Chapter 34 Part 2 of East Linn This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Sally McConnell East Linn by Mrs Henry Wood Chapter 34 Part 2 West Linn Now it turned out that Miss Corny had been standing at her own window, grimly eyeing the ill doings of the street, from the fine housemaid opposite who was enjoying a floating interview with the baker, to the ragged urchins pitch-pelling in the gutter and the dust. And there she caught sight of the string, justices and others, who came flowing out of the office of Mr Carlisle. So many of them were there that Miss Corny involuntarily thought of a conjurer flinging flowers out of a hat. The faster they come, the more it seems there are to come. What on earth is up? cried Miss Corny, pressing her nose flat against the pen that she might see better. They filed off some one way, some another. Miss Carlisle's curiosity was keener than her appetite, for she stayed on the watch, although just informed that her dinner was served. Presently Mr Carlisle appeared and she knocked at the window with her knuckles. He did not hear it. He had turned off at a quick pace toward home. Miss Corny's temper rose. The clerks came out next, one after another, and the last was Mr Dill. He was less hurried than Mr Carlisle had been and heard Miss Corny's signal. What in the name of wonder did all that stream of people wanted the office, began she, when Mr Dill had entered in obedience to it? That was the deputation, Miss Cornylia. What deputation? The deputation to Mr Archibald. They want him to become their new member. Member of what? cried she not guessing at the actual meaning. Of Parliament, Miss Corny, to replace Mr Atley, the gentleman came to solicit him to be put in nomination. Solicit a donkey! irasgably uttered Miss Corny, for the tidings did not meet her approvision. Did Archibald turn them out again? He gave them no direct answer, ma'am. He will consider of it between now and tomorrow morning. Consider of it, shriek she. Why he'd never, never be such a flatters to comply. He go into Parliament. What next? Why should he not, Miss Corny? I'm sure I should be proud to see him there. Miss Corny gave a sniff. You are proud of things more odd than even John Dill. Remember that fine shirt front? What has become of it? Is it laid up in lavender? Not exactly in lavender, Miss Corny. It lies in the drawer. For I have never liked to put it on since after what you said. Why don't you sell it at half price and buy a couple of good useful ones with the money? Return she, tartly. Better than keep the foppish thing as a witness of your folly. Perhaps he'll be buying embroidered fronts next. If he goes into that idle do nothing house of commons, I'd rather enter myself for six months at the treadmill. Oh, Miss Corny, I don't think you have well considered it. It's a great honour and worthy of him. He will be elevated above us all, as it were, and he deserves to be. Elevate him on a weathercock, ranged Miss Corny. There, you may go, I've heard quite enough. Brushing past the old gentleman, leaving him to depart or not, as he might please, Miss Carlisle strode upstairs, flung on her shawl and bonnet, and strode darn again. Her servant looked considerably surprised and addressed her as she crossed the hall. Your dinner, ma'am, you've entered to say. What's my dinner to you? returned Miss Corny and her wrath. You have had yours. Away she strode, and thus it happened that she was at East Linn almost as soon as Mr Carlisle. Where's Archibald? Began she without ceremony the moment she saw Barbara. He is here. Is anything the matter? Mr Carlisle, hearing the voice, came out and she pounced upon him with her tongue. What's this about your becoming the new member for West Linn? West Linn wishes it, said Mr Carlisle. Sit down, Cornelia. Sit down yourself, retorted she, keeping on her feet. I want my question answered. Of course, you will decline. On the contrary, I have made up my mind to accept. Miss Corny untied the strings of her bonnet and flung them behind her. Have you counted the cost? she asked, and there was something quite sepulchral in her solemn tone. I have given it consideration, Cornelia, both as regards money and time. The expenses are not worth naming, should there be no opposition. And if there is any, I, grown to Miss Corny, if there is. Well, I am not without a few hundred to spare for the playing, he said, turning upon her the good-humoured light of his fine continents. Miss Carlisle emitted some dismal groans. That ever I should have lived to see this day, to hear money talked of as though it were dirt. And what's to become of your business? she sharply added. Is that to be let run to rack and ruin while you are kicking up your heels in that wicked London and a plea of being at the house night after night? Cornelia, he gravely said, Were I dead, Dill could carry on the business just as well as it is being carried on now. I might go into a foreign country for seven years and come back to find the business as flourishing as ever, for Dill could keep it together. And even were the business to draw off, though I tell you it will not do so, I am independent of it. Miss Carlisle faced tartly round upon Barbara. Have you been setting him on to this? I think he made up his mind before he spoke to me, but added Barbara in her truth, I urged him to accept it. Oh, you did! Nicely moped and miserable you'll be here if he goes to London for months on the stretch. You did not think of that, perhaps? But he would not have me here, said Barbara, her eyelash is becoming wet at the thought as she unconsciously moved to her husband's side. He would take me with him. Miss Carlisle made a pause and looked at them alternately. Is that decided? she asked.  Would you wish to separate man and wife, Cornelia? She made no reply. She rapidly tied her bonnet strings, the ribbons trembling ominously in her fingers. You are not going, Cornelia. You must stay to dinner now that you are here. It is ready and we will talk this further over afterward. This has been dinner enough for me for one day, spoke she, putting on her gloves, said I should have lived to see my father's son throw up his business and change himself into a lazy, stuck-up parliament man. Do stay and dine with us, Cornelia. I think I can subdue your prejudices if you will let me talk to you. If you wanted to talk to me about it, why did you not come in when you left the office? cried Miss Cornelia in a greater amount of wrath than she had shown yet and there's no doubt that, in his not having done so, lay one of the sore points. I did not think of it, said Mr Carlisle. I should have come in and told you of it tomorrow morning. I dare say you would, she ironically answered. Good evening to you both. And, in spite of their persuasions, she quitted the hus and went stalking down the avenue. Two or three days more, and the address of Mr Carlisle to the inhabitants of Westland appeared in the local papers, while the walls and posts convenient were embellished with various coloured placards. Vote for Carlisle. Carlisle forever. Wonders never cease. Surprises are the lot of man, but perhaps a greater surprise had never been experienced by those who knew what was what, than when it went forth to the world that Sir Francis Leverson 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 Leverson was in a state of pecuniary embarrassment, and required something to pop him up, some snug sinecure, plenty to get and nothing to do. 