In an easy-chair of the spacious and handsome library of his town-house, sat William, Earl of Mount Severn. His hair was grey, 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 a soft velvet ottoman, speaking of gout as plainly as any foot ever spoke yet. 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 he, 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 of 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 the head; that a better heart or more generous spirit never beat in human form; and there was much of truth in this. It had been well for him had he lived and died plain 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 rising in the world. He was poor, of excellent family, but 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 title. Yet those lives 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 pounds a year.

His first idea was, that he should never know how to spend his 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; he was courted, flattered, and caressed by all classes. He became the most attractive man of his day; for, independent of his newly acquired wealth and title, he was of distinguished appearance and fascinating manners. 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 at a 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 annum, does not go to ruin in a day. There sat the earl in his library now, in his nine-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 been the destruction of his tranquillity, the bane of his existence, who shall describe them? The public knew them pretty well, his private friends 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 distraction. Years ago, by dint of looking things steadily in the face, and by economising, he might have retrieved his position; but he had done what most people will do in such cases—put off the evil day sine die , 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 ominous mass of papers which strewed the library table. His thoughts were back in the past. That was a foolish marriage 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, and 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 but been blessed with a son—the earl groaned over the long-continued disappointment still— he might then 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 entail, 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 duns had taught the servants caution.

"His card is here, my lord. It is Mr. Carlyle of West Lynne."

"Mr. Carlyle of West Lynne," 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. Carlyle. 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 eye-lids drooped over his deep grey eyes. Altogether it was a countenance that both men and women liked to look upon, the index of an honourable, 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 who has come on business.

"Mr. Carlyle," said the latter, holding out his had —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 possession of me again. Take a seat. Are you staying in town?"

"I have just arrived from West Lynne. The chief object of my journey was to see your lordship."

"What can I do for you?" asked the earl, uneasily, for a suspicion now 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 earl, and spoke in a low tone:

"A rumour came to my ears, my lord, that East Lynne was in the market."

"A moment, sir," exclaimed the earl, with reserve, not to say hauteur, in his tone, for his suspicions were gaining ground; "are we to converse confidentially 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!" said the visitor, "I know that a lawyer gets credit for possessing but lax notions on the score of honour, but you can scarcely suspect I should be guilty of underhand work towards 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 Lynne 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. "Egad! lawyering can't be such bad work, Carlyle."

"Nor is it," rejoined Mr. Carlyle, "with an extensive first-class connexion, 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 Lynne will suit me well, provided I can have the refusal of it, and we can agree about terms."

Lord Mount Severn mused for a few moments before he spoke. "Mr. Carlyle," he began, "my affairs are very bad, and ready money I must find somewhere. Now East Lynne is not entailed; neither is it mortgaged to anything like its value, though the latter fact, as you may imagine, is not patent to the world. When I bought it a bargain, eighteen years ago, you were the lawyer on the other side, I remember."

Lady Isabel's carriage continued its way, and deposited her at the residence of Mrs. Levison. Mrs. Levison 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 awry as she pulled at her 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 their temper.

"I fear I am late," exclaimed Lady Isabel, as she advanced to Mrs. Levison, "but a gentleman dined with papa to-day, and it made us rather longer at 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, vastly accomplished, and vain to her finger's ends. Her mother, who was dead, had been Mrs. Levison's daughter, and her husband, Raymond Vane, was presumptive heir to the earldom of Mount Severn.

West Lynne was a town of some importance, particularly in its own eyes, though being neither a manufacturing town nor a cathedral town, nor even the chief town of the county, it was somewhat primitive in its manners and customs. It sent two members to parliament, and it boasted a good market-place, covered over, and a large room above that, which was called the "town-hall," where the justices met and transacted their business—for the county magistrates still retained, there, that nearly obsolete name. Passing out at the town, towards 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 Lynne. For about a mile these houses were scattered, the church being situated at their commencement close to the busy part of the place, and about a mile further on, you came upon the beautiful estate which was called East Lynne. As you drove along the road you might admire its green, undulating park; not as you walked, for an envious wall, mounting itself unconscionably high, obstructed your view. Large, beautiful trees affording a shelter, alike for human beings and for the deer, on a day of summer's heat, rose in that park, and a great gate between two lodges on the right-hand side the road, gave you entrance to it, and conducted you to the house. It was not a very large house, compared with some country seats, but it was built in the villa style, was white and remarkably cheerful, altogether a desirable place to look upon.

Between the gentlemen's houses mentioned, and East Lynne, the mile of road was very solitary, much overshadowed by trees. One house alone stood there, and that was about three-quarters of a mile before you came to East Lynne, and full a quarter of a mile after you had passed the houses. It was on the left-hand side, a square ugly red brick house with a weathercock 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 road by a narrow iron gate, which took you to the rustic 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. This 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. Anne 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 had witnessed the visit of Mr. Carlyle to the Earl of Mount Severn, sat Mrs. Hare, a pale, delicate woman, buried in shawls and cushions: her arm-chair was drawn to the hearth, though there was no fire: 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."

"Time seems to move slowly with you, mamma. It is scarcely a quarter of an hour since I told you it was but ten minutes past six."

"I am so thirsty," murmured the poor invalid. "Do go and look at the clock again, Barbara."

Barbara Hare rose with a gesture of impatience, opened the door, and glanced at the large clock in the hall. "It wants nine-and-twenty minutes to seven, mamma. 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. Justice 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 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 this will, but in her it was softened down.

"Barbara," began Mrs. Hare again, when she thought another quarter of an hour at least must have elapsed.

"Well, mamma."

"Ring, and tell them to be getting it in readiness, so that when seven strikes there may be no delay."

"Goodness, mamma! you know they always do have it ready. And there's no such hurry, for papa may not be home." But she rose, and rang the bell with a petulant motion, and when the man answered it, told him to have tea in to 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, kissed her mamma with a repentant air, and turned listlessly to the window. She seemed tired, not with fatigue, but with what the French express 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 tell him how thirsty I am."

Cold and still looked the old house in the moonbeams. Never was the moon brighter; it lighted the far-stretching garden, it illumined even the weathercock aloft, it shone upon the portico, and upon Barbara as she had appeared in it. Stealing from the portico, walked Barbara, her eyes strained in dread affright on that grove of trees, at the foot of the garden. What was it that had stepped out of the trees, and 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 on the house, where 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 round her and went down the path in the moonlight. The beckoning form retreated within the dark trees as she neared it, and Barbara halted.

"Who and what are you?" she asked under her breath. "What do you want?"

In the centre of West Lynne stood two houses adjoining each other, one large, the other much smaller. The large one was the Carlyle residence, and the small one was devoted to the Carlyle offices. The name of Carlyle bore a lofty standing in the country; Carlyle and Davidson were known as first-class practitioners; no pettifogging lawyers were they. It was Carlyle and Davidson in the days gone by; now it was Archibald Carlyle. The old firm were brothers-in-law, the first Mrs. Carlyle having been Mr. Davidson's sister. She had died and left one child, Cornelia, who was grown up when her father married again. The second Mrs. Carlyle died when her son, Archibald, was born, 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 Mamma Corny. Mamma Corny had done her duty by him, that was undoubted; but Mamma 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 were love of Archibald, and love of saving money. Mr. Davidson had died earlier than Mr. Carlyle, 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 he did his niece Cornelia. Of Mr. Carlyle'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 £20,000 brought to Mr. Carlyle by his second wife, had been chiefly instrumental in the accumulation of his large fortune.

Miss Carlyle, or, as she was called in the 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. Carlyle had wanted for offers. Other maidens confess to soft and tender impressions; to a hope of being, some time or another, solicited to abandon their father's name, and become somebody's better half. Not so Miss Carlyle: all who had approached her with the love-lorn tale, she sent quickly to the right-about. The last venture was from the new curate, and occurred when she was in her fortieth year. He made his appearance at her house one morning betimes, in his white Sunday necktie, and a pair of new gloves drawn on for the occasion, colou lavender. Miss Corny, who was an exceedingly active housekeeper in her own house, a great deal more so than the servants liked, had just been giving her orders for dinner. They comprised, amongst other things, a treacle-pudding for the kitchen, and she went herself to the store-closet with a basin, to lade out the necessary treacle. The closet opened from the dining-room, and it was while she was in it that the curate was ushered in. Miss Carlyle, who completely ignored ceremony, and had never stood upon it in her life, came out, basin of treacle in hand, which she deposited on the table while she disposed herself to the listen to the reverend gentleman, who was twelve years her junior, and very diffident, so that he was some time getting his business out. Miss Corny wished him and his stammering somewhere, for she knew the pudding was waiting for the treacle, and helped him out as much as she could, putting in words when he seemed at fault for them. She supposed he wanted her name to some subscription, and she stood looking down at him with impatience, he being at least a foot shorter than she. When the starting truth at length disclosed itself, that he had come begging for her , and not for money, Miss Carlyle for once lost her temper. She screamed out that he ought to be ashamed of himself for a raw boy as he was, and she flung the contents of the basin over his spotless shirt-front. How the crestfallen divine got out of the house and down West Lynne to his lodgings, he never cared to recal. Sundry juveniles of both sexes, nursing babies or carrying out parcels, collected at his heels and escorted him, openly surmising, with various degrees of envy, that he had been caught dipping his head for a sly lick into the grocer's treacle-barrel, and the indignant owner had soused him in. The story got wind, and Miss Corny was not troubled with any more offers.

Mr. Carlyle 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, one who had far more to do with the management than Mr. Carlyle himself. 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 had never set up for himself: perhaps he deemed the post of head manager in the office of Carlyle and Davidson, with its substantial salary, sufficient for his ambition; and manager he had been to them when the present Mr. Carlyle was in long petticoats. He was a single man, and occupied handsome apartments near: a shrewd surmise obtained weight in West Lynne that he was a devoted admirer of Miss Carlyle, humbly worshipping her at a distance. Whether this was so, or not certain it is that he was very fond of his present master, Mr. Archibald, as he generally styled him. He was now giving an account of what had transpired during the few days of absence.

"Jones and Rushworth have come to an outbreak at last," cried he, when he had pretty nearly arrived at the end of his catalogue, "and the upshot will be an action at the summer assizes. They were both here yesterday, one after the other, each wanting you to act for him, and will be here to-day for an answer."

"I will not act for either," said Mr. Carlyle; "I will have nothing to do with them. They are a bad lot, and it was an iniquitous piece of business their obtaining the money in the first instance. When rogues fall out, honest men get their own. I decline it altogether: let them carry themselves to somebody else."

"Very good," replied Mr. Dill.

"Colonel Bethel's here, sir," said a clerk, opening the door and addressing Mr. Carlyle. "Can you see him?"

Mr. Dill turned round to the clerk. "Ask the colonel to wait. I think that's about all," he added to his master, as the man withdrew.

"Very well. Dill, certain papers will be down in a few days, relating to mortgages and claims on the East Lynne estate; they are coming with the title-deeds. I want them carefully looked over by you , and nothing said."

Mr. Dill gave a quiet nod.

"East Lynne is about to change hands. And, in purchasing property from an embarrassed man like Mount Severn, it is necessary to be keen and cautious," continued Mr. Carlyle.

"It is. Has he come to the end of his tether?"

"Not far short of it, I fancy; but East Lynne will be disposed of sub rosâ . Not a syllable abroad, you understand."

"All right, Mr. Archibald. Who is the purchaser? It is a fine property."

Mr. Carlyle smiled. "You will know who, long before the world does. Examine the deeds with a Jew's eye. And now send in Bethel."

Between the room of Mr. Carlyle and that of the clerk's 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. Carlyle was out or engaged, and here he issued private orders. A little window, not larger than a pane of glass, looked out from it on the clerks' office; they called it Old Dill's peep-hole, and wished it anywhere else, for his spectacles might be discerned at it more often than was agreeable. The old gentleman had a desk also in their office, and there he frequently sat. He was sitting there in state, this 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. Carlyle?"

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. Carlyle.

"Presently, Miss Barbara. He is engaged just now. The justices are with him."

"The justices!" uttered Barbara, in alarm, "and papa one? 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 clerks' room, not daring to take her the other way lest he should encounter them, and shut her in his own. "What 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 coast's 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 business for mamma, 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.'"

The bench of justices did not fail to keep their appointment: at seven o'clock they arrived at Miss Carlyle's, one following closely upon the heels of another. The reader may dissent from the expression "Miss Carlyle'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 amongst the property bequeathed to Miss Carlyle.

Miss Carlyle 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. Carlyle rose, and came back with an open note in his hand.

"I am 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.

The church clocks of West Lynne struck eight one lovely morning in July, and then the bells chimed out, giving token that it was Sunday. Simultaneously with the bells, Miss Carlyle burst out of her bed-room in one of her ordinary morning costumes, but not the one in which she was wont to be seen on a Sunday. She wore a buff gingham gown, reaching nearly to her ankles, and a lavender print "bedgown," which was tied round the waist with a cord and tassels, and ornamented off below it with a frill. It had been the morning costume of her mother in the old-fashioned days, and Miss Carlyle despised new fashions too much to discard it. Modern ladies might cavil at the style, but they could not at the quality and freshness of the materials, for in that Miss Carlyle was scrupulously particular. On Sunday mornings it was her custom to appear attired for the day, and her not doing so now proved that she must have some domestic work in prospect. Her head-dress cannot be described; it was like nothing in the mode book or out of it: some might have called it a turban, some a night-cap, and some might have thought it was taken from a model of the dunce's cap and bells in the parish school; at any rate, it was something very high, and expansive, and white, and stern, and imposing.

Miss Carlyle stepped across the corridor to a door opposite her own, and gave a thump at it, sufficiently loud to awaken the seven sleepers. "Get up, Archibald."

"Up!" cried a drowsy voice within. "What for? It's only eight o'clock."

"If it's only six, you must get up," repeated Miss Carlyle, in her authoritative manner. "The breakfast is waiting, and I must have it over, for we are all at sixes and sevens."

Miss Carlyle descended the stairs, and entered the breakfast-room, where all appeared in readiness for the meal. She had a sharp tongue on occasion, and a sharp eye always, which saw everything. The room looked on to the street, and the windows were up, their handsome white curtains, spotless as Miss Carlyle's head-dress, waving gently in the summer breeze. Miss Carlyle's eyes peered round the room, and they caught sight of some dust. She strode into the kitchen to salute Joyce with the information. Joyce stood at the kitchen fire, superintending the toasting of some bacon.

"How dare you be so negligent, Joyce? You have never dusted the breakfast-parlour."

"Never dusted it!" returned Joyce, where could your eyes have been ma'am, to see that?"

"On the dust," replied Miss Carlyle. "Go and put yours on it, and take the duster with you. I cannot sit down in an untidy room. Just because you have a little extra work to do this morning, you are turning lazy."

"No, ma'am," retorted Joyce, with spirit, for she felt the charge was perfectly unfounded, "I have exerted myself to the utmost this morning. I was up at five o'clock to get the double work comfortably over, that you might have no occasion to find fault, and I was as particular over the breakfast-parlour as I always am. You insist upon having the windows thrown up, and of course the dust will fly in."

Joyce retreated with her duster just as a bell was heard to ring, and a most respectable-looking servingman of middle height, portly form, fair complexion, and a scant portion of hair that was turning grey, entered the kitchen.

"Do you want anything, Peter?" inquired Miss Carlyle.

"Master's shaving water, ma'am. He has rung for it."

"Master can't have it, then," was the retort of Miss Carlyle. "Go and say so. Tell him that the breakfast's waiting, and he must shave afterwards."

Peter retired with the message, most probably softening it in the delivery, and Miss Carlyle presently returned to the breakfast-parlour and seated herself at the table to wait for her brother.

Miss Carlyle, the previous evening, had embroiled herself in a dispute with her cook. The latter, who was of a fiery temper, retorted insolently, and her mistress gave her warning, for insolence from a servant she never put up with, and rarely indeed was it offered her. The girl, in her heat of passion, said she did not want to wait for warning, she'd go at once; and off she went. Miss Carlyle pronounced the house well rid of her. Miss Carlyle was rigid upon one point—that of having as little work done upon a Sunday as possible, and when the Sunday's dinner was of a nature that could be put forward upon the Saturday, it was required to be done: upon this rock, had Miss Carlyle and the cook split. To add to the inconvenience, the housemaid was from home, enjoying a holiday.

Mr. Carlyle came into the breakfast-room, completely dressed: he had an invincible dislike to appear like a sloven, and he had shaved in cold water. "Why are we breakfasting at eight this morning?" he inquired.

"Because I have so much to do. And if I cannot get breakfast over early I shall never finish it in time for church," was the reply of Miss Carlyle. "The cook's gone."

"The cook gone!" repeated Mr. Carlyle.

"It all happened after you went out to spend the evening, and I did not sit up to tell you. We are to have ducks for dinner to-day, and she knew they were to be stuffed and prepared yesterday, the gravy made, and the giblet-pie made and baked; in short, everything done, except just the roasting. I asked her last night if it was done. 'Oh yes, it was all done;' she said, and I told her to bring me the giblet-pie to look at, knowing she has a knack of burning the crust of her pies. Well, she could not; she had told me a falsehood, Archibald, and had got no pie to bring, for the ducks were untouched, just as they came into the house; she had idly put it all off till to-day, thinking I should never find her out, but my asking for the pie floored her. She was insolent, and what with that and the lie, I gave her warning, but she chose to leave last night. I have got it all to do myself this morning."

"Can't Joyce do it?" returned Mr. Carlyle.

"Joyce! Much she knows about cooking; Joyce's cooking won't do for my table. Barbara Hare is going to spend the day here."

"Indeed."

"Barbara called last evening, full of trouble. She and the justice had been having a dispute, and she said she wished I would invite her for to-day. Barbara has been laying in a stock of finery; the justice caught sight of it as it came home, and Barbara suffered. Serve her right, vain little minx. Just hark at the bells, clattering out!"

Mr. Carlyle lifted his head. The bells of St. Jude's church were ringing out a merry peal, as for a wedding, or for any other festivity. "What can that be for?" he exclaimed.

"Archibald, you are not half as sharp as I was at your age. What should they be ringing for, but out of compliment to the arrival of Lord Mount Severn?"

"Ay; no doubt. The East Lynne pew is in St. Jude's church."

East Lynne had changed owners, and was now the property of Mr. Carlyle. He had bought it as it stood, furniture and all; but the transfer had been conducted with secrecy, and was suspected by none. Whether Lord Mount Severn thought it might prevent any one getting on the scent, or whether he wished to take farewell of a place he had formerly been fond of, certain it is, that he desired to visit it for a week or two. Mr. Carlyle most readily and graciously acquiesced; and the earl, his daughter, and retinue had arrived the previous day.

West Lynne was in ecstasies. It called itself an aristocratic place, and it indulged hopes that the earl might be intending to confer upon it permanently the light of his presence, by taking up his residence again at East Lynne. The toilettes prepared to greet his admiring eyes were prodigious, and pretty Barbara Hare was not the only young lady who had thereby to encounter the paternal storm.

Miss Carlyle completed her dinner preparations, all she did not choose to trust to Joyce, and was ready for church at the usual time, plainly but well-dressed. As she and Archibald were leaving their house, they saw something looming up the street, flashing and gleaming in the sun. A pink parasol came first, a pink bonnet and feather came behind it, a grey brocaded dress, and white gloves.

"The little vain idiot!" ejaculated Miss Carlyle. But Barbara sailed up the street towards them, unconscious of the apostrophe.

"Well done, Barbara!" was the salutation of Miss Carlyle. "The justice might well call out! you are finer than a sunbeam."

"Not half so fine as many another in the church will be to-day," responded Barbara, as she lifted her shy blue eyes and blushing face to answer the greeting of Mr. Carlyle. "West Lynne seems bent on outdressing the Lady Isabel. You should have been in at the milliner's yesterday morning, Miss Carlyle."

"Is all the finery coming out to-day?" gravely inquired Mr. Carlyle, as Barbara turned with them towards the church and he walked by her side and his sister's, for he had an objection, almost as invincible as a Frenchman's, to give his arm to two ladies.

"Of course," replied Barbara. "The earl and his daughter will be coming to church."

Before Lord Mount Severn had completed the fortnight of his proposed stay, the gout came back seriously. It was impossible for him to move away from East Lynne. Mr. Carlyle assured him he was only too pleased that he should remain as long as might be convenient, and the earl expressed his acknowledgments; he hoped soon to be re-established on his legs.

But he was not. The gout came and the gout went; not positively laying him up in bed, but rendering him unable to leave his rooms: and this continued till October, when he grew much better. The county families had been neighbourly, calling on the invalid earl, and occasionally carrying off Lady Isabel, but his chief and constant visitor had been Mr. Carlyle. The earl had grown to like him in no common degree, and was disappointed if Mr. Carlyle spent an evening away from him, so that he had become, as it were, quite domesticated with the earl and Isabel. "I am not equal to general society," he observed to his daughter, "and it is considerate and kind of Carlyle to come here and cheer my loneliness."

"Extremely kind," said Isabel. "I like him very much, papa."

The concert was to take place on a Thursday, and on the following Saturday Lord Mount Severn intended finally to quit East Lynne. The necessary preparations for departure were in progress, but when Thursday morning dawned, it appeared a question whether they would not once more be rendered nugatory. The house was roused betimes, and Mr. Wainwright, the surgeon from West Lynne, summoned to the earl's bedside: he had experienced another and a violent attack. The peer was exceedingly annoyed and vexed, and very irritable.

"I may be kept here a week—a fortnight—a month longer, now!" he uttered fretfully to Isabel.

"I am very sorry, papa. I dare say you do find East Lynne dull."

"Dull! that's not it: I have other reasons for wishing East Lynne to be quit of us. And now you can't go to this fine concert."

Isabel's face flushed. "Not go, papa?"

"Why, who is take you? I can't get out of bed."

"Oh, papa, I must be there. Otherwise it would look almost as though—as though we had announced what we did not mean to perform. You know it was arranged that we should join the Ducies: the carriage can still take me to the concert-room, and I can go in with them."

"Just as you please. I thought you would have jumped at any plea for staying away."

"Not at all," laughed Isabel. "I should like West Lynne to see that I don't despise Mr. Kane and his concert."

Later in the day, the earl grew alarmingly worse: his paroxysms of pain were awful. Isabel, who was kept from the room, knew nothing of the danger, and the earl's groans did not penetrate to her ears. She dressed herself in a gleeful mood, full of laughing wilfulness, Marvel, her maid, superintending in stiff displeasure, for the attire chosen did not meet her approbation. When ready, she went into the earl's room.

"Shall I do, papa?"

Lord Mount Severn raised his swollen eyelids and drew the clothes from his flushed face. A shining vision was standing before him, a beauteous queen, a gleaming fairy; he hardly knew what she looked like. She had put on a white lace dress and her diamonds; the dress was rich, and the jewels gleamed from her hair, from her pretty neck, from her delicate arms; and her cheeks were flushed and her curls were flowing.

The earl stared at her in amazement. "How could you dress yourself like that for a concert? You are out of your senses, Isabel."

"Marvel thinks so too," was the gay answer; "she has had a cross face since I told her what to put out. But I did it on purpose, papa; I thought I would show those West Lynne people that I think the poor man's concert worth going to, and worth dressing for."

"You will have the whole room gaping at you."

"I don't mind. I'll bring you word all about it. Let them gape."

"You vain child! You have dressed yourself to please your vanity. "But, Isabel, you—ooooooh!"

Isabel started as she stood: the earl's groan of pain was dreadful.

"An awful twinge, child. There, go along: talking makes me worse."

"Papa, shall I stay at home with you?" she gravely asked. "Every consideration should give way to illness. If you would like me to remain, or if I can do any good, pray let me."

"Quite the contrary; I had rather you were away. You can do no earthly good, for I could not have you in the room. Good bye, darling. If you see Carlyle, tell him I shall hope to see him to-morrow."

Marvel threw a mantle over her shoulders, and she went down to the carriage, which waited.

The concert was held in the noted justice-room, over the market-place, called by courtesy the town-hall. It was large, commodious, and good for sound; many a town of far greater importance cannot boast so good a music-room. In the way of performers, Mr. Kane had done his poor best; a lady, quite fourth rate, was engaged from London, and the rest were local artistes.

Barbara Hare would not have missed the concert for the world, but Mrs. Hare had neither health nor spirits for it. It was arranged that the justice and Barbara should accompany the Carlyles, and they proceeded to Miss Carlyle's in time for coffee. Something was said about a fly, but Miss Carlyle negatived it, asking what had come to their legs: it was a fine night, and the distance very short. Barbara had no objection to the walk with Mr. Carlyle.

"How is it that we see so little of you now?" she began, as they went along, Mr. Justice Hare and Miss Carlyle preceding them.

"I have been so much engaged at East Lynne: the earl finds his evenings dull. They go on Saturday, and my time will be my own again."

"You were expected at the parsonage last night; we were looking for you all the evening."

"Not expected by Mr. and Mrs. Little, I think. I told them I was engaged to dine at East Lynne."

"They were saying—some of them—that you might as well take up your abode at East Lynne, and wondered what your attraction could be. They said"—Barbara compelled her voice to calmness—"that if Isabel Vane were not the Lady Isabel, they should think you went there courting."

"I am much obliged at their interesting themselves so much about me," equably returned Mr. Carlyle. "More so than Lady Isabel Vane would probably be. I am surprised that you should retail such nonsense, Barbara."

"They said it; I did not," answered Barbara, with a swelling heart. "Is it true that Lady Isabel sings so well? They were making out that her singing is divine."

"You had better not let Cornelia hear you say that, or you will get a reproof," laughed Mr. Carlyle. "Like I did, when I said she had an angel's face."

Barbara turned her own face full upon him: it looked pale in the gaslight. "Did you say she had an angel's face? Do you think it one?"

"I really believe I did say so, but I can't be quite sure, Cornelia snapped me up so quickly," he answered, laughing. "Barbara," he added, dropping his voice, "we have still not heard from Richard."

"No. You and mamma both think we shall hear; I say not, for I feel sure he will be afraid to write. I know he promised, but I have never thought he would perform."

"There would be no risk, sending the letters under cover to me, and it would be a relief and a comfort to Mrs. Hare."

"You know how timorous Richard is. Otway Bethel is home again," she continued. "You said you should question him when he returned, Archibald."

"I have done so, but he appears to know nothing. He seems well disposed to Richard, but casts doubt on the assertion that Thorn, or any stranger, was in the wood that night."

"It is very strange what Thorn it could have been."

"Very," assented Mr. Carlyle. "I can make out nothing from Swainson. No person whatever, answering the description and named Thorn, was living there at the time, so far as I am able to ascertain. All we can do is to wait, and hope that time may bring elucidation with it."

They reached the town-hall as he spoke. A busy crowd was gathered round the entrance; people going in to attend the concert, and the mob watching them. Drawn up at a short distance, so as not to obstruct other vehicles, was the aristocratic carriage of Lord Mount Severn: the coachman sat on his hammercloth, and two powdered footmen waited with it.

"Lady Isabel Vane is sitting there," exclaimed Barbara as she passed.

Mr. Carlyle felt surprised. What could she be waiting there for? where could the earl be? A doubt came over him, he could not define why, that something was wrong.

"Will you pardon me if I quit you for one moment, Barbara, whilst I speak to Lady Isabel?"

He waited for neither acquiescence nor dissent, but left Barbara standing where she was, and accosted Isabel. The diamonds gleamed in her shining curls, as she bent towards him.

"I am waiting for Mrs. Ducie, Mr. Carlyle. I did not like to remain all alone in the ante-room, so I stayed here. When Mrs. Ducie's carriage comes up, I shall get out. I am going in with her, you know."

"And the earl?"

"Oh, have you not heard? Papa is ill again."

"Ill again!" repeated Mr. Carlyle.

"Very ill indeed. Mr. Wainwright was sent for at five o'clock this morning, and has been with him a good deal of the day. Papa bade me say that he hoped to see you to-morrow."

Mr. Carlyle rejoined Barbara: they entered the hall and began to ascend the stairs, just as another aristocratic equipage dashed up, to scatter and gratify the mob. Barbara turned her head to look: it was that of the Honourable Mrs. Ducie.

The room was pretty full then, and Mrs. Ducie, her two daughters, and Isabel were conducted to seats by Mr. Kane—seats he had reserved for them at the upper end, near the orchestra. The same dazzling vision which had burst on the sight of Lord Mount Severn, fell on that of the audience, in Isabel, with her rich white dress, her glittering diamonds, her flowing curls, and her wondrous beauty. The Miss Ducies, plain girls, in brown silks, turned up their noses worse than ever nature had done it for them, and Mrs. Ducie heaved an audible sigh. "The poor motherless girl is to be pitied, my dears," she whispered; "she has nobody to point out to her suitable attire: this ridiculous decking out must have been Marvel's idea."

