they'll be a dividend. Report runs. What is it then? Then you have not heard it, sir. I am glad that I'm in time. It might not be well for you to have seen it without a word of preparation, Mr Archibald. If you have not gone, demented, you will tell me what you mean, Dill, and leave me to my letters, cried Mr Carlisle, wondering excessively at his sober matter-of-fact clerks, words and manner. Old Dill put his hands upon the Times newspaper. It's here, Mr Archibald, in the column of deaths. The first on the list. Please prepare yourself a little before you look at it. He shuffled out quickly, and Mr Carlisle as quickly unfolded the paper. It was, as Old Dill said, the first on the list of deaths. At Camilla in France, on the 18th inst, Isabel Mary, only child of William, late Earl of Mount Saboon. Clients called. Mr Carlisle's bell did not ring. An hour or two passed, and Old Dill protested, but Mr Carlisle was engaged until he could protest no longer. He went in depratingly. Mr Carlisle sat jet with the newspaper before him, and the letters unopened at his elbow. There are one or two who will come in, Mr Archibald, who will see you. What am I to say? Mr Carlisle stared at him for a moment, as if his wits had been in the next world. Then he swept the newspaper from before him, and was the calm, collected man at business again. As the news of Lady Isabel's marriage had first come, in the knowledge of Lord Mount Saboon through the newspapers, so singular to say did the tidings of her death. The next post brought him the letter, which his wife had totally forwarded. But unlike Lady Mount Saboon, he did not take her death, as entirely upon trust. He thought it possible the letter might have been dispatched, without its having taken place, and he deemed it incumbent on him to make inquiries. He wrote immediately to the authorities of the town, in the best French he could muster, asking for particulars, and whether she was really dead. He received in due course a satisfactory answer, satisfactory in so far as that it set his doubts at rest. He had inquired after her by a proper name and title, La Dame Isabel of Vaine. And as the authorities could find none of the survivors, owning that name, they took it for granted she was dead. They wrote him word that the child and nurse were killed on the spot. Two ladies occupying the same compartment of the carriage, had since died, one of whom was no doubt the mother and lady he inquired for. She was dead and buried, sufficient money having been found upon her person, to defray the few necessary expenses. Thus, through no premeditated intention of Lady Isabel, news of her death went forth to Lord Mount Saboon, and to the world. Her first intimation that she was regarded as dead was through a copy of that very day's Times, seen by Mr Carlyle, seen by Lord Mount Saboon, an English traveller who had been amongst the sufferers, and who received the English newspaper daily, sometimes lent them to her to read. She was not travelling under her own name. She left that behind her when she left Grenoble. She had rendered her own too notorious to risk the chance recognition of travellers. And the authorities little thought that the quiet, unobtrusive Madam Vine, slowly recovering at the inn, was the dame Isabel of Vane, respecting whom the grand English comity wrote, Lady Isabel understood it at once, that the dispatching of her letter had been the foundation of the misapprehension, and she began to ask herself now why she should undercede Lord Mount Saboon and the world. She longed none new with what intense longings to be unknown, obscure, totally unrecognised by all. None can know it till they have put a barrier between themselves and the world, as she had done. The child was gone, happy being. She thought she could never be sufficiently thankful that it was released from the uncertain future. Therefore she had not his support to think of. She had only herself, and surely she could with ease earn enough for that, or she could starve, at matter little which. No, there was no necessity for her continuing to accept the bounty of Lord Mount Saboon, and she would let him and everybody else continue to believe that she was dead, and be henceforth only Madame Vane. A resolution she adhered to. Thus the unhappy Isabel's career was looked upon as run. Lord Mount Saboon forwarded her letter to Mr Carlisle with the confirmation of her death which he had obtained from the French authorities. It was a nine days wonder that poor eerie Lady Isabel was dead. People did not call her names in the very teeth of her fate, and then it was over. It was over. Lady Isabel was as one forgotten. End of Chapter 27 Part 2 Chapter 28 of East Linn This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda McDaniel. East Linn by Mrs Henry Wood. Chapter 28. An Unexpected Visitor at East Linn. There went, sailing up the avenue to East Linn, a lady, one windy afternoon. If not a lady, she was a tired as one. A flout's dress and a stylish-looking shawl and a white veil. A very pretty woman, tall and slender was she, and she minced as she walked and coquetted with her head and altogether contrived to show that she had quite as much vanity as brains. She went boldly up to the broad entrance of the house and boldly rang at it, drawing her white veil over her face as she did so. One of the men servants answered it, not Peter, and seeing someone very smart before him, bowed differentially. Miss Hallijohn is reciting here, I believe. Is she within? Who, ma'am? Miss Hallijohn. Miss Joyce Hallijohn. Somewhat sharply repeated the lady as if impatient of any delay, I wished to see her. The man was rather taken aback. He had deemed it a visitor to the house and was prepared to usher her to the drawing-room, at least, but it seemed it was only a visitor to Joyce. He showed her into a small parlor and went upstairs to the nursery where Joyce was sitting with Wilson, for there had been no change in the domestic department of Eastland. Joyce remained as uppermade, partially super-intending the servants, attending upon Lucy and making Miss Carlisle's dresses as usual. Wilson was nursed still. Miss Joyce, there's a lady asking for you, said the man. I have shown her into the gray parlor. A lady for me? Repeated Joyce. Who is it? Someone to see the children, perhaps. It's for you yourself, I think. She asked for Miss Hallijohn. Joyce looked at the man, but she put down her work and proceeded to the gray parlor. A pretty woman, vain and