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 then began 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 Leverson's pursuits generally is. He dropped onto something good, or that promised good, nothing less than the secretary ship to Lord Head the Lot, who swayed the ministers in the upper house. But that he was a connection of Lord Head the Lot's he never would have obtained it, and very dubiously the minister consented to try him. Of course a condition was that he should enter Parliament the first opportunity, to vote to be at the disposal of the ministry, rather a shaky ministry, and supposed by some to be on its last legs, and this brings us to the present time. In a handsome drawing-room in Eaton Square one sunny afternoon sat a lady young and handsome. Her eyes were of violet blue, her hair was all-burn, her complexion delicate, but there was a stern look of anger amounting to sullenness on her well-formed features, and her pretty foot was beating the carpet in passionate impatience. It was Lady Leverson. The doings of the past had been coming home to her for some time now. Past doings, be they good or be they ill, are sure to come home one day or another and bring their fruits with them. In the years past, many years past now, Francis Leverson had lost his heart, or whatever the thing might be that with him did duty for one, to blanch Chalana. He had despised her once to Lady Isabel, as Lord Thomas says in the Old Ballad, but that was done to suit his own purpose, for he had never at any period cared for Lady Isabel as he had cared for Blanch. He gained her affection in secret. They engaged themselves to each other. Blanch's sister, Lydia Chalana, two years older than herself suspected it, and taxed Blanch with it. Blanch drew to her compact of keeping it a secret, denied it with many protestations. She did not care for Captain Leverson, rather disliked him in fact. So much the better was Miss Chalana's reply, for she had no respect for Captain Leverson and deemed him an unlikely man to marry. Years went on, and poor unhappy Blanch Chalana remained faithful to her love. He played fast and loose with her, professing attachment for her in secret and visiting at the house. Perhaps he feared an outbreak from her, an exposure that might be anything but pleasant, did he throw off all relations between them? Blanch summoned up her courage and spoke to him, urging the marriage. She had not yet glanced at the fear that his intention of marrying her, had he ever possessed such, was over. Bad men are always cowards. So Francis shrank from an explanation and so far forgot honour as to murmur some indistinct promise that the wedding should be speedy. Lydia Chalana had married and been left a widow well off. She was Mrs Waring, and at her house resided Blanch. For the girls were orphans. Blanch was beginning to show symptoms of her nearly thirty years, not the years, but the long continued disappointment. The heart burnings were telling upon her. Her hair was thin, her face was pinched, her form had lost its roundness. Marry her, indeed, scopt to himself, Sir Francis Leverson. There came to Mrs Waring's upon a Christmas visit a younger sister, Alice Chalana, a fair girl of twenty years. She resided generally with an aunt in the country. Far more beautiful was she than Blanch had ever been, and Francis Leverson, who had not seen her since she was a child, fell, as he would have called it, in love with her. Love! He became her shadow. He whispered sweet words in her ear. He turned her head giddy with its own vanity, and he offered her marriage. She accepted him, and preparations for the ceremony immediately began. Sir Francis urged speed, and Alice was nothing loath. And what of Blanch? Blanch was stunned. A despairing stupa took possession of her, and when she worked from it, desperation set in. She insisted upon an interview with Sir Francis, and evaded he could not, though he tried hard. Will it be believed that he denied the past, that he met with mocking suavity her indignant reminders of what had been between them? Love! Marriage! Nonsense! Her fancy had been too much at work. Finally he defied her to prove that he had regarded her with more than ordinary friendship, or had ever hinted at such a thing as a union. She could not prove it. She had not so much as a scrap of paper written on by him. She had not a single friend or enemy to come forward and testify that they heard him breathe to her a word of love. He had been too wary for that. Moreover, there was her own solemn protestations to her sister Lydia that there was not anything between her and Sir Francis Leveson. Who would believe her if she veered round now and avowed these protestations were false? No. She found that she was in a sinking ship. One there was no chance of saving. But one chance did she determine to try. An appeal to Alice. Blanch Challaner's eyes were suddenly and rudely opened to the badness of the man, and she was aware now how thoroughly unfit he was to become the husband of her sister. It struck her that only misery could result from the union, and that, if possible, Alice should be saved from entering upon it. Would she have married him herself, then? Yes, but it was a different thing for that fair, fresh young Alice. She had not wasted her life's best years in waiting for him. When the family had gone to rest and the house was quiet, Blanch Challaner proceeded to her sister's bedroom. Alice had not begun to undress. She was sitting in a comfortable chair before the fire, her feet on the fender, from Sir Francis. Alice, I've come to tell you a story, she said quietly. Will you hear it? In a minute, stop a bit, replied Alice. She finished the perusal of the letter, put it aside and then spoke again. What did you say Blanch? A story? Blanch nodded. Several years ago there was a fair young girl, none too rich in our station of life. A gentleman who was none too rich either sought and gained her love. He could not marry, he was not rich, I say. They loved on in secret, hoping for better times, she wearing out her years and her heart. Oh, Alice, I cannot describe to you how she loved him, how she has continued to love him up to this moment. Through evil report she clung to him tenaciously and tenderly as the vine clings to its trellis, for the world spoke ill of him. Who was the young lady? Interrupted Alice. Is this a fable of romance, Blanch, or a real history? A real history. I knew her. All those years, years and years, I say, he kept leading her on to love, letting her think that his love was hers. In the course of time he succeeded to a fortune and the bar to their marriage was over. He was abroad when he came into it, but returned home at once. Their intercourse was renewed and her fading heart woke up once more to life. Still the marriage did not come on. He said nothing of it, and she spoke to him. Very soon now, should it be, was his answer, he continued to live on in hope. Go on, Blanch, cried Alice, who had grown interested in the tale, never suspecting that it could bear a personal interest. Yes, I will go on. Would you believe, Alice, that almost immediately after this last promise he saw one whom he fancied he should like better and asked her to be his wife for saking the one to whom he was bound by every tie of honour, repudiating all that had been between them, even his own words and promises. How disgraceful were they married? They are to be. Would you have such a man? I, returned Alice quite indignant at the question, it is not likely that I would. That man, Alice, is Sir Francis Leveson. Alice Chaliner gave a start and her face became scarlet.  It is not true. Who was the girl, pray? She must have produced him. She has not produced him, was the subdued answer. The girl was myself. An awkward pause.   She could no longer control her emotion. Alice, my sister, all the pride has gone out of me, all the reticence that woman loves to observe as to her wrongs and her inward feelings I have broken through for you this night. As sure as there is a heaven above us, I have told you the truth. Until you came, I was engaged to Francis Leverson. An unnatural scene ensued. Blanch, pervercted Alice's rejection of her words, told all the ill she knew or heard of the man. She dwelt upon his conduct with regard to Lady Isabel Carlyle, his heartless after-treatment of that unhappy lady. Alice was passionate and fiery. She professed not to believe a word of her sister's wrongs and as to the other stories, they were no affair of hers, she said. What had she to do with his past life? But Alice Chalana did believe. Her sister's earnestness and distress, as she told the tale, carried conviction with them. She did not very much care for Sir Francis. He was not entwined round her heart as he was round Blanch's, but she was dazzled with the prospect of so good a settlement in life, and she would not give him up. If Blanch broke her heart, why, she must break it. But she need not have mixed taunts and jers with her refusal to believe. She need not have triumphed openly over Blanch. Was it well done? Was it the work of an affectionate sister? As we sow, so shall we reap. She married Sir Francis Lleverson, leaving Blanch to her broken heart or to any other calamity that might grow out of the injustice. And there sat Lady Lleverson now, her three years of marriage having served to turn her love for Sir Francis into contempt and hate. A little boy, two years old, the only child of the marriage was playing about the room. His mother took no notes of him. She was buried in all absorbing thought, thought which caused her lips to contract and her brow to scarle. Sir Francis entered, his attitude lounging, his air listless. Lady Lleverson rast herself, but no pleasant manner of tone was hers as she set herself to address him. I want some money, she said. So do I, he answered. An impatient stamp of the foot and a haughty toss. And I must have it, I must. I told you yesterday that I must. Do you suppose I can go on without a sixpence of ready money day after day? Do you suppose it is of any use to put yourself in this fury, retorted Sir Francis?  