But she looked like a lily amidst poppies and sunflowers, whether the "decking out" was ridiculous or not. Was Lord Mount Severn right, when he accused her of so dressing in self-gratification? Very likely: for, has not the great preacher said, that childhood and youth are vanity?

Miss Carlyle, the justice, and Barbara also had seats near the orchestra, for Miss Carlyle in West Lynne was a person to be considered, and not hidden behind others. Mr. Carlyle, however, preferred to join the gentlemen who congregated and stood round about the door, inside and out. There was scarcely standing room in the place: Mr. Kane had, as was anticipated, a bumper, and the poor man could have worshipped Lady Isabel, for he knew he owed it to her.

It was very long: country concerts generally are: and was about three parts over when a powdered head, larger than any cauliflower ever grown, was discerned ascending the stairs behind the group of gentlemen; which head, when it brought its body in full view, was discovered to belong to one of the footmen of Lord Mount Severn. The calves alone, cased in their silk stockings, were a sight to be seen; and these calves betook themselves inside the concert-room, with a deprecatory bow for permission to the gentlemen they had to steer through, and there they came to a stand-still, the cauliflower extending forward, and turning itself about from right to left.

"Well, I'll be jiffied!" cried an astonished old foxhunter, who had been elbowed by the footman. "The cheek these fellows have!"

The fellow in question did not appear, however, to be enjoying any great amount of cheek just then, for he looked perplexed, humble, and uneasy. Suddenly his eye fell on Mr. Carlyle, and it lightened up.

"Beg pardon, sir: could you happen to inform me whereabouts my young lady is sitting?"

"At the other end of the room, near the orchestra."

"I'm sure I don't know how ever I am to get to her, then," returned the man, more in self-soliloquy, than to Mr. Carlyle. "The room's choke full, and I don't like crushing by. My lord is taken alarmingly worse, sir," he explained, in an awe-struck tone: "it is feared he is dying."

Mr. Carlyle was painfully startled.

"His screams of pain are awful, sir. Mr. Wainwright and another doctor from West Lynne are with him, and an express has gone to Lynneborough for physicians. Mrs. Mason said we were to fetch my young lady home, and not lose a moment; and we brought the carriage, sir, Wells galloping his horses all the way."

"I will bring Lady Isabel," said Mr. Carlyle.

"I'm sure, sir, I should be under everlasting obligation if you would," returned the man.

Events , between the death of Lord Mount Severn and his interment, occurred quickly; to one of them the reader may feel inclined to demur, as believing that it could have no foundation in fact, in the actions of real life. He would be wrong. The circumstance really occurred.

The earl died on Friday morning, at daylight. The news spread rapidly; it generally does, on the death of a peer, if he have been of note (whether good or bad) in the world. It was known in London before the day was over; the consequence of which was, that by Saturday morning early, a shoal of what the late earl would have called harpies, had arrived to surround East Lynne. There were creditors for small sums and for great, for five or ten pounds, up to five or ten thousand. Some were civil; some, impatient; some, loud and rough and angry; some came to put in executions on the effects, and some— to arrest the body!

This last act was accomplished cleverly. Two men, each with a remarkably hooked nose, stole away from the hubbub of the clamourers, and, peering cunningly about, made their way to the side, or tradesman's entrance. A kitchen-maid answered their gentle appeal at the bell.

"Is the coffin come yet?" said they.

"Coffin? no!" was the girl's reply. "The shell ain't here yet. Mr. Jones didn't promise that till nine o'clock, and it haven't gone eight."

"It won't be long," quoth they, "it's on its road. We'll go up to his lordship's room, and be getting ready for it."

The girl called the butler. "Two men from Jones's, the undertaker's, sir," announced she. "The shell's a coming on, and they want to go up and make ready for it."

The butler marshalled them up-stairs himself, and introduced them to the room. "That will do," said they, as he was about to enter with them, "we won't trouble you to wait." And, closing the door upon the unsuspicious butler, they took up their station on either side the dead, like a couple of ill-omened mutes. They had placed an arrest upon the corpse; it was theirs, until their claim was satisfied, and they sat down to thus watch and secure it. Pleasant occupation!

It may have been an hour later that Lady Isabel, leaving her own chamber, opened noiselessly that of the dead. She had been in it several times the previous day; at first with the housekeeper; afterwards, when the nameless dread was somewhat effaced, alone. But she felt nervous again this morning, and had gained the bed before she ventured to lift her eyes from the carpet and encounter the sight. Then she started, for there sat two strange-looking men—and not attractive men, either.

A Post-Chaise was driving furiously up the avenue that Sunday afternoon. It contained the new peer, Lord Mount Severn. The more direct line of rail from Castle Marling brought him within five miles of West Lynne, and thence he had travelled in a hired chaise. Mr. Carlyle soon joined him, and almost at the same time Mr. Warburton arrived from London. Absence from town at the period of the earl's death, had prevented Mr. Warburton's earlier attendance. Business was entered upon immediately.

The present earl knew that his predecessor had been an embarrassed man, but he had no conception of the extent of the evil: they had not been intimate, and rarely came in contact. As the various items of news were now detailed to him—the wasteful expenditure, the disastrous ruin, the total absence of provision for Isabel, he stood petrified and aghast. He was a tall, stout man of three-and-forty years, his nature honourable, his manners cold, and his countenance severe.

"It is the most iniquitous piece of business I ever heard of," he exclaimed to the two lawyers. "Of all reckless fools, Mount Severn must have been the worst!"

Isabel had been in her new home about ten days when Lord and Lady Mount Severn arrived at Castle Marling. Which was not a castle, you may as well be told, but only the name of a town, nearly contiguous to which was their residence, a small estate. Lord Mount Severn welcomed Isabel: Lady Mount Severn, also, after a fashion; but her manner was so repellant, so insolently patronising, that it brought the indignant crimson to the cheeks of Isabel. And, if this was the case at the first meeting, what do you suppose it must have been as time went on? Galling slights, petty vexations, chilling annoyances were put upon her, trying her powers of endurance to the very length of their tether: she would wring her hands when alone, and passionately wish the she could find another refuge.

Lady Mount Severn lived but in admiration, and she gathered around her those who would offer its incense. She carried her flirtations to the very verge of propriety; no further: there existed not a woman less likely to forget herself, or peril her fair fame, than Emma, Countess of Mount Severn; and no woman was more scornfully unforgiving to those who did forget themselves. She was the very essence of envy, of selfishness: she had never been known to invite a young and attractive woman to her house; she would as soon have invited a leper: and now you can understand her wrath, when she heard that Isabel Vane was to be her permanent inmate; Isabel, with her many charms, her youth, and her unusual beauty. At Christmas some visitors were down; mostly young men, and they were not wary enough to dissemble the fact, that the young beauty was a far greater attraction than the exacting countess. Then broke forth, beyond bounds, her passion, and in a certain private scene, when she forgot all but passion, and lost sight of the proprieties of life, Isabel was told that she was a hated intruder, her presence only suffered because there was no help for it.

The earl and countess had two children, both boys, and in February, the younger one, always a delicate child, died. This somewhat altered their plans. Instead of proceeding to London after Easter, as had been decided upon, they would not go until May. The earl had passed part of the winter at Mount Severn, looking after the repairs and renovations that were being made there. In March he went to Paris, full of grief for the loss of his boy; far greater grief than was experienced by Lady Mount Severn.

April approached; and, with it, Easter. To the unconcealed dismay of Lady Mount Severn, her grandmother, Mrs. Levison, wrote her word that she required change, and should pass Easter with her at Castle Marling. Lady Mount Severn would have given her diamonds to have got out of it, but there was no escape: diamonds that were once Isabel's; at least, what Isabel had worn. On the Monday in Passion Week the old lady arrived: and, with her, Francis Levison. They had no other guests.

Things went on pretty smoothly till Good Friday, but it was a deceitful calm: my lady's jealousy was kindling, for Captain Levison's attentions to Isabel were driving her wild. At Christmas, his admiration had been open enough, but it was more so now. Better from any one else could Lady Mount Severn have borne this, than from Francis Levison: she had suffered the young Guardsman, cousin though he was, to grow rather dear; dangerously dear it might have become had she been a less cautious woman. More welcome to her that all the world, rather than he, had given admiration to Isabel. Why did she have him there, throwing him into Isabel's companionship, as she had done the previous year in London? asks the reader. It is more than I can tell: why do people do foolish things?

On Good Friday afternoon, Isabel strolled out with little William Vane: Captain Levison joined them, and they never came in till nearly dinner-time, when the three entered together. Lady Mount Severn doing penance all the time, and nursing her rage against Isabel, for Mrs. Levison kept her in-doors. There was barely time to dress for dinner, and Isabel went straight to her room. Her dress was off, her dressing-gown on, Marvel was busy with her hair, and William chattering at her knee, when the door was flung open, and my lady entered.

"Where have you been?" demanded she, shaking with passion. Isabel knew the signs.

"Strolling about in the shrubberies and grounds," answered Isabel.

The sensations of Mr. Carlyle when he returned to West Lynne were very much like those of an Eton boy, who knows he has been in mischief, and dreads detection. Always open as to his own affairs, for he had nothing to conceal, he yet deemed it expedient to disemble now. He felt that his sister would be bitter at the prospect of his marrying; instinct had taught him that, years past; and he believed that, of all women, the most objectionable to her, would be Lady Isabel, for Miss Carlyle looked to the useful, and had neither sympathy nor admiration for the beautiful. He was not sure but she might be capable of endeavouring to frustrate the marriage, should news of it reach her ears, and her indomitable will had carried many strange things in her life: therefore you will not blame Mr. Carlyle for observing entire reticence as to his future plans.

A family of the name of Carew had been about taking East Lynne: they wished to rent it, furnished, for three years. Upon some of the minor arrangements they and Mr. Carlyle were opposed, but the latter declined to give way. During his absence at Castle Marling, news had arrived from them—that they acceded to all his terms, and would enter upon East Lynne as soon as was convenient. Miss Carlyle was full of congratulation; it was off their hands, she said: but the first letter Mr. Carlyle wrote was—to decline them. He did not tell this to Miss Carlyle. The final touches of the house were given, preparatory to the reception of its inhabitants, three maid and two men-servants hired and sent there, upon board wages, until the family should arrive.

One evening, three weeks subsequent to Mr. Carlyle's visit to Castle Marling, Barbara Hare called at Miss Carlyle's, and found them going to tea, much earlier than usual.

"We dined earlier," said Miss Corny, "and I ordered tea in as soon as the dinner went away. Otherwise Archibald would have taken none."

"I am as well without tea," said he. "I have a mass of business to get through yet."

"You are not so well without it," cried Miss Corny, "and I don't choose that you should go without it. Take off your bonnet, Barbara. He does things like nobody else: he is off to Castle Marling tomorrow, and never could open his lips till just now that he was going."

"Is that invalid—Brewster, or whatever his name is—laid up at Castle Marling still?" asked Barbara.

"He is there still," said Mr. Carlyle.

Barbara sat down to the tea-table, though protesting that she ought not to remain, for she had told her mamma she should be home to make tea. Miss Carlyle interrupted what she was saying, by telling her brother she should go presently and pack his things.

"Oh no," returned he, with alarming quickness, "I will pack them myself, thank you. Peter, you can put the portmanteau in my room. The large one."

"The large one!" echoed Miss Corny, who never could let anything pass without her interference, "why, it's as big as a house. What in the world can you want, dragging that with you?"

"I have papers and things to take, besides clothes."

"I am sure I could pack all your things in the small one," persisted Miss Corny. "I'll try. You only tell me what you want put in. Take the small portmanteau to your master's room, Peter."

Mr. Carlyle glanced at Peter, and Peter glanced back again with an imperceptible nod. "I prefer to pack my things myself, Cornelia. What have you done now?"

"A stupid trick," she answered—for, in fidgeting with a knife, Miss Corny had cut her finger. "Have you any sticking-plaster, Archibald?"

He opened his pocket-book, and laid it on the table while he took from it some black plaster. Miss Carlyle's inquisitive eyes caught sight of a letter lying there; sans cérémonie , she stretched out her hand, caught it up, and opened it.

"Who is this from? It is a lady's writing."

Mr. Carlyle laid his hand flat upon it, as if to hide it from her view. "Excuse me, Cornelia; that is a private letter."

"Private nonsense!" retorted Miss Corny. "I am sure you get no letters that I may not read. It bears yesterday's postmark."

"Oblige me with the letter," he returned; and Miss Carlyle, in her astonishment at the calmly authoritative tone, yielded it to him.

The announcement of the marriage in the newspapers was the first intimation of it Lord Mount Severn received. He was little less thunderstruck than Miss Corny, and came steaming to England the same day, thereby missing his wife's letter, which gave her version of the affair. He met Mr. Carlyle and Lady Isabel in London, where they were staying, at one of the West-end hotels, for a day or two; they were going farther. Isabel was alone when the earl was announced.

"What is the meaning of this, Isabel?" began he, without circumlocution of greeting. "You are married!"

"Yes," she answered, with her pretty, innocent blush. "Some days ago."

"And to Carlyle the lawyer! How did it come about?"

Isabel began to think how it had come about, sufficiently to give a clear answer. "He asked me," she said, "and I accepted him. He came to Castle Marling at Easter, and asked me then. I was very much surprised."

The earl looked at her attentively. "Why was I kept in ignorance of this, Isabel?"

Miss Carlyle was as good as her word. She quitted her own house, and removed to East Lynne with Peter and two of her handmaidens. In spite of Mr. Dill's grieved remonstrances, she discharged the servants whom Mr. Carlyle had engaged, all save one man: she might have retained one of the maids also, but for the episode of the mousseline-de-laine dresses and the caps with peach bows: for she had the sense to remember, in spite of her prejudices, that East Lynne would require more hands in its service than her own home.

On a Friday night, about a month after the wedding, Mr. Carlyle and his wife came home. They were expected, and Miss Carlyle went through the hall to receive them, and stood on the upper steps, between the pillars of the portico. An elegant chariot with four-post horses was drawing up: Miss Carlyle compressed her lips as she scanned it. She was attired in a handsome dark silk dress and a new cap: her anger had had time to cool down in the last month, and her strong common sense told her that the wiser plan would be to make the best of it. Mr. Carlyle came up the steps with Isabel.

The county carriages began to arrive at East Lynne, to pay the wedding visit to Mr. and Lady Isabel Carlyle. Some appeared with all the pomp of coronets and hammercloths, and bedizened footmen with calves and wigs and gold-headed canes; some came with four horses, and some even with outriders. It is the custom still in certain localities to be preceded by outriders when paying visits of ceremony, and there are people who like the dash. Mr. Carlyle might have taken up his abode at East Lynne without any such honours being paid him, but his marriage with Lady Isabel had sent him up in county estimation. Amongst the rest, went Justice and Mrs. Hare and Barbara. The oldfashioned, large yellow chariot was brought out, and the fat, sleek, long-tailed coach-horses: only on state occasions was that chariot awakened out of its repose.

Isabel happened to be in her dressing-room talking to Joyce. She had grown to like Joyce very much, and was asking her whether she would continue to wait upon her—as the maid, for whom she had written, was not well enough to come.

Joyce's face lighted up with pleasure at the proposal. "Oh, my lady, you are very kind! I should so like it. I would serve you faithfully to the best of my ability: and I know I could do your hair well, if you allowed me to try: I have been practising upon my own, night and morning."

Isabel laughed. "But Miss Carlyle may not be inclined to transfer you."

"I think she would be, my lady. She said, a day or two ago, that I appeared to suit you, and you might have me altogether if you wished, provided I could still make her gowns. Which I could very well do, for yours is an easy service. I make them to please her, you see, my lady."

"Do you make her caps also?" demurely asked Lady Isabel.

Joyce smiled. "Yes, my lady: but I am allowed to make them only according to her own pattern."

"Joyce, if you become my maid, you must wear smarter caps yourself."

"I know that, my lady—at least, different ones. But Miss Carlyle is very particular, and only allows muslin caps to her servants. I would wear plain white net ones, if you don't object, my lady: neat and close, with a little quilled white ribbon."

"They are the best that you can wear. I do not wish you to be fine, like Marvel."

"Oh, my lady! I shall never be fine," shuddered Joyce. And Joyce believed she had cause to shudder at finery. She was about to speak further, when a knock came to the dressing-room door. Joyce went to open it, and saw one of the housemaids, a girl who had recently been engaged, a native of West Lynne. Isabel heard the colloquy:

"Is my lady there?"

Another year came in. Isabel would have been altogether happy but for Miss Carlyle: that lady still inflicted her presence upon East Lynne, and made the bane of its household. She deferred outwardly to Lady Isabel as the mistress; but the real mistress was herself, Isabel little more than an automaton. Her impulses were checked, her wishes frustrated, her actions tacitly condemned by the imperiously-willed Miss Carlyle: poor Isabel, with her refined manners and her timid and sensitive temperament, had no chance against the strongminded woman, and she was in a state of galling subjection in her own house. Mr. Carlyle suspected it not. At home but morning and evening, and then generally alone with his wife, and becoming gradually more absorbed with the cares of his business, which increased upon him, he saw not that anything was wrong. Once, certain counter-orders of the two ladies had clashed, and caused a commotion in the household: Miss Carlyle immediately withdrew hers, but, in doing so, her peculiarly ungracious manner was more ungracious than ever. Isabel had then hinted to her husband that they might be happier if they lived alone, hinted it with a changing cheek and beating heart, as if she were committing a wrong upon Miss Carlyle. He proposed to his sister that she should return to her own home; she turned round and accused him of speaking for Isabel. In his truthful, open way, he acknowledged the fact, making no secret of it. Miss Carlyle bounced off and presented herself before Lady Isabel, demanding to know what offence she had committed, and why the house was not large enough for her to have a corner in it. Isabel, shrinkingly tenacious of hurting the feelings, even of an enemy, absolutely made a sort of apology, and afterwards begged her husband to think no more of what she had said. He did not; he was easy and unsuspicious; but had he but gained the faintest inkling of the truth, he would not have lost a moment in emancipating his wife from the thraldom of Miss Corny.

Not a day passed but Miss Carlyle, by dint of hints and innuendoes, contrived to impress upon Lady Isabel the unfortunate blow to his own interests that Mr. Carlyle's marriage had been, the ruinous expense she had entailed upon the family. It struck a complete chill to Isabel's heart, and she became painfully imbued with the incubus she must be to Mr. Carlyle— so far as his pocket was concerned. Lord Mount Severn, with his little son, had paid them a short visit at Christmas, and Isabel had asked him, apparently with unconcern, whether Mr. Carlyle had put himself very much out of the way to marry her; whether it had entailed on him an expense and a style of living he would not otherwise have deemed himself justified in affording. Lord Mount Severn's reply was an unfortunate one: he said, his opinion was that it had, and that Isabel ought to feel grateful to him for his generosity. She sighed as she listened, and from thenceforth determined to put up with Miss Carlyle. That lady contributed a liberal share to the maintenance of the household, and would do it, quite as much as would have kept up her establishment at home. She was not at East Lynne to save her own pocket, and there lay a greater difficulty in getting rid of her. Whether she spent her money at East Lynne or not, it would come to the same in the end, for it was known that all she had would go to Archibald.

More timid and sensitive by nature than many would believe or can imagine, reared in seclusion more simply and quietly than falls to the general lot of peers' daughters, and completely inexperienced, Isabel was unfit to battle with the world, totally unfit to battle with Miss Carlyle. The penniless state in which she was left at her father's death; the want of a home, save that accorded her at Castle Marling, even the hundred poundnote left in her hand by Mr. Carlyle, all had imbued her with a deep consciousness of humiliation; and, far from rebelling at or despising the small establishment (comparatively speaking) provided for her by Mr. Carlyle, she felt thankful to him for it. But to be told continually that this was more than he could afford, that she was in fact a blight upon his prospects, was enough to turn her heart to bitterness. Oh, that she had had the courage to speak out openly to her husband! that he might, by a single word of earnest love and assurance, have taken the weight from her heart, and rejoiced it with the truth—that all these miserable complaints were but the phantoms of his narrow-minded sister. But Isabel never did: when Miss Corny lapsed into her grumbling mood, she would hear in silence, or gently bend her aching forehead in her hands, never retorting.

One day, it was in the month of February, after a tolerably long explosion of wrath on Miss Corny's part, not directed against Isabel, but at something which had gone wrong amongst the servants, silence supervened. Isabel, who was sitting listless and dispirited, suddenly broke it, speaking more to herself than to Miss Carlyle.

"I wish evening was come!"

"Why do you wish that?"

"Because Archibald would be at home."

Miss Carlyle gave an unsatisfactory grunt. "You seem tired, Lady Isabel."

"I am very tired."

"I don't wonder at it. I should be tired to death if I sat doing nothing all day. Indeed, I think I should soon drop into my grave."

"There's nothing to do," returned Lady Isabel.

"There's always something to do when people like to look for it. You might help me with these new table napkins, rather than do nothing."

"I make table napkins!" exclaimed Lady Isabel.

"You might do a worse thing, ma'am," snapped Miss Corny.

"I don't understand that sort of work," said Isabel, gently.

"Neither does anybody else till they try. For my part I'd rather set on and make or mend shoes, than I'd sit with my hands before me. It's a sinful waste of time."

"I never feel very well now," answered poor Isabel, in an apologetic tone. "I am not equal to exertion."

The baby lived, and appeared likely to live, and of course the next thing was to look out for a maid for it. Isabel did not get strong very quickly; fever and weakness had a struggle with each other and with her. One day when she was dressed and sitting in her easy-chair, Miss Carlyle entered.

"Of all the servants in the neighbourhood, who should you suppose is come up after the place of nurse?" she said to Lady Isabel.

"Indeed I cannot guess."

"Why, Wilson, Mrs. Hare's maid. Three years and five months she has been with them, and now leaves in consequence of a quarrel with Barbara. Will you see her?"

"Is she likely to suit? Is she a good servant?"

"She's not a bad servant, as servants go," responded Miss Carlyle. "She's steady and respectable; but she has got a tongue as long as from here to Lynneborough."

"That won't hurt the baby," said Lady Isabel. "But if she has lived as lady's maid, she probably does not understand the care of infants."

"Yes, she does. She was upper nurse at Squire Pinner's, before going to Mrs. Hare's. She lived there five years."

"I will see her," said Lady Isabel.

Miss Carlyle left the room to send the servant in, but came back first alone.

"Mind, Lady Isabel, don't you engage her. If she is likely to suit you, let her come again for the answer, and meanwhile I will go down to Mrs. Hare's and learn the ins and outs of her leaving. It is all very plausible for her to put it upon Barbara, but that is only one side of the question. Before engaging her, it may be well to hear the other."

Of course this was but right. Isabel acquiesced, and the servant was introduced: a tall, pleasant-looking woman, with black eyes. Lady Isabel inquired why she was leaving Mrs. Hare's.

"My lady, it is through Miss Barbara's temper. Latterly—oh, for this year past—nothing has pleased her; she has grown nearly as imperious as the justice himself. I have threatened many times to leave, and last evening we came to another outbreak, and I left this morning."

"Left entirely?"

"Yes, my lady. Miss Barbara provoked me so, that I said last night, I would leave as soon as breakfast was over. And I did so. I should be very glad to take your situation, my lady, if you would please to try me."

"You have been the upper maid at Mrs. Hare's?"

"Oh yes, my lady."

"Then possibly this situation might not suit you so well as you imagine. Joyce is the upper servant here, and you would, in a manner, be under her. I have great confidence in Joyce; and in case of my illness or absence, Joyce would superintend the nursery."

"I should not mind that," was the applicant's answer. "We all like Joyce, my lady."

A few more questions, and then the girl was told to come again in the evening for her answer. Miss Carlyle went to the Grove for the "ins and outs" of the affair, when Mrs. Hare frankly stated that she had nothing to urge against Wilson, save her hasty manner of leaving, of which she believed the chief blame to be due to Barbara. Wilson was therefore engaged, and was to enter upon her new service the following morning.

In the afternoon succeeding to it, Isabel was lying on the sofa in her bedroom, asleep, as was supposed. In point of fact, she was in that state, half sleep, half wakeful delirium, which those who suffer from weakness and fever know only too well. Suddenly she was aroused from it by hearing her own name mentioned in the adjoining room, where sat Joyce and Wilson, the latter holding the sleeping infant on her knee, the former sewing, the door between the rooms being ajar.

"How ill she looks," observed Wilson.

"Who?" asked Joyce.

"Her ladyship. She looks as if she'd never get over it."

"She is getting over it quickly, now," returned Joyce. "If you had seen her a week ago, you would not say she was looking ill now—speaking in comparison."

"My goodness! would not somebody's ropes be up again if anything should happen?"

" Barbara , how fine the day seems!"

"It is a beautiful day, mamma."

"I think I should be all the better for going out."

"I am sure you would, mamma," was Barbara's answer. "If you went out more, you would find the benefit: every fine day you ought to do so."

"But I have not spirits for it, dear," sighed Mrs. Hare. "The first bright days of spring, the first warm days of summer, always have an exhilarating effect upon me. I think I must go out to-day. There's your papa in the garden: ask him if it will be convenient."

Barbara was darting off, but arrested her steps for a moment. "Mamma, you have been talking these three weeks of buying the new dresses and other things that we require: why not do so to-day?"

"Well—I don't know," hesitated Mrs. Hare, in the irresolution natural to her.

"Yes, yes, you will not find a better opportunity." And away went Barbara.

Justice Hare was in his front garden, imperiously pointing out to his servant, Benjamin, something which had not been done according to his directions. Benjamin fulfilled the duties of coachman and groom at the Grove, filling up his spare time with gardening. He was a married man, and slept at home, though he took his meals in the house; coming to it early, and going away late. The justice was in his dressing-gown and wig, and was working himself into a passion when Barbara approached. She was the only one of the three children not afraid of her father: Barbara stood in awe of him, but not so utterly as the others.

"Papa."

"What do you want?" said the justice, turning round his portly person.

"Mamma thinks that it would do her good to go out this fine day. Can we have the carriage?"

The justice paused before he answered, and looked up at the sky. "Where does she want to be off to?"

"We wish to do some shopping, please papa. Only in West Lynne," hastily added Barbara, seeing a cloud rise on the paternal countenance. "Not at Lynneborough."

"And your mamma thinks I am going to drive her!" cried Justice Hare. "I'd see the shops further, first. The last time you and she went into one, you kept me waiting an hour and a half."

"Benjamin can drive us, papa."

Mr. Hare strode pompously across the grass to the dining-room window, threw it up, and addressed his wife. Barbara drew close, and stood timidly at his side.

"Do you say you want to go shopping to-day, Anne?"

"Not particularly to-day," was the meek answer, meekly delivered; "any day will do for it. Did you think of using the carriage yourself?"

A few years had passed on.

"I should recommend a complete change of scene altogether, Mr. Carlyle. Say some place on the French or Belgian coast. Sea-bathing might do wonders."

"Should you think it well for her to go so far from home!"

"I should. Where there is any chronic or confirmed disorder, one we can grapple with, I don't care a straw for change of scene or air, a patient is as well at his own home as away, a certain treatment must be gone through, surgical or physical, and it is of little moment whether it is pursued on a mountain in Switzerland or in a vale in Devonshire. But in these cases of protracted weakness, where you can do nothing but try to coax the strength back again, change of air and scene are of immense benefit."

"I will propose it to her," said Mr. Carlyle.

"I have just done so," replied Dr. Martin, who was the other speaker. "She met it with objection; which I expected, for invalids naturally feel a disinclination to move from home. But it is necessary that she should go."

The object of their conversation was Lady Isabel. There were three children now at East Lynne; Isabel, William, and Archibald; the latter twelve months old. Lady Isabel had, a month or two back, been attacked with illness: she recovered from it; that is, she recovered from the disorder; but it had left her in an alarming state of weakness. Mr. Wainwright tried in vain to grapple with the weakness; she seemed to get worse, rather than better, and Dr. Martin was summoned from Lynneborough. The best thing he could recommend —as you have seen—was change of scene and air.