dashing, threw up her white veil at her entrance. Well, Joyce, how are you? Joyce, always pale, turned paler still as she gazed in blank consternation. Was it really Afi who stood before her? Afi, the erring? Afi it was, and she stood there, holding at her hand to Joyce with what Wilson would have called all the brass in the world. Joyce could not reconcile her mind to link her own with it. Excuse me, Afi, but I cannot take your hand. I cannot welcome you here. What could have induced you to come? If you're going to be upon the high robes, it seems I might as well have stayed away, was Afi's reply, given in the pert but good humor manner she had ever used to Joyce. My hand won't damage yours. I'm not poison. You are looked upon in the neighborhood as worse than poison, Afi. Returned Joyce in a tone, not of anger, but of sorrow. Where's Richard Hare? Afi tossed her head. Where's who? Asked she. Richard Hare! Your question was plain enough. How should I know where he is? It's like your impudence to mention him to me. Why don't you ask me where Old Nick is and how he does? I'd rather own acquaintance with him than with Richard Hare, if I'd my choice between the two. Then you have left Richard Hare? How long since? I have left, and what do you say? Broke off Afi whose lips were quivering ominously with suppressed passion? Perhaps she'll condescend to explain. I don't understand. When you left here, did you not go after Richard Hare? Did you not join him? I'll tell you what it is, Joyce flashed Afi her face indignant and her voice passionate. I have put up with some things from you in my time, but human nature has its limits of endurance, and I won't bear that. I have never said eyes on Richard Hare since that night of horror. I wish I could. I'd help to hang him. Joyce paused. The belief that Afi was with him had been long and deeply imbued within her. It was the long continued and firm conviction of all West Lynn, and a subtle belief such as that is not easily shaken. Was Afi telling the truth? She knew her propensity for making false assertions when they served to excuse herself. Afi, she said at length, let me understand you. When you left this place, was it not to share Richard Hare's flight? Have you not been living with him? No burst forth Afi with kindling eyes, living with him? With our father's murderer? Shame upon you, Joyce Hallijan! You must be precious wicked yourself to suppose it. If I have judged you wrongly, Afi, I sincerely beg your pardon. Not only myself, but the whole of West Lynn believed you were with him, and the thought has caused me pain night and day. What a cannibal-minded set you all must be then! Was Afi's indignant rejoinder? What have you been doing ever since then? Where have you been? Never mind, I say, repeated Afi, West Lynn has not been so complementary to me, it seems, that I need put myself out of my way to satisfy its curiosity. I was knocking about a bit at first, but I soon settled down as steady as old time, as steady as you. Are you married, inquired Joyce, noting the words settled? Catch me marrying! Retorted Afi, I like my liberty too well, not but what I might be induced to change my condition, if anything, out of the way eligible occurred. It must be very eligible, though, to tempt me. I am what I suppose you call yourself a lady's maid. Indeed, said Joyce, much relieved. And are you comfortable, Afi? Are you in good service? Meddling for that, the pay's not amiss, but there's a great deal to do, and Lady Mount Severn's too much of a charter for me. Joyce looked at her in surprise. What have you to do with Lady Mount Severn? While that's good, it's where I am at service. At Lady Mount Severn's? Why not? I have been there two years. It is not a great deal longer I shall stop, though. She had too much vinegar in her for me, but it poses me to imagine what on earth could have induced you to fancy I should go off with that dick-hair. She added, for she could not forget the grievance. Look at the circumstances, argued Joyce. You both disappeared, but not together. Nearly together there were only a few days intervening, and you had neither money nor friends. You don't know what I had, but I would rather have died of want on Father's grave than have shared his means, continued Afi, growing passionate again. Where is he? Not hung, or I should have heard of it. He has never been seen since that night, Afi. Nor heard of? Nor heard of. Most people think he's in Australia, or some other foreign land. The best place for him, the more distance he puts between him and home, the better. If he does come back, I hope he'll get his desserts, which is a rope's end. I'd go to his hanging. You're as bitter against him as Mr. Justice's hair. He would bring his son back to suffer if he could. A cross-grained old camel remarked Afi in allusion to the qualities, social, and amiable of the revered justice. I don't defend Dick Hair. I hate him too much for that. But if his father had treated him differently, Dick might have been different. Well, let's talk of something else. The subject invariably gives me the shivers. Who is Mistress here? Miss Carlisle? Oh, I might have guessed that. Is she as fierce as ever? There is little alteration in her. And there won't be on this side of the grave, I say. Joyce, I don't want to encounter her. She might sit on at me, like she has done many a time in the old days. Little love was there lost between me and Corny Carlisle. Is Mr. Carlisle at home? He will be home for dinner. I daresay you would like some tea. You shall come and take it with me and Wilson in the nursery. I was thinking you might have the grace to offer me something. Cried Afi, I intend to stop till tomorrow in the neighborhood. My lady gave me two days' holiday, for she was going to see her dreadful old grandmother, where she can't take a maid, and I thought I'd use it in coming to have a look at the old place again. Don't stare at me in that blank way, as if you feared I should ask the Grand Lone of sleeping here, I shall sleep in the Mount Severn Arms. I am not glancing at such a thought, Afi. Come and take your body off. Is the nursery full of children? There is only one child in it. Miss Lucy and Master William are with the governess. Wilson received Afi with lofty condescension, having Richard Hare in her thoughts. But Joyce explained that it was all a misapprehension, that her sister had never been near Richard Hare, but was as indignant against him as they were, upon which Wilson grew