I have got none for myself. You may as well ask that baby for money as ask me. I wish he had never been born, passionately uttered Lady Lleverson, unless he had had a different father. That the last sentence and the bitter scorn of its turn would have provoked a reprisal from Sir Francis his flashing countenance betrayed. But at that moment a servant entered the room. I beg your pardon, Sir. That man Brown forced his way into the hall and I can't see him, I won't see him. Interrupted Sir Francis back into the furthest corner of the room in what looked very like abject terror as if he had completely lost his presence of mind. Lady Lleverson's lips curled. We got rid of him, Sir, after a dreadful deal of trouble. I was about to say, but while the door was open in the dispute, Mr Meredith entered.  A moment's pause, a half matadote and Sir Francis quitted the room. The servant retired and Lady Lleverson caught up her child. Oh, Frankie dear!  I'd leave him for good and all if I dared, but I fear he might keep you. Now the secret was that for the last three days Sir Francis had been desperately ill, obliged to keep his bed and could see nobody, his life depending upon quiet. Such was the report or something equivalent to it, which had gone in to Lord Heddelott or rather to the official office, for that renowned chief was himself out of town. It had also been delivered to all callers at Sir Francis Lleverson's house. The royal truth being that Sir Francis was as well as you or I, but from something that had transpired touching one of his numerous debts did not dare to show himself. That morning the matter had been arranged, patched up for a time. My stars, Lleverson, began Mr Merida, who was a whipper-in of the ministry. What a row there is about you! Why, you look as well as ever you were. Great deal better today, coughed Sir Francis. To think that you should have chosen the present moment for skulking. Here have I been dancing attendance at your door day after day in a state of incipient fever enough to put me into a real one and couldn't either get admitted nor a letter taken up. I should have blown the house up today and got in amidst the flying debris. By the way, are you and my lady too just now? Two, growled Sir Francis. She was stepping into her carriage yesterday when they turned me from the door and I made inquiry of her. Her ladyship's answer was that she knew nothing either of Francis or his illness. Her ladyship is subject to flights of distemper, shaped Sir Francis. What desperate need have you of me just now? Head the lots away and there's nothing doing. Nothing doing up here. A deal too much doing somewhere else. At least seats in the market. Well, and you ought to have been down there about it three or four days ago. Of course you must step into it. Of course I shan't, returned Sir Francis, to represent Westlin will not suit me. Not suit you? Westlin, why of all places it is most suitable. It's close to your own property. If you can call ten miles close, I shall not put up for Westlin Meredith. Head the lot came up this morning, said Mr Meredith. The information somewhat aroused Sir Francis. Head the lot, what brings him back? You.  Head the lot expected you would be at Westlin days past. And he has come up in an awful rage. Every additional vote we can count in the house is worth its weight in gold.  You must start for it at once, Levison. Sir Francis mused. Had the alternative been given him, he would have preferred to represent a certain warm place underground, rather than Westlin. But to quit head the lot and the snug post he anticipated would be ruin irretrievable. Nothing short of outlawry or the Queen's prison. It was awfully necessary to get his threatened person into Parliament. And he began to turn over in his mind and he could bring himself to make further acquaintance with Westlin. The thing must have blown over for good by this time was the result of his cogitations, unconsciously speaking, allowed. I can understand your reluctance to appear at Westlin, cried Mr Meredith. The scene, unless I'm a mistake, of that notorious affair of yours. But private feelings must give way to public interests. And the best thing you can do is to start. Head the lot is angry enough as it is. He says, had you been down at first as you ought to have been, you would have slipped in without opposition. But now there will be a contest. Sir Francis looked up shortly. A contest? Who is going to stand the funds? Shaw! As if we should let funds be any barrier. Have you heard who is in the field? No, was the apathetic answer. Carl Isle. Carl Isle? at a Sir Francis startled. Oh, by George, though. I can't stand against him. Well, there's the alternative. If you can't, Thornton will. I should run no chance. Westlin would not elect me in preference to him. I'm not sure indeed that Westlin would have me in any case. Lonsons, you know our interests there. Government put in atly, and it can put you in. Yes or no, Levison? Yes, answered Sir Francis. An hour's time and Sir Francis Levison went forth on his way to be conveyed to Westlin. Not yet. He turned his steps to Scotland Yard. Inconsiderably less than an hour, the following telegram, marked secret, went down from the head office to the superintendent of police at Westlin. Is Ottway Vettel at Westlin? If not, where is he? And when will he be returning to it? It elicited a prompt answer. Ottway Vettel is not at Westlin. Supposed to be in Norway. Movements uncertain. End of Chapter 34. Chapter 35 of Eastlin. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Eastlin by Mrs Henry Wood. Chapter 35. A mishap to the Blue Spectacles Part 1. Mr Carlisle and Barbara were seated at breakfast when, somewhat to their surprise, Mr Dill was shown in. Following close upon his hills came just his hair, and close upon his hills 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 Carlisle at first to understand the news they brought. All were talking at once in the utmost excitement, and the fury of justice hair alone was sufficient to produce temporary deafness. Mr Carlisle caught a word of the case presently. A second man, opposition, well, let him come in, he good-humoredly 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's stand a contest with him, rave justice hair he, the fellow wants hanging, an ejected Colonel Bethel. Couldn't he be ducked, suggested squire pinner. Now all these sentences were ranted out together, and their respective utterers were feigned to stop till the noise subsided a little. Barbara could only look from one to the other in astonishment. Who is this formidable opponent? asked Mr Carlisle. There was a pause, not one of them, but had the delicacy to shrink from naming that man to Mr Carlisle. The information came at last from old Dill who dropped his voice while he spoke it. Mr Archibald, the candidate who has come forward, is that man Leveson. Of course, Carlisle, you'll go into it now, neck and crop, cried justice hair. Mr Carlisle was silent. You won't let the beast frighten you from the contest, uttered Colonel Bethel in a loud tone. There's a meeting at the Buckshead at 10, said Mr Carlisle, not replying to the immediate question. I will be with you there. Did you not say, Mr Dill, that is where the scoundrel Leveson is? At the Buckshead? He was there, answered Mr Dill. I expect he is ousted by this time. I asked the landlord what he thought of himself for taking in such a character and what he supposed the justice would say to him. He vowed with tears in his eyes that the fellow should not be there another hour and that he should never have entered it had he known who he was.  