Lady Isabel was unwilling to take the advice; more especially to go so far as the "French coast." And but for a circumstance that seemed to have happened purposely to induce her to decide, would probably never have gone. Mrs. Ducie—the reader may not have forgotten her name—had, in conjunction with her husband the Honourable Augustus, somewhat run herself out at elbows, and found it convenient to enter for a time on the less expensive life of the Continent. For eighteen months she had been staying in Paris, the education of her younger daughters being the plea put forth for the sojourn, and a very convenient plea it is, and serves hundreds. Isabel had had two or three letters from her during her absence, and she now received another, saying they were going to spend a month or two at Boulognesur-Mer. Dr. Martin and Mr. Wainwright, declared that this must remove all Lady Isabel's unwillingness to go from home, for Mrs. Ducie's society would do away with the loneliness she had anticipated, which had been the ostensible score of her objection.

"Boulogne-sur-Mer, of all places in the world!" remonstrated Lady Isabel. "It is spoken of as being crowded and vulgar."

Mr. Carlyle also demurred to Boulogne-sur-Mer. It did not stand high in his estimation. It was not a place he cared to send his wife to: the more especially as he could not remain with her. Trouville, a pleasant, retired watering-place, situated near Harfleur, and little known in those days, had been the one fixed upon. Lady Isabel, probably, would have found it dull.

Dr. Martin strongly urged it's being changed for Boulogne. "What did it matter if Boulogne was crowded and vulgar?" he asked: "there would be the more amusement for Lady Isabel. He had had his doubts of Trouville before, in regard to its dullness: by all means let her go to Boulogne to join Mrs. Ducie."

Mr. Carlyle yielded the point, and finished by approving it. And Lady Isabel, finding she had no chance against them all, consented to go, and plans were hastily decided upon.

She certainly was looking very ill; her features were white and attenuated, her sweet, sad eyes had grown larger and darker, her hands were hot and sickly. Though warm weather, she had generally a shawl folded round her, and would sit for hours without rousing herself, as those, suffering from great weakness, like to do; would sit gazing out on the calm landscape, or watching her children at play. She went out once a day in the close carriage, and that was all: no other exertion could she be aroused to make.

Mr. Carlyle and Lady Isabel, with Wilson and Peter in attendance, arrived at Boulogne, and proceeded to the Hôtel des Bains. It may be as well to mention that Peter had been transferred from Miss Carlyle's service to theirs, when the establishment was first formed at East Lynne. Upon entering the hotel, they inquired for Mrs. Ducie, and then a disappointment awaited them: a letter was handed them, which had arrived that morning from Mrs. Ducie, expressing her regret that certain family arrangements prevented her visiting Boulogne; she was proceeding to some of the baths in Germany instead.

"I might almost have know it," remarked Isabel. "She was always the most changeable of women."

Mr. Carlyle proposed that they should, after all, go on to Trouville, but Isabel said she would stay, now she had come. He went out in search of lodgings, Isabel objecting to remain in the bustling hotel. He succeeded in finding some very desirable ones, situated in the Rue de I'Ecu, near the port, and they moved into them. He thought the journey had done her good, for she looked better, and said she already felt stronger. Mr. Carlyle remained with her three days; he had promised only one, but he was pleased with Isabel's returning glimpses of health, and amused with the scenes of the busy town.

"I shall make no acquaintance here," Isabel observed to him, as they sat together at the end of the first division of the pier, which she had reached without much fatigue, and watched the gay idlers flocking past them.

"It would not be advisable to do so indiscriminately," he replied, "but you may chance to find some whom you know. All sorts of people come over here: some respectable, and from respectable motives; others the contrary. Some of these men, going by now, are here because they have kites flying in England."

"Kites!" echoed Lady Isabel.

"Kites, and bills, and ghosts of renewed acceptances," returned Mr. Carlyle. "And well for them if they are over here for nothing else. The worse a man's conduct has been at home, the more assurance he puts on abroad, and is the first to rush and proclaim his arrival at the consulate. To hear these men boast, we might deem they were millionaires in England, and had led the lives of saints."

"You have never stayed in these continental towns, Archibald: how do you know this?"

"I have had plenty to do with those who have stayed in them. There goes Buxton!" he suddenly exclaimed; "he sees me, too. Look at him, Isabel. He does not know whether to come on, or to turn and make a run for it."

"Who? Which?" inquired Isabel, confused by the many passers-by.

"That stout, well-dressed man with the light hair, and bunch of seals hanging to his watch-chain. He thinks better of it, and comes on. All safe, my good sir, on Boulogne pier, but if they catch you on the other side the water—Here comes his wife, following with some ladies. Look at her satins, and her chains, and her hanging bracelets—all swindled out of credulous tradespeople. There's not a doubt they are playing at being grand people in the English society here. It must be as good as a comedy to be behind the scenes in this Anglo-French town, and watch the airs and graces of some of its sojourners. Are you tired, Isabel?"

"A little. I should like to return."

Mr. Carlyle rose, and giving his arm to his wife, they walked slowly down the pier. Many an eye was turned to look at them; at his tall, noble form; at her young beauty; at the unmistakable air of distinction which enshrined both: they were not like the ordinary visitors of Boulogne-sur-Mer.

The tide served at eight o'clock the following morning, and Mr. Carlyle left by the Folkestone boat. Wilson made his breakfast, and after swallowing it in haste, he returned to his wife's room to say farewell.

"Good bye, my love," he said, stooping to kiss her. "Take care of yourself."

"Give my dear love to the darlings, Archibald. And—and—"

"And what?" he asked. "I have not a moment to lose."

"Do not get making love to Barbara Hare while I am away."

She spoke in a tone half jest, half serious—could he but have seen how her heart was beating! Mr. Carlyle took it wholly as a jest, and went away laughing. Had he believed she was serious, he could have been little more surprised had she charged him not to go about the country on a dromedary.

Isabel rose later, and lingered over her breakfast, listless enough. She was wondering how she could make the next few weeks pass: what she should do with her time. She had taken two sea-baths since her arrival, but they had appeared not to agree with her, leaving her low and shivering afterwards, so it was not deemed advisable that she should attempt more. It was a lovely morning, and she determined to venture on to the pier, where they had been the previous evening. She had not Mr. Carlyle's arm, but it was not far, and she could take a good rest at the end of it.

She went, attended by Peter, took her seat, and told him to come for her in an hour. She watched the strollers on the pier; not in crowds now, but stragglers, coming on at intervals. There came a gouty man, in a list shoe, there came three young ladies and their governess, there came two fast puppies in shooting-jackets and eye-glasses, which they turned with a broad stare on Lady Isabel; but there was something about her which caused them to drop their glasses and their ill manners together. After an interval, there appeared another, a tall, handsome, gentlemanly man. Her eyes fell upon him; and—what was it that caused every nerve in her frame to vibrate, every pulse to quicken? Whose form was it that was thus advancing, and changing the monotony of her mind into a tumult? It was that of one whom she was soon to find had never been entirely forgotten.

Captain Levison came slowly on, approaching the part of the pier where she sat. He glanced at her, not with the hardihood displayed by the two young men, but with quite sufficiently evident admiration.

"What a lovely girl!" thought he to himself. "Who can she be, sitting there alone?" All at once a recollection flashed into his mind: he raised his hat and extended his hand, his fascinating smile in full play.

"I certainly cannot be mistaken. Have I not the honour of once more meeting Lady Isabel Vane?"

She allowed him to take her hand, answering a few words at random, for her wits seemed to have gone wool-gathering.

"I beg your pardon—I should have said Lady Isabel Carlyle. Time has elapsed since we parted, and in the pleasure of seeing you again so unexpectedly, I thought of you as you were then."

She sat down again, the brilliant flush of emotion dying away on her cheeks. It was the loveliest face Francis Levison had seen since he had last seen hers, and he thought so as he gazed at it.

"What can have brought you to this place?" he inquired, taking a seat by her.

"I have been ill," she explained, "and am ordered to the sea-side. We should not have come here but for Mrs. Ducie: we expected to meet her. Mr. Carlyle only left me this morning."

"Mrs. Ducie is off to Ems. I see them occasionally. They have been fixtures in Paris for some time. You do indeed look ill!" he abruptly added, in a tone of sympathy, "alarmingly ill. Is there anything I can do for you?"

She was aware that she looked unusually ill at that moment, for the agitation and surprise of meeting him were fading away, leaving her face of an ashy whiteness. She was exceedingly vexed and angry with herself, that the meeting him should have had power to call forth emotion. Until that moment she was unconscious that she retained any sort of feeling for Captain Levison.

"Perhaps I have ventured out too early," she said, in a tone that would seem to apologise for her looks; "I think I will return. I shall meet my servant, no doubt. Good morning, Captain Levison."

"But indeed you do not appear fit to walk alone," he remonstrated. "You must allow me to see you safely home."

Drawing her hand within his arm quite as a matter of course, as he had done many a time in the days gone by, he proceeded to assist her down the pier. Lady Isabel, conscious of her own feelings, felt that it was not quite the thing to walk thus familiarly with him, but he was a sort of relation of the family—a connexion at any rate, and she could find no ready excuse for declining.

"Have you seen Lady Mount Severn lately?" he inquired.

"I saw her when I was in London this spring with Mr. Carlyle. The first time we have met since my marriage: we do not correspond. Lord Mount Severn has paid us some visits at East Lynne. They are in town yet, I believe."

"For all I know. I have not seen them, or England either, for ten months. I have been staying in Paris, and got here yesterday."

"A long leave of absence," she observed.

"Oh, I have left the army. I sold out. The truth is, Lady Isabel—for I don't mind telling you—things are rather down with me at present. My old uncle has behaved shamefully: he has married again."

"I heard that Sir Peter had married."

"He is seventy-three—the old simpleton! Of course this materially alters my prospects, for it is just possible he may have a son of his own now; and my creditors all came down upon me. They allowed me to run into debt with complacency when I was heir to the title and estates, but as soon as Sir Peter's marriage appeared in the papers, myself and my consequence dropped a hundred per cent.; credit was stopped, and I was dunned for payment. So I sold out and came abroad."

"Leaving your creditors?"

"What else could I do? My uncle would not pay them, or increase my allowance."

"What are your prospects, then?" resumed Lady Isabel.

"Prospects? Do you see that little ragged boy, throwing stones into the harbour?—it is well if the police don't drop upon him. Ask him what his prospects are, and he would stare in your face, and say, 'None.' Mine are on a par."

"You may succeed Sir Peter yet."

"I may: but I may not. When these old idiots get a young wife—"

"Have you quarrelled with Sir Peter?" interrupted Lady Isabel.

"I should quarrel with him, as he deserves, if it would do any good; but I might get my allowance stopped. Self-interest, you see, Lady Isabel, is the order of the day with most of us."

"Do you purpose staying in Boulogne long?"

"I don't know. As I may find amusement. Paris is a fast capital, with its heated rooms and its late hours, and I came down for the refreshment of a few sea dips. Am I walking too fast for you?"

"You increased your pace alarmingly when you spoke of Sir Peter's marriage. And I am not sorry for it," she added, good naturedly, "for it has proved to me how strong I am getting. A week ago I could not have walked half so fast."

He interrupted with eager apologies, and soon they reached her home. Captain Levison entered with her— uninvited. He probably deemed that between connexions great ceremony might be dispensed with, and he sat a quarter of an hour, chatting to amuse her. When he rose, he inquired what she meant to do with herself in the afternoon.

"To lie down," replied Lady Isabel. "I am not strong enough to sit up all day."

"Should you be going out again afterwards, you must allow me to take care of you," he observed. "I am glad that I happen to be here, for I am sure you are not fit to wander out only followed by a servant. When Mr. Carlyle comes, he will thank me for my pains."

What was she to urge in objection? Simply nothing. He spoke, let us not doubt, from a genuine wish to serve her, in a plain, easy tone, as any acquaintance might speak. Lady Isabel schooled herself severely; if those old feelings were not quite dead within her, why, she must smother them down again as effectually as it they were: the very fact of recognising such to her own heart, brought its glow of shame to her brow. She would meet Captain Levison and suffer his companionship as she would that of the most indifferent stranger.

Lady Isabel was seated on one of the benches of the Petit Camp, as it is called, underneath the ramparts of the upper town. A week or ten days had passed away since the departure of Mr. Carlyle, and in her health there was a further visible improvement. In her strength, the change was almost beyond belief. She had walked from her home to the cemetery, had lingered there, reading the inscriptions on the English graves, and now on her departure sat down to rest. Tired, it must be owned, but not much more so than many a lady would be, rejoicing in rude health. Captain Levison was her companion, as he mostly was in her walks; shake him off, she could not. She had tried a few stratagems; going out on unusual hours, or choosing unfrequented routes; but he was sure to trace her steps and come upon her. Isabel thought he must watch: probably he did. She would not take more decided steps, or say to him, you shall not join me: he might have asked for an explanation, and Isabel in her conscious state of feeling, avoided that, above all things. It will be but for a little time she reflected; I shall soon be gone, and leave him, I hope, for ever. But meanwhile, she felt that this prolonged intercourse with him was bringing its fruits; that her cheek blushed at his approach, her heart beat with something too like rapture. She tried to put it down: why did she not try to stop the breeze as it filled the sails of the passing vessels? It would not have been a more hopeless task.

It was a still evening, cool for July, no sound was heard save the hum of the summer insects, and Lady Isabel sat in silence with her companion, her rebellious heart beating with a sense of its own happiness. But for the voice of conscience, strong within her; but for the sense of right and wrong; but for existing things; in short, but that she was a wife, she might have been content so to sit by his side for ever, never to wish to move, or to break the silence. Did he read her feelings? He told her, months afterwards, that he did: but it might have been only a vain boast.

"Do you remember the evening, Lady Isabel, just such a one as this, that we all passed at Richmond?" he suddenly asked. "Your father, Mrs. Vane, you, I and others?"

"Yes, I remember it. We had spent a pleasant day: the two Miss Challoners were with us. You drove Mrs. Vane home, and I went with papa. You drove recklessly, I recollect, and Mrs. Vane said when we got home that you should never drive her again."

"Which meant, not till the next time. Of all capricious, vain, exacting women, Emma Vane was the worst; and Emma Mount Severn is no improvement upon it: she's a systematic flirt, and nothing better. I drove recklessly on purpose to put her in a fright, and pay her off."

"What had she done to you?"

"Put me in a rage. She had saddled herself upon me, when I wanted—I wished for another to be my companion."

"Blanche Challoner."

"Blanche Challoner!" echoed Captain Levison, in a mocking tone: "what did I care for Blanche Challoner?"

Isabel remembered that he had been supposed in those days to care a great deal for Miss Blanche Challoner —a most lovely girl of seventeen. "Mrs. Vane used to accuse you of caring too much for her," she said, aloud.

"She accused me of caring for some one else more than for Blanche Challoner," he significantly returned, "and for once her jealous surmises were not misplaced. No, Lady Isabel, it was not Blanche Challoner I wished to drive home. Could you not have given a better guess than that, at the time?" he added, turning to her.

There was no mistaking the tone of his voice or the glance of his eye. Lady Isabel felt a crimson flush rising, and she turned her face away.

"The past is gone, and cannot be recalled," he continued, "but we both played our cards like simpletons. If ever two beings were formed to love each other, you and I were. I sometimes thought you read my feelings—"

Surprise had kept her silent, but she interrupted him now, haughtily enough.

Lady Isabel had returned home to bodily health, to the delight of meeting her children, to the glad sensation of security. But, as the days went on, a miserable feeling of apathy stole over her: a feeling as if all whom she had loved in the world had died, leaving her living and alone. It was a painful depression, the vacuum in her heart which was making itself felt in its keen intensity. She strove to drive that bad man away from her thoughts; but, even while she so strove, he was again in them. Too frequently she caught herself thinking that if she could but see him once again, for ever so short a period, one hour, one day, she could compose her spirit afterwards to rest. She did not encourage these reflections: from what you know of her, you may be sure of that: but they thrust themselves continually forward. The form of Francis Levison was ever present to her; not a minute of the day but it gave the colouring to her thoughts, and at night it made the subject of her dreams. Oh, those dreams! they were painful to awake from; painful from the contrast they presented to reality; and equally painful to her conscience, in its strife after what was right. She would have given much not to have these dreams; never to see or think of him in her sleep. But, how prevent it? There was no prevention: for when the mind (or, the imagination, if you like the word better) is thoroughly imbued with a subject of this nature, especially if unhappiness mingles with it, then the dreams follow necessarily the bent of the waking thoughts. Poor Lady Isabel would awake to self-reproach, restless and feverish; wishing that this terrible disease could be driven away, root and branch: but Time, the great healer, must, she knew, pass over her, before that could be.

Mr. Carlyle mounted his horse one morning and rode over to Levison Park. He asked for Sir Peter, but was shown into the presence of Lady Levison: a young and pretty woman, dressed showily. She inquired his business.

"My business, madam, is with Sir Peter."

"But Sir Peter is not well enough to attend to business. It upsets him; worries him."

"Nevertheless I am here by his own appointment. Twelve o'clock, he mentioned; and the hour has barely struck."

Lady Levison bit her lip and bowed coldly; and at that moment a servant appeared to conduct Mr. Carlyle to Sir Peter. The matter which had taken Mr. Carlyle thither was entered upon immediately—Francis Levison, his debts, and his gracelessness. Sir Peter, an old gentleman in a velvet skull-cap, particularly enlarged upon the latter.

"I would pay his debts to-day and set him upon his legs again, but that I know I should have to do the same thing over and over again to the end of the chapter—as I have done before," cried Sir Peter. "His grandfather was my only brother, his father my dutiful and beloved nephew; but he is just as bad as they were estimable. He is a worthless fellow, and nothing else, Mr. Carlyle."

"His tale drew forth my compassion, and I promised I would see you and speak for him," returned Mr. Carlyle. "Of Captain Levison's personal virtues or vices I know nothing."

"And the less you know, the better," growled Sir Peter. "I suppose he wants me to clear him and start him afresh."

"Something of the sort, I conclude."

"But how is it to be done? I am at home, and he is over there. His affairs are in a state of confusion, and nobody can come to the bottom of them without an explanation from him. Some liabilities, for which I have furnished the money, the creditors swear have not yet been liquidated. He must come over if he wants anything done."

"Where is he to come to? He must be in England sub rosá ."

"He can't be here," hastily rejoined Sir Peter. "Lady Levison would not have him for a day."

"He might be at East Lynne," good-naturedly observed Mr. Carlyle. "Nobody would think of looking for him there. I think it is a pity that you should not meet, if you do feel inclined to help him."

"You are a great deal more considerate to him than he deserves, Mr. Carlyle. May I ask if you intend to act for him in a professional capacity?"

"I do not."

A few more words, and it was decided that Captain Levison should be immediately sent for. As Mr. Carlyle left Sir Peter's presence, he encountered Lady Levison.

"I can scarcely be ignorant that your conference with my husband has reference to his grand-nephew," she observed.

"It has," replied Mr. Carlyle.

"I have a very bad opinion of him, Mr. Carlyle: at the same time I do not wish you to carry away a wrong impression of me. Francis Levison is my husband's nephew, his presumptive heir; it may therefore appear strange that I set my face so determinately against him. Two or three years ago, previous to my marriage with Sir Peter, in fact before I knew Sir Peter, I was brought into contact with Francis Levison. He was acquainted with some friends of mine, and at their house I met him. He behaved shamefully ill; he repaid their hospitality with gross ingratitude: other details and facts, regarding his conduct, also became known to me. Altogether, I believe him to be a base and despicable man, both by nature and by inclination, and that he will remain such to the end of time."

"I know very little indeed of him," observed Mr. Carlyle. "May I inquire the nature of his ill conduct in the instance you mention?"

"He ruined them. He ruined them, Mr. Carlyle. They were simple, unsuspicious country people, understanding neither fraud nor vice, nor the ways of an evil world. Francis Levison got them to put their names to bills, 'as a simple matter of form, to accommodate him for a month or so,' he stated, and so they believed. They were not wealthy: they lived upon their own small estate in comfort. but with no superfluous money to spare, and when the time came for them to pay—as come it did—it brought ruin, and they had to leave their home. He deliberately did it: I am certain that Francis Levison deliberately did it, knowing what would be the end. And I could tell you of other things. Sir Peter may have informed you that I object to receive him here. I do. My objection is to the man, to his character; not owing, as I hear it has been said, to any jealous, paltry feeling touching his being the heir. I must lose my own self-respect before I admit Francis Levison to my house, an inmate. Sir Peter may assist him and welcome, may pay his debts and get him out of his scrapes as often as he pleases; but I will not have him here."

"Sir Peter said you declined to receive him. But it is necessary he should come to England—if his affairs are to be set straight—and also that he should see Sir Peter."

"Come to England?" interrupted Lady Levison. "How can he come to England under present circumstances? Unless, indeed, he comes en cachette ."

" En cachette of course," replied Mr. Carlyle. "There is no other way. I have offered to let him stay at East Lynne: he is, you may be aware, a connexion of Lady Isabel's."

"Take care that he does not repay your hospitality with ingratitude," warmly returned Lady Levison. "It would only be in accordance with his practice."

Mr. Carlyle laughed. "I do not well see what harm he could do me, allowing that he had the inclination. He would not scare my clients from me; nor beat my children; and I can take care of my pocket. A few days, no doubt, will be the extent of his sojourn."

Lady Levison smiled too, and shook hands with Mr. Carlyle. "In your house perhaps there may be no field for his vagaries; but rely upon it, where there is one, he is sure to be at some mischief or other."

This visit of Mr. Carlyle's to Levison Park took place on a Friday morning, and on his return to his office he despatched an account of it to Captain levison at Boulogne, telling him to come over. But Mr. Carlyle, like many another man whose brain has its sharè of work, was sometimes forgetful of trifles, and it entirely slipped his memory to mention the expected arrival at home. The following evening, Saturday, he and Lady Isabel were dining in the neighbourhood, when the conversation at table turned upon the Ducies and their embarrassments. The association of ideas led Mr. Carlyle's thoughts to Boulogne, to Captain Levison and his embarrassments, and it immediately occurred to him that he had not told his wife of the anticipated visit. He kept it in his mind, and spoke as soon as they were in the chariot returning home.

"Isabel," he began, "I suppose we have always rooms ready for visitors. Because I am expecting one."

"Oh yes. Or, if not, they are soon made ready."

"Ay, but to-morrow is Sunday, and I have no doubt that it is the day he will take advantage of to come. I am sorry I forgot to mention it yesterday."

"Who is coming?"

"Captain Levison."

"Who?" repeated Lady Isabel, in a sharp tone of consternation.

"Captain Levison. Sir Peter consents to see him, with a view to the settlement of his liabilities, but Lady Levison declines to receive him at the park. So I offered to give him house room at East Lynne for a few days."

There is an old saying—the heart leaping into the mouth; and Lady Isabel's heart leaped into hers. She grew dizzy at the words; her senses seemed for the moment to desert her: her first sensation was as if the dull earth had opened and shown her a way into paradise; her second, was a lively consciousness that Francis Levison ought not to be suffered to come again into companionship with her. Mr. Carlyle continued to converse of the man's embarrassments, of his own interview with Sir Peter, of Lady Levison; but Isabel was as one who heard not. She was debating the question, how could she prevent his coming?

"Archibald," she presently said, "I do not wish Francis Levison to stay at East Lynne."

"It will only be for a few days: perhaps but a day or two. Sir Peter is in the humour to discharge the claims; and, the moment his resolve is know, the ex-captain can walk on her Majesty's dominions, an unmolested man; free to go where he will."

"That may be," interrupted Lady Isabel, in an accent of impatience, "but why should he come to our house?"

"I proposed it myself. I had no idea you would dislike his coming. Why should you?"

"I don't like Francis Levison," she murmured. "That is, I don't care to have him at East Lynne."

"My dear, I fear there is no help for it now: he is most likely on his road, and will arrive to-morrow: I cannot turn him out again, after my own voluntary invitation. Had I known it would be disagreeable to you, I should not have proposed it."

The next day rose bright, warm, and cloudless, and the morning sun streamed into the bed-room of Mrs. Hare. That lady lay in bed, a flush on her delicate cheeks, and her soft eyes rather glistening, as if with a touch of fever. The justice, in a cotton nightcap with a little perky tassel, sat on a chair tying his drawers at the knee, preparatory to inducting his legs into his pantaloons—if any single damsel in years, who may read this, will forgive this slight revelation as to the mysteries of a gentleman's toilette. The pantaloons assumed, and the braces fastened, the justice threw his nightcap on to the bed and went up to the wash-hand-stand, where he splashed away for a few minutes at his face and hands: he never shaved till after breakfast. Mr. and Mrs. Hare were of the old-fashioned class who know nothing about dressing-rooms; their bed-room was very large, and they had never used a dressing-room in their lives, or found the want of one. The justice rubbed his face to a shiny brilliancy, settled on his morning wig and his dressing-gown, and then turned to the bed.

"What will you have for breakfast?"

"Thank you, Richard, I do not think that I can eat anything. I shall be glad of my tea; I am very thirsty."

"All nonsense," responded the justice, alluding to the intimation of not eating. "Have a poached egg."

Mrs. Hare smiled at him and gently shook her head. "You are very kind, Richard, but I could not eat it this morning. Barbara may send up the smallest bit of dry toast."

"My belief is, that you just give way to this notion of feeling ill, Anne," cried the justice. "It's half fancy, I know. If you'd get up and shake it off, and come down, you would relish your breakfast and be set up for the day. Whereas you lie here, take nothing but some trashy tea, and get up afterwards weak, shaky, and fit for nothing."

"It is ever so many weeks, Richard, since I lay in bed to breakfast," remonstrated poor Mrs. Hare. "I really don't think I have once, since—since the spring."

"And have been all the better for it."

"But indeed I am not equal to getting up this morning. Would you please to throw this window open before you go down: I should like to feel the air."

"You will get the air too near from this window," replied Mr. Justice Hare, opening the further one. Had his wife requested that further one to be opened, he would have opened the other: his own will and opinions were ever paramount. Then he descended.

A minute or two, and up ran Barbara, looking bright and fair as the morning, her pink muslin dress with its ribbons and its open white lace sleeves as pretty as she was. She leaned over to kiss her mother.

Barbara had grown more gentle and tender of late years, the bitterness of her pain had passed away, leaving all that had been good in her love to mellow and fertilize her nature. Her character had been greatly improved by sorrow.

"Mamma, are you ill? And you have been so well lately; you went to bed so well last night! Papa says—"

"Barbara dear," interrupted Mrs. Hare, glancing round the room with dread, and speaking in a deep whisper, "I have had one of those dreadful dreams again."

"Oh, mamma, how can you!" exclaimed Barbara, starting up in vexation. "How can you suffer a foolish dream so to overcome you as to make you ill? You have good sense in other matters; but, in this, you seem to put all sense away from you."

"Child, will you tell me how I am to help it?" returned Mrs. Hare, taking Barbara's hand and drawing her to her again. "I do not give myself the dreams; I cannot prevent their making me sick, prostrate, feverish. I was as well yesterday as I could be; I went to bed quite comfortable, in excellent spirits; I do not know that I had even once thought of poor Richard during the day. And yet the dream came. There were no circumstances to lead to or induce it, either in my thoughts or in outward facts; but, come it did. How can I help these things, I ask?"

"And it is so long since you had one of these disagreeable dreams! Why, how long is it, mamma?"

"So long, Barbara, that the dread of them had nearly left me. I scarcely think I have had one since that stolen visit of Richard's, years ago."

"Was it a very bad dream, mamma?"

"Oh, child, yes. I dreamt that the real murderer came to West Lynne: that he was with us here, and we—"

At this moment the bed-room door was flung open, and the face of the justice, especially stern and cross then, was pushed in. So startled was Mrs. Hare, that she shook till she shook the pillow, and Barbara sprang away from the bed. Surely he had not distinguished their topic of conversation!

"Are you coming to make breakfast to-day, or not, Barbara? Do you expect me to make it?"

"She is coming this instant, Richard," said Mrs. Hare, her voice more faint than usual. And the justice turned and stamped down again.

"Barbara, could your papa have heard me mention Richard?"

"No, no, mamma, impossible; the door was shut. I will bring up your breakfast myself, and then you can tell me about the dream."

Barbara flew after Mr. Hare, poured out his coffee, saw him settled at his breakfast, with a plateful of grouse-pie before him, and then returned up-stairs with her mamma's tea and dry toast.

"Go on with the dream, mamma," she said.

"But your own breakfast will be cold, child."

"Oh, I don't mind that. Did you dream of Richard?"

"Not very much of Richard: except that the old and continuous trouble, of his being away and unable to return, seemed to pervade it all through. You remember, Barbara, Richard asserted to us, in that short, hidden night visit, that he did not commit the murder; that it was another who did?"

"Yes, I remember it," replied Barbara.