cordial and chatty, rejoicing in the delightful recreation her tongue would enjoy that evening. Afi's account of herself, as to past proceedings, was certainly not the most satisfactory in the world, but altogether, taken in the present, was so vast an improvement over Joyce's conclusions, that she had not felt so elated for many a day. When Mr. Carlyle returned home, Joyce sought him, and acquainted him with what had happened, that Afi was home, was made to Lady Mount Severn, and above all that she had never been with Richard Hare. Ah, you remember what I said, Joyce, he remarked, that I did not believe Afi was with Richard Hare. I have been telling her so, sir, to be sure, when I informed her what people had believed, continued Joyce, she nearly went into one of her old passions. Does she seem steady, Joyce? I think so, sir, steady for her. I was thinking, sir, that as she appears to have turned out so respectable, and is with Lady Mount Severn, you might perhaps see no objection to her sleeping here for tonight. It would be better than for her to go to the inn, as she talks of doing. None at all, replied Mr. Carlyle, let her remain. Later in the evening, after Mr. Carlyle's dinner, a message came that Afi was to go to him. Accordingly, she proceeded to his presence. So, Afi, you have returned to let West Lynn know that you are alive. Sit down. West Lynn may go a-walking for me in the future, sir, for all the heat I shall take of it, retorted Afi, a set of wicked-minded scandal-mongers to take and say I had gone after Richard Hare. You should not have gone off at all, Afi. While, sir, that was my business, and I chose to go, I could not stop in the cottage after that night's work. There is a mystery attached to that night's work, Afi, observed Mr. Carlyle, a mystery that I cannot fathom. Perhaps you can help me out. What mystery, sir? Returned Afi. Mr. Carlyle leaned forward, his arms on the table. Afi had taken a chair at the other end of it. Who was it that committed the murder? He demanded, in a grave and somewhat imperative tone. Afi stared some moments before she replied, astonished at the question. Who committed the murder, sir? She uttered at length. Richard Hare committed it. Everybody knows that. Did you see it done? No, replied Afi, if I had seen it, the fright and horror would have killed me. Richard Hare quarreled with my father with a gun upon him and passion. You assume this to have been the case, Afi, as others have assumed it. I do not think it was Richard Hare who killed your father. Not Richard Hare, exclaimed Afi after a pause. Then who do you think did it, sir? I? Nonsense, Afi. I know he did it, proceeded Afi. It is true that I did not see it done, but I know for all that. I know it, sir. I know it, Afi. I do know it, sir. I would not assert it to you if I did not. If Richard Hare was here, present before us, and swore until he was black in the face that it was not him, I could convict him. By what means? I had rather not say, sir, but you may believe me, for I am speaking truth. There was another friend of yours present that evening, Afi, Lieutenant Thorn. Afi's face termed crimson. She was evidently surprised. But Mr. Carlyle's speech and manner were authoritative, and she saw it would be useless to attempt to trifle with him. I know he was, sir. A young chap who used to ride over some evenings to see me. He had nothing to do with what occurred. Where did he ride from? He was stopping with some friends at Swainson. He was nobody, sir. What was his name, questioned Mr. Carlyle? Thorn, said Afi. I mean his real name. Thorn was an assumed name. Oh, dear no! Returned Afi, Thorn was his name. Mr. Carlyle paused and looked at her. Afi, I have reason to believe that Thorn was only an assumed name. Now I have a motive for wishing to know his real one, and you would very much oblige me by confiding it to me. What was it? I don't know that he had any other name, sir. I am sure he had no other. Persisted Afi, he was Lieutenant Thorn. Then, and he was Captain Thorn afterward. You have seen him since? Once in a way we have met. Where is he now? Now, oh my goodness, I don't know anything about him, mothered Afi. I have not heard of him or seen him for a long while. I think I heard something about his going to India with his regimen. What regimen is he in? I am sure I don't know about that, sir Afi. Is not one regimen the same as another? They are all in the army, aren't they, sir? Afi, I must find this Captain Thorn. Do you know anything of his family? Afi shook her head. I don't think he had any. I never heard him mentioned so much as a brother or a sister. And you persist in saying his name was Thorn. I persist in saying it because it was his name. I am positive it was his name. Afi, shall I tell you why I want to find him? I believe it was he who murdered your father, not Richard Hare. Afi's mouth and eyes gradually opened, and her face turned hot and cold alternately. Then passion mastered her, and she burst forth. It's a lie! I beg your pardon, sir, but whoever told you that told you a lie. Thorn had no more to do with it than I had. I'll swear it. I tell you, Afi, I believe Thorn to have been the man. You are not present. You cannot know who actually did it. Yes, I can, and I do know," said Afi, bursting into sobs of hysterical passion. Thorn was with me when it happened, so it could not have been Thorn. It was that wicked Richard Hare. Sir, have I not said that I'll swear it? Thorn was with you at the moment of the murder, repeated Mr. Carlyle? Yes, he was, shrieked Afi, nearly beside herself with emotion. Whoever had been trying to put it off on Richard Hare, to him, is a wicked, false-hearted rich. It was Richard Hare and nobody else, and I hope he'll be hung for it yet. You are telling me the truth, Afi? Truth! echoed Afi, flinging up her hands. Would I tell a lie over my father's death? If Thorn had done it, would I screen him, or shovel it off to Richard Hare? Not so! Mr. Carlyle felt uncertain and bewildered. That Afi was sincere in what she said was but too apparent. He spoke again, but Afi had risen from her chair to leave. Luxly was in the wood that evening. Otway Bethel was in it. Could either of them have been the culprit? No, sir, firmly retorted Afi. The culprit was Richard Hare, and I'd say it with my latest breath. I'd say it because I know it. Though I don't choose to say how I know it, time enough when he gets taken. She quitted the room, leaving Mr. Carlyle in a state of puzzle to