A sighing morning 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 chestnuts in the park, a melancholy, sweeping, fitful wind. The weather had changed from brightness and warmth, and heavy, gathering clouds seemed to be threatening rain; so, at least, deemed one wayfarer, who was journeying on a solitary road that Saturday night.
He was on foot. A man attired in the garb of a sailor, with black, curling ringlets of hair, and black, curling whiskers; a prodigious pair of whiskers, hiding his neck above his blue, turned collar, hiding partially his face. The glazed hat, brought low upon his brows, concealed it still more; and he wore a loose, rough 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 me see,” mused he as he closed the gate behind him, and slipped the 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—nearly a year old he is now; I shall have another soon, God willing. And Archibald—oh, I am so happy!”
She broke suddenly off with the name “Archibald;” not even to Richard could she speak of her intense love for, and happiness in her husband.
“How is it at the Grove?” he asked.
“Quite well; quite as usual. 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 the last time, you remember.”
“All in good time to talk of that. How are you getting on in Liverpool? What are you doing?”
“Don’t inquire too closely, Barbara. I have no regular work, but I get a job at the docks, now and then, and rub on. It is seasonable help, that, which comes to me occasionally from you. Is it from you or Carlyle?”
Barbara laughed. “How are we to distinguish? His money is mine now, and mine is his. We don’t have 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 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 after his doing with Lady Isabel?”
“I don’t know,” said Barbara. “I wonder that he should come here for other reasons also. First of all, Richard, tell me how you came to know Sir Francis Levison. You say you did know him, and that you had seen him with Thorn.”
“So I do know him,” answered Richard. “And I saw him with Thorn twice.”
“Know him by sight only, I presume. Let me hear how you came to know him.”
“He was pointed out to me. I saw him walk arm-in-arm with 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—which I didn’t do. ‘I don’t know that one,’ the old chap answered, ‘but the one with him is Levison the baronet. They are often together—a couple of swells they looked.’”
“And that’s how you got to know Levison?”
“That was it,” said Richard Hare.
“Then, Richard, you and the waterman made a mess of it between you. He pointed out the wrong one, or you did not look at the right. Thorn is Sir Francis Levison.”
Richard stared at her with all his eyes.
“Nonsense, Barbara!”
“He is, I have never doubted it 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 in my mind to one person—Francis Levison. On Thursday I drove by the Raven, when he was speechifying to the people, and I noticed the selfsame action. In the impulse of the moment I wrote off for you, that you might come and set the doubt at rest. I need not have done it, it seems, for when Mr. 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 recognized him that same afternoon, and so did Ebenezer James.”
“They’d both know him,” eagerly cried Richard. “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 toggery.”
“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—the one’s as much of a brute as the other, though—have turned out to be the same.”
“They have, Richard, as it appears. Nevertheless, it may be as well for you to take a private view of Levison before anything is done—as you once did by the other Thorn. It would not do to make a 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, even—you’d be sure to get the opportunity, for he is always passing in and out. No one will know you, or think of you, either: their heads are turned with the election.”
“I shall look odd to people’s eyes. You don’t get many sailors in West Lynne.”
“Not odd at all. We have a Russian bear here at present, and you’ll be nobody beside him.”
“A Russian bear!” repeated Richard, while Barbara laughed.
“Mr. Otway Bethel has returned in what is popularly supposed to be a bear’s hide; hence the new name he is greeted with. Will it turn out, Richard that he had anything to do with the murder?”
Richard shook his head.
“He couldn’t have, Mr. Carlyle; I have said so all along. But about Levison. If I find him to be the man Thorn, what steps can then be taken?”
“That’s the difficulty,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“Who will set it agoing. Who will move in it?”
“You must, Richard.”
“I!” uttered Richard Hare, in consternation. “I move in it!”
“You, yourself. Who else is there? I have been thinking it well over, and can hit upon no one.”
“Why, won’t you take it upon yourself, Mr. Carlyle?”
“No. Being Levison,” was the answer.
“Curse him!” impetuously retorted Richard. “Curse him doubly if he be the double villain. But why should you scruple Mr. Carlyle? Most men, wronged as you have been, would leap at the opportunity for revenge.”
“For the crime perpetrated upon Hallijohn I would pursue him to the scaffold. For my own wrong, no. But the remaining negative has cost me something. Many a time, since this appearance of his at West Lynne, have I been obliged to lay violent control upon myself, or I should have horsewhipped him within an ace of his life.”
“If you horsewhipped him to death he would only meet his deserts.”
“I leave him to a higher retribution—to One who says, ‘Vengeance is mine.’ I believe him to be guilty of the murder but if the uplifting of my finger would send him to his disgraceful death, I would tie down my hand rather than lift it, for I could not, in my own mind, separate the man from the injury. Though I might ostensibly pursue him as the destroyer of Hallijohn, to me he would appear ever as the destroyer of another, and the world, always charitable, would congratulate Mr. Carlyle upon gratifying his revenge. I stir in it not, Richard.”