In talking over a bygone misfortune, we sometimes make the remark, or hear it made, "Circumstances worked against it." Such and such a thing might have turned out differently, we say, had the surrounding circumstances been more favourable, but they were in opposition; they were dead against it. Now, if ever attendant circumstances can be said to have borne a beneful influence upon any person in this world, they most assuredly did at the present time upon Lady Isabel Carlyle.

Coeval, you see, with the arrival of the ex-captain, Levison, at East Lynne, all the jealous feeling, touching her husband and Barbara Hare, was renewed, and with greater force than ever. Barbara, painfully anxious that something should be brought to light by which her brother should be exonerated from the terrible charge under which he lay; fully believing that Frederick Thorn, captain in her Majesty's service, was the man who had committed the crime, as asserted by Richard, was in a state of excitement bordering on frenzy. Too keenly she felt the truth of her own words, that she was powerless, that she could, herself, do nothing. When she rose in the morning, after a night passed in troubled reflection more than in sleep, her thoughts were, "Oh, that I could this day find out something certain!" She was often at the Herberts'; frequently invited there, sometimes going uninvited: she and the Miss Herberts were intimate, and they pressed Barbara into all the impromptu fêtes got up for their brother now he was at home. There she of course saw Captain Thorn, and now and then she was enabled to pick up scraps of his past history. Eagerly were these scraps carried to Mr. Carlyle. Not to his office; Barbara would not appear there. It may be, that she feared, if seen haunting Mr. Carlyle's office, Captain Thorn might come to hear of it and suspect the agitation that was afloat—for who could know better, than he, the guilt that was falsely attaching to Richard? Therefore she chose rather to go to East Lynne, or to waylay Mr. Carlyle as he passed to and from business. It was but little she gathered to tell him: one evening she met him with the news that Thorn had been in former years at West Lynne, though she could not fix the date: another time she went boldly to East Lynne in eager anxiety, ostensibly to make a call on Lady Isabel—and a very restless one it was—contriving to make Mr. Carlyle understand that she wanted to see him alone. He went out with her when she departed, and accompanied her as far as the park gates, the two evidently absorbed in earnest converse: Lady Isabel's jealous eyes saw that. The communication Barbara had to make was, that Captain Thorn had let fall the avowal that he had once been "in trouble," though of its nature there was no indication given. Another journey of hers took the scrap of news, that she had discovered he knew Swainson well. Part of all this, nay, perhaps the whole of it, Mr. Carlyle had found out for himself; nevertheless, he always received Barbara with vivid interest. Richard Hare was related to Miss Carlyle, and if his innocence could be made clear in the sight of men, it would be little less gratifying to them than to the Hares. Of Richard's innocence, Mr. Carlyle now entertained little, if any, doubt, and he was becoming impressed with the guilt of Captain Thorn. The latter spoke mysteriously of a portion of his past life—when he could be brought to speak of it at all— and he bore evidently some secret that he did not care to have alluded to.

But now, look at the mean treachery of that man, Francis Levison! The few meetings that Lady Isabel witnessed between her husband and Barbara would have been quite enough to excite her anger and jealousy, and to trouble her peace; but, in addition, Francis Levison took care to tell her of those she did not see. It pleased him—he could best tell his own motive—to watch the movements of Mr. Carlyle and Barbara. There was a hedge pathway through the fields, on the opposite side of the road to the residence of Justice Hare, and as Mr. Carlyle walked down the road to business, in his unsuspicion (not one time in fifty did he choose to ride: he said the walk to and fro kept him in health), Captain Levison would be strolling down like a serpent behind the hedge, watching all his movements, watching his interviews with Barbara if any took place, watching Mr. Carlyle turn into the grove, as he sometimes did, and perhaps watch Barbara run out of the house to meet him. It was all retailed with miserable exaggeration, to Lady Isabel, whose jealousy, as a natural sequence, grew feverish in its extent.

It is scarcely necessary to explain, that of Lady Isabel's jealousy Barbara knew nothing: not a shadow of suspicion had ever penetrated to her mind that Lady Isabel was jealous of her. Had she been told that such was the fact, she would have laughed in derision at her informant. Mr. Carlyle's happy wife, proudly secure in her position and in his affection, jealous of her! of her, to whom he never gave an admiring look or a loving word! It would have taken a good deal to make Barbara believe that.

How different were the facts in reality. These meetings of Mr. Carlyle's and Barbara's, instead of being episodes of love-making and tender speeches, were positively painful to Barbara, from the unhappy nature of the subject to be discussed. Far from feeling a reprehensible pleasure in seeking the meetings with Mr. Carlyle, Barbara shrank from them: but that she was urged by dire necessity, in the interests of Richard, she would wholly have avoided them. Poor Barbara, in spite of that explosion of feeling years back, was a lady, possessed of lady's ideas and feelings, and— remembering that explosion—it did not at all accord with her pride to be pushing herself into what might be called secret meetings with Archibald Carlyle. But Barbara, in her love for her brother, pressed down all thoughts of self, and went perseveringly forward for Richard's sake.

Mr. Carlyle was seated one morning in his private room at his office, when his head clerk, Mr. Dill, came in. "A gentlemen is asking to see you, Mr. Archibald."

The weeks went on; two or three: and things seemed to be progressing backwards, rather than forwards —if that's not Irish. Francis Levison's affairs— that is, the adjustment of them—did not advance at all: creditors were obstinate. He had been three times over to Levison Park, securely boxed up in Mr. Carlyle's close carriage from the prying eyes of beholders: but Sir Peter seemed to be turning as obdurate as the creditors. Captain Levison had deceived him, he found out: inasmuch as certain sums of money, handed over by Sir Peter some time back to settle certain claims, had been by the gentleman appropriated to his own purposes. Sir Peter did not appear inclined to forgive the deceit, and vowed he would do nothing further yet awhile. There was nothing for him but to return to the Continent, Captain Levison observed. And the best place for him; plenty of scamps congregated there, was the retort of Sir Peter. He apparently meant what he said, for when Francis Levison rose to leave, Sir Peter took out of his pocket-book notes to the value of 100 l ., told him that would pay for the expense he had been put to in coming, and that his allowance would be continued as usual.

Bright was the moon on that genial Monday night, bright was the evening star, as they shone upon a solitary wayfarer who walked on the shady side of the road, with his head down, as though he did not care to court observation. A labourer apparently, for he wore a smock-frock and had hobnails in his shoes; but his whiskers were large and black, quite hiding the lower part of his face, and his broad-brimmed "wide-awake" came far over his brows. He drew near the dwelling of Richard Hare, Esquire, plunged rapidly over some palings (after looking well to the right and left) into a field, and thence over the side wall into Mr. Hare's garden, where he remained amidst the thick trees.

Now, by some mischievous spirit of intuition or contrariety, Justice Hare was spending this evening at home, a thing which did not happen once in six months, unless he had friends with him. Things, in real life, mostly go by the rules of contrary—as the children say in their play, holding the corners of the handkerchief. "Here we go round and round by the rules of conterrary: if I tell you to hold fast, you must loose: and if I tell you to loose, you must hold fast." Just so, in the play of life. When we want people to "hold fast," they "loose;" and when we want them to loose, they hold fast.

Barbara, anxious, troubled, worn out with the suspense of watching for her brother, would have given her head for her father to go out. But no: things were going by the rules of contrary: there sat the stern justice in full view of the garden and the grove, his chair drawn precisely in front of the window, his wig awry, and a long pipe in his mouth.

"Are you not going out, Richard?" Mrs. Hare ventured to say.

"No."

"Mamma, shall I ring for the shutters to be closed?" asked Barbara, by-and-by.

"Shutters closed!" said the justice. "Who'd shut out this bright moon? You have got the lamp at the far end of the room, young lady, and can go to it."

Barbara ejaculated an inward prayer for patience— for safety for Richard, if he did come, and waited on, watching the grove in the distance. It came, the signal; her quick eye caught it; a movement as if some person or thing had stepped out beyond the trees and stepped back again. Barbara's face turned white and her lips dry.

"I am so hot!" she ejaculated, in her confused eagerness for an excuse; "I must take a turn in the garden."

She stole out, throwing a dark shawl over her shoulders, that it might render her less conspicuous to the justice, and her dress that evening was a dark silk. She did not dare to stand still when she reached the trees, or to penetrate them, but she caught glimpses of Richard's face, and her heart ached at the change in it.

The minutes flew on. A quarter to ten; ten; a quarter past ten; and still Richard Hare lingered on with his mother, and still Mr. Carlyle and Barbara paced patiently the garden path. At half-past ten Richard came forth, having taken his last farewell. Then came Barbara's tearful farewell, which Mr. Carlyle witnessed; then a hard grasp of that gentleman's hand, and Richard plunged amidst the trees, to depart the way he came.

"Good night, Barbara," said Mr. Carlyle.

"Will you not come in and say good night to mamma?"

"Not now; it is late Tell her how glad I am things have gone off so well."

He set off at a rapid pace towards his home, and Barbara leaned on the gate to indulge her tears. Not a soul passed to interrupt her, and the justice did not come. What could have become of him? What could the Buck's Head be thinking of, to detain respectable elderly justices from their beds, who ought to go home early and set a good example to the parish? Barbara knew, the next day, that Justice Hare, with a few more gentlemen, had been seduced from the staid old inn to a friend's house, to an entertainment of supper, pipes, and whist, two tables, six-penny points, and it was between twelve and one ere the party rose from the fascination. So far, well—as it happened.

Barbara knew not how long she lingered at that gate; ten minutes it may have been. Nobody summoned her; Mrs. Hare was indulging her grief indoors, giving no thought to Barbara, and the justice did not make his appearance. Exceedingly surprised was Barbara to hear fast footsteps, and to find that they were Mr. Carlyle's.

"The more haste, the less speed, Barbara," he called out as he came up. "I had got half way home, and have had to come back again. When I went into your sitting-room, I left a small parcel, containing a parchment, on the sideboard. Will you get it for me?"

Barbara ran in-doors and brought forth the parcel; and Mr. Carlyle, with a brief word of thanks, sped away with it.

She leaned on the gate as before, the ready tears flowing again: her heart was aching for Richard: it was aching for the disappointment the night had brought forth, respecting Captain Thorn. Still nobody passed; still the steps of her father were not heard, and Barbara stayed on. But—what was that figure, cowering under shade of the hedge at a distance, and, seemingly, watching her? Barbara strained her eyes, while her heart beat as if it would burst its bounds. Surely, surely, it was her brother! What had he ventured back for?

Richard Hare it was. When fully assured that Barbara was standing there, he knew the justice was still absent, and ventured to advance. He appeared to be in a strange state of emotion, his breath laboured, his whole frame trembling.

"Barbara! Barbara!" he ejaculated, "I have seen Thorn."

Barbara thought him demented. "I know you saw him," she slowly said; "but it was not the right Thorn."

"Not he," breathed Richard; "not the gentleman I saw to-night in Carlyle's office. I have seen the fellow himself. Why do you stare so at me, Barbara?"

Barbara was in truth scanning his face keenly. It appeared to her a strange tale that he was telling.

"When I left here, I cut across into Bean-lane, which is more private for me than this road," proceeded Richard. "Just as I got to that clump of trees—you know it, Barbara—I saw somebody coming towards me from a distance. I stepped back behind the trunks of the trees, into the shade of the hedge, for I don't care to be met, though I am disguised. He came along the middle of the lane, going towards West Lynne, and I looked out upon him. I knew him long before he was abreast of me: it was Thorn."

Barbara made no comment: she was digesting the news.

"Every drop of blood within me began to tingle, and an impulse came upon me to spring upon him and accuse him of the murder of Hallijohn," went on Richard, in the same excited manner. "But I restrained it: or, perhaps, my courage failed. One of the reproaches against me, had used to be that I was a physical coward, you know, Barbara," he added, his tone changing to bitterness. "In a struggle, Thorn would have had the best of it: he is taller and more powerful than I, and might have battered me to death. A man who can commit one murder, won't hesitate at a second."

"Richard, do you think you could have been deceived?" she urged. "You had been talking of Thorn, and your thoughts were, naturally, bearing upon him. Imagination—"

"Be still, Barbara!" he interrupted, in a tone of pain. "Imagination, indeed! did I not tell you he was stamped here?" touching his breast. "Do you take me for a child, or an imbecile, that I should fancy I see Thorn in every shadow, or meet people where I do not? He had his hat off as if he had been walking fast and had got hot—he was walking fast, and he carried the hat in one hand, and what looked like a small parcel. With the other hand he was pushing his hair from his brow—in this way, a peculiar way," added Richard, slightly lifting his own hat, and pushing back his hair. "By that action alone I should have known him, for he was always doing it in the old days. And there was his white hand, adorned with his diamond ring! Barbara, the diamond glittered in the moonlight."

Richard's voice and manner were singularly earnest, and a conviction of the truth of his assertion flashed over his sister.

"I saw his face as plainly as I ever saw it, every feature: he is scarcely altered, save for a haggardness in his cheeks now. Barbara, you need not doubt me: I swear it was Thorn."

She grew excited as he was; now that she believed the news, it was telling upon her: reason left its place, and impulse succeeded: Barbara did not wait to weigh her actions.

"Richard, Mr. Carlyle ought to know this. He has but just gone: we may overtake him if we try."

Forgetting the strange appearance it would have, at that hour of the night, should she meet any one who knew her, forgetting what the consequences might be, did Justice Hare return and find her absent, Barbara set off with a fleet foot, Richard more stealthily following her, his eyes cast in all directions. Fortunately Barbara wore a bonnet and mantle, which she had put on to pace the garden with Mr. Carlyle; fortunately also, they met no one. She succeeded in reaching Mr. Carlyle before he turned into East Lynne gates.

"Barbara!" he exclaimed, in the extreme of astonishment. "Barbara!"

"Archibald! Archibald!" she panted, gasping for breath. "I am not out of my mind; but do come and speak to Richard! He has just seen the real Thorn."

Mr. Carlyle, amazed and wondering, turned back. They got over the field stile nearly opposite to the gates, drew behind the hedge, and there Richard told his tale. Mr. Carlyle did not appear to doubt it, as Barbara had done: perhaps he could not, in the face of Richard's agitated and intense earnestness.

"I am sure there is no one named Thorn in the neighbourhood, save the gentleman you saw in my office to-night, Richard," observed Mr. Carlyle, after some deliberation. "It is very strange."

"He may be staying here under a feigned name," replied Richard. "There can be no mistake that it is Thorn whom I have just met."

"How was he dressed? As a gentleman?"

Nearly a year went by.

Lady Isabel Carlyle had spent it on the Continent— that refuge for such fugitives—now removing about from place to place with her companion, now stationary and alone. Half the time—taking one absence with another—he had been away from her, chiefly in Paris, pursuing his own course and his own pleasure.

How fared it with Lady Isabel? Just as it must be expected to fare, and does fare, when a high-principled gentlewoman falls from her pedestal. Never had she experienced a moment's calm, or peace, or happiness, since the fatal night of quitting her home. She had taken a blind leap in a moment of wild passion; when, instead of the garden of roses it had been her persuader's pleasure to promise her, (but which, in truth, she had barely glanced at, for that had not been her moving motive), she had found herself plunged into an abyss of horror, from which there was never more any escape; never more, never more. The very hour of her departure she awoke to what she had done: the guilt, whose aspect had been shunned in the prospective, assumed at once its true, frightful colour, the blackness of darkness; and a lively remorse, a never dying anguish, took possession of her soul for ever. Oh, reader, believe me! Lady—wife—mother! should you ever be tempted to abandon your home, so will you awake. Whatever trials may be the lot of your married life, though they may magnify themselves to your crushed spirit as beyond the endurance of woman to bear, resolve to bear them; fall down upon your knees and pray to be enabled to bear them: pray for patience; pray for strength to resist the demon that would urge you so to escape; bear unto death, rather than forfeit your fair name and your good conscience; for be assured that the alternative, if you rush on to it, will be found far worse than death.

Poor thing! poor Lady Isabel! She had sacrificed husband, children, reputation, home, all that makes life of value to woman; she had forfeited her duty to God, had deliberately broken His commandments, for the one poor miserable sake of flying with Francis Levison. But, the instant the step was irrevocable, the instant she had left the barrier behind, repentance set in. Even in the first days of her departure, in the fleeting moments of abandonment, when it may be supposed she might momentarily forget conscience, it was sharply wounding her with its adder stings: and she knew that her whole future existence, whether spent with that man or without him, would be one dark course of gnawing retribution.

It is possible remorse does not come to all erring wives so immediately as it came to Lady Isabel Carlyle —you need not be reminded that we speak of women in the better positions of life. Lady Isabel was endowed with sensitively refined delicacy, with an innate, lively consciousness of right and wrong: a nature, such as hers, is one of the last that may be expected to err; and, but for that most fatal misapprehension regarding her husband, the jealous belief, fanned by Captain Levison, that his love was given to Barbara Hare, and that the two were uniting to deceive her, she would never have forgotten herself. The haunting skeleton of remorse had taken up his lodging within her; a skeleton of living fire, that must prey upon her heartstrings for ever. Every taunt to be cast upon her by the world, every slight that would henceforth be her portion, for she had earned it, must tell but too surely upon her crushed spirit.

Nearly a year went by; save some six or eight weeks; when, one morning in July, Lady Isabel made her appearance in the breakfast-room. They were staying now at Grenoble. Taking that town on their way from Switzerland, through Savoy, it had been Captain Levison's pleasure to halt in it. He engaged apartments, furnished, in the vicinity of the Place Grenette; it was a windy old house, full of doors and windows, chimneys and cupboards; and he said he should remain there. Lady Isabel remonstrated; she wished to go farther on, where they might get quicker news from England; but her will now was as nothing. She was looking like the ghost of her former self—talk of her having looked ill when she took that voyage over the water with Mr. Carlyle, you should have seen her now: misery marks the countenance worse than sickness. Her face was white and worn, her hands were thin, her eyes were sunken and surrounded by a black circle: care was digging caves for them. A stranger might have attributed these signs to her state of health: she knew better; knew that they were the effects of her wretched mind and heart.

It was very late for breakfast: but why should she rise early, only to drag through another endless day? Languidly she took her seat at the table, just as Captain Levison's servant, a Frenchman, whom he had engaged in Paris, entered the room with two letters.

"Point de gazette, Pierre?" she asked.

"Non, miladi."

And all the while the sly fox had got the Times in his coat pocket! But he was only obeying the orders of his master. It had been Captain Levison's recent pleasure that the newspapers should not be seen by Lady Isabel until he had overlooked them. You will speedily gather his motive.

Pierre departed towards Captain Levison's room, and Lady Isabel took up the letters and examined their superscription with interest. It was known to her that Mr. Carlyle had not lost a moment in seeking a divorce, and the announcement, that it was granted, was now daily expected. She was anxious for it; anxious that Captain Levison should render her the only reparation in his power, before the birth of her child: she little knew that there was not the least intention on his part to make her reparation—any more than he had made it to others who had gone before her. She had become painfully aware of the fact that the man, for whom she had sacrificed herself, was bad; but she had not learned all his badness yet.

Captain Levison, unwashed, unshaven, with a dressing-gown loosely flung on, lounged in to breakfast: the decked-out dandies before the world are frequently the greatest slovens in domestic privacy. He wished her good morning in a careless tone of apathy, and she as apathetically answered to it.

"Pierre says there are some letters," he began. "What a precious hot day it is!"

December came in. The Alps were covered with snow; Grenoble borrowed the shade, and looked cold, and white, and sleety, and sloppy; the wide gutters which run through the middle of certain of the streets, were unusually black, and the people crept along, looking very dismal. Close to the fire, in the barn of a French bed-room, full of windows, and doors, and draughts, with its wide hearth, and its wide chimney, into which we could put four of five of our English ones, shivered Lady Isabel Vane. She wore an invalid cap, and a thick woollen invalid shawl, and she shook and shivered perpetually; though she had drawn so close to the wood fire that there was a danger of her petticoats igniting, and the attendant had frequently to spring up and interpose between them and the crackling logs. Little did it seem to matter to Lady Isabel: she sat in one position, her countenance the picture of stony despair.

So had she sat, so looked, since she began to get better. She had had a long illness, terminating in low fever; but the attendants whispered amongst themselves that miladi would soon get about if she would only rouse herself. She had so far got about as to sit up in the windy chamber; and it seemed to be to her a matter of perfect indifference whether she ever got out of it.

This day she had partaken of her early dinner—such as it was, for appetite failed—and had dozed asleep in the arm-chair, when a noise arose from below, like a carriage driving into the court-yard through the porte cochère. It instantly aroused her. Had he come?

"Who is it?" she asked of the nurse.

"Miladi, it is monsieur: and Pierre is with him. I have begged miladi often and often not to fret, for that monsieur would surely come: and miladi sees I am right."

A strangely firm expression, speaking of severe resolution, overspread the face of Lady Isabel. It would appear to say that she had not "fretted" much after him who had now arrived: or, at any rate, that she was not fretting after him now. "Patience and calmness!" she murmured to herself. "Oh, may they not desert me, now the time has come!"

"Monsieur looks so well!" proclaimed the maid, who had taken up her station at a window that overlooked the court-yard. "He has got out of the carriage: he is shaking himself and stamping his feet."

"You may leave the room, Susanne," said Lady Isabel.

"But if the baby wakes, miladi?"

"I will ring."

The girl departed, closing the door, and Lady Isabel sat looking at it, schooling herself into patience. Another moment, and it was flung open.

Sir Francis Levison approached to greet her as he came in. She waved him off, begging him, in a subdued, quiet tone, not to draw too near, as any little excitement made her faint now. He took a seat opposite to her, and began pushing the logs together with his boot, as he explained that he really could not get away from town before.

"Why did you come now?" she quietly rejoined.

"Why did I come?" repeated he. "Are these all the thanks a fellow gets for travelling in this inclement weather? I thought you would at least have been glad to welcome me, Isabel."

"Sir Francis," she rejoined, speaking still with almost unnatural calmness, as she continued to do throughout the interview—though the frequent changes in her countenance, and the movement of her hands, when she laid them from time to time on her chest to keep down its beating, told what an effort the struggle cost her—"Sir Francis, I am glad, for one reason, to welcome you: we must come to an understanding, one with the other; and, so far, I am pleased that you are here. It was my intention to have communicated with you by letter as soon as I found myself capable of the necessary exertion, but your visit has removed the necessity. I wish to deal with you quite unreservedly, without concealment or deceit: I must request you so to deal with me."

"What do you mean by 'deal?'" he asked, settling the logs to his apparent satisfaction.

"To speak and act. Let there be plain truth between us at this interview, if there never has been before."

"I don't understand you."

"Naked truth, unglossed over," she pursued, bending her eyes determinately upon him. "It must be."

A surprise awaited Lady Isabel Vane. It was on a windy day in the following March that a traveller arrived at Grenoble, and inquired his way, of a porter, to the best hotel in the place, his French being such that only an Englishman can produce.

"Hotel? let's see," returned the man, politely, but with native indifference, "there are two good hotels nearly contiguous to each other, and monsieur would find himself comfortable at either. There is the Trois Dauphins; and there is the Ambassadeurs."

"Monsieur" chose, haphazard, the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, and was conducted to it. Shortly after his arrival there, he inquired his road to the Place Grenette, a guide was offered, but he preferred to go alone. The Place was found, and he thence turned to the apartments of Lady Isabel Vane.

Lady Isabel was sitting where you saw her the previous December, in the precise spot, courting the warmth of the fire and—it seemed—courting the sparks also, for they appeared as fond of her as formerly: the marvel was, how she had escaped combustion. You might think but a night had passed when you looked at the room; for it wore precisely the same aspect now as then; everything was the same, even to the child's cradle in the remote corner, partially hidden by the bed-curtains, and the sleeping child in it. Lady Isabel's progress towards recovery had been lingering: as is frequently the case when mind and body are both diseased. She was sitting when Susanne entered the room, and said that a "Monsieur Anglais" had arrived in the town to see her, and was waiting below, in the salon.

Lady Isabel was startled. An English gentleman— to see her!

English for certain, was Susanne's answer, for she had difficulty to comprehend his French.

Who could be desirous to see her? one out of the world and forgotten! "Susanne," she suddenly cried aloud, a thought striking her, "it is never Sir Fran— it is not monsieur?"

Not in the least like monsieur, complacently answered Susanne. It was a tall, brave English gentleman, proud and noble, looking like a prince.

Every pulse within Lady Isabel's body throbbed rebelliously; her heart bounded till it was like to burst her side, and she turned sick with excitement. "Tall, brave, noble!" could that description apply to any but Mr. Carlyle? Strange that so unnatural an idea should have occurred to her: it could not have done so in a calmer moment. She rose, tottered across the chamber, and prepared to descend. Susanne's tongue was let loose at the proceeding.

Was miladi out of her senses? To attempt going down stairs would be a pretty ending, for she'd surely fall by the way. Miladi knew that the bottom step was of lead, and that no head could pitch down upon that, without ever being a head any more, except in the hospitals. Let miladi sit still in her place and she'd bring the monsieur up. What did it signify? He was not a young petit maître, he was fifty, if he was a day; his hair already turned to a fine grey.

This set the question, touching Mr. Carlyle, at rest, and her heart stilled again. The next moment she was inwardly laughing in bitter mockery at her insensate folly. Mr. Carlyle come to see her! Her! Francis Levison might be sending over some man of business, regarding the money question, was her next thought; if so, she should certainly not see him.

"Go down to the gentleman and ask his name, Susanne. Ask also from whence he comes."

Susanne disappeared, and returned, and the gentleman behind her. Whether she had invited him, or whether he had chosen to come uninvited, there he was. Lady Isabel caught a glimpse, and flung her hands over her burning cheeks of shame. It was Lord Mount Severn.

"How did you find out where I was?" she gasped, when some painful words had been uttered on both sides.

"I went to Sir Francis Levison and demanded your address. Certain recent events implied that he and you must have parted, and I therefore deemed it time to inquire what he had done with you."

"Since last July," she interrupted, lifting her wan face, now colourless again. "Do not think worse of me than I am. He was here in December for an hour's recriminating interview, and we then parted for life."

"What have you heard of him lately?"

"Not anything. I never know what is passing in the world at home; I have no newspaper, no correspondence; and he would scarcely be so bold as to write to me again."

"I shall not shock you, then, by some tidings I bring you regarding him," returned Lord Mount Severn.

"The greatest shock to me would be, to hear that I should ever again be subjected to see him," she answered.

"He is married."

"Heaven have pity on his poor wife!" was all the comment of Lady Isabel.

"He has married Alice Challoner."

She lifted her head then, in simple surprise. "Alice? Not Blanche?"

"The story runs that he has played Blanche very false. That he had been with her much, leading on her expectations; and then he suddenly proposed for her young sister. I know nothing of the details myself: it is not likely: and I had heard nothing, until one evening at the club I saw the announcement of the marriage for the following day at St. George's. I was at the church the next morning before he was."

"Not to stop it! not to intercept the marriage!" breathlessly uttered Lady Isabel.

"Certainly not. I had no power to attempt anything of the sort. I went to demand an answer to my question—what he had done with you, and where you were? He gave me this address, but said he knew nothing of your movements since December."

There was a long silence. The earl appeared to be alternately ruminating and taking a survey of the room. Isabel sat with her head hanging down.

"Why did you seek me out?" she presently broke forth. "I am not worth it. I have brought enough disgrace upon your name."

"And upon your husband's and upon your children's," he rejoined, in his most severe manner, for it was not in the nature of the Earl of Mount Severn to gloss over guilt. "Nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me, as your nearest blood relative, to see after you, now that you are alone again, and to take care—so far as I can—that you do not lapse lower."

He might have spared her that stab. But she scarcely understood him. She looked at him, wondering whether she did understand.

"You have not a shilling in the world," he resumed. "How do you purpose to live?"

"I have some money yet. When—"

" His money?" sharply and haughtily interposed the earl.

"No," she indignantly replied. "I am selling my trinkets. Before they are all gone, I shall try to earn a livelihood in some way: by teaching, probably."

"Trinkets!" repeated Lord Mount Severn. "Mr. Carlyle told me that you carried nothing away with you from East Lynne."

"Nothing that he had given me. These were mine before I married. You have seen Mr. Carlyle, then?" she faltered.

"Seen him!" echoed the indignant earl. "When such a blow was dealt him by a member of my family, could I do less than hasten to East Lynne to tender my sympathies? I went with another object, also—to try to discover what could have been the moving springs of your conduct: for I protest, when the black tidings reached me, I believed that you must have gone mad. You were one of the last whom I should have feared to trust. But I learned nothing, and Carlyle was ignorant as I. How could you strike him such a blow?"