be Wildermann. Was he to believe Afi, or was he to believe the bygone assertion of Richard Hare? East Lynn by Mrs. Henry Wood Part 1 of Chapter 29 A Night Invasion of East Lynn In one of the comfortable sitting-rooms of East Lynn sat Mr. Carlyle and his sister, one in Clement, January night. The contrast within and without was great. The warm blazing fire, the handsome carpet on which it flickered, the exceedingly comfortable arrangement of the furniture, of the room altogether, and the light of the chandelier, which fell on all, presented a picture of home-piece, though it may not have deserved the name of luxury. Without, heavy flakes of snow were falling thickly, flakes as large and nearly as heavy as a ground-piece, rendering the atmosphere so dense and obscure that a man could not see a yard before him. Mr. Carlyle had driven home in the pony carriage, and the snow had so settled upon him that Lucy, who happened to see him as he entered the hall, screamed out laughingly that her papa had turned into a white man. It was now later in the evening the children were in bed, the governess was in her sitting-room. It was not often that Mrs. Carlyle invited her to theirs of an evening, and the house was quiet. Mr. Carlyle was deep in the pages of one of the monthly periodicals, that Mrs. Carlyle sat on the other side of the fire, grumbling and grunting and sniffling and choking. Mrs. Carlyle was one of your strong-minded ladies who never condescended to be ill. Of course had she been attacked with scarlet fever or paralysis, or st. Vitus dance, she must have given in to the enemy, but trifling ailments such as headache, influenza, sore throat, which other people get, passed her by. Imagine therefore her exasperation at finding her head stuffed up, her chest sore, and her voice going, in short of having, for once in her life, caught a cold like ordinary mortals. What's the time, I wonder? she exclaimed. Mr. Carlyle looked at his watch. It is just nine, Cornelia. Then I think I shall go to bed. I'll have a basin of arrow-root, or gruel, or some slop of that sort after a minute. I'm sure I have been free enough all my life from requiring such sick dishes. Do so, said Mr. Carlyle. It murder you good. There's one excellent thing for a cold in the head, you know. It's to doubt your flannel petticoat crossways, or any other large piece of flannel you may conveniently have at hand, and put it on every nightcap. I'll try it. I would, said Mr. Carlyle, smothering and a reverent laugh. She sat on five minutes longer and then left, wishing Mr. Carlyle good night. He resumed his reading, but another page or two concluded the article, upon which Mr. Carlyle threw the book on the table, rose and stretched himself, as if tired of sitting. He stirred the fire into a brighter blaze and stood on the hearth-rug. I wonder if it snows still, he exclaimed to himself. Proceeding to the window, one of those opening to the ground, he threw aside the half of the warm crimson curtain. It all looked dull and dark outside. Mr. Carlyle could see little what the weather was, and he opened the window and stepped half out. The snow was falling faster and sicker than ever. Not at that did Mr. Carlyle start with surprise, if not with a more unpleasant sensation, but at feeling a man's hand touch his, and at finding a man's face nearly in contact with his own. Let me come in, Mr. Carlyle, for the love of life! I see you are alone. I'm dead beat, and I don't know, but I'm dodged also. The tones struck familiarly on Mr. Carlyle's ear. He drew back mechanically, a thousand perplexing sensations overwhelming him, and the man followed him into the room, a white man, as Lucy called her father. I, for he had been hours and hours on foot in the snow. His hat, his clothes, his eyebrows, his large whiskers, all were white. Lock the door, sir, were his first words. Need you be told that it was Richard Hare? Mr. Carlyle fastened the window, drew the heavy curtains across, and turned rapidly to lock the two doors, for there were two to the room, one of them leading into the adjoining one. Richard, meanwhile, took off his wet smock frock of former memory, his hat and his false black whiskers, wiping the snow from the latter with his hand. Richard, uttered Mr. Carlyle, I am thunderstruck, I fear you have done wrong to come here. I cut off from London at a moment's notice, replied Richard, who was literally shivering with the cold. I'm dodged, Mr. Carlyle, I am indeed, the police after me, set on by that wretched thorn. Mr. Carlyle turned to the sideboard and poured out a wine-glass of brandy. Richard, it will warm you. I'd rather have it in some hot water, sir. But how am I to get the hot water brought in? Drink this for now. Why, how you tremble! A few hours outside in the cold snow is enough to make the strongest man tremble, sir, and to lie so deep in places that you have to come along at a snail's pace. But I'll tell you all about this business. A gentleman and a lady were passing at the time, but I had not paid any attention to them. By Jove, I heard him exclaim to her, I think we're going to have pepper. We had better take a cab, my dear. With that, the man I was talking to swung open the door of his cab, and she got in, such a fair young lady she was. I turned to look at him, and you might have seen Richard as he was. I turned to look at him, and you might have knocked me down with astonishment. Mr. Carlyle, it was the man's sawn. Indeed. You thought I might be mistaken in him that moonlight night, but there was no mistaking him in broad daylight. I looked him full in the face, and he looked at me. He turned his whitest cloth. Perhaps I did, I don't know. Was he well dressed? Very. Oh, there's no mistaking his position. That he moves in the higher classes there's no doubt. The cab drove away and I got up behind it. The driver thought boys were there, and turn his head and his whip, but I made him a sign. We didn't go much more than the length of a street. I was on the pavement before Thornwall's, and looked at him again, and again he went white. I marked the house, thinking it was where he lived, and why did you not give him into custody, Richard? Richard Hare shook his head. And my proofs of his guilt, Mr. Carlyle? I could bring none against him, new positive ones, though I must wait till I can get proofs to do that. He would turn round upon me now and swear my life away to murder, what I thought I'd ascertained for certain what his name was, and that night I