“Couldn’t Barbara?” pleaded Richard.
Barbara was standing with her arm entwined within her husband’s, and Mr. Carlyle looked down as he answered,—
“Barbara is my wife.”
It was a sufficient answer.
“Then the thing’s again at an end,” said Richard, gloomily, “and I must give up hope of ever being cleared.”
“By no means,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The one who ought to act in this is your father, Richard; but we know he will not. Your mother cannot. She has neither health nor energy for it; and if she had a full supply of both, she would not dare to brave her husband and use them in the cause. My hands are tied; Barbara’s equally so, as part of me. There only remains yourself.”
“And what can I do?” wailed poor Dick. “If your hands are tied, I’m sure my whole body is, speaking in comparison; hands, and legs, andneck. It’s in jeopardy, that is, every hour.”
“Your acting in this affair need not put it any the more in jeopardy. You must stay in the neighborhood for a few days—”
“I dare not,” interposed Richard, in a fright. “Stay in the neighborhood for a few days! No; that I never may.”
“Listen, Richard. You must put away these timorous fears, or else you must make up your mind to remain under the ban for good; and, remember, your mother’s happiness is at stake equally with yours—I could almost say her life. Do you suppose I would advise you for danger? You used to say there was some place, a mile or two from this, where you could sojourn in safety.”
“So there is. But I always feel safer when I get away from it.”
“There your quarters must be, for two or three days at any rate. I have turned matters over in my own mind, and will tell you what I think should be done, so far as the preliminary step goes, though I do not interfere myself.”
“Only the preliminary step! There must be a pretty many to follow it, sir, if it’s to come to anything. Well, what is it?”
“Apply to Ball & Treadman, and get them to take it.”
They were now slowly pacing the covered walk, Barbara on her husband’s arm, Richard by the side of Mr. Carlyle. Dick stopped when he heard the last words.
“I don’t understand you, Mr. Carlyle. You might as well advise me to go before the bench of magistrates at once. Ball & Treadman would walk me off there as soon as I showed myself.”
“Nothing of the sort, Richard. I do not tell you to go openly to their office, as another client would. What I would advise is this—make a friend of Mr. Ball; he can be a good man and true, if he chooses; tell the whole story to him in a private place and interview, and ask him whether he will carry it through. If he is fully impressed with the conviction that you are innocent, as the facts appear to warrant, he will undertake it. Treadman need know nothing of the affair at first; and when Ball puts things in motion, he need not know that you are here, or where you are to be found.”
“I don’t dislike Ball,” mused Richard, “and if he would only give his word to be true, I know he would be. The difficulty will be, who is to get the promise from him?”
“I will,” said Mr. Carlyle. “I will so far pave the way for you. That done, my interference is over.”
“How will he go about it, think you, if he does take it up?”
“That is his affair. I know how I should.”
“How, sir?”
“You cannot expect me to say, Richard. I might as well act for you.”
“I know. You’d go at it slap-dash, and arrest Levison offhand on the charge.”
A smile parted Mr. Carlyle’s lips, for Dick had just guessed it. But his countenance gave no clue by which anything could be gathered.
A thought flashed across Richard’s mind; a thought which rose up on end even his false hair. “Mr. Carlyle,” he uttered, in an accent of horror, “if Ball should take it up in that way against Levison, he must apply to the bench for a warrant.”
“Well?” quietly returned Mr. Carlyle.
“And they’d send and clap me into prison. You know the warrant is always out against me.”
“You’d never make a conjurer, Richard. I don’t pretend to say, or guess at, what Ball’s proceedings may be. But, in applying to the bench for a warrant against Levison—should that form part of them—is there any necessity for him to bring you in—to say: ‘Gentlemen, Richard Hare is within reach, ready to be taken?’ Your fears run away with your common sense, Richard.”
“Ah, well, if you had lived with the cord around your neck this many a year, not knowing any one hour but it might get tied the next, you’d lose your common sense, too, at times,” humbly sighed poor Richard. “What’s to be my first move, sir?”
“Your first move, Richard, must be to go to this place of concealment, which you know of, and remain quiet there until Monday. On Monday, at dusk, be here again. Meanwhile, I will see Ball. By the way, though, before speaking to Ball, I must hear from yourself that Thorn and Levison are one.”
“I will go down to the Raven at once,” eagerly cried Richard. “I’ll come back here, to this walk, as soon as I have obtained sight of him.” With the last words he turned, and was speeding off, when Barbara caught him.
“You will be so tired, Richard.”
“Tired!” echoed Richard Hare. “A hundred miles on foot would not tire me if Thorn was at the end of them, waiting to be identified. I may not be back for two or three hours, but I will come, and wait here till you come out to me.”
“You must be hungry and thirsty,” returned Barbara, the tears in her eyes. “How I wish we dare have you in, and shelter you. But I can manage to bring some refreshments out here.”