Mr Carlisle sat down calmly to finish his breakfast. Barbara approached him.  You will not withdraw, she whispered. I think not, Barbara. He has thrust himself offensively upon me in this measure. I believe my better plan will be to take no more heat of him than I should of the dirt under my feet. Right, right, she answered, a proud flush deepening the rose on her cheeks. Mr Carlisle was walking into Westland. There were the placards, sure enough, side by side with his own, bearing the name of that wicked coward who had done him the greatest injury one man could do to another. Fairly he must possess a face of brass to venture there. Archibald, have you heard the disgraceful news? The speaker was Ms Carlisle, who had come down upon her brother like a ship with all sails set. Her cheeks wore a flush, her eyes glistened, her tall form was drawn up to its most haughty height. I have heard it, Cornelia, and had I not, the walls would have enlightened me. Is he out of his mind? Out of his reckoning, I fancy, replied Mr Carlisle. You will carry on the contest now, she continued, her countenance flashing. I was averse to it before, but I now withdraw all my objection. You will be no brother of mine if you yield a field to him. I do not intend to yield it.  Take no more heat of him than if he were a viper. Archibald, you must canvas now. No, said Mr Carlisle, I shall be elected without canvas. You'll see, Cornelia. There will be plenty of canvassing for you if you don't condescend to take the trouble my indifferent brother. I'll give a thousand pounds myself for ale to the electors. Take care, laughed Mr Carlisle. Keep your thousand pounds in your pocket, Cornelia. I have no mind to be unseeded on the plea of bribery and corruption. Here's Sir John Dobbied galloping in with a face as red as the sun in a fog. While it may be he has heard the news, I can tell you Archibald, Westland is in a state of excitement that has not been its lot for many a day. Miss Carlisle was right, excitement and indignation had taken possession of Westland. How the people rallied around Mr Carlisle, town and country were alike up in arms, but government interest was rife at Westland, and whatever the private and public feeling might be, collectively or individually, many votes should be recorded for Sir Francis Leveson. One of the first to become cognizant of the affair was Sir Francis Leveson. He was at his club one evening in London, pouring over an evening paper when the names Carlisle Westland caught his view. Knowing that Mr Carlisle had been named as the probable member and heartily wishing that he might become such, the Earl naturally read the paragraph. He read it and read it again. He rubbed his eyes, he rubbed his glasses, he pinched himself to see whether he was awake or dreaming. For believe what the paper asserted, Sir Francis Leveson had entered the list in opposition to Mr Carlisle, and was at Westland busily canvassing, he could not. Do you know anything of this infamous assertion he inquired of an intimate friend, infamous whether true or false? It's true, I heard of it an hour ago, plenty of cheek that Leveson must have. Cheek, repeated the dismayed Earl, feeling as if every part of him, body and mind, were outraged by the news. Now speak of it that way, the hound deserves to be gibbeted. He threw aside the paper, quitted the club, returned home for a carpet bag, and went shrieking and whistling down to Westland, taking his son with him. Or, if he did not whistle and shriek, the engine did. Fully determined was the Earl of Mount Severn to show his opinion of the affair. On these fine spring mornings, their breakfast over, Lady Isabel was in the habit of going into the grounds with the children. They were on the lawn before the house when two gentlemen came walking up the avenue. Or rather, one gentleman and a handsome young stripling growing into another. Lady Isabel thought she should have dropped, for she stood face to face with Lord Mount Severn. The Earl stopped to salute the children and raised his hat to the strange lady. It is my governess, Madame Vine, said Lucy. A silent courtesy from Madame Vine, she turned away her head and gasped for breath. Is your papa at home, Lucy? cried the Earl. Yes, I think he is at breakfast. I am so glad you are come. Lord Mount Severn walked on holding William by the hand who had eagerly offered to take him to papa. Lord Vine bent over Lucy to kiss her. A little while, a very few more years and my young lady would not hold up her rosy lips so boldly. You have grown a dearer girl than ever, Lucy. Have you forgotten our compact? No, laugh she. And you will not forget it? Never, said the child, shaking her head, you shall see if I do. Lucy is to be my wife, cried he, turning to Madame Vine. It is a bargain, and we have both promised. I mean to wait for her till she is old enough. I like her better than anybody else in the world. And I like him, spoke up Miss Lucy, and it's all true. Lucy was a child. She must be said an infant, and the discount was not of an age to render importance such avowed passions. Nevertheless, the words did thrill through the veins of the hearer. She spoke, she thought, not as Madame Vine would have spoken and thought, but as the unhappy mother, the ill-fated Lady Isabel. You must not say these things to Lucy. It could never be. Lord Vine laughed, why? asked he. Your father and mother would not approve. My father would, I know he would. He likes Lucy. As to my mother, oh well, she can't expect to be master and mistress too. You be off in a minute, Lucy. I want to say some things to Madame Vine. Has Carla shot that fellow? He continued as Lucy sprung away. My father is so stiff, especially when he's put up, that he would not sully his lips with the name or make a single inquiry when we arrived. Neither would he let me, and I walked up here with my tongue burning. She would have responded, what fellow?  That brute Levison, if Carlisle riddled his body with shots for this move and then kicked him till he died, he'd only get his desserts, and the world would applaud. He opposed Carlisle. I wish I had been a man a few years ago. He'd have got a shot through his heart then, I say. Dropping his voice, did you know Lady Isabel? Yes, no, yes. She was at a loss what to say, almost as unconscious what she did say.  I think that's why I love Lucy, for she is the very image of her. Where did you know her, here? I knew her by hearsay, murmur Lady Isabel arousing to recollection. Oh, hearsay. Has Carla shot the beast, or is he on his legs yet? By Jove, to think that he should sneak himself up in this way, at West Lynn. You must apply elsewhere for information, she gasped. I know nothing of these things. She turned away with a beating heart and took Lucy's hand and departed. Lord Vane set off on a run toward the house, his heels flying behind him. And now the contest began in earnest, that is, the canvas. Sir Francis Levison, his agent, and a friend from town, who, as it turned out, instead of being some great gun of the government, was a private chum of the baronets by name Drake, sneaked about the town like dogs with their tails burnt, for they were entirely alive to the color in which they were held, their only attendants being a few young gentlemen and ladies in rags who commonly brought up the rear. The other party presented a stately crowd, country gentry, magistrates, Lord Mount Severn. Sometimes Mr Carlyle would be with them, arm in arm with the latter. If the contestant groups came within view of each other and were likely to meet, the brave Sir Francis would disappear down an entry behind a hedge any place convenient. With all his face of brass he could not meet Mr Carlyle and that condemning jury around him. One afternoon it pleased Mrs Carlyle to summon Lucy and the governess to accompany her into West Linn. She was going shopping. Lady Isabel had a dread and horror of appearing in there while that man was in town, but she could not help herself. There was no pleading illness, for she was quite well. There must be no saying, I will not go, for she was only a dependent. They started and had walked as far as Mrs Hare's gate when Mr Carlyle turned out of in. Your mama's not well, Barbara. Is she not? cried Barbara with a quick concern. I must go and see her.  