went to the house and got into conversation with one of the servants who was standing at the door. Does Captain Thorn live here? I asked him. Mr. Wesselby lives here? Said he. I don't know any Captain Thorn. Then that's his name, I thought to myself. A youngish man, isn't he? Said I. Very smart with a pretty wife. I don't know what you call youngish? He laughed. My master's turned sixty and his wife's as old. That checked me. Perhaps he has sons, I asked. Not any, the man answered. There's nobody but the two selves. So with that I told him what I wanted, that a lady and a gentleman had delighted there in a cab that day, and I wished to know his name. Well, Mr. Carlyle, I could get out nothing satisfactory. The fellow said that a great many had called there that day, for his master was just up from a long illness, and people came to see him. Is that all, Richard? All. I wish it had been all. I kept looking about for him in all the best streets. I was half mad. Do you not wonder if he is in this position of life, and resides in London, that you have never dropped upon him previously? Interrupted Mr. Carlyle. No, sir, and I'll tell you why. I have been afraid to show myself in those latter parts of the town, fearing I might meet with someone I used to know at home, who would recognise me. So I have kept mostly in obscure places, stables and such like. I had gone up to the West End this day on a matter of business. Well, go on with your story. In a week's time I came upon him again. It was at night. He was coming out of one of the theatres, and I went up and stood before him. What do you want, fellow? he asked. I have seen you watching me before this. I want to know your name, I said. That's enough for me at present. He flew into a passion, and swore that if ever he caught sight of me near him again, he would hand me over into custody. And remember, men are not given into custody for watching others. He significantly added, I know you, and if you have any regard for yourself, you'll keep out of my way. He had gotten to a private carriage as he spoke, and it drove away. I could see that it had a great coat of arms upon it. When do you say this was? A week ago. Well, I could not rest. I was half mad, I say, trying if I could not discover his name and who he was. I did come upon him, but he was walking quickly arm and arm with another gentleman. Again I saw him standing at the entrance to the betting-rooms, talking to the same gentleman, and his face turned savage, I believe with fear as much as anger, when he discerned me. He seemed to hesitate, and then, as if he acted in a passion, suddenly beckoned to a policeman, he pointed me out and said something to him in a faster tone. That frightened me, and I slipped away. Two hours after, when I was in quite a different part of the town, in turning my head I saw the same policeman following me. I built it under the horses of a passing vehicle, down some turnings and passages out into another street, and up beside a cabman, who was on his box, driving a fare-past. I reached my lodgings in safety, as I thought, but happening to glance into the street, there I saw the man again, standing opposite and reconnoitering the house. I had gone home hungry, but this took all my hunger away from me. I opened the box where I kept my disguise, put it on, and got out by a back-way. I have been pretty nearly ever since on my feet reaching here. I only got a lift now and then. But Richard, do you know that West Lynn is the very worst place you could have flown to? It has come to light that you were here before, disguised as a farm-labourer. Who the deuce betrayed that? interrupted Richard. I am unable to tell. I cannot even imagine. The rumour may make people's wits sharper to know you in your disguise than they otherwise might have been. But what was I to do? I was forced to come here first and get a little money. I shall fix myself in some other big town far away from London, Liverpool or Manchester perhaps, and see what employment I can get into, but I must have something to live on until I can get it. I don't possess a penny-piece," he added, drawing out his trousers-pockets for the inspection of Mr. Carlyle. The last coppers I had, thruppants I spent in bread and cheese and half a pint of beer at midday. I have been outside that window for more than an hour, sir. Indeed. And as I neared West Lynn, I began to think what I should do. It was no use in me trying to catch Barbara's attention, such a night as this. I had no money to pay for a lodging, so I turned off here, hoping I might, by good luck, drop upon you. There was a little partition in the window-curtain. It had not been drawn close. And, through it, I could see you and Miss Carlyle. I saw her leave the room. I saw you come to the window and open it, and then I spoke. Mr. Carlyle, he added, after a pause, is this life to go on with me forever? I am deeply sorry for you, Richard," was the sympathising answer. I wish I could remedy it. Before another word was spoken, the room-door was tried, and then gently knocked at. Mr. Carlyle placed his hand on Richard, who was looking scared out of his wits. Be still, be at ease, Richard. No one shall come in. It is only Peter. Not Peter's voice, however, but Joyce's was heard in response to Mr. Carlyle's demand of who was there. Miss Carlyle has left her handkerchief downstairs, sir, and has sent me for it. You cannot come in. I am busy," was the answer, delivered in a clear and most decisive tone. Who was it? Quivered Richard as Joyce was heard going away. It was Joyce. What? Is she here still? Has nothing ever been heard of Afi, sir? Afi was here herself two or three months ago. Was she, though? uttered Richard, beguiled for an instant from the thought of his own danger. What is she doing? She is in service, as the ladies made. Richard, I questioned Afi about Thorn. She protested solemnly to me that it was not Thorn who committed the deed, that it could not have been he, for Thorn was with her at the moment of its being done. It's not true," fired Richard. It was Thorn. Richard, you cannot tell. He did not see it done. I know that no man could have rushed out in that frantic manner with those signs of guilt and fear about him unless he had been engaged in a bad deed, was Richard Hare's answer. It could have been no one else. Afi declared he was with her, repeated Mr. Collar. Look here, sir, you're a sharp man and folks say I am not, but I can see things and draw my reasoning as well as