“I don’t require it, Barbara. I left the train at the station next before West Lynne, and dropped into a roadside public house as I walked, and got a good supper. Let me go, dear, I am all in a fever.”
Richard departed, reached the part of West Lynne where the Raven was situated, and was so far favored by fortune that he had not long to wait. Scarcely had he taken up his lounge outside, when two gentlemen came forth from it, arm-in-arm. Being the headquarters of one of the candidates, the idlers of the place thought they could not do better than make it their headquarters also, and the road and pavement were never free from loitering starers and gossipers. Richard Hare, his hat well over his eyes, and his black ringlets made the most of, only added one to the rest.
Two gentlemen came forth, arm-in-arm. The loiterers raised a feeble shout of “Levison forever!” Richard did not join in the shout, but his pulses were beating, and his heart leaped up within him. The one was Thorn; the other the gentleman he had seen with Thorn in London, pointed out to him—as he had believed—as Sir Francis Levison.
“Which of those two is Levison?” he inquired of a man near whom he stood.
“Don’t you know him? Him with the hat off, bowing his thanks to us, is Levison.”
No need to inquire further. It was the Thorn of Richard’s memory. His ungloved hand, raised to his hat, was as white as ever; more sparkling than ever, as it flashed in the street gaslight, was the diamond ring. By the hand and ring alone Richard would have sworn to the man, had it been needful.
“Who is the other one?” he continued.
“Some gent as came down from London with him. His name’s Drake. Be you yellow, sailor, or be you scarlet-and-purple?”
“I am neither. I am only a stranger, passing through the town.”
“On the tramp?”
“Tramp? No.” And Richard moved away, to make the best of his progress to East Lynne and report to Mr. Carlyle.
Now it happened, on that windy night, that Lady Isabel, her mind disordered, her brow fevered with its weight of care, stole out into the grounds, after the children had left her for the night, courting any discomfort she might meet. As if they could, even for a moment, cool the fire within! To the solitude of this very covered walk bent she her steps; and, not long had she paced it, when she descried some man advancing, in the garb of a sailor. Not caring to be seen, she turned short off amidst the trees, intending to emerge again when he had passed. She wondered who he was, and what brought him there.
But he did not pass. He lingered in the walk, keeping her a prisoner. A minute more and she saw him joined by Mrs. Carlyle. They met with a loving embrace.
Embrace a strange man? Mrs. Carlyle? All the blood in Lady Isabel’s body rushed to her brain. Was she, his second wife, false to him—more shamelessly false than even herself had been, inasmuch as she had had the grace to quit him and East Lynne before—as the servant girls say, when they change their sweethearts—“taking up” with another? The positive conviction that such was the case seized firm hold upon her fancy; her thoughts were in a tumult, her mind was a chaos. Was there any small corner of rejoicing in her heart that it was so? And yet, what was it to her? It could not alter by one iota her own position—it could not restore to her the love she had forfeited.
Coupled lovingly together, they were now sauntering up the walk, the sailor’s arm thrown round the waist of Mrs. Carlyle. “Oh! The shameless woman!” Ay; she could be bitter enough upon graceless doings when enacted by another.
But, what was her astonishment when she saw Mr. Carlyle advance, and that his appearance caused not the slightest change in their gracelessness, for the sailor’s arm was not withdrawn. Two or three minutes they stood—the three—talking together in a group. Then the good-nights were exchanged, the sailor left them, and Mr. Carlyle, his own arm lovingly pressed where the other’s had been, withdrew with his wife. The truth—that it was Barbara’s brother—dashed to the mind of Lady Isabel.
“Was I mad?” she cried, with a hollow laugh. “Shefalse to him? No, no; that fate was reserved for me alone!”
She followed them to the house—she glanced in at the windows of the drawing-room. Lights and fire were in the room, but the curtains and windows were not closed for the night, for it was through those windows that Mr. Carlyle and his wife had passed in and out on their visits to the covered walk. There they were, alone in their happiness, and she stopped to glance in upon it. Lord Mount Severn had departed for London, to be down again early in the week. The tea was on the table, but Barbara had not begun to make it. She sat on the sofa, by the fire, her face, with its ever loving gaze upon it, turned up to her husband’s. He stood near, was talking with apparent earnestness, and looking down at Barbara. Another moment, and a smile crossed his lips, the same sweet smile so often bent upon her in the bygone days. Yes, they were together in their unclouded happiness, and she—she turned away toward her own lonely sitting-room, sick and faint at heart.