I was sure of it by her very look when I got in, shivering and shaking and glancing fearfully around, as if she feared a dozen spectres were about to burst out of the walls. So I taxed her with it and she could make no denial. Richard is in some jeopardy she protests, or will be, and there she is, shaking still, although I told her that people who put faith in dreams were only fit for a lunatic asylum. Barbara looked distressed. She did not believe in dreams any more than Miss Carlyle, but she could not forget how strangely peril to Richard had supervened upon some of these dreams. I will go and now and see mama. She said, if you are returning home Cornelia, Madam Vine can walk with you and wait for me there. Let me go in with you mama, pleaded Lucy. Barbara mechanically took the child's hand. The gates closed on them and Miss Carlyle and Lady Isabel proceeded in the direction of the town.  They fell to the ground and were broken. How did you manage that, uttered Miss Carlyle? How, indeed, she bent her face to the ground looking at the damage. What could she do? The veil was over the hedge. The spectacles were broken. How could she dare show her naked face? That face was rosy just then, as in former days the eyes were bright and Miss Carlyle caught their expression and stared in very amazement. Good heavens above, she uttered, what an extraordinary likeness, and Lady Isabel's heart turned faint and sick within her.  Would he recognize her? Standing blowing in the 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 upon her memory as being so familiar. Her attention, however, was called off the face to the apparition of Sir Francis Leveson. He was close upon them, Mr Drake and the other comrade being with him in a 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, for it was not in the nature of Miss Carlyle to conceal her sentiments, especially when they were rather of the strongest. 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 had 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 Leveson? As you pleased to take it, returned he, calling up insolence to his aid. You dare to lift off your hat to me.  It would be difficult for you to be forgotten once seen. Now this answer was given in mockery. His tone and manner were redolent of it, insolently so. The two gentlemen looked on in discomfort, wondering what it meant.  This concludes the reading of Part 1 of Chapter 35 of East Linn. Recording by Linda McDaniel, Atlanta, Georgia, May 2009. Chapter 35 Part 2 of East Linn. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. East Linn by Mrs Henry Wood. Chapter 35. A mishap to the blue spectacles. Part 2. You contemptible worm, cried Miss Carlyle. Do you think you can outrage me with impunity as you, by your presence in it, are outraging West Linn, out upon you for a bold, bad man? Now Miss Cornyn, in so speaking, certainly no thought of present and immediate punishment for the gentlemen, but it appeared that the mob around had. The motion was commented by those stout-shouldered labourers. Whether excited, there too, by the words of Miss Carlyle, who, whatever may have been her faults of manner, held the respect of the neighbourhood, and was looked up to only in a less degree than her brother, whether squire-pinner, their master, had let drop in their hearing a word of the ducking he had hinted at when at East Linn, or whether their own feelings alone spurred them on, was best known to the men themselves. Certain it is that the ominous sound of duck him was breathed forth by a voice, and it was caught up and echoed around. Duck him, duck him, the pond be close at hand. Let's give him a taste of his deservings. What do he, the scum, turn himself up at West Linn for, bearding Mr Carlyle? What have he done with Lady Isabel? Him, put up for others at West Linn. West Linn's respectable. It don't want him, if got a better man. It won't have a villain, now lads. His face turned white, and he trembled in his shoes. Worthless men are frequently cowards. Lady Isabel trembled in hers, and while she might, hearing that one allusion, they set upon him twenty pairs of hands at least, strong, rough, determined hands, not to speak of the tag-rags help, who went in with cuffs and kicks and pokes and taunts and cheers and a demonic dance. They dragged him through a gap in the hedge, a gap that no baby could have got through in a cool moment, but most of us know the difference between coolness and excitement. The hedge was extensively damaged, but justice-hair, to whom it belonged, would forgive that. Mr Drake and the lawyer, for the other was a lawyer, were utterly powerless to stop the catastrophe. If they didn't mind their own business and keep themselves clear, they'd get served the same, was the promise held out to their remonstrances, and the lawyer, who was short and fat and could not have knocked a man down had it been to save his life, backed out of the melee and contented himself with issuing forth confused threatenings of the terrors of the law. Miss Carlisle stood her ground majestically and looked on with a grim countenance. Had she interfered for his protection, she could not have been heard, and if she could have been, there's no knowing whether she would have done it. On to the brink of the pond, rank, dark, slimy, sour, stinking pond. His coattails were gone by this time, and sundry rents and damages appeared in, in another useful garment.  In with him boys. Mercy, mercy, shriek the victim, his knees bending and his teeth chattering, a little mercy for the love of heaven. Heaven, much he knows of heaven. In the house, a splash, a wild cry, a gurgle, and Sir Francis Levison was floundering in the water, its green poison, not to mention its adders and thads and frogs, going down his throat by bucketfuls. A horse deris of laugh, and a hip hip hurrah broke from the actors, while the juvenile ragtag and wild delight joined their hands round the pool and danced the demon's dance like so many red Indians. They had never had such a play acted for them before. It was the peace-soup before he was quite dead, quite senseless.  The labourers, their duty done, walked coolly away. The tag-rag withdrew to a safe distance waiting for what might come next, and Miss Carlisle moved away also. Not more shivery was that wretched man than Lady Isabel as she walked by her side. She figured to cut that for her once chosen cavalier. What did she think of his beauty now? I know what she thought of her past folly. Miss Carlisle never spoke a word. She sailed on with her head up, though it was turned occasionally to look at the face of Madame Vine, at the deep, distressing blush which this gaze called into her cheeks. It's very odd, thought Miss Corny. The likeness, especially in the eyes, is, where are you going, Madame? They were passing a spectacle shop, and Miss Corny had halted at the door one foot on its step. I must have my glasses to be mended, if you please. Miss Carlisle followed her in. She pointed out what she wanted done to the old glasses and said she would buy a pair of new ones to wear while the job was about. The man had no blue ones, no green, plenty of white, one ugly old pair of green things he had with tortoise shell rims left by some stranger ages and ages ago to be mended and never called for again. This very pair of ugly old green things was chosen by Lady Isabel. She put them on there and then.  