they can perhaps. If Thorn were not Hallijohn's murderer, why should he be persecuting me? What would he care about me? And why should his face turn livid as it has done each time he has seen my eyes upon him? Whether he did commit the murder or whether he didn't, he must know that I did not seem upon me waiting as he was tearing from the cottage. Dick's reasoning was not bad. Another thing, he resumed, Afi swore at the inquest that she was alone when the deed was done, that she was alone at the back of the cottage and knew nothing about it till afterwards. How could she have sworn she was alone if Thorn was with her? The fact had entirely escaped Mr. Collar's memory in his conversation with Afi, or he would not have failed to point out the discrepancy and to inquire how she could reconcile it. Yet her assertion to him had been most positive and solemn. There were difficulties in the matter which he could not reconcile. Now that I have got over my passion for Afi I can see her faults, Mr. Carlisle. She'd no more tell an untruth than I should stick a most awful thundering at the room door loud enough to bring the very house down. No officers of justice, searching for a fugitive, ever made a louder. Richard Hare, his face turned to chalk, his eyes starting, and his own light hair bristling up with horror, struggled into his wet smock frock after a fashion, the tails up about his ears and the sleeves hanging, forced on his hat and his false whiskers, looked round in a bewildered manner for some cupboard or mouse-hole into which he might creep and, seeing none, rushed to the fireplace and placed his foot on the fender. That he purposed an attempted chimney-climbing was evident, though how the fire would have agreed with his pantaloons not to speak of what they contained, poor Dick appeared completely to ignore. Mr. Carlisle drew him back, keeping his calm, powerful hand upon his shoulder while certain sounds in an angry voice were jacked through the keyhole. Richard, be a man. Put aside this weakness, this fear. Have I not told you that harm shall not come near you in my house? It may be that officer from London he may have brought half a dozen more with him, gasped the unhappy Richard. I said they might have dodged me all the way here. Nonsense. Sit you down and be at rest. It is only Cornelia, and she will be as anxious to shield you from danger as I can be. Is it? cried the relieved Richard. Can't you make her keep out? He continued, his teeth still chattering. No, that I can't, if she has a mind to come in, was the candid answer. You remember what she was, Richard. She is not altered. Knowing that to speak on this side of the door to his sister, when she was in one of her resolute moods, would be of no use, Mr. Carlisle opened the door, dexterously swung himself through it, and shuddered after him. There she stood in a towering passion, too. End of Chapter 29 Part 1 Chapter 29 Part 2 of East Lynn This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Gesine East Lynn by Mrs. Henry Wood Part 2 of Chapter 29 It had struck Miss Carlisle while undressing that certain sounds as of talking proceeded from room underneath, which she had just quitted. She possessed a remarkably keen sense of hearing, did Miss Carlisle, though indeed none of her qualities lacked the quality of keenness. The servants Joyce and Peter accepted would not be convinced that she must listen, but in that they did her injustice. First of all she believed her brother must be reading aloud to himself, but she soon decided otherwise. Who on earth has he got in there with him? Quoth Miss Carlisle. She rang her bell, Joyce answered it. Who is it that is with your master? Nobody, ma'am. But I say there is. I can hear him talking. I don't think anybody can be with him, persisted Joyce, and the walls of this house are too well built, ma'am, for sounds from the downstairs room to penetrate here. That's all you know about it, cried Miss Carlisle. When talking goes on in that room there's a certain sound given out which does penetrate here and which my ears have grown accustomed to. Go and see who it is. I believe I left my handkerchief on the table. You can bring it up. Joyce departed, and Miss Carlisle proceeded to take off her things. Her dress first, her silk petticoat next. She had arrived as far as the flannel petticoat when Joyce returned. Yes, ma'am, someone is talking with the master. I could not go in, for the door was bolted and master called out that he was busy. Food for Miss Carlisle. She feeling sure that no visitor had come to the house ran her thoughts rapidly over the members of the household and came to the conclusion that it must be the governess Miss Manning who had dared to closet herself with Mr. Carlisle. This unlucky governess was pretty and Miss Carlisle had been cautious to keep her and her prettiness very much out of her brother's sight. She knew the attraction he would present to her visions. Or to those of any other unprovided for governess. Oh, yes, it was Miss Manning. She had stolen in believing she, Miss Carlisle, was safe for the night. But she'd just unearthed, my lady. And what in the world could possess Archibald to lock the door? Looking around for something warm to throw over her shoulders and catching up an article that looked as much like a green-based table cover as anything else and throwing it on downstalked Miss Carlisle. And in this trim Mr. Carlisle beheld her when he came out. The figure presented by Miss Carlisle to her brother's eyes was certainly ridiculous enough. She gave him no time to comment upon it, however, but instantly and curtly asked, Who have you got in that room? It is someone on business, was his prompt reply. Cornelia, you cannot go in. She very nearly laughed. Not go in? Indeed, it is much better that you should not. Pray go back. You will make your cold worse standing here. Now I wonder whether you are not ashamed of yourself. She deliberately pursued. You, a married man with children in your house. I'd rather have believed anything downright wicked of myself than of you, Archibald. Mr. Carlisle stared considerably. Come, I'll have her out. And out of this house she tramps tomorrow morning. A couple of audacious ones to be in there with the door locked the moment she thought you had got rid of me. Stand aside, I say, Archibald, I will enter. Mr. Carlisle never felt more inclined to laugh. And to Miss Carlisle's exceeding dyscomposure she, at this juncture, saw the governess emerge from the