Ball & Treadman, as the brass plate on their office door intimated, were conveyancers and attorneys at law. Mr. Treadman, who attended chiefly to the conveyancing, lived at the office, with his family. Mr. Ball, a bachelor, lived away; Lawyer Ball, West Lynne styled him. Not a young bachelor; midway, he may have been between forty and fifty. A short stout man, with a keen face and green eyes. He took up any practice that was brought to him—dirty odds and ends that Mr. Carlyle would not have touched with his toe—but, as that gentleman had remarked, he could be honest and true upon occasion, and there was no doubt that he would be so to Richard Hare. To his house, on Monday morning, early, so as to catch him before he went out, proceeded Mr. Carlyle. A high respect for Mr. Carlyle had Lawyer Ball, as he had had for his father before him. Many a good turn had the Carlyles done him, if only helping him and his partner to clients whom they were too fastidious to take up. But the two, Mr. Carlyle and Lawyer Ball did not rank alike, though their profession was the same; Lawyer Ball knew that they did not, and was content to feel humble. The one was a received gentleman; the other was a country attorney.
Lawyer Ball was at breakfast when Mr. Carlyle was shown in.
“Halloo, Carlyle! You are here betimes.”
“Sit still; don’t disturb yourself. Don’t ring; I have breakfasted.”
“The most deliciouspate de foie,” urged Lawyer Ball, who was a regular gourmand. “I get ‘em direct from Strasbourg.”
Mr. Carlyle resisted the offered dainty with a smile. “I have come on business,” said he, “not to feast. Before I enter upon it, you will give me your word, Ball, that my communication shall be held sacred, in the event of your not consenting to pursue it further.”
“Certainly I will. What business is it? Some that offends the delicacy of the Carlyle office?” he added, with a laugh. “A would-be client whom you turn over to me in your exclusiveness?”
“It is a client for whom I cannot act. But not from the motives you assume. It concerns that affair of Hallijohn’s,” Mr. Carlyle continued, bending forward, and somewhat dropping his voice. “The murder.”
Lawyer Ball, who had just taken in a deliciousbonne boucheof thefoie gras, bolted it whole in his surprise. “Why, that was enacted ages and ages ago; it is past and done with,” he exclaimed.
“Not done with,” said Mr. Carlyle. “Circumstances have come to light which tend to indicate that Richard Hare was innocent—that it was another who committed the murder.”
“In conjunction with him?” interrupted the attorney.
“No: alone. Richard Hare had nothing whatever to do with it. He was not even present at the time.”
“Do you believe that?” asked Lawyer Ball.
“I have believed it for years.”
“Then who did do it?”
“Richard accuses one of the name of Thorn. Many years back—ten at least—I had a meeting with Richard Hare, and he disclosed certain facts to me, which if correct, could not fail to prove that he was not guilty. Since that period this impression has been gradually confirmed by little and by little, trifle upon trifle and I would now stake my life upon his innocence. I should long ago have moved in this matter, hit or miss, could I have lighted upon Thorn, but he was not to be found, neither any clue to him, and we now know that this name, Thorn, was an assumed one.”
“Is he to be found?”
“He is found. He is at West Lynne. Mark you, I don’t accuse him—I do not offer an opinion upon his guilt—I only state my belief in Richard’s innocence; it may have been another who did it, neither Richard nor Thorn. It was my firm intention to take Richard’s case up, the instant I saw my way clearly in it, and now that that time has come I am debarred from doing so.”
“What debars you?”
“Hence I come to you,” continued Mr. Carlyle, disregarding the question. “I come on the part of Richard Hare. I have seen him lately, and conversed with him. I gave him my reasons for not personally acting, advised him to apply to you, and promised to come here and open the matter. Will you see Richard in good faith, and hear his story, giving the understanding that he shall depart unmolested, as he came, although you do not decide to entertain the business?”
“I’ll give it with all the pleasure in life,” freely returned the attorney. “I’m sure I don’t want to harm poor Dick Hare, and if he can convince me of his innocence, I’ll do my best to establish it.”
“Of his own tale you must be the judge. I do not wish to bias you. I have stated my belief in his innocence, but I repeat that I give no opinion myself as to who else may be guilty. Hear his account, and then take up the affair or not, as you may think fit. He would not come to you without your previous promise to hold him harmless; to be his friend, in short, for the time being. When I bear this promise to him for you, my part is done.”
“I give it to you in all honor, Carlyle. Tell Dick he has nothing to fear from me. Quite the contrary; for if I can befriend him, I shall be glad to do it, and I won’t spare trouble. What can possibly be your objection to act for him?”
“My objection applies not to Richard. I would willingly appear for him, but I will not take proceedings against the man he accuses. If that man is to be denounced and brought before justice, I will hold neither act nor part in it.”
The words aroused the curiosity of Lawyer Ball, and he began to turn over all persons, likely and unlikely, in his mind, never, according to usage, giving a suspicion to the right one. “I cannot fathom you, Carlyle.”
“You will do that better, possibly, when Richard shall have made his disclosure.”
“It’s—it’s—never his own father that he accuses? Justice Hare?”
“Your wits must be wool-gathering, Ball.”
“Well, so they must, to give utterance to so preposterous a notion,” acquiesced the attorney, pushing back his chair and throwing his breakfast napkin on the carpet. “But I don’t know a soul you could object to go against except the justice. What’s anybody else in West Lynne to you, in comparison to restoring Dick Hare to his fair fame? I give it up.”