Why do you wear glasses? Began Miss Corny abruptly as soon as they were indoors. Another deep flush and an imperceptible hesitation. My eyes are not strong. They look as strong as eyes can look, but why wear colored glasses? White ones would answer every purpose, I should suppose. I am accustomed to colored ones. I should not like the white ones now. Miss Corny paused. What is your Christian name, Madame? Began she again. Jane replied Madame, popping out an unflinching story in her alarm. Here, here, what's up? What's this? It was a crowd in the street and a rather noisy one. Miss Corny flew to the window, Lady Isabel in her wake. Two crowds, it may almost be said, for from the opposite way the scarlet and purple party Mr Carlyle's was called in allusion to his colors came in view. Quite a collection of gentlemen, Mr Carlyle and Lord Mount Severn heading them. What could it mean, the mob they were encountering, the yellow party doubtless, but in disreputable condition? Who or what was that object in advance of it, supported between Drake and the lawyer, and looking like a drowned rat, hair hanging, legs tottering, cheeks shaking and clothes and tatters, while the mob behind had swollen to the length of the street and was keeping up a perpetual fire of deris of shouts, groans and hisses. The scarlet and purple halted in consternation and Lord Mount Severn, whose sight was not as good as it had been twenty years back, stuck his pendant eyeglass as astride on the bridge of his nose. Sir Francis Leveson, could it be? Yes, it actually was. What on earth had put him into that state? Mr Carlyle's lip curled. He continued his way and drew the pier with him. What the deus is a gate now? called out the followers of Mr Carlyle. That's Leveson. Has he been in a railway smash and got drenched by the engine? He has been ducked, grinned the yellows in answer. They have been and ducked him in the rush pool on Mr Justice Hare's land. The soaked and miserable man increased his speed as much as his cold and trembling legs would allow him. He would have borne on without legs at all, rather than remain under the enemy's gaze. The enemy loftfully continued their way, their heads in the air and, scorning further notice, all save young Lord Vane. He hovered round the ranks of the unwashed and looked vastly inclined to enter upon an Indian jig on his own account.  Miss Carlyle laid her hand upon the shrinking arm of her pale companion. You see him, my brother Archibald. I see him, faltered Lady Isabel, and you see him, that pitiful outcast who is too contemptible to live. Look at the two and contrast them. Look well. Yes was the gaping answer. The woman who called him that noble man, husband, quitted him for the other. Did she come to repentance, thank you? You may wonder that the submerged gentleman should be walking through the streets on his way to his quarters, the Raven Inn, for he had been ejected from the buck's head, but he could not help himself. As he was dripping and swearing on the brink of the pond, wondering how he should get to the Raven, an empty fly drove past, and Mr Drake immediately stopped it. But when the driver saw that he was expected to convey not only a passenger, but a tolerable quantity of water as well, and that the passenger moreover was Sir Francis Levison, he refused the job. His fly was fresh-lined with red velvet, and he weren't going to have it spoiled, he called out, as he whipped his horse and drove away, leaving the three in wrathful despair. Sir Francis wanted another conveyance procured. His friends urged that if he waited for that, he might catch his death, and that the shortest way would be to hasten to the inn on foot. He objected. But his jaws were chattering, his limbs were quaking, so they seized him between them and made off, but never bargained for the meeting of Mr Carlisle and his party. Francis Levison would have stopped in the pond of his own accord had downward rather than faced them. Miss Carlisle went that day to dine at East Lynn, walking back with Mrs Carlisle, Madame Vane and Lucy. Lord Vane found them out and returned at the same time. Of course East Lynn was the headquarters of himself and his father. He was in the seventh heaven and had been ever since the encounter with the yellows. You'd have gone into lapping convulsions, Lucy, had you seen the drowned curr. I'd give all my tin for six months to come to have a photograph of him as he looked then. Lucy laughed in glee. She was unconscious, poor child, of how deeply the drowned curr had injured her. When Miss Carlisle was in her dressing room taking her things off, the room where once had slept Richard Hare, she rang for Joyce. These two rooms were still kept for Miss Carlisle, for she did sometimes visit them for a few days and were distinguished by her name, Miss Carlisle's rooms. A fine row we have had in the town, Joyce, this afternoon. I have heard of it, ma'am. Served him right if they had let him drown. Bill White, Squire Pinner's plowman, called in here and told us the news. He'd have burst with it if he hadn't, I expect. I never saw a chap so excited. Peter cried. Cried, echoed Miss Carlisle. Well, ma'am, you know he was very fond of Lady Isabelle was Peter and somehow his feelings overcame him. He had not heard anything to please him so much from many a day and with that he burst out crying and gave Bill White half a crown out of his pocket. Bill White said it was he who held one leg when they sourced him in. Affe sought, if you'll excuse me mentioning her name to you, ma'am, for I know you don't think well of her. When she got in here she fell into hysterics. How did she see it? snapped Miss Carlisle, her equanimity upset by the sound of the name. I didn't see her and I was present. There were the message from Mrs Latimer to the governess. What did she go into hysterics for? again snapped Miss Carlisle. It upset her so, she said, returned Joyce. It wouldn't have done her harm had they ducked her too, was the angry response. Joyce was silent. To contradict Miss Corny brought triumph to nobody and she was conscious in her innermost heart that Affe merited a little wholesome correction not perhaps to the extent of a ducking. Joyce resumed Miss Carlisle, abruptly changing the subject. Who does the governess put you in mind of? Ma'am, reported Joyce, in some surprise as it appeared, the governess. Do you mean Madame Vine? Do I mean you or do I mean me? Are we governesses? Eraskably cried Miss Corny. Who should I mean but Madame Vine? She turned herself round from the looking-glass and gazed full in Joyce's face, waiting for the answer. Joyce lowered her voice as she gave it. There are times when she puts me in mind of my late lady both in her face and her manner, but I have never said so, ma'am, for you know Lady Isabel's name must be an interdicted one in this house. Have you seen her without her glasses? No, never, said Joyce. I did, to-day, returned Miss Carlisle, and I can tell you, Joyce, that I was confounded at the likeness. It is an extraordinary likeness. One would think it was a ghost of Lady Isabel Vine come into the world again. That evening, after dinner, Miss Carlisle, and Lord Mount Severin sat side by side on the same sofa, coffee-cups in hand. Miss Carlisle turned to the Earl. Was it a positively ascertained fact that Lady Isabel died? The Earl stared with all his might. He thought it the strangest question that ever was asked him. I scarcely understand you, Miss Carlisle. Died? Certainly she died. When the result of the accident was communicated to you, you made inquiry yourself into its truth, its details, I believe. It was my duty to do so. There was no one else to undertake it. Did you ascertain positively beyond all doubt that she did die? Of a surety I did. She died in the course of the same night. Terribly injured she was. A pause. Miss Carlisle was ruminating, but she returned to the charge as if difficult to be convinced. You deemed that there could be no possibility of an error. I am sure that she is dead. I am as sure that she is dead as that we are living, decisively replied the Earl, and he spoke but according to his belief. Wherefore should you be inquiring this? A thought came over me, only today, to wonder whether she was really dead. Had any error occurred at that time, any false report of her death, I should soon have found it out by her drawing the annuity I settled upon her. It has never been drawn since. She would have written to me, as agreed upon. No, poor thing. She has gone beyond all doubt and has taken her sins with her. Convincing proofs, and Miss Carlisle lent her ear to them. The following morning, while Madame Vine was at breakfast, Mr Carlisle entered.  