Lower and lower drooped her head, brighter shone the shame on her hectic cheek. An awful blow to Mr. Carlyle it must indeed have been: she was feeling it in all its bitter intensity. Lord Mount Severn read her repentant looks.

"Isabel," he said, in a tone which had lost something of its harshness—and it was the first time he had called her by her christian name, "I see that you are reaping the fruits. Tell me how it happened. What demon prompted you to sell yourself to that bad man?"

"He is a bad man," she exclaimed. "A base, heartless, bad man."

"I warned you, at the commencement of your married life, to avoid him; to shun all association with him; not to admit him to your house."

"His coming to East Lynne was not my doing," she whispered. "Mr. Carlyle invited him."

"I know he did. Invited him in his unsuspicious confidence, believing his wife to be his wife, a trustworthy woman of honour," was the severe remark.

She did not reply; she could not gainsay it: she only sat with her meek face of shame, and her eyelids drooping.

"If ever a woman had a good husband, in every sense of the word, you had, in Carlyle: if ever man loved his wife, he loved you. How could you so requite him?"

She rolled, in a confused manner, the corners of her shawl over her unconscious fingers.

A sunny afternoon in summer. More correctly speaking, it may be said a summer's evening, for the bright beams were already slanting athwart the substantial garden of Mr. Justice Hare, and the tea 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 "piece of his mind," and poor Mrs. Hare, 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.

Barbara had been giving mortal offence. Barbara had been giving the same offence occasionally for some years past: she had just refused an eligible offer of marriage, and the justice was storming over it. In the abstract, it was of no moment whatever to Mr. Justice Hare whether his daughters pined and withered out their days as fading maidens, or whether they raced through life bustling matrons. Neither, in the abstract, did the justice want Barbara away from the paternal home, or deem her an incumbrance within it: on the contrary, were Barbara absent, he might be at fault for a target at which to shoot the arrows of his hard words. Neither had money anything to do with it: whether Barbara married or whether she remained single, she had an ample fortune. No: the anger of Justice Hare at Barbara's refusing the offers made to her, had nothing to do with ordinary causes.

How the world would get on without gossip, I'll leave the world to judge. That West Lynne could not have got on without it, and without interfering in everybody's business but its own, is enough for me. West Lynne had chosen to make a wonder of the fact that Barbara Hare should remain Barbara Hare. Of all the damsels indigenous to the soil, she, with her beauty, her attractive manners, and her good fortune, had appeared the most likely one to be appropriated. And yet she was still Barbara Hare! The gossips set their heads together to discover why she was neglected. Neglected they considered her, for Barbara was not one to talk of opportunities refused. The conclusion they came to was, that the unhappy crime attaching to her brother was the sole cause; and, by some mishap, this nonsense reached the ears of Justice Hare. If the justice was sensitive upon one point, it was upon what related to that dark and dreadful deed; if he was bitter against any living being, it was against his miserable son. To have it said that Barbara remained single because no one would have her on account of her brother, was gall and wormwood to Justice Hare, for the disgrace seemed then to be reflecting home on him and his. The justice would have liked to lift his foot and toss West Lynne into the nearest, and greenest, and muddiest of ponds, there to struggle together and cool their tongues; he would have liked to pounce on Richard, and hand him over to the mercies of the county assize; and he would have liked to marry Barbara off hand, that that part of the scandal at any rate might be refuted. Therefore, when Barbara refused offer after offer (four she had refused now), it may readily be credited how greatly it aroused the ire of the justice.

"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," sobbed 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," faltered Barbara.

"You do like him; you are telling me an untruth. You have liked him well enough whenever he has been here."

"I like him as an acquintance, papa. Not as a husband."

"Not as a husband!" repeated the exasperated justice. "Why, bless my heart and body, the girl's going mad! Not as a husband! Who asked you to like him as a husband before he became such? Did you ever hear that it was necessary, or expedient, or becoming for a young lady to set on and begin to 'like' a gentleman as 'her husband?'"

Barbara felt a little bewildered.

"Here's the whole parish saying that Barbara Hare can't be married, that nobody will have her on account of—of—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 propose for me."

"But what's the use of their proposing when you say No?" raved the justice. "Is that the way to let the parish know that they propose? 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, together with Barbara's grief. That was the worst of Justice Hare. Let him seize 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 keen man of business, the same pleasant, intelligent companion: the generality of people saw no change in him. Barbara rose to escape.

"No," said Justice Hare, 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 all your ill-conduct before Mr. Carlyle, and see if that will shame you."

To return for a short while to Lady Isabel. As the year advanced she grew stronger, and in the latter part of the summer 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, on unpenetrated by the steps of civilised man, appeared the most desirable to her. Where was she to find this?

She set out on her search—she, the child, and a young peasant woman whom she had engaged as bonne; for Susanne having a lover at Grenoble entirely declined to leave the place. All her luggage, except the things absolutely requisite, Lady Isabel had forwarded to Paris, there to be warehoused until she sent further directions. It was a lovely day when she quitted Grenoble. The train travelled safely until in the dusk of the evening they approached a place called Cammère, where Lady Isabel proposed to rest for a day or two. Railway accidents are less frequent in France than they are with us, but when they do occur they are wholesale catastrophes, the memory of which lasts for a life time. The train was within a short distance of the station when there came a sudden shock and crash as of the day of doom; and engine, carriages, and passengers lay in one confused mass at the foot of a steep embankment. The gathering darkness added to the awful confusion.

The carriage, in which Lady Isabel with her child and bonne travelled, lay beneath a superincumbent mass of ruins: they were amongst the last passengers to be extricated. The bonne and the poor baby were quite dead. Lady Isabel was alive and conscious, but so severely injured that the medical men who had been brought to the spot in all haste turned from her to give their attention to other sufferers whose case seemed less desperate—she heard them say that she would not survive amputation, and that nothing else could be done, that she must die whether there were an operation or not. The injuries lay in one leg, and the lower part of her face. She had not counted upon dying in this manner, and death in the guise of horrible suffering was not the abstract thing of release and escape which it had seemed, when she had wished for it as the end of all her wretchedness. She was unable to move, but the shock had deadened sensation, she was not yet in pain, and her mind was for a short interval preternaturally clear and lucid. A Sister of Charity approached the stretcher on which she had been laid, and offered her some water. Isabel drank eagerly.

"Is there aught else I can do?" asked the sister.

"My baby and its nurse were with me in the carriage —tell me, have they been found? is my child killed?" asked Isabel.

The sister turned to gain intelligence if she could, but the confusion and noise were so great that she could scarcely hope to ascertain anything with certainty. A poor little child quite dead, but not much disfigured, had been carried into the railway shed, and laid down not far from Lady Isabel. The sister took it tenderly up.

"Was this your child?" said she turning to Lady Isabel. "It is a little angel, and is beholding the face of its Father in Heaven."

It was the ill-starred child of Lady Isabel: she pressed its little face to her bosom, and her first feeling was a deep thankfulness that it had been so soon taken away from the evil to come. She believed she was to die also in the space of a few hours, or less; and the dull, apathetic indifference to all belonging to this life, which generally sets in with the approach of death, was stealing over her. She motioned to the sister to remove it, saying softly,

"It is thus I would have wished it to be."

"Have you no message or instructions for your friends? If you will trust me I will fulfil your wishes. Whilst your mind is preserved clear, it will be well to settle your duties towards those you are leaving behind." The sister had heard what the doctor said of Lady Isabel's condition.

"All who ever knew me will rejoice to hear that I am no more," said Isabel. "My death will be the only reparation I can offer, for the grief and shame my life has brought on all who had the evil fortune to belong to me. You understand I have been a great sinner."

"Try to accept death as a just recompense for your sins—make in this last moment an act of faith and obedience, by uniting your own will with His who sends this suffering; it is then changed from the nature of punishment into a blessing. Our sorrows are the gifts of Almighty God, no less than our joys."

"I will, I have taken up my cross," said Lady Isabel faintly, for the pain of her injuries was beginning to make itself felt.

"Can I write to any one for you?" asked the sister, "tell me now, whilst you can think of it."

"Have you paper and writing things at hand? write then—direct the letter first, to the Earl of Mount —stay!" she interrupted, feeling how undesirable it was to make known her private affairs, even in that strange place. Besides, from the injury to her face, she could only speak with the greatest difficulty. "Could I not write a line myself? I think I could, if you will hold the paper before me: my hands are not injured; my intellect is clear."

The compassionate sister complied: and Lady Isabel contrived to scrawl a few words as she lay, first directing the letter to the earl's town house. They were to the effect that she was dying from the fatal injuries of the railway accident: that her baby was killed, and its nurse. She thanked Lord Mount Severn for all his goodness to her; she said she was glad to die, to deliver him and all who belonged to her from the disgrace and shame she had been to them. "Go to Mr. Carlyle," she continued, "say that I humbly beg him to forgive me; that I also beg the forgiveness of his children when they shall be old enough to know the crime I have committed against them: tell him I repent, and have repented bitterly—there are no words to express that bitterness." She had written so far, when the torture of pain, which had begun to make itself more and more felt, was becoming intolerable. Gathering her strength for a last effort, she wrote in characters, like those that one on the rack might have signed his confession, "Forgive; Isabel," and whispered, "Send it when I am dead; not before: and add a few words of confirmation."

When at length the surgeons came up to Lady Isabel, to examine more minutely the injuries she had sustained, she was quite insensible, and they thought she was dead. They said so to the sister, who was then kneeling beside her, repeating the prayers appointed for the passing soul. She finished them and retired to a distance, other sufferers claiming her services. She did not return to Lady Isabel, whom she fully believed to be dead; and she despatched the letter, writing in it as requested, some words of confirmation. The dead were buried, and a special mass was said for them. The survivors were sent to the hospital; all that could be done for them was done; neither skill nor kindness being wanting.

Lady Isabel recovered her consciousness, and found herself lying on a pallet in a ward in the hospital. It was long before she could recal what had happened, or understood that she had not died. The surgeons, on further inspection, had found life still lingering in her shattered frame. The injuries were terrible enough, but not of necessity fatal, though the prospect of recovery was faint. It would have been cruel to resort to an operation with such slender chances of success, and they tried other means, which to the honour and glory of their skill, promised to succeed. Lady Isabel was still fluctuating between life and death; but the tide began at length slowly to set in towards life. She remained three months in the hospital before she could be removed. The change that had passed over her in those three months was little less than death itself; no one could have recognised in the pale, thin, shattered, crippled invalid, she who had been known as Lady Isabel Vane.

There went, sailing up the avenue to East Lynne, a lady, one windy afternoon. If not a lady, she was attired as one: a flounced 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 front 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 somebody very smart before him, bowed deferentially.

"Miss Hallijohn is residing 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 wish 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 parlour, and went up-stairs to the nursery, where Joyce was sitting with Wilson—for there had been no change in the domestic department of East Lynne. Joyce remained as upper maid, partially superintending the servants, attending upon Lucy, and making Miss Carlyle's dresses as usual. Wilson was nurse still. Miss Carlyle had once or twice begun upon the point of the extravagance of keeping both Wilson and Joyce; but Mr. Carlyle had wholly declined discussion upon the subject; and somehow Miss Carlyle did not find him bend to her will as he once had done.

"Mrs. Joyce, there's a lady asking for you," said the man. "I have shown her into the grey parlour."

"A lady for me?" repeated Joyce. "Who is it? Some one to see the children, perhaps?"

"It's for yourself, I think. She asked for Miss Hallijohn."

Joyce looked at the man; but she put down her work and proceeded to the grey parlour. 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 Afy who stood before her?—Afy the erring.

Afy it was. And she stood there, holding out 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, Afy, but I cannot take your hand. I cannot welcome you here. What could have induced you to come?"

"If you are going to be upon the high ropes, it seems I might as well have stayed away," was Afy's reply, given in the pert, but good-humoured manner she had ever used to Joyce. "My hand won't damage yours. I am not poison."

"You are looked upon in the neighbourhood as worse than poison, Afy," returned Joyce, in a tone, not of anger but of sorrow. "Where's Richard Hare?"

Afy tossed her head. "Where's who?" asked she.

"Richard Hare. My 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 only my choice between the two."

"Then you have left Richard Hare! How long since?"

"I have left—what do you say?" broke off Afy, whose lips were quivering ominously with suppressed passion. "Perhaps you'll condescend to explain. I don't understand."

"When you left here, Afy, did you not go after Richard Hare?—did you not join him?"

"I'll tell you what it is, Joyce," flashed Afy, 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 set eyes on Richard Hare since that night of horror. I wish I could: I'd help to hang him."

Joyce paused. The belief that Afy was with him had been long and deeply imbued within her; it was the long-continued and firm conviction of all West Lynne: and a settled belief, such as that, is not easily shaken. Was Afy telling her the truth? She knew her propensity for making false statements, when they served to excuse herself.

"Afy," 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 Afy, with kindling eyes. "Living with him! with our father's murderer! Shame upon you, Joyce Hallijohn! you must be precious wicked yourself to suppose it."

"If I have judged you wrongly, Afy, I sincerely beg your pardon. Not only myself, but the whole of West Lynne believed you were with him; and the thought has caused me pain night and day."

"What a cannibal-minded set you must all be, then!" was Afy's indignant rejoinder.

"Not one in the place but thought so, with the exception of Mr. Carlyle," proceeded Joyce. "He has said two or three times to me that he should not think you went to Richard Hare, or were living with him."

"Mr. Carlyle has more sense than all the rest of West Lynne put together," complacently observed Afy. "Living with Richard Hare! why, I'd rather go and live with a scalped red Indian who goes about with his body tattooed in place of clothes, and keeps sixteen wives."

"But, Afy, where did you go, then? Why did you leave at all?"

"Never mind why. It was not to be supposed that I could stop at home in the cottage, with ghosts and dreams and all those sort of things, that attend a place where murder has been."

"What have you been doing ever since? Where have you been?"

"Never mind, I say," repeated Afy. "West Lynne has not been so complimentary to me, it appears, 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 word "settled."

"Catch me marrying," retorted Afy; "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 confortable, Afy?—are you in a good service?"

"Middling for that. The pay's not amiss, but there's a great deal to do, and her ladyship's a Tartar. I had a good one with an old lady; a sort of companion I was to her, and stopped there till she died. What do you think? She made me go in to prayers with her, and read the Bible night and morning."

"How very glad I am to hear this!" exclaimed Joyce. "It must have been so good for you."

"Very," assented Afy; and Joyce failed to detect the irony of her tone. "She'd used to read a chapter, and I'd used to read a chapter, and then we went to prayers. Edifying, wasn't it?"

"Delightfully so, Afy. I am sure you must have profited by it."

"Law, yes: never doubt that. She left me thirty pounds when she died, over and above my salary. I used to like the Psalms best, because they were short and comforting."

"So comforting!" echoed Joyce. "Afy, I shall love you and be proud of you again, like I was when you first came home to us."

Afy laughed, a ringing laugh. "You and West Lynne always set me down for worse than I was. Though it poses me to imagine what on earth could have induced you to fancy I should go off with that Dick Hare," 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 my father's grave, than have shared his means," continued Afy, growing passionate again. "And you and the West Lynne idiots ought to have made sure of that."

"If you had but dropped me a single line, Afy! it would have put a different aspect upon the whole affair. Your silence helped to misjudge you."

"Misjudge me, indeed! Why, I never cared for Dick Hare. He was only half baked."

"You encouraged him to the house."

"Well—I don't deny it. He used to speak to me of marriage: and one would put up with a man not baked at all, to be made a real lady. Had I known he was to turn out what he did, I would have seen his coffin walk, before I'd ever have spoken to him. Where is he? Not hung, or I should have heard of it."

"He has never been seen since that night, Afy."

"Nor heard of?"

In one of the comfortable sitting-rooms of East Lynne sat Mr. Carlyle and his sister one inclement 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 peace, 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 crown 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, even in that short journey, 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 own sitting-room—it was not often that Miss Carlyle invited her to theirs in an evening—and the house was quiet. Mr. Carlyle was deep in the pages of one of the monthly periodicals; and Miss Carlyle sat on the other side the fire, grumbling, and grunting, and sniffing, and choking.

Miss Carlyle was one of your strong-minded ladies, who never condescend to be ill. Of course, had she been attacked with scarlet fever, or paralysis, or St. Vitus's dance, she must have given in to the enemy; but trifling ailments, such as headache, influenza, sorethroat, 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, at having, for once in her life, caught a cold like ordinary mortals.

"It was that ale," she groaned.

"Ale!" echoed Mr. Carlyle, lifting his eyes from his book.

"Yes, the ale," she tartly proceeded. "Dear me, Archibald, you need not stare as if I had said it was the moon gave it me."

"But how could ale give it you? Unless you drank a great draught of it cold, when you were in a perspiration."

Miss Carlyle lifted her hands in pitying contempt for his ignorance.

"You'll be a baby in common sense to the end of your life, Archibald. When do I drink great draughts of ale? Pray, the last two barrels that we have had in tap, has there not been, throughout, a complaint that the taps leaked?"

"Well?" said he.

"Well, I knew that the fault lay in the putting in the taps in the first instance, servants are such incapables; so, when Peter came to me after breakfast this morning and said there had better be another barrel of ale tapped, for that the one in hand was stooped yesterday, 'Very well,' said I, 'I'll come and see to it myself.' And down I went, out of these warm rooms, and the cellar struck like an ice-house, and I stopped in it for twenty minutes, good."

"Does it take all that time to tap a barrel of ale?"

"No, it doesn't take it when things are in order, but it does when you have to bother over the taps, rejecting one, rejecting another," responded Miss Carlyle, in a tone of exasperation. "And a pretty state that cellar was in! not a thing in place. I had the cook down, and a sharp dressing I gave her: if her hams had been turned for three days, I'll eat them, raw as they are! That's how I must have caught this cold, stopping down there."

Mr. Carlyle made no observation: had he told her that there was no need whatever for her interference, that Peter was perfectly competent to his duties, she would only have flown at him. He became absorbed in his book again, while Miss Carlyle fretted and grunted, and drew her chair into the fire and pushed it back again, and made violent starts with her hands and feet: in short, performed all the antics of a middle-aged gentlewoman suffering under an attack of fidgets.

"What's the time, I wonder?" she exclaimed, by-and-by.

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 arrowroot or gruel, or some slop of that sort, after I'm in it: I'm sure I have been free enough all my life from requiring such sick dishes!"

"Do so," said Mr. Carlyle. "It may do you good."

Morning dawned. The same dull weather, the same heavy fall of snow. Miss Carlyle took her breakfast in bed, an indulgence she had not favoured for ever so many years. Richard Hare rose, but remained in his chamber, and Joyce carried his breakfast in to him.

Mr. Carlyle entered whilst he was taking it. "How did you sleep, Richard?"

"I slept well. I was so dead tired. What am I to do next, Mr. Carlyle? The sooner I get away from this, the better. I can't feel safe."

"You must not think of it before evening. I am aware that you cannot remain here, save for a few temporary hours, as it would inevitably become known to the servants. You say you think of going to Liverpool or Manchester?"

"To any large town: they are all alike to me; but one, pursued as I am, is safer in a large place than a small one."

"I am inclined to think that this man, Thorn, only made a show of threatening you, Richard. If he be really the guilty party, his policy must be to keep all in quietness. The very worst thing that could happen for him, would be your arrest."

"Then why molest me? Why send an officer to dodge me?"

"He did not like your molesting him, and he thought he would frighten you. After that day, you would probably have seen no more of the officer. You may depend upon one thing, Richard: had the policeman's object been to take you, he would have done so: he would not have contented himself with following you about from place to place. Besides, when a detective officer is employed to watch a party, he takes care not to allow himself to be seen: now this man showed himself to you more than once."

"Yes, there's a good deal in that," observed Richard. "For, to one in his class of life, the bare suspicion of such a crime, brought against him, would crush him for ever in the eyes of his compeers."

"It is difficult to me, Richard, to believe that he is in the class of life you speak of," observed Mr. Carlyle.

"There's no doubt about it; there's none indeed. But that I did not much like to mention the name, for it can't be a pleasant name to you, I should have said last night who I have seen him walking with," continued simple-hearted Richard.

Mr. Carlyle looked inquiringly. "Say on, Richard."

"I have seen him, sir, with Sir Francis Levison: twice. Once he was talking to him at the door of the betting-rooms, and once they were walking arm-in-arm. They are apparently upon intimate terms."

At this moment, a loud, flustering, angry voice was heard calling from the stairs, and Richard leaped up as if he had been shot. His door—not the one leading to the room of Miss Carlyle—opened upon the corridor, and the voice sounded close, just as if its owner were coming in with a bound. It was the voice of Mr. Justice Hare.

"Carlyle, where are you? Here's a pretty thing happened! Come down."

Mr. Carlyle for once in his life lost his calm equanimity, and sprang to the door, to keep it against invasion, as eagerly as Richard could have done. He forgot that Joyce had said the door was safely locked and the key mislaid. As to Richard, he rushed on his hat and his black whiskers, and hesitated between under the bed and inside the wardrobe.

"Don't agitate yourself, Richard," whispered Mr. Carlyle: "there is no real danger. I will go and keep him safely."

But when Mr. Carlyle got through his sister's bedroom, he found that lady had taken the initiative, and was leaning over the balustrades, having been arrested in the process of dressing. Her clothes were on, but her night-cap was not off: little cared she, however, who saw her night-cap.

"What on earth brings you up in this weather?" began she, in a tone of exasperation.

"I want to see Carlyle. Nice was I have had!"

"What about? Anything concerning Anne, or her family?"

"Anne be bothered," replied the justice, who was certainly, from some cause, in a furious temper. "It concerns that precious rascal, whom I am forced to call son. I am told he is here,"

Tears were streaming down the face of Mrs. Hare. It was a bright morning after the snow-storm, so bright that the sky was blue and the sun was shining, but the snow lay deeply upon the ground. Mrs. Hare sat in her chair, enjoying the brightness, and Mr. Carlyle stood near her. The tears were of joy and of grief mingled: of grief at hearing that she should at last have to part with Barbara; of joy that she was going to one so entirely worthy of her as was Mr. Carlyle.

"Archibald, she has had a happy home here: you will render yours as much so?"

"To the very utmost of my power."

"You will be ever kind to her, ever cherish her?"

"With my whole heart and strength. Dear Mrs. Hare, I thought you knew me too well to doubt me."

"Doubt you! I do not doubt you; I trust you implicitly, Archibald. Had the whole world laid themselves at Barbara's feet, I should have prayed that she might choose you."

A smile flitted over Mr. Carlyle's lips. He knew it was what Barbara would have done.

"But, Archibald, what about Cornelia?" resumed Mrs. Hare. "I would not for a moment interfere in your affairs, or in the arrangements you and Barbara may agree upon: but I cannot help thinking that married people are better alone."

"Cornelia will quit East Lynne," said Mr. Carlyle. "I have not spoken to her yet, but I shall do so now. I have long made my mind up to that; that if I ever married again, I and my wife would live alone. It is said she interfered too much with my former wife: had I suspected it, Cornelia should not have remained in the house a day. Rest assured that Barbara shall not be subjected to the chance."

"How did you come over her?" demanded the justice, who had already given his gratified consent, and who now entered, in his dressing-gown and morning wig. "Others have tried it on, and Barbara would not listen to any of them."

"I suppose I must have cast a spell upon her," answered Mr. Carlyle, breaking into a smile.

"Here she is. Barbara," cried the unceremonious justice, "what is it that you see in Carlyle more than in anybody else?"

Barbara's scarlet cheeks answered for her. "Papa," she said, "Otway Bethel is at the door, asking to speak to you. Jasper says he won't come in."

"Then I'm sure I am not going out to him in the cold. Here, Mr. Otway, what are you afraid of? Come in."

Otway Bethel made his appearance, in his usual sporting costume. But he did not seem altogether at his ease in the presence of Mrs. Hare and Barbara.

"The colonel wished me to see you, justice, to ask if you had any objection to the meeting being put off from one o'clock till two," cried he, after nodding to Mr. Carlyle. "He has got a friend coming to see him unexpectedly, who will leave again by the two o'clock train."

"I don't care which it is," answered Mr. Hare. "Two o'clock will do as well as one for me."

"That's all right, then, and I'll drop in upon Herbert and Pinner, and acquaint them. Have you heard of the dead man being found?"

"What dead man?" cried Justice Hare.

"Some chap who must have missed his way last night: or who perhaps laid himself down, overcome with fatigue. He was found this morning, frozen to death. I have just seen him: he is lying in that hollow, just out of the road, as you turn down towards Hallijohn's old cottage. I saw a lot of folks making for the place, so I went too."

"Who is he?" inquired Justice Hare.

"A stranger, I think. I didn't recognise his face. He is in a smock-frock. A young man, with a profusion of dark whisker."

"By George, but I shouldn't wonder but it's the fellow who last night nearly broke my umbrella!" ejaculated the justice. "He wore a smock-frock, and looked young, and his whiskers were fierce enough for an Irishman's. I thought the fellow a little cracked. He was coming blundering along, his umbrella before him, seeing nothing, and he ran right against me. I blew him up naturally; but no sooner had he looked at me than he uttered an exclamation of dismay, and made off like a shot. I thought it curious. Perhaps it was the man you speak of, Mr. Otway?"

"I shouldn't wonder, Sir."

Mr. Carlyle glanced at Barbara. She had turned deadly white. He saw what was passing in her mind. Could it be the ill-fated Richard? As Mr. Carlyle crossed the room to the door, he contrived to whisper a word to her in passing.

"I will go and see, and bring you back the news. Bear up, my darling."

"Are you departing, Archibald?" said Mrs. Hare.

"I am going to have a look at this man that Bethel talks of. Curious as any school-girl, you see, yet."

He walked very quickly down the garden, and Barbara watched him from the gate. How should she bear the sickening suspense until he returned? Something seemed to tell her fears that it was Richard. Otway Bethel departed; and the justice, exchanging his wig and gown for a sprucer wig and a coat, followed next: he, too, must have a look at the deceased. In a small place like West Lynne, every little event causes a stir and excites curiosity: what would not be noticed in a large town, is there magnified into a wonder that all folks run after.

Mr. Carlyle was the first back. Barbara went to the porch, and waited: had it been to save her life, she could not have gone to meet him: the suspense was fearful.

But, as he neared her, he smiled and nodded gaily, as if he would say, Fear not. Barbara's heart acquired a grain of courage from it; but still it throbbed painfully.

"We were falsely alarmed, Barbara," he whispered. "It is a complete stranger; some poor man who did not know the road. He is not in the least like Richard, and his whiskers are red."

It was a lovely morning in June, and all West Lynne was astir. West Lynne generally was astir in the morning, but not in the bustling manner that might be observed now. People were abroad in numbers, pressing down to St. Jude's church: for it was the day of Mr. Carlyle's marriage to Barbara Hare.

Miss Carlyle made herself into a sort of martyr. She would not go near it: fine weddings in fine churches did not suit her, she said, they could tie themselves up together fast enough without her presence. She had invited the little Carlyles and their governess and Joyce to spend the day with her; and she persisted in regarding the children as martyrs too, in being obliged to submit to the advent of a second mother. She was back in her old house again, next door to the office, settled there for life now, with her servants. Peter had mortally offended her, in electing to remain at East Lynne.

Mr. Dill committed himself terribly on the wedding morning, and lucky was he to escape a shaking, like the one he had received on Mr. Carlyle's first marriage. About ten o'clock he made his appearance at Miss Carlyle's: he was a man of the old school, possessing old-fashioned notions, and he had deemed that to step in, to congratulate her on the auspicious day, would be only good manners.

Miss Carlyle was seated in her dining-room, her hands folded before her. It was rare indeed that she was caught doing nothing. She turned her eyes on Mr. Dill as he entered.

"Why, what on earth has taken you!" began she, before he could speak. "You are decked out like a young buck."

"I am going to the wedding, Miss Cornelia. Did you not know it? Mrs. Hare was so kind as to invite me to the breakfast, and Mr. Archibald insists upon my going to church. I am not too fine, am I?"

Poor old Dill's "finery" consisted of a white waistcoat with gold buttons, and an embroidered shirt front. Miss Corny was pleased to regard it with sarcastic wrath.

"Fine!" echoed she, "I don't know what you call it. I would not make myself such a spectacle for untold gold. You'll have all the ragamuffins in the street forming a tail after you, thinking you are the bridegroom. A man of your years to deck yourself out in a worked shirt! I would have had some rosettes on my coat-tails, while I was about it."

"My coat's quite plain, Miss Cornelia," he meekly remonstrated.