“So do I, for the present,” said Mr. Carlyle, as he rose. “And now, about the ways and means for your meeting this poor fellow. Where can you see him?”
“Is he at West Lynne?”
“No. But I can get a message conveyed to him, and he could come.”
“When?”
“To-night, if you like.”
“Then let him come here to this house. He will be perfectly safe.”
“So be it. My part is now over,” concluded Mr. Carlyle. And with a few more preliminary words, he departed. Lawyer Ball looked after him.
“It’s a queer business. One would think Dick accuses some old flame of Carlyle’s—some demoiselle or dame he daren’t go against.”
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, mentioned every minute particular he could think of—his meeting him the night of the elopement in Bean lane, his meetings with him again in London, and Sir Francis’s evident fear of him, and thence pursuit, 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 dispatching him out of West Lynne, had Richard taken refuge in his father’s home. None had more cause to keep Dick from falling into the hands of justice than Francis 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, recognized 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,asLevison, 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 dispatched 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, when 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?”
“It was the autumn when Hallijohn was killed. Thorn used to be prowling about there in an evening—in the wood and at the cottage, I mean.”
“What did he prowl for?”
Ebenezer James laughed. “For the same reason that several more did—I, for one. He was sweet upon Afy Hallijohn.”
“Where was he living at the time? I never remember him in West Lynne.”
“He was not at West Lynne, sir. On the contrary, he seemed to take precious good care that West Lynne and he kept separate. A splendid horse he rode, a thoroughbred; and he used to come galloping into the wood at dusk, get over his chat with Miss Afy, mount, and gallop away again.”
“Where to? Where did he come from?”
“From somewhere toward Swainson; a ten mile’s ride, Afy used to say he had. Now that he has appeared here in his own plumage, of course I can put two and two together, and not be at much fault for the exact spot.”
“And where’s that?” asked the lawyer.
“Levison Park,” said Mr. Ebenezer. “There’s little doubt he was stopping at his uncle’s, and you know that is close to Swainson.”
Lawyer Ball thought things were becoming clearer—or darker, whatever you may please to call it. He paused again, and then put a question impressively.
“James, have you any doubt whatever, or shadow of doubt, that Sir Francis Levison is the same man you know as Thorn?”
“Sir, have I any doubt that you are Mr. Ball, or that I am Eb. James?” retorted Mr. Ebenezer. “I am as certain of that man’s identity as I am of yours.”
“Are you ready to swear to that fact in a court of justice?”
“Ready and willing, in any court in the world. To-morrow, if I am called upon.”
“Very well. You may go back to your singing club now. Keep a silent tongue in your head.”
“All close, sir,” answered Mr. Ebenezer James.
Far into the middle of the night sat Lawyer Ball and Richard Hare, the former chiefly occupied in taking notes of Richard’s statement.
“It’s half a crochet, this objection of Carlyle’s to interfere with Levison,” suddenly uttered Richard, in the midst of some desultory conversation. “Don’t you think so, Mr. Ball?”
The lawyer pursed up his lips. “Um! A delicate point. Carlyle was always fastidiously honorable.Ishould go at him, thunder and fury, in his place; but I and Carlyle are different.”
The following day, Tuesday, Mr. Ball was much occupied, putting, to use nearly Ebenezer James’ words, that and that together. Later in the day he took a journey to Levison Park, ferreted out some information, and came home again. On that same day, at evening, Richard departed for Liverpool—he was done with for the present—Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle being, as before, alone cognizant of his address.
Wednesday morning witnessed the arrival again of the Earl of Mount Severn. Lord Vane, too. The latter ought to have gone back to Eton, but he had teased and prayed to be allowed to “see the fun out,” meaning the election. “And that devil’s discomfiture when he finds himself beaten,” he surreptitiously added, behind his father’s back, who was a great stickler for the boy’s always being “gentlemanly.” So the earl had yielded. They arrived, as before, about breakfast-time, having traveled all night. Subsequently, they and Mr. Carlyle walked into West Lynne together.
West Lynne was alive and astir. The election was to come off that week, and people made it their business to be in a bustle over it, collectively and individually. Mr. Carlyle’s committee sat at the Buck’s Head, and the traffic in and out was enough to wear the stones away. The bench of justices were remarkably warm over it, neglecting the judicial business, and showing themselves at the Buck’s Head windows in purple and scarlet streamers.
“I will be with you in ten minutes,” said Mr. Carlyle, withdrawing his arm from Lord Mount Severn’s, as they approached his office, “but I must go in and read my letters.”
So the earl went on to the Buck’s Head, and Lord Vane took a foot canter down to the Raven, to reconnoiter it outside. He was uncommonly fond of planting himself where Sir Francis Levison’s eyes were sure to fall upon him—which eyes were immediately dropped, while the young gentleman’s would be fixed in an audacious stare. Being Lord Vane—or it may be more correct to say, being the Earl of Mount Severn’s son, and under control, he was debarred from dancing and jeering after the yellow candidate, as the unwashed gentry of his own age indulged in, but his tongue and his feet itched to do it.