grey parlour, glanced at the whole clock and retire again. Why, she's there, she uttered. I thought she was with you. Miss Manning locked in with me. Is that the mayor's nest, Cornelia? I think your cold must have obscured your reason. Well, I shall go in all the same. I tell you, Archibald, that I will see who is there. If you persist in going in, you must go. But allow me to warn you that you will find tragedy in that room, not comedy. There is no woman in it, but there is a man, a man who came in through the window like a hunted stag, a man upon whom a ban is set, who fears the police are on his track. Can you guess his name? It was Miss Carlisle's turn to stare now. They opened her dry lips to speak, but they're closed again. It is Richard Hare, your kinsman. There's not a roof in the wide world open to him this bitter night. She said nothing. A long pause of dismay, and then she motioned to have the door opened. You will not show yourself in that guise. Not show myself in this guise to Richard Hare, whom I have whipped when he was a child ten times a day. Stand on ceremony with him. I dare say he looks no better than I do. But it's nothing short of madness, Archibald, for him to come here. He left her to enter, telling her to lock the door as soon as she was inside, and went himself into the adjoining room, the one which, by another door, opened to the one Richard was in. Then he rang the bell. It was answered by a footman. Send Peter to me. Lay supper here, Peter, for two, began Mr. Carlisle when the old servant appeared. A person is with me on business. What have you in the house? There's the spiced beef, sir, and there are some homemade raised pork pies. That will do, said Mr. Carlisle. Put a quart of ale on the table, and everything likely to be wanted, and then the household can go to bed. We may be late, and the things can be removed in the morning. Oh, and Peter! None of you must come near the room, this or the next, under any pretense whatever, unless I ring, for I shall be too busy to be disturbed. Very well, sir. Shall I serve the ham also? The ham? I beg pardon, sir. I guess it might be Mr. Dill, and he is so fond of our hams. Ah, you always eschewed Gesser, Peter, smiled his master. He is fond of how I know. Yes, you may put it on the table. Don't forget the small kettle. The consequence of which little finesse on Mr. Carlisle's part was that Peter announced in the kitchen that Mr. Dill had arrived, and supper was to be served for two. But what a night for the old gentleman to have trudged through on foot, exclaimed he. And what a trudge he'll have of it back again, for it'll be worse then, chimed in one of the maids. When Mr. Carlisle got back in the other room, his sister and Richard Hare had scarcely finished staring at each other. Please lock the door, Miss Cornelia. Began poor shivering Dick. The doors locked, snapped she. But what on earth brought you here, Richard? He must be worse than mad. The bad street officers were after me in London. He meekly responded, unconsciously using a term which had been familiar to his poise years. I had to cut away without a thing belonging to me, without so much as a clean shirt. They must be polite officers, not to have been after you before. Was the consolatory remark of Miss Carlisle. Are you going to dance a hornpipe through the streets of West Lynn tomorrow and show yourself openly? Not if I can help it, replied Richard. You might just as well do that if you come to West Lynn at all, for you can't be here now without being found out. There was a bother about you having been here the last time. I should like to know how it got abroad. The life I lead is dreadful, cried Richard. I might make up my mind to toil, though that's hard, after being reared a gentleman, but to be in exile, banned, disgraced, afraid to show my face in broad daylight amidst my fellow men, in dread every hour that the sword may fall. I would almost as soon be dead as continue to live it. Well, you have got nobody to grumble at. You brought it upon yourself. Philosophically returned Miss Carlisle as she opened the door to admit her brother. You would go hunting after that brazen, hussy, affy, you know, in defiance of all that could be said to you. That would not have brought it upon me, said Richard. It was through that fiends having killed Halligan. That was what brought the ban upon me. It's a most extraordinary thing, if anybody else did kill him, that the facts can't be brought to light. retorted Miss Carlisle. Here you tell a cock and bull story of some man's having done it, some thorn, but nobody ever saw or heard of him, at the time or since. It looks like a made-up story, Mr. Dick, to whiten yourself. Made up, panted Richard in agitation, for it seemed cruel to him, especially in his present frame of mind, to have a doubt cast upon his tail. It is thorn who is setting the officers upon me. I have seen him three or four times within the last fortnight. And why did he not turn the tables and set the officers upon him? demanded Miss Carlisle. Because it would lead to no good. Where's the proof, save my bare word, that he committed the murder? Miss Carlisle rubbed her nose. Dick Hare, said she. Well, you know you always were the greatest natural idiot that ever was let loose out of leading strings. I know I always was told so. And it's what you always will be. If I were accused of committing a crime, which I knew another had committed and not myself, should I be such an idiot as not to give that other intercustody if I got the chance? If you were not in such a cold, shivery, shaky state, I would treat you to a bit of my mind. You may rely upon that. He was in a league with Afia at that period, pursued Richard, a deceitful bad man, and he carries it in his countenance. And he must be in a league with her still, if she asserts that he was in her company at the moment the murder was committed. Mr. Carlisle says she does, that she told him so the other day when she was here. He never was, and it was he and no other who did the murder. Yes. Burst forth, Miss Carlisle, for the topic was sure to agitate her, that Jezebel of Brass did presume to come here. She chose her time well and may thank her lucky stars I was not at home. Archibald, he's a fool too, quite as bad as you are, Dick Hare, in some things, actually suffered her to lodge here for two days, a vain ill-conducted hussy, giving to nothing but finery and folly. Afi said that she knew nothing of Thorn's movements now, Richard, and