"Plain! what would you have it?" snapped Miss Corny. "Perhaps you covet a wreath of embroidery round it, gold leaves and scarlet flowers, with a swansdown collar? It would only be in keeping with that shirt and waistcoat. I might as well go and order a white tarlatan dress, looped up with sweet peas, and stream through the town in that guise. It would be just as consistent."

"People like to dress a little out of common at a wedding, Miss Cornelia: it's only respectful, when they are invited guests."

"I don't say people should go to a wedding in a hop sack. But there's a medium. Pray do you know your age?"

"I am turned sixty, Miss Corny."

"You just are. And do you consider it decent for an old man, turned sixty, to be decorated off as you are now? I don't; and so I tell you my mind. Why, you'll be the laughing-stock of the parish! Take care the boys don't tie a tin kettle to you!"

Mr. Dill thought he would leave the subject. His own impression was, that he was not too fine, and that the parish would not regard him as being so: still, he had a great reverence for Miss Corny's judgment, and was not altogether easy. He had had his white gloves in his hand when he entered, but he surreptitiously smuggled them into his pocket, lest they might offend. He passed to the subject which had brought him thither.

"What I came in for, was, to offer you my congratulations on this auspicious day, Miss Cornelia. I hope Mr. Archibald and his wife, and you, ma'am—"

"There! you need not trouble yourself to go on," interrupted Miss Corny, hotly arresting him. "We want condolence here to-day, rather than the other thing. I'm sure I'd nearly as soon see Archibald go to his hanging."

"Oh, Miss Corny!"

"I would: and you need not stare at me as if you were throttled. What business has he to go and fetter himself with a wife again? one would have thought he had had enough with the other. It is as I have always said; there's a soft place in Archibald's brain."

Old Dill knew there was no "soft place" in the brain of Mr. Carlyle, but he deemed it might be as well not to say so, in Miss Corny's present humour. "Marriage is a happy state, as I have heard, ma'am, and honourable; and I am sure Mr. Archibald—"

"Very happy! very honourable!" fiercely cried Miss Carlyle, sarcasm in her tone. "His last marriage brought him all that, did it not?"

"That's past and done with, Miss Corny, and none of us need recal it. It brought him some happy years before that happened. I hope he will find in his present wife a recompense for what's gone: he could not have chosen a prettier or nicer young lady than Miss Barbara: and I am glad to my very heart that he has got her."

"Couldn't he!" jerked Miss Carlyle.

"No, ma'am, he could not. Were I young, and wanting a wife, there's not one in all West Lynne I would so soon look out for as Miss Barbara. Not that she'd have me; and I was not speaking in that sense, Miss Corny."

"It's to be hoped you were not," retorted Miss Corny. "She is an idle, insolent, vain fagot, caring for nothing but her own doll's face and for Archibald."

"Ah, well, ma'am, never mind that: pretty young girls know they are pretty, and you can't take their vanity from them. She'll be a good and loving wife to him; I know she will; it is in her nature: she won't serve him as—as—that other poor unfortunate did."

More than a year had gone on.

The German watering-places were crowded that early autumn. They generally are crowded at that season, now that the English flock abroad in shoals, like the swallows quiting our cold country, to return again some time. France has been pretty well used up, so now we fall upon Germany. Stalkenberg was that year particularly full; for its size: you might have put it in a nutshell: and it derived its importance, name, and most else belonging to it, from its lord of the soil, the Baron von Stalkenberg. A stalwart old man was the baron, with grizzly hair, a grizzly beard, and manners as loutish as those of the boars he hunted. He had four sons as stalwart as himself, and who promised to be in time as grizzled. They were all styled the Counts von Stalkenberg, being distinguished by their christian names; all save the eldest son, and he was generally called the young baron. Two of them were away; soldiers; and two, the eldest and the youngest, lived with their father, in the tumble-down castle of Stalkenberg, situated about a mile from the village to which it gave its name. The young Baron von Stalkenberg was at liberty to marry; the three Counts von Stalkenberg were not—unless they could pick up a wife with enough money to keep herself and her husband. In this creed they had been brought up: it was a perfectly understood creed, and not rebelled against.

Stalkenberg differed in no wise from the other baths of its class in the Vaterland. It had its linden-trees, its fair scenery, its Kursaal, its balls, its concerts, its tables d'hôte, its gaming tables, where one everlasting sentence dins the visitor's ear—and one to which he will do well to be deaf—"Faites votre jeu, messieurs; faites votre jeu," its promenades, and its waters. The last were advertised—and some accorded their belief—to cure every malady known or imagined, from apoplexy down to an attack of love-fever, provided you only took enough of them.

The young Baron von Stalkenberg (who was only styled young in contradistinction to his father, being in his forty-first year) was famous for a handsome person, and for his passionate love of the chase: he was the deadly enemy of wild boars and wolves. The Count Otto von Stalkenberg (eleven years his brother's junior) was famous for nothing but his fiercely-ringed moustache, a habit of eating, and an undue addition to draughts of Marcobrunnen. Somewhat meagre fare, so report ran, was the fashion in the castle of Stalkenberg; neither the old baron nor his heir cared for luxury; therefore Count Otto was sure to be seen at the table d'hôte, as often as anybody would invite him. And that was nearly every day: for the Count von Stalkenberg was a high-sounding title, and his baronial father, proprietor of all Stalkenberg, lorded it in the baronial castle close by; all of which appeared very grand and great; and that is bowed down to with an idol's worship.

Stopping at the Ludwig Bad, the chief hotel in the place, was a family of the name of Crosby. It consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Crosby, an only daughter, her governess, and two or three servants. What Mr. Crosby had done to England, or England to him, I can't say: but he never went near his native country. For years and years he had lived abroad: not in any settled place of residence: they would travel about, and remain a year or two in one place, a year or two in another, as the whim suited them. A respectable, portly man, of quiet and gentleman-like manners, looking as little like one who need be afraid of the laws of his own land, as can be. Neither is it said, or insinuated, that he was afraid of them: a gentleman who knew him, had asserted, many years before, when it was once questioned, that Crosby was as free to go home and establish himself in a mansion in Piccadilly, as the best of them. But he had lost fearfully by some roguish scheme, like the South Sea Bubble, and could not live in the style he once had done, and therefore preferred to remain abroad. Mrs. Crosby was a pleasant, chatty woman, given to take as much gaiety as she could get, and Helena Crosby was a remarkably fine-grown girl of seventeen. You might have given her some years more, had you been guessing her age, for she was no child, either in appearance or manners, and never had been. She was an heiress, too: an uncle had left her twenty thousand pounds: and, at her mother's death, she would have ten thousand more. The Count Otto von Stalkenberg heard of the thirty thousand pounds, and turned his fierce moustache and his eyes on Miss Helena.

"Tirty tousand pound and von handsome girls!" cogitated he, for he prided himself upon his English. "It is just what I have been seeking after."

He found the rumour, touching her fortune, to be correct, and from that time was seldom apart from the Crosbys. They were as pleased to have his society as he was to be in theirs, for was he not the Count von Stalkenberg?—and the other visitors at Stalkenberg, looking on with envy, would have given their ears to be honoured with a like intimacy. Whether Mr. Crosby cared so much for the distinction as did madame and mademoiselle, must remain a question; he was civil to him, and made him welcome; and Mrs. Crosby, in all things relating to society, was the grey mare.

One day there thundered down in a vehicle the old Baron von Stalkenberg. The like of this conveyance, for its shape and its silver ornaments, had never been seen since the days of Adam. It had been the pride of the baron's forefathers, but was rarely disturbed in its repose now. Some jägers in green and silver attended it, and it drew up at the door of the Ludwig Bad, the whole of whose inmates thereupon flocked to the windows to feast their eyes. The old chief had come to pay a visit of ceremony to the Crosbys: and the host of the Ludwig Bad, as he appeared himself to marshal his chieftain to their saloon, bowed his body low with every step: "Room there, room there, for the mighty Baron von Stalkenberg."

The mighty baron had come to invite them to a feast at his castle—where no feast had ever been made so grand before, as this would be; and Otto had carte blanche to engage other distinguished sojourners at Stalkenberg, English, French, and natives, who had been civil to him. Mrs. Crosby's head was turned.

And now, I ask you, knowing as you do our national notions, was it not enough to turn it? You will not, then, be surprised to hear that when, some days subsequent to the feast, the Count Otto von Stalkenberg laid his proposals at Helena's feet, they were not rejected.

"But she is so young," remonstrated Mr. Crosby to his wife. "If they would only wait a couple of years, I would say nothing against it."

"And get the count snapped up meanwhile. No, no, Mr. Crosby. Counts von Stalkenberg are not secured every day."

"If he has a title and ancestry, Helena has money."

"Then they are pretty equally balanced," returned Mrs. Crosby. "I never thought of looking for such a match for her: the Countess von Stalkenberg; only listen to the sound!"

"I wish he would cut off those frightful moustaches," grumbled Mr. Crosby.

"Now don't worry about minor details: Helena thinks they are divine. The worst is about the governess."

"What about her?"

"Why, I engaged her, for certain, up to Christmas, and of course I must pay her. Unless I can get her another place: I'll try."

"Ah! Helena would be much better with her, than getting married. I don't like girls to marry so young," lamented Mr. Crosby. "I don't know what the English here will say to it!"

"If you don't let out her age, nobody need know it," cried his wife. "Helena looks a woman, not a child. As to the English, they are going mad that the luck has not fallen upon them."

Mr. Crosby's objections seemed to be met in every way, so he relapsed into silence. He knew it was of no use carrying on the war.

Helena Crosby, meanwhile, had rushed into her governess's room. "Madame! madame! only think! I am going to be married!"

Madame lifted her pale, sad face: a very sad and pale face was hers. "Indeed!" she gently replied.

"And my studies are to be over from to-day. Mamma says so."

"You are over young to marry, Helena."

"Now, don't bring up that, madame. It is just what papa is harping upon," returned Miss Helena.

"Is it to Count Otto?" asked the governess. And it may be remarked that her English accent was perfect, although the young lady addressed her as "Madame."

"Count Otto, of course. As if I would marry anybody else!"

Look at the governess, reader, and see whether you know her. You will say No. But you do, for it is Lady Isabel Vane. But how strangely she is altered! Yes; the railway accident did that for her: and what the accident left undone, grief and remorse accomplished. She limps slightly as she walks, and stoops, which takes from her former height. A scar extends from her chin above her mouth, completely changing the character of the lower part of her face, some of her teeth are missing, so that she speaks with a lisp, and the sober bands of her grey hair—it is nearly silver— are confined under a large and close cap. She herself tries to make the change greater, that the chance of being recognised may be at an end, for which reason she wears disfiguring green spectacles, or, as they are called, preservers, going round the eyes, and a broad band of grey velvet coming down low upon her forehead. Her dress, too, is equally disfiguring. Never is she seen in one that fits her person, but in those frightful "loose jackets," which must surely have been invented by somebody envious of a pretty shape. As to her bonnet, it would put to shame those masquerade things tilted on to the back of the head, for it actually shaded her face; and she was never seen out of doors without a thick veil. She was pretty easy upon the score of being recognised now: for Mrs. Ducie and her daughters had been sojourning at Stalkenberg, and they did not know her in the least. Who could know her? What resemblance was there between that grey, broken-down woman, with her disfiguring marks, and the once lovely Lady Isabel, with her bright colour, her beauty, her dark flowing curls, and her agile figure? Mr. Carlyle himself would not have known her. But she was good-looking still, in spite of it all, gentle, and interesting; and people wondered to see that grey hair on one, yet young.

She had been with the Crosbys nearly two years. After her recovery from the railway accident, she removed to a quiet town in its vicinity, where they were living, and she became daily governess to Helena. The Crosbys were given to understand that she was English, but the widow of a Frenchman—she was obliged to offer some plausible account. There were no references; but she so won upon their esteem as the daily governess, that they soon took her into the house: had Lady Isabel surmised that they would be travelling to so conspicuous a spot as an English-frequented German watering-place, she might have hesitated to accept the engagement. However, it had been of service to her; the meeting with Mrs. Ducie proving that she was altered beyond chance of recognition. She could go anywhere now.

But now, about her state of mind? I do not know how to describe the vain yearning, the inward fever, the restless longing for what might not be. Longing for what? For her children. Let a mother, be she a duchess, or be she an apple-woman at a standing, be separated for a while from her little children: let her answer how she yearns for them. She may be away on a tour of pleasure: for a few weeks, the longing to see their little faces again, to hear their prattling tongues, to feel their soft kisses, is kept under; and there may be frequent messages, "The children's dear love to mamma:" but, as the weeks lengthen out, the desire to see them again becomes almost irrepressible. What must it have been, then, for Lady Isabel, who had endured this longing for years? Talk of the mal du pays , which is said to attack the Swiss when exiled from their country, that is as nothing compared to the heart-sickness which clung to Lady Isabel. She had passionately loved her children; she had been anxious for their welfare in all ways: and, not the least that she had to endure now, was the thought that she had abandoned them to be trained by strangers. Would they be trained to goodness, to morality, to religion? Careless as she herself had once been upon these points, she had learnt better now. Would Isabel grow up to indifference, to—perhaps do as she had done? Lady Isabel flung her hands before her eyes, and groaned in anguish.

Of late, the longing had become intense. It was indeed a very fever; and a fever of the worst kind, for it attacked both the mind and body. Her pale lips were constantly parched: her throat had that malady in it, which those, who have suffered from some hideous burden, know only too well. She had never heard a syllable of, or from East Lynne since that visit of Lord Mount Severn's to Grenoble, nearly three years ago. An English newspaper never came in her way. Mr. Crosby sometimes had them, but they were not sent up to the governess: and, as Lady Isabel would say to herself, what should there be about East Lynne in a newspaper? She might have asked Mrs. Ducie for news, but she did not dare: what excuse could she , Madame Vine, make, for wishing tidings of East Lynne. For all she knew, Mr. Carlyle and the children might be dead and buried. Oh! that she could see her children but for a day, an hour! that she might press one kiss upon their lips! Could she live without it? News, however, she was soon to have.

It happened that Mrs. Latimer, a lady living at West Lynne, betook herself about that time to Stalkenberg: and, with her, three parts maid and one part companion, went Afy Hallijohn. Not that Afy was admitted to the society of Mrs. Latimer, to sit with her or dine with her, nothing of that; but she did enjoy more privileges than most ladies'-maids; and Afy, who was never backward at setting off her own consequence, gave out that she was "companion." Mrs. Latimer was an easy woman, fond of Afy; and Afy had made her own tale good to her, respecting the ill-natured reports at the time of the murder, so that Mrs. Latimer looked upon her as one to be compassionated.

Mrs. Latimer and Mrs. Crosby, whose apartments in the hotel adjoined, struck up a violent friendship, the one for the other. Ere the former had been a week at the Ludwig, they had sworn something like eternal sisterhood—as both had probably done for others fifty times before.

On the evening of the day Helena Crosby communicated her future prospects to Lady Isabel, the latter strolled out in the twilight and took her seat on a bench in an unfrequented part of the gardens, where she was fond of sitting. Now it came to pass that Afy, some few minutes afterwards, found herself in the same walk —and a very dull one too, she was thinking.

"Who's that?" quoth Afy to herself, her eyes falling upon Lady Isabel. "Oh, it's that governess of the Crosbys. She may be known, a mile off, by her grandmother's bonnet. I'll go and have a chat with her."

Accordingly Afy, who was never troubled with bashfulness, went up and seated herself beside Lady Isabel. "Good evening, Madame Vine," cried she.

"Good evening," replied Lady Isabel, courteously, not having the least idea of whom Afy might be.

"You don't know me, I fancy," pursued Afy, so gathering from Lady Isabel's looks. "I am companion to Mrs. Latimer; and she is spending the evening with Mrs. Crosby. Precious dull, this Stalkenberg!"

"Do you think so?"

"It is for me. I can't speak German or French, and the upper attendants of families here can't, most of them, speak English. I'm sure I go about like an owl, able to do nothing but stare. I was sick enough to come here, but I'd rather be back at West Lynne, quiet as it is."

The hall doors of East Lynne were thrown open, and a flood of golden light streamed out upon the steps.

Two men-servants stood there. One remained in the hall, the other advanced to the chaise. He assisted Lady Isabel to alight, and then busied himself with the luggage. As she ascended to the hall she recognised old Peter: strange, indeed, did it seem, not to say, "How are you, Peter?" but to meet him as a stranger. For a moment she was at a loss for words: what should she say, or ask, coming to her own home? Her manner was embarrassed, her voice low.

"Is Mrs. Carlyle within?"

"Yes, ma'am."

At that moment, Joyce came forward to receive her. "It is Madame Vine, I believe?" she respectfully said. "Please to step this way, madame."

But Lady Isabel lingered in the hall, ostensibly to see that her boxes came in right: Stephen was bringing them up then: in reality to gather a short respite, for Joyce might be about to usher her into the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle.

Joyce, however, did nothing of the sort. She merely conducted her to the grey parlour: a fire was burning in the grate, looking cheerful on the autumn night.

"This is your sitting-room, madame. What will you please to take? I will order it brought in, while I show you your bed-chamber."

"A cup of tea," answered Lady Isabel.

"Tea, and some cold meat with it," suggested Joyce. But Lady Isabel interrupted her.

"Nothing but tea: and a little cold toast."

Joyce rang the bell, ordered the refreshment to be made ready, and then preceded Lady Isabel up-stairs. On she followed, her heart palpitating: past the rooms that used to be hers, along the corridor, towards the second staircase. The doors of her old bed and dressing-rooms stood open, and she glanced in with a yearning look. No, never more, never more could they be hers: she had put them from her by her own free act and deed. Not less comfortable did they look now, than in former days: but they had passed into another's occupancy. The fire threw its blaze on the furniture: there were the little ornaments on the large dressing-table, as they used to be in her time, and the cut glass of the crystal essence bottles was glittering in the fire-light. On the sofa lay a shawl and a book, and on the bed a silk dress, as if thrown there after being taken off. No: these rooms were not for her now; and she followed Joyce up the other staircase. The bed-room to which she was shown was commodious and well furnished: it was the one Miss Carlyle had occupied when she, Isabel, had been taken, a bride, to East Lynne, though that lady had subsequently quitted it for one on the lower floor. Joyce put down the wax-light she carried, and looked round.

At her bedroom door, the next morning, stood Lady Isabel, listening whether the coast was clear, ere she descended to the grey parlour, for she had a shrinking dread of encountering Mr. Carlyle. When he was glancing narrowly at her face the previous evening, she had felt the gaze, and it impressed upon her a dread of his recognition. Not only that: he was the husband of another: therefore it was not expedient that she should see too much of him, for he was far dearer to her heart than he had ever been.

Almost at the same moment, there burst out of a remote room, the nursery, an upright, fair, noble boy of some five years old, who began careering along the corridor, astride upon a hearth-broom. She did not need to be told that it was her boy, Archibald; his likeness to Mr. Carlyle would have proclaimed it, even if her heart had not. In an impulse of unrestrainable tenderness, she seized the child as he was galloping past her, and carried him into her room, broom and all.

"You must let me make acquaintance with you," said she to him, by way of excuse. "I love little boys."

Love! Down she sat upon a low chair, the child held upon her lap, kissing him passionately, and the tears raining from her eyes. She could not have helped the tears, had it been to save her life; she could as little have helped the kisses. Lifting her eyes, there stood Wilson, who had entered without ceremony. A sick feeling came over Lady Isabel: she felt as if she had betrayed herself. All that could be done now, was to make the best of it; to offer some lame excuse. What possessed her, thus to forget herself?

"He put me in remembrance of my own children," she said to Wilson, gulping down her emotion, and hiding her tears in the best manner she could; whilst the astonished Archibald, now released, stood with his finger in his mouth and stared at her spectacles, his great blue eyes opened to their utmost width. "When we have lost children of our own, we are apt to love fondly all we come near."

Wilson, who stared only in a less degree than Archie, for she deemed the new governess had gone suddenly mad, gave some voluble assent, and turned her attention upon Archie.

"You naughty young monkey! how dared you rush out in that way with Sarah's hearth-broom? I'll tell you what it is, sir; you are getting too owdacious and rumbustical for the nursery; I shall speak to your mamma about it."

She seized hold of the child and shook him. Lady Isabel started forward, her hands up, her voice one of painful entreaty.

"Oh, don't, don't beat him! I cannot see him beaten."

"Beaten!" echoed Wilson; "if he got a good beating it would be all the better for him; but it's what he never does get. A little shake, or a tap, is all I must give; and it's not half enough. You wouldn't believe the sturdy impudence of that boy, madame; he runs riot, he does. The other two never gave a quarter of the trouble. Come along, you figure! I'll have a bolt put at the top of the nursery door!—And if I did, he'd be for climbing up the door-post to get at it."

The last sentence Wilson delivered to the governess, as she jerked Archie out of the room, along the passage and into the nursery. Lady Isabel sat down with a wrung heart, a chafed spirit. Her own child! and she might not say to the servant, You shall not beat him!

She descended to the grey parlour. The two elder children, and breakfast, were waiting: Joyce quitted the room when she entered it.

A graceful girl of eight years old, a fragile boy a year younger, both bearing her own once lovely features, her once bright and delicate complexion, her large, soft, brown eyes. How utterly her heart yearned to them! but there must be no scene like there had just been above. Nevertheless, she stooped and kissed them both; one kiss each of impassioned fervour. Lucy was naturally silent, William somewhat talkative.

"You are our new governess," said he.

"Yes. We must be good friends."

"Why not?" said the boy. "We were good friends with Miss Manning. I am to go into Latin soon, as soon as my cough's gone. Do you know Latin?"

"No. Not to teach it," she said, studiously avoiding all endearing epithets.

"Papa said you would be almost sure not to know Latin, for that ladies rarely did. He said he should send up Mr. Kane to teach me."

"Mr. Kane?" repeated Lady Isabel, the name striking upon her memory. "Mr. Kane, the music-master?"

"How did you know he was a music-master?" cried shrewd William. And Lady Isabel felt the red blood flush to her face at the unlucky admission she had made. It flushed deeper at her own falsehood, as she muttered some evasive words about hearing of him from Mrs. Latimer.

"Yes, he is a music-master; but he does not get much money by it, and he teaches the classics as well. He has come up to teach us music since Miss Manning left: mamma said that we ought not to lose our lessons."

Mamma! How the word, applied to Barbara, grated on her ear. "Whom does he teach?" she asked.

"Us two," replied William, pointing to his sister and himself.

"Do you always take bread-and-milk for breakfast?" she inquired, perceiving that to be what they were eating.

"We get tired of it sometimes, and then we have milk-and-water and bread-and-butter, or honey: and then we take to bread-and-milk again. It's Aunt Cornelia who thinks we should eat bread-and-milk for breakfast: she says papa never had anything else when he was a boy."

Lucy looked up. "Papa would give me an egg when I breakfasted with him," cried she, "and Aunt Cornelia said it was not good for me, but papa gave it me all the same. I always had breakfast with him then."

"And why do you not now?" asked Lady Isabel.

"I don't know. I have not since mamma came."

The word "stepmother" rose up rebelliously in the heart of Lady Isabel. Was Mrs. Carlyle putting away the children from their father?

Breakfast over, she gathered them to her, asking them various questions; about their studies, their hours of recreation, the daily routine of their lives.

"This is not the school-room, you know," cried William, when she made some inquiry as to their books.

"No?"

"The school-room is up-stairs. This is for our meals, and for you in an evening."

The voice of Mr. Carlyle was heard at this juncture in the hall, and Lucy was springing towards the sound. Lady Isabel, fearful lest he might enter, if the child showed herself, stopped her with a hurried hand.

"Stay here, Isabel."

"Her name's Lucy," said William, looking quickly up. "Why do you call her Isabel?"

"I thought—thought I had heard her called Isabel," stammered the unfortunate lady, feeling quite confused with the errors she was committing.

"My name is Isabel Lucy," said the child, "but I don't know who could have told you, for I am never called Isabel. I have not been, since—since—Shall I tell you? Since mamma went away," she concluded, dropping her voice. "Mamma that was, you know."

"Did she go?" cried Lady Isabel, full of emotion and possessing a very faint idea of what she was saying.

"She was kidnapped," whispered Lucy.

In a soft grey damask dress, not unlike the colour of the walls from which the room took its name, a cap of Honiton lace shading her delicate features, sat Mrs. Hare. The justice was in London with Squire Pinner, and Barbara had gone to the Grove, and brought her mamma away in triumph. It was evening now, and kind Mrs. Hare was paying a visit to the grey parlour. Miss Carlyle had been dining there, and Lady Isabel, under plea of a violent headache, had begged to decline the invitation to take tea in the drawing-room, for she feared the sharp eyes of Miss Carlyle. Barbara, upon leaving the dessert-table, went to the nursery as usual to her baby, and Mrs. Hare took the opportunity to go and sit a few minutes with the governess; she feared that governess must be very lonely. Miss Carlyle, scorning usage and ceremony, had remained in the dining-room with Mr. Carlyle, a lecture for him, upon some defalcation or other, most probably in store. Lady Isabel was alone. Lucy had gone to keep a birthday in the neighbourhood, and William was in the nursery. Mrs. Hare found her in a sad attitude, her two hands pressed upon her temples. She had not yet made acquaintance with her, beyond a formal introduction.

"I am sorry to hear you are not well this evening," she gently said.

"Thank you. My head aches much"—which was no false plea.

"I fear you must feel your solitude irksome. It is dull for you to be here all alone."

"I am so used to solitude."

Mrs. Hare sat down, and gazed with sympathy at the young, though somewhat strange-looking woman before her; she detected the signs of mental suffering on her face. "You have seen sorrow," she uttered, bending forward and speaking with the utmost sweetness.

"Oh, great sorrow," burst from Lady Isabel, for her wretched fate was very palpable to her mind that evening, and the tone of sympathy rendered it nearly irrepressible.

"My daughter tells me that you have lost your children, that you have lost your fortune and position. Indeed I feel for you. I wish I could comfort you!"

This did not decrease her anguish. She completely lost all self-control, and a gush of tears fell from her eyes. "Don't pity me! don't pity me, dear Mrs. Hare; indeed it only makes endurance harder. Some of us," she added, looking up with a sickly smile, "are born to sorrow."

"We are all born to it," cried Mrs. Hare. "I, in truth, have cause to say so. Oh, you know not what my portion has been—the terrible weight of grief that I have to bear. For many years, I can truly say that I have not known one completely happy moment."

"All have not to bear this killing sorrow," said Lady Isabel.

"Rely upon it, sorrow of some nature comes sooner or later to all. In the brightest lot on earth, dark days must mix. Not that there is a doubt but that it falls unequally. Some, as you observe, seem born to it, for it clings to them all their days: others are more favoured. As we reckon favour: perhaps this great amount of trouble is no more than is necessary to take us to heaven. You know the saying; 'Adversity hardens the heart, or it opens it to Paradise.' It may be, that our hearts are so hard, that the long-continued life's trouble is requisite to soften them. My dear," Mrs. Hare added, in a lower tone, while the tears glistened on her pale cheeks, "there will be a blessed rest for the weary, when this toilsome life is ended: let us find comfort in that thought."

"Ay! ay!" murmured Lady Isabel. "It is all that is left to me."

"You are young, to have acquired so much experience of sorrow."

"We cannot estimate sorrow by years. We may live a whole lifetime of it in a single hour. But we generally bring ill fate upon ourselves," she continued, in a desperation of remorse: "as our conduct is, so will our happiness or misery be."

"Not always," sighed Mrs. Hare. "Sorrow, I grant you, comes all too frequently from ill doing: but the worst is, that the consequences of this wrong doing fall upon the innocent as well as upon the guilty. A husband's errors will involve his innocent wife; the sins of the parents will fall upon their children; children will break the hearts of their parents. I can truly say—speaking in all humble submission—that I am unconscious of having deserved the great sorrow which came upon me; that no act of mine invited it; but, though it has nearly killed me, I entertain no doubt that it is lined with mercy, if I could only bring my weak, rebellious heart to look for it. You, I feel sure, have been equally undeserving."

Mrs. Hare did not mark the flush of shame, the drooping of the eye-lids.

"You have lost your little ones," Mrs. Hare resumed. "That is grief; great grief, I would not underrate it; but believe me it is as nothing compared to the awful fate of finding your children grow up and become that, which makes you wish they had died in their infancy. There are times when I am tempted to regret that all my treasures are not in the next world; that they have not gone before me. Yes; sorrow is the lot of all."

"Surely not of all," dissented Lady Isabel. "There are some bright lots on earth."