Mr. Carlyle took his seat in his private room, opened his letters, assorted them, marked on the back of some what was to be the purport of their answer, and then called in Mr. Dill. Mr. Carlyle put the letters in his hand, gave some rapid instructions, and rose.
“You are in a hurry, Mr. Archibald?”
“They want me at the Buck’s Head. Why?”
“A curious incident occurred to me last evening, sir. I was an ear-witness to a dispute between Levison and Otway Bethel.”
“Indeed!” carelessly replied Mr. Carlyle, who was busy at the time looking for something in the deep drawer of the desk.
“And what I heard would go far to hang Levison, if not Bethel. As sure as we are here, Mr. Archibald, they hold the secret of Hallijohn’s murder. It appears that Levison—”
“Stop!” interposed Mr. Carlyle. “I would prefer not to hear this. Levison may have murdered him, but it is no affair of mine, neither shall I make it such.”
Old Dill felt checkmated. “Meanwhile Richard Hare suffers, Mr. Archibald,” he observed, in a remonstrating tone.
“I am aware he does.”
“Is it right that the innocent should suffer for the guilty?”
“No; very wrong. But the case is all too common.”
“If some one would take up Richard Hare’s cause now, he might be proved innocent,” added the old man, with a wistful look at Mr. Carlyle.
“It is being taken up, Dill.”
A pause and a glad look. “That’s the best news I have had for many a day, sir. But my evidence will be necessary to your case. Levison—”
“I’m not taking up the case. You must carry your news elsewhere. It is no affair of mine, I say.”
“Then who is taking it up?” echoed Mr. Dill, in astonishment.
“Ball. He has had a meeting with Richard, and is now acting for him under the rose.”
Mr. Dill’s eyes sparkled. “Is he going to prosecute, Mr. Archibald?”
“I tell you I know nothing—I will know nothing. When the affair comes out to the public—if it ever does come out—I shall share in the information, Dill, and that is all.”
“Ah, well, I can understand. But I shall go on to their office at once, Mr. Archibald, and inform them of what I overheard,” spoke old Dill, in vehement decision.
“That is not my affair either,” laughed Mr. Carlyle, “it is yours. But remember, if you do go, it is Ball, not Treadman.”
Waiting only to give certain orders to the head clerk, Mr. Dill proceeded to the office of Ball & Treadman. A full hour was he closeted there with the senior partner.
Not until three o’clock that afternoon did the justices take their seats on the bench. Scarcely were they seated when Lawyer Ball bustled in and craved a secret hearing. His application was of the last importance, he promised, but, that the ends of justice might not be defeated it was necessary their worships should entertain it in private; he therefore craved the bench to accord it to him.
The bench consulted, looked wise, and, possibly possessing some latent curiosity themselves upon the point, graciously acceded. They adjourned to a private room, and it was full half-past four before they came out of it. Very long faces, scared and grim, were their worships’, as if Lawyer Ball’s communication had both perplexed and confounded them.
“This is the afternoon we are to meet Dr. Martin at papa’s office,” William Carlyle had suddenly exclaimed that 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 going to take me.”
A flush passed over Lady Isabel’s face at the bare thought, though she did not believe it.Shego to Mr. Carlyle’s office! “Mrs. Carlyle told me herself that she should take you,” was the reply.
“All I know is, mamma told me this morning you would take me 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, madame.”
“I know I did. I intended to do so, but I heard this morning that some friends from a distance are coming this afternoon to call upon me, therefore I shall not go out.”
How she, Lady Isabel, wished that she dare say, also, “I shall not go out either.” But that might not be. Well, she must go through with it as she had to go through with the rest.
William rode his pony into West Lynne, the groom attending to take it back again. He was to walk home with Madame Vine, who walked both ways.
Mr. Carlyle was not in when they arrived at the office. The boy went boldly on to the private room, leaving Madame Vine to follow him.
Presently Mr. Carlyle appeared. He was talking to Mr. Dill, who followed him.
“Oh, you are here, Madame Vine! I left word that you were to go into Miss Carlyle’s. Did I not leave word, Dill?”
“Not with me, sir.”
“I forgot it, then; I meant to do so. What is the time?” He looked at his watch: ten minutes to four. “Did the doctor say at what hour he should call?” Mr. Carlyle added to Madame Vine.
“Not precisely. I gathered that it would be very early in the afternoon.”
“Here he is!” exclaimed Mr. Carlyle with alacrity, as he went into the hall. She supposed he alluded to the physician—supposed he had seen him pass the window. Their entrance together woke up William.
“Well,” said the doctor, who was a little man with a bald head, “and how fares it with my young patient?Bon jourmadame.”