She arose, her face burning, her heart throbbing. Keep your seat, pray. I have but a moment to stay, said Mr Carlisle. I have come to ask you how William seems. There was no difference, she murmured. And then she took courage and spoke more openly. I understand you to say the other night, sir, that he should have further advice. I wish him to go over to Lindborough, to Dr Martin. The drive I think will do him good, replied Mr Carlisle. And I would like you to accompany him if you do not mind the trouble. You can have the pony carriage. You can have the pony carriage. You can remind Dr Martin that the child's constitution is precisely what his mother's was, continued Mr Carlisle, a tinge lightening his face. It may be a guide to his treatment. He said himself it was when he attended him for an illness a year or two ago. Yes, sir. He crossed the hall on his entrance to the breakfast room. She tore upstairs to her chamber and sank down in an agony of tears and despair. Now to yearn after his affection with this passionate jealous longing and to know that they were separated for ever and ever that she was worse to him than nothing. Softly, my lady, this is not bearing your cross. East Lynn by Mrs Henry Wood Chapter 36 Appearance of a Russian Bear at West Lynn Mr Carlisle 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 breakdown at every sentence, the uproarious applause and shouts would be equally rife. Mr Carlisle was intensely popular in West Lynn, setting aside his cedadate ship and his oratory, and West Lynn made common cause against Sir Francis Leveson. Sir Francis Leveson harangued the mob from the raven, but in a more ignoble manner, for the raven possessed no balcony and he was feign to let himself down with a stride and a jump from the first floor window on the top of the bow window of the parlor and stand there. The raven, though a comfortable, old established, and respectable in, could boast only of casements for its upper windows, and they are not convenient to deliver speeches from. He was want, therefore, to take his seat on the bow window and that was not altogether convenient either, for it was but narrow and he hardly dared move an arm or leg for fear of pitching over 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 as high as Sir Francis Leveson's or Mr Drake's shoulder and about five times their breadth, had these two been rolled into one, seems to 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 Rubini, naturally supposed to be a corruption of Rubin. They stood there one afternoon, Sir Francis' eloquence 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 Lynn extensively to support him in that respect. A few to cheer, a great many to cheer 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 other's 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 of 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 standstill also till a confusion should be subsided, for where was the use in wasting words? 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, 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, unglobbed, 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 with a remembrance of pain. The very action Richard described, the action he was always using at East Lynn, I believe from my heart that the man is thorn, that Richard was laboring 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 respected salutations were offered her, she answered them mechanically, a shout was raised, long live Carlisle, Carlisle, forever! Barbara bowed her pretty head on either side and the carriage at length got on. The parting of the crowd brought Mr Dill, who had come to listen for once to the speech of the second man and Mr Ebenezer James, close to each other. Mr Ebenezer James was one who, for the last twelve or fifteen years, had been trying his hand at many trades and had not come out particularly well at any. A rolling stone gathers no moss. First he had been clerked to Mr Carlisle, next he had been seduced into joining the corps of the Royal Theatre at Limborough, then he turned auctioneer, then travelling in the oil and colour line, then a parson, the urgent pastor of some new set, then omnibus driver, then collector of the water rate and now he was clerk again, not in Mr Carlisle's office, but in that of Ball and Treadman, other solicitors of West Lynn. A good-humoured, good-natured, free-of-mannered idle chap was Mr Ebenezer James and that was the worst that could be urged against him, save that he was sometimes out of pocket and out of elbows. His father was a respectable man and he had made money in trade but he had married a second wife, had a second family and his eldest son did not come in for much of the paternal money, though he did for a large share Well, Ebenezer, and how goes the world with you? cried Mr Dill by way of salutation. Jogging on, it never gets to a trot. Didn't I see you turning into your father's house yesterday? I pretty soon turned out of it again. I'm like the monkey when I venture there, get more kicks than halfpence. Hush, old gentleman, we interrupt the eloquence. Of course the eloquence applied to Sir Francis Levison and they set themselves to listen. Well, with a serious face, Mr Ebenezer with a grinning one. But soon a jostle and movement carried them to the outside of the crowd, out of sight of the speaker, though not entirely out of hearing. By these means they had a view of the street and discerned something advancing to them which they took for a Russian bear on its hind legs. I'll be blessed, uttered Mr Ebenezer James after a prolonged pause of staring consternation. If I don't believe it's Bethel, Bethel, repeated Mr Dill, gazing at the approaching figure, what has he been doing to himself? Mr Ottway Bethel it was just arrived from foreign parts in his travelling costume, something shaggy, terminating all over with tails, a wild object he looked and Mr Dill rather backed as he drew near as if fearing he was a real animal which might bite him. What's your name? cried he. It used to be Bethel, replied the wild man, holding out his hand to Mr Dill. So you are in the world, James, and kicking yet, and hope to kick in it for some time to come, replied Mr James. Where did you hail from last? A settlement at the North Pole? Didn't get quite as far. What's the row here? When did you arrive, Mr Ottway? inquired old Dill. Now, four o'clock train, an election that's all, said Mr Ebeneiser. Atle went and kicked the bucket. I don't ask about the election, I heard all about that at the railway station, returned Ottway Bethel impatiently. What's this, waving his hand at the crowd? One of the candidates wasting breath and words, Levison. I say, repeated Ottway Bethel, looking at Mr Dill, wasn't it rather of the ratherist for him to oppose Carlisle? Infamous, contemptible, was the old gentleman's excited answer, but he'll get his desserts yet, Mr Ottway. They've already begun. He was treated to a ducking yesterday in Justice Hare's green pond. And he did look a miserable devil when he came out, trailing through the streets, added Mr Ebeneiser, while Ottway Bethel burst into a laugh. He was smothered in some hot blankets at the raven, and a pint of burnt brandy put into him. He seems all right today. Will he go in and win? Chut, when against Carlisle, he's not the ghost of a chance, and government, if it is the government who put him on, must be a pack of fools. They can't know the influence of Carlisle. Bethel, is that style of costume the fashion where you come from? For slender pockets, I'll sell them to you now, James, at half price. But let's get a look at this Levison, though. I've never seen the fellow. Another interruption of the crowd, even as he spoke, caused by the railway van bringing up some luggage. They contrived, in the confusion, to push themselves to the front, not far from Sir Francis. Ottway Bethel stared at him in unqualified amazement. Why, what brings him up here? What is he doing? Who? He pointed his finger. The one with the white handkerchief in his hand. That is Sir Francis. No, uttered Bethel. A whole world of astounded meaning in his tone. By Jove. He? Sir Francis Levison? At that moment their eyes met. Francis Levison's and Ottway Bethel's. Ottway Bethel raised his shaggy hat in salutation and Sir Francis appeared completely scared. Only for an instant did he lose his presence of mind.  It was not just to say, who are you, fellow, that you should take such a liberty? But his cheeks and lips were growing as white as marble. Do you know Levison, Mr Ottway, inquired Old Dill? A little, once. When he was not Levison, but somebody else, laughed Mr Ebenezer James, eh, Bethel? Bethel turned as reproving a stare on Mr Ebenezer as the baronet had just turned on him.  