"There is not a lot, but must bear its appointed share," returned Mrs. Hare. "Bright as it may appear, ay, and as it may continue to be for years, depend upon it some darkness must overshadow it earlier or later."

"Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle—what sorrow can there be in store for them?" asked Lady Isabel, her voice ringing with a strange sound: which Mrs. Hare noted, though she understood it not.

"Mrs. Carlyle's lot is bright," she said, a sweet smile illumining her features. "She loves her husband with an impassioned love; and he is worthy of it. A happy fate indeed is hers; but she must not expect to be exempted from sorrow. Mr. Carlyle has had his share of it," concluded Mrs. Hare.

"Ah!"

"You have doubtless been made acquainted with his history. His first wife left him; left her home and her children. He bore it bravely before the world; but I know that it wrung his very heart-strings. She was his heart's early idol."

"She! Not Barbara?"

The moment the word "Barbara" had escaped her lips, Lady Isabel recollected herself. She was only Madame Vine, the governess: what would Mrs. Hare think of her familiarity?

Mrs. Hare did not appear to have noticed it: she was absorbed in the subject. "Barbara?" she uttered: "certainly not. Had his first love been given to Barbara, he would have chosen her then. It was given to Lady Isabel."

"It is given to his wife now."

Mrs. Hare nearly laughed. "Of course it is: would you wish it to be buried in the grave with the dead?— and with one who was false to him? But, my dear, she was the sweetest woman, that unfortunate Lady Isabel. I loved her then, and I cannot help loving her still. Others blamed her, but I pitied. They were well matched: he, so good and noble; she, so lovely and endearing."

"And she left him; threw him to the winds, with all his nobility and love!" exclaimed that poor governess, with a gesture of the hands, that looked very like despair.

"Yes. It will not do to talk of: it is a miserable subject. How she could abandon such a husband, such children, was a marvel to many; but to none more than it was to me and my daughter. The false step— though I feel almost afraid to speak out the thought, lest it may appear to savour of triumph—while it must have secured her own wretchedness, led to the happiness of my child; for it is pretty certain Barbara would never have loved another as she loves Mr. Carlyle."

"You think it did secure wretchedness to her?" cried Lady Isabel, her tone one of bitter mockery, more than anything else.

Mrs. Hare was surprised at the question. "No woman ever took that step yet, without its entailing on her the direst wretchedness," she replied. "It cannot be otherwise. And Lady Isabel was of a nature to feel remorse, to meet it half way. Refined, modest, with every feeling of an English gentlewoman, she was the very last one would have expected to act so. It was as if she had gone away in a dream, not knowing what she was doing: I have thought so many a time. That, terrible mental wretchedness and remorse did overtake her, I know."

As this is not a history of the British constitution, it is not necessary to relate how or why West Lynne got into hot water with the House of Commons. The House threatened to disenfranchise it, and West Lynne, under the fear, went in mourning for its sins. The threat was not carried out; but one of the sitting members was unseated with ignominy, and sent to the right about. Being considerably humiliated thereby, and in disgust with West Lynne, he retired accordingly, and a fresh writ was issued. West Lynne then returned the Honourable Mr. Attley, a county nobleman's son, but he died in the very midst of his first session, and another writ had to be issued.

Of course the consideration now was, who should be the next candidate. All the notables within ten miles were discussed, not excepting the bench of justices. Mr. Justice Hare? No: he was too uncompromising; would study his own will, but not that of West Lynne. Squire Pinner? He never made a speech in his life, and had not an idea beyond turnips and farming stock. Colonel Bethel? He had no money to spend upon an election. Sir John Dobede? He was too old. "By a good twenty years," laughed Sir John, himself. "But here we stand, like a pack of noodles, conning over the incapables, and passing by the right one," continued Sir John. "There's only one man amongst us fit to be our member."

"Who's that?" cried the meeting.

"Archibald Carlyle."

A pause of consternation; consternation at their collective forgetfulness: and then, a murmur of approbation, approaching to a shout, filled the room. Archibald Carlyle. It should be no other.

"If we can get him," cried Sir John. "He may decline, you know."

All agreed that the best thing was to act promptly. A deputation, half the length of the street—its whole length, if you include the tagrag and bobtail that attended behind—set off, on the spur of the moment, to the office of Mr. Carlyle. They found that gentleman about to leave it for the evening, to return home to dinner. For, in the discussion of the all-important topic, the meeting had suffered time to run on to a late hour; those gentlemen who dined at a somewhat earlier one, had for once in their lives patiently allowed their dinners and their stomachs to wait—which is saying a great deal for the patience of a justice.

Mr. Carlyle was taken by surprise. "Make me your member?" cried he, merrily. "How do you know I should not sell you all?"

"We'll trust you, Carlyle. Too happy to do it."

"I am not sure that I could spare the time," deliberated Mr. Carlyle.

"Now, Carlyle, you must remember that you avowed to me, no longer ago than last Christmas, your intention of going into parliament some time," struck in Mr. Justice Herbert. "You can't deny it."

"Some time!—yes," replied Mr. Carlyle. "But I did not say when. I have no thoughts of it yet awhile."

"You must allow us to put you in nomination, you must indeed, Mr. Carlyle. There's nobody else fit for it. As good send a pig to the House, as some of us."

"An extremely flattering reason for proposing to shift the honour upon me," laughed Mr. Carlyle.

"Well, you know what we mean, Carlyle. There's not a man in the whole county so suitable as you, search it through: you must know there is not."

"I don't know anything of the sort," returned Mr. Carlyle.

"At any rate, we are determined to have you. When you walk into West Lynne to-morrow, you'll see the walls alive with placards, 'Carlyle for ever!'"

"Suppose you allow me until to-morrow to consider of it, and defer the garnishing of the walls a day later," said Mr. Carlyle, a serious tone peeping out in the midst of his jocularity.

"You do not fear the expense?"

It was but a glance he returned in answer. As soon as the question had been put—it was stupid old Pinner who propounded it—they had felt how foolish it was. And indeed the cost would be a mere nothing, were there no opposition.

"Come, decide now, Carlyle. Give us your promise."

Wonders never cease. Surprises are the lot of man. But perhaps a greater surprise had never been experienced, by those who knew him, than when it went forth to the world that Sir Francis Levison had converted himself from—from what he was, into a red-hot politician.

Had he been offered the post of prime minister? Or did his conscience smite him?—as was the case with a certain gallant captain, renowned in song. Neither the one nor the other. The simple fact was, that Sir Francis Levison was in a state of pecuniary embarrassment, and required something to prop him up: some snug sinecure; plenty to get and nothing to do.

"He, in pecuniary embarrassment!" cries the reader. "How could that be?" No easier thing "to be" in this world, if a man plunges into the amusements, favoured by Francis Levison. When he came into his fortune, there was a weighty amount to pay for debts and damages, a far larger amount than he had believed. Not a farthing, beyond what was obliged to come to him by entail, did Sir Peter leave him; but, of that which remained, he was no sooner in possession than he began to squander right and left. His marriage intervened, but it did not stop him: on the contrary, it was an addition to the outlay: and, not contented with living as was suitable to his rank, he and his wife set up housekeeping in an outrageously costly manner. Added to this, he had, since his marriage, entered heart and soul into the pretty little pastimes of horse-racing, betting, and gambling. Cock-fighting he had always patronised.

The time went on: and things went on; till they could go on no longer, and Sir Francis woke up to his condition. Every shilling of available money was gone, every stiver of unsecured property was parted with; debts and duns had taken their place, and Francis Levison, the reigning baronet, was far more worried and embarrassed than ever had been Francis Levison, the obscure and but half-expectant heir. He had fallen into the condition formerly described as being that of the late Lord Mount Severn. But, while the earl had contrived to weather out the storm for years, Francis Levison would not be able to weather it for as many months: and he knew it.

Patch himself up, he must. But how? He had tried the tables, but luck was against him; he made a desperate venture upon the turf, a grand coup, that would have set him on his legs for some time, but the venture turned out the wrong way, and Sir Francis was a defaulter. He began then to think there was nothing for it but to drop into some nice government nest, where, as I have told you, there would be plenty to get and nothing to do. Any place with much to do would not suit him, or he it; he was too empty-headed for work requiring talent—you may have remarked that a man, given to Sir Francis Levison's favourite pursuits, generally is.

Mr. Carlyle and Barbara were seated at breakfast, when, somewhat to their surprise, Mr. Dill was shown in. Following close upon his heels came Justice Hare; and close upon his heels came Squire Pinner; while, bringing up the rear, was Colonel Bethel. All the four had come up separately, not together, and all four were out of breath, as if it had been a race which should arrive soonest.

Quite impossible was it for Mr. Carlyle at first to understand the news they brought. All were talking at once, in the utmost excitement; and the fury of Justice Hare, alone, was sufficient to produce temporary deafness. Mr. Carlyle caught a word of the case presently.

"A second man? Opposition? Well, let him come on," he good humouredly cried. "We shall have the satisfaction of ascertaining who wins in the end."

"But you have not heard who it is, Mr. Archibald," cried old Dill. "It—"

"Stand a contest with him! " raved Justice Hare. "He—"

Standing in the high wind at the turning of the road, were Miss Carlyle and Lady Isabel Vane. The latter, confused and perplexed, was picking up the remnant of her damaged spectacles: the former, little less perplexed, gazed at the face, which struck her as being so familiar. Her attention, however, was called off to the apparition of Sir Francis Levison.

He was close upon them, Mr. Drake and the other comrade being with him, and some tag-rag in attendance, as usual. It was the first time he and Miss Carlyle had met, face to face. She bent her condemning brow, haughty in its bitter scorn, full upon him. Sir Francis, when he arrived opposite, raised his hat to her. Whether it was done in courtesy, in confused unconsciousness, or in mockery, cannot be told: Miss Carlyle assumed it to have been the latter; and her lips, in their anger, grew almost as pale as those of the unhappy woman who was cowering behind her.

"Did you intend that insult for me, Francis Levison?"

"As you please to take it," returned he, calling up insolence to his aid.

Mr. Carlyle harangued the populace from the balcony of the Buck's Head, a substantial old house, renowned in the days of posting, now past and gone. Its balcony was an old-fashioned, roomy balcony, painted green, where there was plenty of space for his friends to congregate. He was a persuasive orator, winning his way to ears and hearts: but, had he spoken with plums in his mouth, and a stammer on his tongue, and a break-down at every sentence, the uproarious applause and shouts would have been equally rife. Mr. Carlyle was intensely popular in West Lynne, setting aside the candidateship and his oratory; and West Lynne made common cause against Sir Francis Levison.

Sir Francis Levison harangued the mob from the Raven, but in a more ignoble manner. For the Raven possessed no balcony, and he was fain to let himself down with a stride and a jump, from the first-floor window to the top of the bow-window of the parlour, and stand there. The Raven, though a comfortable, old established, and respectable inn, could boast only of casements for its upper windows, and they are not convenient to deliver speeches from. He was wont, therefore, to take his stand on the ledge of the bow-window, and that was not altogether convenient either, for it was but narrow, and he hardly dared move an arm or a leg, for fear of pitching over, on to the upturned faces. Mr. Drake let himself down also, to support him on one side, and, the first day, the lawyer supported him on the other. For the first day only: for that worthy, being not so high as Sir Francis Levison's or Mr. Drake's shoulder, and about five times their breadth, had those two been rolled into one, experienced a slight difficulty in getting back again. It was accomplished at last, Sir Francis pulling him up, and Mr. Drake hoisting him from behind, just as a ladder was being brought out to the rescue, amidst shouts of laughter. The stout man wiped the perspiration from his face when he was landed in safety, and recorded a mental vow never to descend from a window again. After that, the candidate and his friend shared the shelf between them. The lawyer's name was Rubiny, ill-naturedly supposed to be a corruption of Reuben.

They stood there one afternoon, the eloquence of Sir Francis in full play (but he was a shocking speaker), and the crowd, laughing, hissing, groaning, and applauding, blocking up the road. Sir Francis could not complain of one thing—that he got no audience. For it was the pleasure of West Lynne extensively to support him in that respect: a few to cheer, a great many to jeer and hiss. Remarkably dense was the mob on this afternoon, for Mr. Carlyle had just concluded his address from the Buck's head, and the crowd who had been listening to him, came rushing up to swell the ranks of the other crowd. They were elbowing and pushing and treading on each others' heels, when an open barouche drove suddenly up, to scatter them. Its horses wore scarlet and purple rosettes; and one lady, a very pretty one, sat inside it. Mrs. Carlyle.

But the crowd could not be so easily scattered: it was too thick: the carriage could advance but at a snail's pace, and now and then came to a stand-still. Sir Francis Levison's speech came to a stand-still also, till the confusion should subside. He did not bow to Barbara: he remembered the result of his having done so to Miss Carlyle: and the little interlude of the pond had washed most of his impudence out of him. He remained at his post, not looking at Barbara, not looking at anything in particular, but waiting till the interruption should have passed.

Barbara, under cover of her dainty lace parasol, turned her eyes upon him. At that very moment he raised his right hand, slightly shook his head back, and tossed his hair off his brow. His hand, ungloved, was white and delicate as a lady's, and his rich diamond ring gleamed in the sun. The pink flush on Barbara's cheek deepened to a crimson damask, and her brow contracted as with a remembrance of pain.

"The very action Richard described! the action he was always using at East Lynne! I believe from my heart that man is Thorn: Richard was labouring under some mistake, when he said he knew Sir Francis Levison."

She let her hands fall upon her knee as she spoke, heedless of the candidate, heedless of the crowd, heedless of all, save her own troubled thoughts. A hundred respectful salutations were uttered, she answered them mechanically; a shout was raised, "Long live Carlyle! Carlyle for ever!" Barbara bowed her pretty head on either side, and the carriage at length got on.

In the grey parlour, in the dark twilight of the April evening, for it was getting on into the night, were William Carlyle and Lady Isabel. It had been a warm day, but the spring evenings were still chilly, and a fire burned in the grate. There was no blaze, the red embers were smouldering and half dead, but Madame Vine did not heed the fire. William lay on the sofa, and she sat by, looking at him. Her glasses were off, for the tears wetted them continually: and it was not the recognition of the children that she feared. He was tired with the drive to Lynneborough and back, and lay with his eyes shut; she thought asleep. Presently he opened them.

"How long will it be before I die?"

The words took her utterly by surprise, and her heart went round in a whirl. "What do you mean, William? Who said anything about your dying?"

"Oh, I know. I know by the fuss there is over me. You heard what Hannah said the other night?"

"What? When?"

"When she brought in the tea, and I was lying on the rug. I was not asleep, though you thought I was. You told her she ought to be more cautious, for that I might not have been asleep."

"I don't remember much about it," said Lady Isabel, at her wits' end how to remove the impression Hannah's words must have created, had he indeed heard them. "Hannah talks great nonsense sometimes."

"She said I was going on fast to the grave."

"Did she? Nobody attends to Hannah. She is only a foolish girl. We shall soon have you well, when the warm weather comes."

"Madame Vine."

"Well, my darling?"

"Where's the use of your trying to deceive me? Do you think I don't see that you are doing it? I am not a baby: you might if it were Archibald. What is it that's the matter with me?"

"Nothing. Only you are not strong. When you get strong again you will be as well as ever."

William shook his head in disbelief. He was precisely that sort of child from whom it is next to impossible to disguise facts; quick, thoughtful, observant, and advanced beyond his years. Had no words been dropped in his hearing, he would have suspected the evil by the care evinced for him, but plenty of words had been dropped; hints, by which he had gathered suspicion; broad assertions, like Hannah's, which had too fully supplied it: and the boy, in his inmost heart, knew as well that death was coming for him, as that death itself did.

"Then, if there's nothing the matter with me, why could not Dr. Martain speak to you before me to-day? Why did he send me into the other room while he told you what he thought? Ah, Madame Vine, I am as wise as you."

"A wise little boy, but mistaken sometimes," she said, from her aching heart.

"It's nothing to die, when God loves us. Lord Vane says so. He had a little brother who died."

"A sickly child who was never likely to live; he had been pale and ailing from a baby," said Lady Isabel.

"Why! did you know him?"

"I—I heard so," she replied, turning off her thoughtless avowal in the best manner she could.

"Don't you know that I am going to die?"

"No."

"Then why have you been grieving since we left Dr. Martin's? And why do you grieve at all for me? I am not your child."

The words, the scene altogether, overcame her. She knelt down by the sofa, and her tears burst forth freely. "There! you see," cried William.

"Oh, William, I—I had a little boy of my own once, and when I look at you, I think of him, and that is why I cry."

"I know. You have told us of him before. His name was William, too."

She leaned over him, her breath mingling with his, she took his little hand in hers. "William, do you know that those whom God loves best, He takes the first. Were you to die, you would go to heaven, leaving all the cares and sorrows of the world behind you. It would have been happier for many of us had we died in infancy."

"Would it have been happier for you?"

A sighing , moaning wind swept round the domains of East Lynne. Bending the tall poplar-trees in the distance, swaying the oak and elms nearer, rustling the fine old chesnuts in the park: a melancholy, sweeping, fitful wind. The weather had changed, gathering clouds seemed to be threatening rain: so, at least, deemed one wayfarer, who was journeying on a solitary road, that Saturday night.

He was on foot. A man in the garb of a sailor, with black curling ringlets of hair, and black curling whiskers: a prodigious pair of whiskers, hiding his neck above his blue, turned collar, hiding partially his face. The glazed hat, brought low upon the brows, concealed it still more; and he wore a loose, rough pea-jacket, and wide rough trousers, hitched up with a belt. Bearing steadily on, he struck into Bean-lane, a by-way already mentioned in this history, and from thence, passing through a small, unfrequented gate, he found himself in the grounds of East Lynne.

"Let's see," mused he, as he closed the gate behind him, and slipped its bolt. "The covered walk? That must be near the acacia-trees. Then I must wind round to the right. I wonder if either of them will be there, waiting for me?"

Yes. Pacing the covered walk in her bonnet and mantle, as if taking an evening stroll—had any one encountered her, which was very unlikely, seeing that it was the most retired spot in the grounds—was Mrs. Carlyle.

"Oh, Richard! my poor brother!"

Locked in a yearning embrace, emotion overpowered both. Barbara sobbed like a child. A little while, and then he put her from-him, to look at her.

"So, Barbara, you are a wife now!"

"Oh, the happiest wife! Richard, sometimes I ask myself what I have done, that God should have showered down blessings so great upon me. But for the sad trouble when I think of you, my life would be as one long summer's day. I have the sweetest baby; he is now nearly a year old—I shall have another soon, God willing. And Archibald—oh, I am so happy!"

She broke suddenly off with the name "Archibald:" not even to Richard could she speak of her intense love for her husband.

"How is it at the Grove?" he asked.

"Quite well; quite as usual. Mamma has been in better health lately. She does not know of this visit, but—"

"I must see her," interrupted Richard. "I did not see her last time, you remember."

"All in good time to talk of that. How are you getting on in Liverpool? What are you doing?"

"Don't inquire too closely, Barbara. I have no regular work, but I get a job at the docks, now and then, and rub on. It is seasonable help, that, which comes to me from you. Is it from you, or Carlyle?"

Barbara laughed. "How are we to distinguish? His money is mine now, and mine is his. We have not separate purses, Richard; we send it to you jointly."

"Sometimes I have fancied it came from my mother."

Barbara shook her head. "We have never allowed mamma to know that you left London, or that we hold an address where we can write to you. It would not have done."

"Why have you summoned me here, Barbara? What has turned up?"

"Thorn has—I think. You would know him again, Richard?"

"Know him!" passionately echoed Richard Hare.

"Were you aware that a contest for the membership is now going on at West Lynne?"

"I saw it in the newspapers. Carlyle against Sir Francis Levison. I say, Barbara, how could he think of coming here, to oppose Carlyle?"

" I don't know," said Barbara. "I wonder that he should come here for other reasons also. First of all, Richard, tell me how you came to know Sir Francis Levison. You said you knew him, and that you had seen him with Thorn."

"So I do know him," answered Richard. "And I saw him with Thorn twice."

"Know him by sight only, I presume. Let me hear how you came to know him."

"He was pointed out to me. I saw Thorn walking arm-in-arm with a gentleman, and I showed them to the waterman at the cab-stand hard by. 'Do you know that fellow?' I asked him, indicating Thorn, for I wanted to come at who he really is. 'I don't know that one,' the old chap answered, 'but the one with him is Levison the baronet. They are often together; a couple of swells, both.' And a couple of swells they looked."

"And that was how you got to know Levison?"

"That was it," said Richard Hare.

"Then, Richard, you and the waterman made a mistake between you. He pointed out the wrong, or you did not look at the right. Thorn is Sir Francis Levison."

Richard stared at her with all his eyes. "Nonsense, Barbara!"

"He is. I have suspected it ever since the night you saw him in Bean-lane. The action you described, of his pushing back his hair, his white hands, his sparkling diamond ring, could only apply to one person; Francis Levison. On Thursday I drove by the Raven when he was addressing the people, and I noticed the self-same action. In the impulse of the moment I wrote off for you, that you might come and set the doubt at rest. I need not have done so: for when Mr. Carlyle returned home that evening and I acquainted him with what I had done, he told me that Thorn and Francis Levison are one and the same. Otway Bethel recognised him that same afternoon; and so did Ebenezer James."

"They would both know him," cried Richard eagerly. "James I am positive would, for he was skulking down to Hallijohn's often then, and saw Thorn a dozen times. Otway Bethel must have seen him also—though he protested he had not. Barbara!"

The name was uttered in affright, and Richard plunged amidst the trees, for somebody was in sight. A tall, dark form, advancing from the end of the walk. Barbara smiled; it was only Mr. Carlyle; and Richard emerged again.

"Fears still, Richard!" Mr. Carlyle exclaimed, as he shook Richard cordially by the hand. "So! you have changed your travelling costume!"

"I couldn't venture here again in the old suit; it had been seen, you said," returned Richard. "I bought this rig-out yesterday, second-hand. Two pounds for the lot: I think they shaved me."

"Ringlets and all?" laughed Mr. Carlyle.

"It's the old hair, oiled and curled," cried Dick. "The barber charged a shilling for doing it, and cut my hair into the bargain. I told him not to spare grease, for I liked the curls to shine: sailors always do. Mr. Carlyle, Barbara says that Levison and that brute Thorn have turned out to be the same."

"They have, Richard; as it appears. Nevertheless, it may be as well for you to take a private view of Levison, before anything is done—as you once did of the other Thorn. It would not do to make a stir, and then discover that there was a mistake—that he was not Thorn."

"When can I see him?" asked Richard eagerly.

"It must be contrived, somehow. Were you to hang about the doors of the Raven—this evening—you'd be sure to get the opportunity, for he is always passing in and out. No one will know you; or think of you either: their heads are turned with the election."

On Monday evening the interview between Lawyer Ball and Richard Hare took place. With some difficulty would the lawyer believe his tale: not as to its broad details; he saw that he might give credit to them: but as to the accusation against Sir Francis Levison. Richard persisted: mentioning every minute particular he could think of: his meeting him the night of the elopement in Bean-lane; his meetings with him again in London, and Sir Francis's evident fear of him; and the previous Saturday night's recognition at the door of the Raven. Not forgetting to tell of the anonymous letter received by Justice Hare, the morning that Richard was in hiding at Mr. Carlyle's. There was no doubt in the world it had been sent by Francis Levison to frighten Mr. Hare into despatching him out of West Lynne, had Richard taken refuge in his father's house. None had more cause to keep Dick from falling into the hands of justice, than Francis Levison.

"I believe what you say, I believe all you say, Mr. Richard, touching Thorn," debated the attorney, "but it's next to impossible to take in so astounding a fact, as that he is Sir Francis Levison."

"You can satisfy yourself of the fact from other lips than mine," said Richard. "Otway Bethel could testify to it if he would: though I doubt his willingness. But there's Ebenezer James."

"What does he know about it?" asked the attorney, in surprise. "Ebenezer James is in our office at present."

"He saw Thorn often enough in those days, and has, I hear, recognised him as Levison. You had better inquire of him. Should you object to take cause against Levison?"

"Not a bit of it. Let me be assured that I am upon safe grounds, as to the identity of the man, and I'll proceed in it forthwith. Levison is an out-and-out scoundrel, as Levison, and deserves hanging. I will send for James at once, and hear what he says," he concluded after a pause of consideration.

Richard Hare started wildly up. "Not while I am here: he must not see me. For Heaven's sake, consider the peril to me, Mr. Ball!"

"Pooh, pooh!" laughed the attorney. "Do you suppose I have but this one reception-room? We don't let cats into cages where canary-birds are kept."

Ebenezer James returned with the messenger despatched after him. "You'll be sure to find him at the singing saloon," Mr. Ball had said; and there the gentleman was found.

"Is it any copying, sir, wanted to be done in a hurry?" cried James, as he came in.

"No," replied the attorney. "I wish a question or two answered; that's all. Did you ever know Sir Francis Levison to go by any name but his own?"

"Yes, sir, he has gone by the name of Thorn."

A pause "When was this?"

" This is the afternoon we are to meet Dr. Martin at papa's office," William Carlyle had exclaimed that same day at dinner. "Do we walk in, Madame Vine?"

"I do not know, William. Mrs. Carlyle is going to take you."

"No, she is not. You are to take me."

A flush passed over Lady Isabel's face at the bare thought: though she did not believe it. She go to Mr. Carlyle's office! "Mrs. Carlyle told me herself that she should take you," was her reply.

"All I know is, that mamma said this morning you would take me in to West Lynne to-day," persisted William.

The discussion was interrupted by the appearance of Mrs. Carlyle: interrupted and decided also. "Madame Vine," she said, "you will be ready at three o'clock to go in with William."

Lady Isabel's heart beat. "I understood you to say that you should go with him yourself, madam."

"I know I did. I intended to do so. But I heard this morning that some friends from a distance are coming this afternoon to call upon me. Therefore I shall not go out."

Merrily rose West Lynne on the Thursday morning; merrily rang out the bells, clashing and chiming. The street was alive with people; the windows were crowded with heads; something unusual was astir. It was the day of nomination of the two candidates, and everybody took the opportunity to make a holiday.

Ten o'clock was the time named; but, before that hour struck, West Lynne was crammed. The county people had come in, thick and three-fold; rich and poor; people of note and people of none; voters and non-voters: all eager to mix themselves up in the day's proceedings. You see, the notorious fact of Sir Francis Levison's having come forward to oppose Mr. Carlyle, caused greater interest to attach to this election than is usual even in small country places—and that need not be. Barbara drove in to West Lynne, in her carriage; the two children with her, and the governess. The governess had wished to remain at home. Barbara would not hear of it; almost felt inclined to resent it as a slight: besides, if she took no interest in Mr. Carlyle, she must go to take care of Lucy: she, Barbara, would be too much occupied to look after children. So Madame Vine, perforce, stepped into the barouche and sat opposite to Mrs. Carlyle, her thick veil shading her features, and their pallor contrasting with the blue spectacles.

They alighted at the residence of Miss Carlyle. Quite a gathering was already there. Lady and Miss Dobede, the Herberts, Mrs. Hare, and many others; for the house was in a good spot for seeing the fun: and all people were eager to testify their respect for Mr. Carlyle. Miss Carlyle was in great grandeur; a brocaded dress, and a scarlet-and-purple bow in front of it, the size of a pumpkin. It was about the only occasion, in all Miss Carlyle's life, that she had deemed it necessary to attire herself magnificently. Barbara wore no bow, but she exhibited a splendid bouquet of scarlet and purple flowers. Mr. Carlyle had himself given it to her that morning.

Mr. Carlyle saw them all at the windows of the large upper drawing-room, and came in; he was then on his way to the Town-hall. Shaking hands, laughter, hearty and hasty good wishes; and he quitted the room again. Barbara stole after him for a sweeter farewell.

"God bless and prosper you, Archibald, my dearest!"

The business of the day began. Mr. Carlyle was proposed by Sir John Dobede, and seconded by Mr. Herbert. Lord Mount Severn, than whom not a busier man was there, would willingly have been proposer and seconder too, but he had no local influence in the place. Sir Francis Levison was proposed also by two gentlemen of standing. The show of hands was declared to be in favour of Mr. Carlyle. It was; about twenty to one. Upon which the baronet's friends demanded a poll.

Afy Hallijohn , recovered from her fainting fit, had to be smuggled out of Miss Carlyle's, as she had been smuggled in. She was of an elastic nature, and the shock, or the surprise, or the heat—or whatever it might have been—being over, Afy was herself again. She minced along, in all her vanity, on her return to Mrs. Latimer's: her laced handkerchief flourishing from one hand, and her flounces jauntily raised with the other, to the display of her worked petticoat, and her kid boots, the heels a mile high. Let Afy alone for following the fashion, however preposterous it might be.