“Bon jour, monsieur,” responded she. She wished everybody would address her in French, and take her for French; there seemed less chance of recognition. She would have to speak in good plain English, however, if she must carry on conversation with the doctor. Beyond a familiar phrase or two, he was something like Justice Hare—Nong parley Fronsayme!
“And how does the cod-liver oil get on?” asked the doctor of William, as he drew him to the light. “It is nicer now than it used to be, eh?”
“No,” said William; “it is nastier than ever.”
Dr. Martin looked at the boy; felt his pulse, his skin, listened to his breathing. “There,” said he, presently, “you may sit down and have your nap out.”
“I wish I might have something to drink; I am very thirsty. May I ring for some water, papa?”
“Go and find your aunt’s maid, and ask her for some,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“Ask her for milk,” called out Dr. Martin. “Not water.”
Away went William. Mr. Carlyle was leaning against the side of the window; Dr. Martin folded his arms before it: Lady Isabel stood near the latter. The broad, full light was cast upon all, but the thick veil hid Lady Isabel’s face. It was not often she could be caught without that veil, for she seemed to wear her bonnet at all sorts of seasonable and unseasonable times.
“What is your opinion, doctor?” asked Mr. Carlyle.
“Well,” began the doctor, in averyprofessional tone, “the boy is certainly delicate. But—”
“Stay, Dr. Martin,” was the interruption, spoken in a low, impressive voice, “you will deal candidly with me. I must know the truth, without disguise. Tell it me freely.”
Dr. Martin paused. “The truth is not always palatable, Mr. Carlyle.”
“True. But for that very reason, all the more necessary. Let me hear the worst. And the child has no mother, you know, to be shocked with it.”
“I fear that it will be the worst.”
“Death?”
“Ay. The seeds of consumption must have been inherent in him. They are showing out too palpably.”
“Is therenohope for the child?”
Dr. Martin looked at him. “You bade me give you the truth.”
“Nothing else; nothing but the truth,” returned Mr. Carlyle, his tone one of mingled pain and command.
“Then, there is none; no hope whatever. The lungs are extensively diseased.”
“And how long—”
“That I cannot say,” interrupted the doctor, divining what the next question was to be. “He may linger on for months; for a year, it may even be; or a very short period may see the termination. Don’t worry him with any more lessons and stuff of learning; he’ll never want it.”
The doctor cast his eyes on the governess as he spoke; the injunction concerned her as much as it did Mr. Carlyle. And the doctor started, for he thought she was fainting; her face had become so ghastly white; he could see it through her veil.
“You are ill, madame! You are ill?Trouve malade, don’t you?”
She opened her lips to speak; her trembling lips, that would not obey her. Dr. Martin, in his concern, pulled off the blue spectacles. She caught them from him with one hand, sat down on the nearest chair, and hid her face with the other.
Mr. Carlyle, scarcely understanding the scuffle, came forward. “Are you ill, Madame Vine?”
She was putting her spectacles under her veil, her face whiter than ever. “Pray do not interrupt your conversation to pay attention to me! I thank you; I thank you both. I am subject to—slight spasms, and they do make me look ill for the moment. It has passed now.”
The doctor turned from her; Mr. Carlyle resumed his place by the window. “What should be the treatment?” asked the latter.
“Almost anything you please—that the boy himself likes. Let him play or rest, ride or walk, eat and drink, or let it alone; it cannot make much difference.”
“Doctor! You yield it, as a last hope, very lightly.”
Dr. Martin shook his head. “I speak as Iknow. You insisted on having my true opinion.”
“A warmer climate?” suggested Mr. Carlyle eagerly, the idea crossing his mind.
“It might prolong the end for a little while—a few weeks, perhaps—avert it it could not. And who could take him? You could not go; and he has no mother. No! I should not advise it.”
“I wish you would see Wainwright—with reference to William.”
“I have seen him. I met him this afternoon, by chance, and told him my opinion. How is Mrs. Carlyle?”
“Pretty well. She is not in robust health, you are aware, just now.”
Dr. Martin smiled. “These things will happen. Mrs. Carlyle has a thoroughly good constitution; a far stronger one than—than——”
“Than what?” said Mr. Carlyle, wondering why he hesitated.
“You must grant me pardon. I may as well finish, now I have begun; but I was not thinking when I spoke. She is stronger than was Lady Isabel. I must be off to catch the six train.”
“You will come over from time to time to East Lynne to see William?”
“If you wish it. It may be a satisfaction, perhaps.Bon jour, madame.”
Lady Isabel bowed to him as he left the room with Mr. Carlyle. “How fond that French governess of yours is of the boy!” the doctor whispered, as they crossed the hall. “I detected it when she brought him to Lynneborough. And you saw her just now! That emotion was all because he could not live. Good-bye.”
Mr. Carlyle grasped his hand. “Doctor, Iwishyou could save him!” he passionately uttered.
“Ah, Carlyle! If we humble mites of human doctors could but keep those whom it is the Great Physician’s pleasure to take, how we should be run after! There’s hidden mercy, remember, in the darkest cloud. Farewell my friend.”