had not for some time, interposed Mr. Carlisle, allowing his sister's compliments to pass in silence. She had a rumour, she thought, that he had gone abroad with his regiment. So much the better for her, if she doesn't know nothing of him, sir, was Richard's comment. I can answer Freud that he is not abroad, but in England. And where are you going to lodge tonight? abruptly spoke Miss Carlisle, confronting Richard. I don't know, was the broken spirited answer, sighed forth. If I lay myself down in a snowdrift and I am fan-frozen in the morning, it won't be of much moment. Was that what you sought of doing? returned Miss Carlisle. No, he mildly said. What I sought of doing was to ask Mr. Carlisle for the loan of a few shillings, and then I can get a bed. I know a place where I shall be in safety two or three miles from here. Richard, I would not turn a dog out to go two or three miles on such a night as this. Impulsively uttered Mr. Carlisle. You must stop here. Indeed, I didn't see how he is to get up to a bedroom, or how a room is to be made ready for him, for the matter of that, without betraying his presence to the servants, snapped Miss Carlisle. And poor Richard laid his aching head upon his hands. But now Miss Carlisle's manner was more in fault than her heart. Would it be believed that, before speaking the above ungracious words, before Mr. Carlisle had touched upon the subject, she had been casting about in her busy mind for the best plan of keeping Richard, how it could be accomplished? One thing is certain, she resumed, that it will be impossible for you to sleep here without its being known to Joyce. And I suppose you and Joyce are upon the friendly terms of drawing daggers, for she believes you were the murderer of her father. Let me disabuse her," interrupted Richard, his pale lips working as he started up. Allow me to see her and convince her, Mr. Carlisle. Why did you not tell Joyce better? There's that small room at the back of mine, said Miss Carlisle, returning to the practical part of the subject. He might sleep there, but Joyce must be taken into confidence. Joyce had better come in, said Mr. Carlisle. I will say a word to her first. He unlocked the door and quitted the room. Miss Carlisle, as jealously locked it again, called to Joyce and beckoned her into the adjoining apartment. He knew that Joyce's belief in the guilt of Richard Hare was confirmed and strong, but he must uproot that belief if Richard was to be lodged in his house that night. Joyce, he began, you remember how thoroughly imbued with the persuasion you were that Afie went off with Richard Hare and was living with him. I several times expressed my doubts upon the point. The fact was, I had positive information that she was not with him, and never had been, though I considered it expedient to keep my information to myself. You are convinced now that she was not with him? Of course I am, sir. Well, you see, Joyce, that my opinion would have been worth listening to. Now I am going to shake your belief upon another point, and if I assure you that I have equally good grounds for doing so, you will believe me. I am quite certain, sir, that you would state nothing but what was true, and I know that your judgment is sound, was Joyce's answer. Then I must tell you that I do not believe it was Richard Hare who murdered your father. Sir! uttered Joyce, amazed out of her senses. I believe Richard Hare to be as innocent of the murder as you or I, he deliberately repeated, I have held grounds for this opinion, Joyce, for many years. Then, sir, who did it? Afi's other lover, that dandy fellow thorn, as I truly believe. And you say you have grounds, sir? Joyce asked after a pause. Good grounds, and I tell you I have been in possession of them for years. I should be glad for you to think as I do. But, sir, Richard Hare was innocent. Why did he run away? Ah, why indeed? It is that which has done the mischief. His own weak cowardice was in fault. He feared to come back, and he felt that he could not remove the odium of circumstances. Joyce, I should like you to see him and hear his story. There is not much chance of that, sir. I dare say he will never venture here again. He is here now. Joyce looked up, considerably startled. Here, in this house, repeated Mr. Carlyle. He has taken shelter in it, and for the few hours that he will remain we must extend our hospitality and protection to him, concealing him in the best manner we can. I thought it well that this confidence should be reposed in you, Joyce. Come now and see him. Considering it was such a subdued interview—the voices subdued, I mean—it was a confused one. Richard, talking vehemently, Joyce asking question after question, missed Carlyle's tongue going as fast as theirs. The only silent one was Mr. Carlyle. Joyce could not refuse to believe protestations so solemn, and her suspicions veered around upon Captain Zorn. And now about the bed, interjected Miss Carlyle impatiently. Where is he to sleep, Joyce? The only safe room that I know of will be the one through mine. He can't sleep there, ma'am. Don't you know that the key of the door was lost last week, and we cannot open it? So much the better. He'll be all the safer. But how is he to get in? To get in? Why, through my room, of course. Doesn't mine open to its stupid? Oh, well, ma'am, if you would like him to go through yours, that's different. Why shouldn't he go through? Do you suppose I mined young Dick Hare, not I, indeed? she rascally continued. I only wish he was young enough for me to flog him, as I used to, that's all. He deserves as much as anybody ever did, playing the fool as he has done, in all ways. I shall be in bed with the curtains drawn, and his passing through won't harm me, and my lying there won't harm him. Stand on ceremony with Dick Hare. What next, I wonder? Joyce made no reply to this energetic speech, but had once retired to prepare the room for Richard. Miss Carlyle soon followed. Having made everything ready, Joyce returned. The room is ready, sir, she whispered, and all the household are in bed. Then now's your time, Richard. Good night. He stole upstairs after Joyce, who piloted him through the room of Miss Carlyle. Nothing could be seen of that lady, though something might be heard. One given to truth more than politeness might have called it snoring. Joyce showed Richard his chamber, gave him the candle, and closed the door upon him. Poor hunted Richard, good night to you. End of Chapter 29 Part 2 of 2