Not very far removed from the residence of Miss Carlyle was a shop, in the cheese and ham and butter line. A very respectable shop, too, and kept by a very respectable man. A young man of a mild countenance, who had purchased the good-will of the business; and came down from London to take possession. His predecessor had amassed enough to retire, and people foretold that Mr. Jiffin would do the same. To say that Miss Carlyle dealt at the shop, will be sufficient to proclaim the good quality of the articles kept in it.

When Afy arrived opposite the shop, Mr. Jiffin was standing at the door; his shopman, inside, being at some urgent employment over the contents of a buttercask. Afy stopped. Mr. Jiffin admired her uncommonly, and she, always ready for anything in that way, had already enjoyed several passing flirtations with him.

"Good day, Miss Hallijohn," cried he, warmly, tucking up his white apron and pushing it round to the back of his waist, in the best manner he could, as he held out his hand to her. For Afy had once hinted in terms of disparagement at that very apron.

"Oh—how are you, Jiffin?" cried Afy, loftily, pretending not to have seen him standing there. And she condescended to put the tips of her white gloves into the offered hand, as she coquetted with her handkerchief, her veil, and her ringlets. I thought you would have shut up your shop to-day, Mr. Jiffin, and taken holiday."

"Business must be attended to," responded Mr. Jiffin, quite lost in the contemplation of Afy's numerous attractions, unusually conspicuous, as they were. "Had I known that you were abroad, Miss Hallijohn, and enjoying holiday, perhaps I might have taken one, too, in the hope of coming across you some where or other."

His words were bona fide as his admiration; Afy saw that. "And he's as simple as a calf," thought she.

"The greatest pleasure I have in life, Miss Hallijohn, is to see you go by the shop window," continued Mr. Jiffin. "I'm sure it's like as if the sun itself passed."

"Dear me!" bridled Afy, with a simper, "I don't know any good that can do you. You might have seen me go by an hour or two ago—if you had possessed eyes. I was on my way to Miss Carlyle's," she continued, with the air of one who proclaims the fact of a morning call upon a duchess.

"Where could my eyes have been?" ejaculated Mr. Jiffin, in an agony of regret. "In some of them precious butter-tubs, I shouldn't wonder! We have had a bad lot in, Miss Hallijohn, and I am going to return them."

"Oh," said Afy, conspicuously resenting the remark, "I don't know anything about that sort of thing. Butter-tubs are beneath me."

"Of course, of course, Miss Hallijohn," deprecated poor Jiffin. "They are very profitable, though, to those who understand the trade."

"What is all that shouting?" cried Afy, alluding to a tremendous noise in the distance, which had continued for some little time.

"It's the voters cheering Mr. Carlyle. I suppose you know that he's elected, Miss Hallijohn?"

"No, I don't."

"The other was withdrawn by his friends, so they made a short work of it; and Mr. Carlyle is our member. God bless him! there's not many like him.

"Are all these customers? Dear me, you'll have enough to do to attend to them; your man can't do it all; so I won't stay talking any longer."

With a gracious flourish of her flounces, and wave of the handkerchief, Afy sailed off. And Mr. Jiffin, when he could withdraw his fascinated eyes from following her, turned into his shop, to assist in serving four or five servant girls, who had entered it.

"It wouldn't be such a bad catch, after all," soliloquised Afy, as she and her crinoline swayed along. "Of course I'd never put my nose inside the shop— unless it was to order things, like another customer. There is a private entrance, thank goodness! And they say he has got the room over the shop beautifully fitted up as a drawing-room, with a plate-glass cheffonier, and Brussels carpet, and rosewood chairs and sofa, and all the rest of it. The parlour, too, behind the shop, is comfortable, and I 'd take care it was well furnished, if it isn't already. I'd make him buy a piano for the drawing-room: it looks stylish, even if one doesn't play upon it. And I'd keep two servants, cook and housemaid: 'tisn't I that would marry, to be waited upon by a black tinker of a maid-of-all-work. Jiffin is such a soft, he'd agree to anything. I'm sure he'd let me turn the house into a theatre if I liked, so that I left him the shop free for his business. He is welcome to that: the shop shall be his department, and the rest of the house mine. What's the good of a husband, except to work for you? They are only a worry, looking at them in any other light. I wonder how many bed-rooms there are? If there's none in the house of a good size, I'll have two rooms knocked into one. I never could sleep in a closet of a place. And I'll have a handsome bed with damask moreen hangings, one of those new Arabians, and a large mahogany wardrobe with wings, and a handsome glass and toilette, and a cheval-glass—besides the other necessary furniture. I'm not sure that I won't have a little iron bed put up for him, in a corner. Separate beds are quite the fashion now, amongst the nobility. I'll see. Yes; take it for all in all, it wouldn't be so bad a catch. The worst is the name. Jiffin. Joe Jiffin! How could I ever bear to be called Mrs. Joe Jiffin? Not but—Goodness me! what do you want?"

The magistrates took their seats on the bench. The bench would not hold them: all, in the Commission of the Peace, flocked in. Any other day, they would not have been at West Lynne. As to the room, the wonder was, how it ever got emptied again, so densely was it packed. Sir Francis Levison's friends were there in a body. They did not believe a word of the accusation: a scandalous affair, cried they, got up probably by some of the scarlet-and-purple party. Lord Mount Severn, who chose to be present, had a place assigned him on the bench; Lord Vane got the best place he could fight for amidst the crowd. Mr. Justice Hare sat as chairman, unusually stern, unbending, and grim. No favour would he show; but no unfairness: had it been to save his son from hanging, he would not adjudge guilt to Francis Levison against his conscience. Colonel Bethel was likewise on the bench; stern also.

In that primitive place—primitive in what related to the justice-room and the justices—things were not conducted with the regularity of the law. The law there was often a dead letter. No very grave cases were decided there: they went to Lynneborough; a month at the treadmill, or a week's imprisonment, or a bout of whipping for juveniles, were pretty nearly the harshest sentences pronounced. In this examination, as in others, evidence was advanced that was inadmissible— at least that would have been inadmissible in a more orthodox court; hearsay testimony, and irregularities of that nature. Mr. Rubiny watched the case on behalf of Sir Francis Levison.

Mr. Ball opened the proceedings; giving the account which had been imparted to him by Richard Hare: but not mentioning Richard as his informant. He was questioned as to whence he obtained his information, but replied that it was not convenient at present to disclose the source. The stumbling-block to the magistrates appeared to be, the identifying Levison with Thorn. Ebenezer James came forward to prove it.

"What do you know of the prisoner, Sir Francis Levison?" questioned Justice Herbert.

"Not much," responded Mr. Ebenezer. "I used to know him as Captain Thorn."

" Captain Thorn?"

"Afy Hallijohn called him captain; but I understood he was but a lieutenant."

"From whom did you understand that?"

"From Afy. She was the only person I heard speak of him."

"And you say you were in the habit of seeing him? —in the place mentioned, the Abbey Wood?"

"I saw him there repeatediy: also at Hallijohn's cottage."

"Did you speak with him—as Thorn?"

"Two or three times. I addressed him as Thorn, and he answered to the name. I had no suspicion but what it was his name. Otway Bethel"—casting his eyes on Mr. Otway, who stood in his shaggy attire— "also knew him as Thorn; and so, I make no doubt, did Locksley, for he was always in the wood."

"Anybody else?"

"Poor Hallijohn himself knew him as Thorn. He said to Afy one day, in my presence, that he would not have that confounded dandy, Thorn, coming there."

"Were those the words he used?"

"They were. 'That confounded dandy, Thorn.' I remember Afy's reply: it was rather insolent. She said Thorn was as free to come there as anybody else; and she would not be found fault with, as though she was not fit to take care of herself."

"That is nothing to the purpose. Were any others acquainted with this Thorn?"

"I should imagine the elder sister, Joyce, was. And the one who knew him best of all, was young Richard Hare."

Old Richard Hare, from his place on the bench, frowned menacingly at an imaginary Richard.

"What took Thorn into the wood so often?"

"He was courting Afy."

"With an intention of marrying her?"

"Well—no," cried Mr. Ebenezer, with a twist of the mouth; "I should not suppose he entertained any intention of that sort. He used to come over from Swainson, or its neighbourhood; riding a splendid horse."

"Whom did you suppose him to be?"

"I supposed him to be moving in the upper ranks of life. There was no doubt of it. His dress, his manners, his tone, all proclaimed it. He appeared to wish to shun observation, and evidently did not care to be seen. He rarely arrived until twilight."

"Did you see him there on the night of Hallijohn's murder?"

"No. I was not there myself that evening, so could not have seen him."

"Did a suspicion cross your mind at any time that he may have been guilty of the murder?"

"Never. Richard Hare was accused of it, and it never occurred to me to suppose he had not done it."

"Pray how many years is this ago?" sharply interrupted Mr. Rubiny, perceiving that the witness was done with.

"Let's see?" responded Mr. Ebenezer. "I can't be sure as to a year, without reckoning up. A dozen, if not more."

"And you mean to say that you can swear to Sir Francis Levison being that man—with all those years intervening?"

"I swear that he is the same man. I am as positive of his identity as I am of my own."

"Without having seen him from that time to this!" derisively returned the lawyer. "Nonsense, witness!"

"I did not say that," returned Mr. Ebenezer.

The court pricked up its ears. "Have you seen him between then and now?" asked one of them.

"Once."

"Where, and when?"

"It was in London. About eighteen months after the period of the murder."

"What communication had you with him?"

"None at all. I only saw him. Quite by chance."

Miss Lucy was en pénitence . She had been guilty of some childish fault that day at Aunt Cornelia's, which, coming to the knowledge of Mrs. Carlyle after their return home, the young lady was ordered to the nursery for the rest of the day, to be regaled upon bread and water.

Barbara was in her pleasant dressing-room. There was to be a dinner party at East Lynne that evening, and she had just finished dressing. Very lovely she looked in her dinner-dress, with purple and scarlet flowers, just plucked from the conservatory, in her hair, and a bonquet of scarlet and purple flowers in her bosom. She glanced at her watch somewhat anxiously, for the gentlemen had not made their appearance. Half past six! and they were to dine at seven.

Madame Vine tapped at the door. Her errand was to beg grace for Lucy, who had been promised half an hour in the drawing-room, when the ladies entered it from the dessert-table, and was now in an agony of grief at the disappointment. Would Mrs. Carlyle pardon her and allow her to be dressed?

"You are too lenient to that child, madame," said Barbara. "I don't think you ever would punish her at all. But when she commits faults, they must be corrected."

"She is very sorry for her fault; she promises not to be rude again. She is crying as if she would cry her heart out."

"Not for her ill-behaviour, but because she is afraid of missing the drawing-room to-night," cried Barbara.

"Do pray restore her to favour," pleaded madame.

"I shall see. Just look, Madame Vine! I broke this, a minute or two ago. Is it not a pity?"

Barbara held in her hand a beautiful toilette ornament, set in gold. One of the petals had come off.

Madame Vine examined it. "I have some cement up-stairs that would join it," she exclaimed. "I could do it in two minutes."

"Oh, I wish you would," was Barbara's delighted response. "Do bring the cement here and join it now. Shall I bribe you?" she added, laughing. "You make this all right, and then you shall bear back grace to Lucy—for I perceive that is what your heart is set upon."

Madame Vine went, and returned with her cement. Barbara watched her, as she took the pieces in her hand, to see how the one must fit on to the other.

"This has been broken once before, Joyce tells me," Barbara said. "But it must have been imperceptibly joined, for I have looked in vain for the damage. Mr. Carlyle bought it for his first wife when they were in London after their marriage. She broke it. You will never do it, Madame Vine, if your hand shakes like that. What is the matter?"

A great deal was the matter. First, the ominous words had been upon her tongue. "It was broken here, where the stem joins the flower:" but she recollected herself in time. Next, came up the past vision of the place and hour when the accident occurred. Her sleeve had swept it off the table; Mr. Carlyle was in the room, this very room, and he had soothed her sorrow, her almost childish sorrow, with kisses sweet. Ah me! poor thing! I think our hands would have shaken as hers did. The ornament and the kisses were Barbara's now.

"I ran quickly up the stairs and back again," was the explanation she offered to Mrs. Carlyle for her shaking hands.

At that moment Mr. Carlyle and their guests were heard to return, and to ascend to their respective apartments, Lord Vane's gleeful voice echoing through the house. Mr. Carlyle came into his wife's dressing-room, and Madame Vine would have made a precipitate retreat.

"No, no," said Barbara, "finish it now you have begun. Mr. Carlyle will be going to his own room. Look at the misfortune I have had, Archibald! I have broken this."

Mr. Carlyle glanced carelessly at the trinket, and at Madame Vine's white fingers. He crossed to the door of his dressing-room and opened it, then held out his hand in silence for Barbara to approach, and drew her in with him. Madame Vine went on with her work.

Presently Barbara returned: and approached the table, where stood Madame Vine, while she drew on her gloves. Her eyelashes were wet.

"I could not help shedding a few tears for joy," said Barbara, perceiving that Madame Vine observed the signs. "Mr. Carlyle has been telling me that my brother's innocence is now all but patent to the world. Lord Mount Severn was present at the proceedings, and says they have criminated each other. Papa sat in his place as chairman: I wonder that he liked to do so!"

Lower bent the head of Madame Vine over her employment. "Has anything been proved against them?" she asked, in her usual soft tone, almost a whisper.

"There is not the least doubt of the guilt of Levison, but Otway Bethel's share in the affair is a puzzle yet," replied Mrs. Carlyle. "Both are committed for trial. Oh, that man, that man! how his sins come out!" she continued, in excitement.

Madame Vine glanced up through her spectacles.

"Would you believe," continued Barbara, dropping her voice, "that while West Lynne, and I fear we ourselves, gave that miserable Afy credit for having gone away with Richard, she was, all the time, with Levison? Ball the lawyer got her to confess to it to-day. I am unacquainted with the details: Mr. Carlyle would not give them to me. He said the bare fact was quite enough."

Mr. Carlyle was right.

"Out it all seems to come, little by little! one wickedness after another!" resumed Barbara. "I do not like Mr. Carlyle to hear it. Of course there is no help for it; but he must feel it terribly; as must Lord Mount Severn. She was his wife, you know, and the children are hers: and to think that she—I mean he must feel it for her ," went on Barbara after her sudden pause, and there was some hauteur in her tone, lest she should be misunderstood. "Mr. Carlyle is one of the very few men, so entirely noble, whom the sort of disgrace, reflected from Lady Isabel's conduct, cannot touch."

The carriage of the first guest. Barbara ran across the room, and rattled at Mr. Carlyle's door. "Archibald! do you hear?"

Back came the laughing answer. "I shan't keep them long. But they may surely accord a few minutes' grace to a man who has just been converted into an M.P."

Barbara descended to the drawing-room. Leaving that unhappy lady to the cement and the broken pieces, and to battle as she best could with her breaking heart. Nothing but stabs; nothing but stabs! Was her punishment ever to end? No. The step she had taken, in coming back to East Lynne, precluded that.

The guests arrived. All save Mr. and Mrs. Hare. Barbara received a note from her mamma instead. The justice did not feel well enough to join them.

I should think he did not. If retribution came home sharply to Lady Isabel, it was coming home in some degree to him. Richard, his own unoffending son— unoffending in every sense of the term, until that escapade of falling in love with Afy—had been treated with unnatural harshness. West Lynne and the public would not fail to remember it—and the justice was remarkably alive to West Lynne and the public's opinion. The affection for Richard, which the justice had been pressing down and keeping under, and turning into all possible channels of hate, was now returning in unpleasant force. Unpleasant, in so far as that it did savage war with his conscience.

"I—I—might have hunted him to death, you know, Anne," said the justice, sitting in his chair, and wiping his brows, and eating humble pie for perhaps the first time in his life.

"But it is over now, Richard dear," said gentle loving Mrs. Hare, the happy tears coursing down her cheeks.

"But I might —had he made his appearance here. In fact, I should."

"Do not grieve, Richard; it will not recall the past. In a little time we may have him home again with us; and then we can both make it up to him."

"And how are we to get him here? He may be dead. Who knows where he is? He may be dead, I say."

"No, he is not. We shall get him when the time comes. Mr. Carlyle knows where he is; has known a long while, he told me to-day: even sees him sometimes. A true friend to us all Richard, is Archibald Carlyle."

"Ay. That jade, Barbara, is in luck. I shouldn't be surprised but what she knows too; if he does. A good girl, a good girl, though she puts up at times for saucy independence."

Mrs. Hare could scarcely make her husband out, his tone and manner were so thoroughly changed from what she had ever known them.

"But I can't believe it's true yet, Anne. I can't indeed. If he is innocent, why couldn't he have been cleared before? It is so many years ago, you know! Do you think he is innocent?"

"Dear Richard, I know he is," she answered, with a happy smile. "I have been sure of it a long, long while. And so has Mr. Carlyle."

"Well, that's something. Carlyle's judgment is. Is his room aired—and all that?"

"Whose room?" echoed Mrs. Hare.

"Poor Dick's."

Spring waned. Summer came, and would soon be waning, too, for the hot days of July were now in. What had the months brought forth, since the election of Mr. Carlyle in April? Be you very sure they had not been without their events.

Mr. Justice Hare's illness had turned out to be a stroke of paralysis. People cannot act with unnatural harshness towards a child, and then discover they have been in the wrong, with impunity. Thus it proved with Justice Hare. He was recovering, but would never again be the man he had been. The fright, when Jasper had gone to tell of his illness at East Lynne, and was mistaken for fire, had done nobody any damage, save William and Joyce. William had caught a cold, which brought increased malady to the lungs; and Joyce seemed to have caught fear . She went about, more like one in a dream than awake, would be buried in a reverie for an hour at a time, and, if suddenly spoken to, would start and shiver.

Mr. Carlyle and his wife departed for London, immediately that Mr. Hare was pronounced out of danger; which was in about a week from the time of his seizure. William accompanied them: partly for the benefit of London advice, partly because Mr. Carlyle would not be parted from him. Joyce went, in attendance, with some of the other servants.

They found London ringing with the news of Sir Francis Levison's arrest. London could not understand it: and the most wild and improbable tales were in circulation. The season was at its height; the excitement in proportion; it was more than a nine day's wonder. On the very evening of their arrival, a lady, young and beautiful, was shown into the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle. She had declined to give her name, but there arose to Mr. Carlyle's memory, when he looked on her, one whom he had seen in earlier days, as a friend of his first wife: Blanche Challoner. It was not Blanche, however.

The stranger looked keenly at Mr. Carlyle. He was standing with his hat in his hand, on the point of going out. "Will you pardon this intrusion?" she asked. "I have come to you, as one human being, in need, comes to crave help of another. I am Lady Levison."

Barbara's face flushed. Mr. Carlyle courteously invited the stranger to a chair, and remained standing himself. She sat for a moment, and then rose evidently in an excess of agitation.

"Yes, I am Lady Levison. Forced to call that man husband. That he has been a wicked man, I have long known; but now, I hear he is a criminal. I hear it, I say, but I can get the truth from none. I went to Lord Mount Severn; he declined to give me particulars. I heard that Mr. Carlyle would be in town as to-day; and I resolved to come and ask them of him."

She delivered the sentences in a jerking, abrupt tone, betraying her inward emotion. Mr. Carlyle made no immediate reply.

"You and I have both been deeply wronged by him, Mr. Carlyle. But I brought my wrong upon myself: you did not. My sister Blanche, whom he had cruelly treated—and, if I speak of it, I only speak of what is known to the world—warned me against him. Mrs. Levison, his grandmother, that ancient lady, who must now be bordering upon ninety, warned me also. The night before my wedding-day, she came on purpose to tell me that if I married Francis Levison I should rue it for life: there was yet time to retract, she said. Yes; there was time; but there was no will . I would not listen to either: I was led away by vanity, by folly, by something worse—the triumph over my own sister. Poor Blanche! And I have a child," she continued, dropping her voice; "a boy who inherits his father's name. Mr. Carlyle"—bending forward and clasping her hands, while her face looked like one carved from stone—"will they condemn him?"

"Nothing, as yet, is positively proved against him," replied Mr. Carlyle, compassionately.

"If I could but get a divorce!" she cried passionately, apparently losing all self-control. "I might have got one, over and over again, since we married; but there would have been the exposé and the scandal. If I could but change my child's name! Tell me— does any chance of redress remain for me?"

There was none: and Mr. Carlyle did not attempt to speak of any. He said a few kind words of sympathy, and prepared to go out. She moved, and stood in his way.

"You will not leave until you have given me the particulars! I pray you, do not! I came trustingly to you, hoping to know them."

"I have to keep an important engagement," he answered; "and, even if it were not so, I should decline to tell them to you; on my own account, as well as on yours. Lay not discourtesy to my charge, Lady Levison: but if I were to speak of the man, even to you, his name would blister my lips."

"In every word of hate, spoken by you, I should sympathise; every contemptuous expression of scorn, cast upon him from your heart, I would re-echo."

Barbara was shocked. "He is your husband, after all," she whispered.

"My husband!" burst out Lady Levison passionately. "Yes, there is the wrong he has done me! Why— knowing what he was, and what he had done—why did he delude me into becoming his wife? You ought to feel pity for me Mrs. Carlyle, and you do feel it, for you are a wife and a mother. How dare these bad men marry!" she cried, incoherently. "Were his other sins not hindrance enough, but with crime also on his conscience he must come with his bold face to woo me with lies! He has done me deep, irremediable wrong, and he has entailed upon his child an inheritance of shame which can never be thrown off."

Barbara was half frightened at her vehemence: but Barbara might be thankful that she could not understand it. All Lady Levison's native gentleness, all her reticence of feeling, as a wife and a gentlewoman, had been goaded out of her. The process had been going on for some time, this last revelation was the crowning point, and Alice, Lady Levison, turned round upon the world in her helpless resentment, as vehemently as any poor charwoman might have done. There are certain wrongs which bring out human nature in the high and the low alike. "Still, he is your husband," was all Barbara could, with deprecation, again plead.

"He made himself my husband by deceit, and I will throw him off in the face of day," returned Lady Levison. "There is no moral obligation why I should not. He has worked ill and ruin, ill and ruin upon me and my child; and the world shall not think I have borne my share in it. How was it you kept your hands off him, when he reappeared, to brave you, in West Lynne?" she added, in a changed tone, turning to Mr. Carlyle.

"I cannot tell. It was a marvel oftentimes to myself."

He quitted the room as he spoke, adding a few kind-spoken words about leaving her with Mrs. Carlyle. When they were alone, Barbara yielded to Lady Levison's request, and gave her the outline of the dark tale. Its outline only: generously suppressing Afy's name beyond the evening of the fatal event. Lady Levison listened without interruption.

"Do you and Mr. Carlyle believe him to have been guilty?"

"Yes."

"Was his first wife, Isabel Vane, mad?" she presently asked.

'Mad?' echoed Barbara, in surprise.

"When she quitted him for the other. It could have been nothing less than madness. I could understand a woman's flying from Francis Levison for love of Mr. Carlyle; but, now that I have seen your husband, I cannot understand the reverse."

Spacious courts were the assize courts of Lynneborough. And it was well they were so: otherwise more people had been disappointed, and numbers were, of hearing the noted trial of Sir Francis Levison for the murder of George Hallijohn.

The circumstances attending the case caused it to bear for the public an unparalleled interest. The rank of the accused, and his antecedents, more especially that particular, local antecedent touching the Lady Isabel Carlyle; the verdict still out against Richard Hare; the length of time which had elapsed; the part played in it by Afy; the intense curiosity as to the part taken in it by Otway Bethel; the speculation as to what had been the exact details, and the doubt of a conviction; all contributed to fan the curiosity of the public. People came from far and near to be present. Friends of Mr. Carlyle, friends of the Hares, friends of the Challoner family, friends of the prisoner; besides the general public. Colonel Bethel, and Mr. Justice Hare, had conspicuous seats.

At a few minutes past nine the judge took his place on the bench. But not before a rumour had gone through the court: a rumour that seemed to shake it to its centre, and which people stretched out their necks to hear. Otway Bethel had turned Queen's evidence, and was to be admitted as witness for the crown.

Thin, haggard, pale, looked Francis Levison as he was placed in the dock. His incarceration had not in any way contributed to his personal advantages: and there was an ever-recurring expression of dread upon his countenance, not pleasant to look upon. He was dressed in black, and his diamond ring shone conspicuous still on his white hand, now whiter than ever. The most eminent counsel were engaged on both sides.

The testimony of the witnesses, already given, need not be recapitulated. The identification of the prisoner with the man Thorn was fully established. Ebenezer James proved that. Afy proved it; and also that he, Thorn, was at the cottage that night. Sir Peter Levison's groom was likewise re-examined. But still there wanted other testimony. Afy was made to reassert that Thorn had to go to the cottage for his hat, after leaving her: but that proved nothing: and the conversation, or quarrel, overheard by Mr. Dill, was not again put forward. If this was all the evidence, people opined that the case for the prosecution would break down.

"Call Richard Hare," said the counsel for the prosecution.

Those present, who knew Mr. Justice Hare, looked up at him; wondering why he did not stir, in answer to his name; wondering at the pallid hue which overspread his face. Not he , but another man came forward; a fair, placid young man, with blue eyes, fair hair, and a pleasant countenance. It was Richard Hare the younger. He had resumed his original position in life, so far as attire went, and in that, at least, was a gentleman again: in speech also. With his working dress, Richard had thrown off his working manners.

A strange hubbub arose in court. Richard Hare the exile! the reported dead! the man whose life was still in jeopardy! The spectators rose with one accord to get a better view; they stood on tiptoe; they pushed forth their necks; they strained their eyesight: and, amidst all the noisy hum, the groan, bursting from the lips of Justice Hare, was unnoticed. Whilst order was called for, and the judge threatened to clear the court, two officers moved quietly up and stood behind the witness. Richard Hare was in custody: though he might know it not. The witness was sworn.

"What is your name?"

"Richard Hare."

"Son of Mr. Justice Hare, I believe; of the Grove, West Lynne?"

"His only son."

"The same against whom a verdict of wilful murder is out?" interposed the judge.

"The same, my lord," replied Richard Hare, who appeared, strange as it may seem, to have cast away all his old fearfulness.

"Then, witness, let me warn you that you are not obliged to answer any question that might tend to criminate yourself."

"My lord," answered Richard Hare, with some emotion, "I wish to answer any and every question put to me. I have but one hope: that the full truth of all pertaining to that fatal evening may be made manifest this day."

"Look round at the prisoner," said the examining counsel. "Do you know him?"

"I know him now as Sir Francis Levison. Up to April last, I believed his name to be Thorn."

"State what occurred on the evening of the murder —so far as your knowledge goes."

"I had an appointment that evening with Afy Hallijohn, and went down to their cottage to keep it—"

"A moment," interrupted the counsel. "Was your visit that evening made in secret?"

"Partially so. My father and mother were displeased at my intimacy with Afy Hallijohn: therefore, I did not care that they should be cognisant of my visits there. I am ashamed to confess that I told my father a lie over it that very evening. He saw me leave the dinner-table to go out with my gun, and inquired where I was off to. I answered, that I was going out with young Beauchamp."

"When, in point of fact, you were not?"

"No. I took my gun, for I had promised to lend it to Hallijohn, while his own was being repaired. When I reached the cottage, Afy refused to admit me: she was busy, she said. I felt sure she had Thorn with her. She had, more than once before, refused to admit me when I had gone there by her own appointment; and I always found that Thorn's presence in the cottage was the obstacle."

"I suppose you and Thorn were jealous of each other?"

"I was jealous of him: I freely admit it. I don't know whether he was of me."

By the side of William Carlyle's dying bed, knelt the Lady Isabel. The time was at hand, and the boy was quite reconciled to his fate. Merciful indeed is God to dying children! It is astonishing how very readily, where the right means are taken, they may be brought to look with pleasure, rather than fear, upon their unknown journey.

The brilliant hectic, type of the disease, had gone from his cheeks, his features were white and wasted, and his eyes large and bright. His silky brown hair was pushed off his temples, and his little hot hands were thrown outside the bed.

"It won't be so very long to wait, you know, will it, Madame Vine?"

"For what, darling?"

"Before they all come. Papa and mamma, and Lucy, and all of them."

A jealous feeling shot across her wearied heart. Was she nothing to him? "Do you not care that I should come to you, William?"

"Yes, I hope you will. But, do you think we shall know everybody in heaven? Or will it be only our own relations?"