Mr. Carlyle returned to the room. He approached Lady Isabel, looking down upon her as she sat; not that he could see much of her face. “These are grievous tidings. But you were more prepared for them, I fancy, than I was.”
She started suddenly up, approached the window, and looked out, as if she saw somebody passing whom she would gaze at. All of emotion was stirred up within her—her temples throbbed, her throat beat, her breath became hysterical. Could she bear thus to hold confidential converse with him over the state of their child? She pulled off her gloves for coolness to her burning hands, she wiped the moisture from her pale forehead, she struggled manfully for calmness. What excuse could she offer to Mr. Carlyle?
“I had begun to like the boy so very much, sir,” she said, half turning round. “And the doctor’s fiat, too plainly pronounced has given me pain; pain to agitation.”
Again Mr. Carlyle approached her, following close up to where she stood. “You are very kind, thus to feel an interest in my child.”
She did not answer.
“Here, papa, papa! I want you,” cried William, breaking into the room. “Let me walk home with you? Are you going to walk?”
How could he find it in his heart to deny anything to the child then?
“Very well,” he said. “Stay here till I come for you.”
“We are going home with papa,” proclaimed William to Madame Vine.
Madame Vine did not relish the news. But there was no help for it. In a very short time Mr. Carlyle appeared, and they set off; he holding William’s hand; madame walking on the other side of the child.
“Where’s William Vane, papa?” asked the boy.
“He has gone on with Lord Mount Severn.”
Scarcely had the words been spoken, when some one came bolting out of the post-office, and met them face to face; almost ran against them in fact, creating some hindrance. The man looked confused, and slunk off into the gutter. And you will not wonder that he did, when you hear that it was Francis Levison. William, child like, turned his head to gaze at the intruder.
“I would not be an ugly bad man like him for the world,” quoth he, as he turned his back again. “Would you, papa?”
Mr. Carlyle did not answer, and Isabel cast an involuntary glance upon him from her white face. His was impassive, save that a cast of ineffable scorn marred the delicate beauty of his lips. If humiliation for the past had never wrung Lady Isabel’s heart before, it would have wrung it then.
At Mr. Justice Hare’s gate they encountered that gentleman, who appeared to be standing there to give himself an airing. William caught sight of Mrs. Hare seated on the garden bench, outside the window, and ran to kiss her. All the children loved Mrs. Hare. The justice was looking—not pale; that would not be a term half strong enough: but yellow. The curls of his best wig were limp, and all his pomposity appeared to have gone out of him.
“I say, Carlyle, what on earth’s this?” cried he, in a tone that, for him, was wonderfully subdued and meek. “I was not on the bench this afternoon, but Pinner has been telling me—of an application that was made to them in private. It’s not true, you know; it can’t be; it’s too far-fetched a tale. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Carlyle. “I do not know what you are talking of. I have been privy to no application.”
“It seems they want to make out now that Dick never murdered Hallijohn,” proceeded the justice, in a half whisper, glancing round as if to be sure that there were no eaves-droppers amidst the trees.
“Oh,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“But that Levison did.Levison!”
Mr. Carlyle made no reply, save by a gesture; his face more impassive than before. Not so another face beside him, a fair face; that turned white again with emotion as she listened.
“But it can’t be, you know. It can’t, I say.”
“So far as Richard’s innocence goes, of that I have long been convinced,” spoke Mr. Carlyle.
“And that Levison’s guilty?” returned the justice, opening his eyes in puzzled wonderment.
“I have no opinion upon that point,” was the cold rejoinder.
“It’s impossible, I say. Dick can’t be innocent. You may as well tell me that the world’s turned upside down.”
“It is, sometimes, I think. That Richard was not the guilty man will be proved yet, justice, in the broad face of day.”
“If—if—that other did do it, I should think you’d take the warrant out of the hands of the police and capture him yourself.”
“I would not touch him with a pair of tongs,” spoke Mr. Carlyle, his lips curling again. “If the man goes to his punishment, he goes; but I do not help him on his road thither.”
“CanDick be innocent?” mused the justice, returning to the thought which so troubled his mind. “Then why has he kept away? Why did he not come back and say so?”
“That you might deliver him up, justice. You know you took an oath to do it.”
The justice looked green, and remarkably humble.
“Oh, but Carlyle,” impulsively spoke he, the thought occurring to him, “what an awful revenge this would have been for you on—somebody—had she lived. How her false step would have come home to her now!”
“False steps come home to most people,” responded Mr. Carlyle, as he took William by the hand, who then ran up. And, lifting his hat to Mrs. Hare in the distance, he walked on.
She, Lady Isabel, walked on, too, by the side of the child, as before, walked on with a shivering frame, and a heart sick unto death. The justice looked after her, his mind unoccupied. He was in a maze of bewilderment. Richard innocent! Richard, whom he had striven to pursue to a shameful end! And that other the guilty one! The worldwasturning upside down.