A not to Old Dill, and he turned off and disappeared, taking no further notice of James, the old gentleman questioned the latter. What was that little bit of bi-play, Mr Ebenezer? Nothing much, laughed Mr Ebenezer. Only he, nodding towards Sir Francis, was not always the great man he is now. Ah! I have held my tongue about it, for it's no affair of mine, but I don't mind letting you into the secret. Would you believe that that grand baronet there would be member for West Lynn, used, years ago, to dodge about Abbey Wood, mad after Afie Hallijan? He didn't call himself Levison then. Mr Dill felt as if a hundred pins and needles were pricking at his memory, for there rose up in it certain doubts and troubles touching Richard Hare and one Thorn. He laid his eager hand upon the other's arm. Ebenezer James, what did he call himself? Thorn, a dandy, then, as he is now. He used to come galloping down the Swainson Road at dusk, tie his horse in the woods and monopolise Miss Afie. How do you know this? Because I've seen it a dozen times. I was spoony after Afie myself in those days and went down there a good deal in an evening, if it hadn't been for him and perhaps that murdering villain, Dick Hare, Afie would have listened to me, not that she cared for Dick, but, you see, they were gentlemen. I am thankful to the stars now for my luck in escaping her. With her for a wife I should have been in a pickle always. As it is, I do get out of it once in a while. Did you know then that he was Francis Levison? Not I. He called himself Thorn, I tell you. When he came down to offer himself for member and opposed Carlisle, I was thunderstruck, like Bethel was a minute ago. Ho, ho, said I, so Thorn's defunct and Levison has risen. What had Ottawa Bethel to do with him? Nothing that I know of. Only Bethel was fond of the woods also, after other games than Afie, though, and they have seen Thorn often. You saw that he recognised him. Thorn, Levison, I mean, did not appear to like the recognition, said Mr Dill. Who would, in his position, have liked Ebenezer James? I don't like to be reminded of many a wild scrape of my past life in my poor station. And what would it be for Levison were it to come out that he once called himself Thorn and came running after Miss Afie Hallijon? Why did he call himself Thorn? Why disguise his own name? Not knowing, can't say. Is his name Levison, or is it Thorn? Nonsense, Mr Ebenezer. Mr Dill, bursting with the strange news he had heard, endeavoured to force his way through the crowd that he might communicate it to Mr Carlyle. The crowd was, however, too dense for him, and he had to wait the opportunity of escaping with what patience he might. When it came he made his way to the office and entered Mr Carlyle's private room. That gentleman was seated at his desk, signing letters. Why, Dill, you're out of breath. Well, I may be, Mr Archibald, I've been listening to the most extraordinary statement. I found out about Thorn. Who do you think he is? Mr Carlyle put down his pen and looked full into the old man's face. He had never seen him so excited. It's that man, Levison. I do not understand you, said Mr Carlyle. He did not. It was as good as Hebrew to him. The Levison of today, your opponent, is the Thorn who went after Afie Hallijon. It is so, Mr Archibald. It cannot be, slowly uttered Mr Carlyle, thought upon thought working havoc with his brain. Where did you hear about this? Mr Dill told his tale. Ottway Bethel's recognition of him. Sir Francis Levison scared paleness, for he had noticed that. Mr Ebenezer's revelation. The point in it all that finally settled most upon Mr Carlyle was the thought that if Levison were indeed the man, he could not be instrumental in bringing him to justice. Bethel has denied to me more than once that he knew Thorn or was aware of such a man being in existence, observed Mr Carlyle. He must have had a purpose in it then, returned Mr Dill. They knew each other today. Levison recognized him for certain, although he carried it off with a high hand, pretending not. And it was not as Levison, but as Thorn that Bethel recognized him? There's little doubt of that. He did not mention the name Thorn, but he was evidently struck with astonishment at hearing that it was Levison. If they have not some secret between them, Mr Archibald, I'll never believe my own eyes again. Mrs Hare's opinion is that Bethel had to do with the murder, said Mr Carlyle, in a low tone. If that's their secret, Bethel knows the murderer, rely upon it, was the answer. Mr Archibald, it seems to me that now or never is the time to clear up Richard. I, but how to set about it, responded Mr Carlyle. Meanwhile, Barbara had proceeded home in her carriage, her brain as busy as Mr Carlyle's, perhaps more troubled. Her springing lightly and hastily out the moment it stopped, disdaining the footman's arm, her compressed lips and abs and countenates, proved that her resolution was set upon some plan of action. William and Madame Vine met her in the hall. We have seen Dr Martin, Mrs Carlyle, and he says, I cannot stay to here now, William. I will see you later, Madame. She ran upstairs to her dressing room. Madame Vine followed her with reproachful eyes. Why should she care, thought Madame? It is not her child. Throwing her parasol on one chair, her gloves on another, down sat Barbara to her writing-table. I will write to him. I will have him here if it be but for an hour, she passionately exclaimed. Now be, so far, cleared up. I am as sure as can be that it is that man. The very action Richard described. And there was the diamond ring. For better, for worse, I will send for him. But it will not be for worse if God is with us. She dashed off a letter, getting up ere she had well begun it to order her carriage round again. She would trust no one but herself to put it in the post. My dear Mr Smith, we want you here. Something has arisen that it is necessary to see you upon. You can get here by Saturday. Be in these grounds near the covered walk that evening at dusk. Ever yours, be. And the letter was addressed to Mr Smith of some street in Liverpool, the address furnished by Richard. Very cautious to see was Barbara. She even put Mr Smith inside the letter. Now stop, cried Barbara to herself as she was folding it. I ought to send him a five-pound note, for he may not have the means to come, and I don't think I have one of that amount in the house. She looked into her secretary, not a single five-pound note. Out of the room she ran, meeting Joyce, who was coming along the corridor. Do you happen to have a five-pound note, Joyce? No, ma'am, not by me. I daresay Madame Vine has. I paid her last week, and there were two five-pound notes amongst it. And away went Barbara into the grey parlor. Could you lend me a five-pound note, Madame Vine? I have occasion to enclose one in a letter and find I do not possess one. Madame Vine went to her room to get it. Barbara waited. She asked William what Dr Martin had said. He tried my chest with, though I forget what they call it, and he said I must be a brave boy and take my cod liver oil well and port wine, and everything I liked that was good. And he said he should be at West Linn next Wednesday afternoon, and I came to go there, and he would call in and see me. Where are you to meet him? He said, either at Papa's office or at Aunt Cornelia's, as we might decide. Madame fixed it for Papa's office, for she thought he might like to see Dr Martin. I say, Mama. What, asked Barbara? Madame Vine has been crying ever since. Why should she? I'm sure I don't know. Crying? Yes, but she wipes her eyes under her spectacles and thinks I don't see her. I know I am very ill, but why should she cry for that? Nonsense, William. Who told you you were very ill? Nobody. I suppose I am, he thoughtfully added. If Joyce or Lucy cried, now there'd be some sense to it, for they have known me all my life.  You are always doing it. It is not likely that Madame would be crying because you are ill. Barbara thanked her, ran upstairs, and in another minute or two was in her carriage. She was back again in dressing when the gentleman returned to dinner. Mr Carlaw came upstairs. Barbara, like most persons who do things without reflection, having had time to cool down from her ardour, was doubting whether she had acted wisely in sending so precipitantly for Richard. She carried her doubt and cared to her husband, her sure refuge in perplexity. Archibald, I fear I have done a foolish thing. He laughed. I fear we all do that at times, Barbara. What is it? He had seated himself in one of Barbara's favourite low chairs and she stood before him, leaning on his shoulder, her face a little behind so that he could not see it. In her delicacy she would not look at him while she spoke what she was going to speak. It is something that I had upon my mind for years and I did not like to tell it to you. For years. I remember that night, years ago, when Richard was at the grove in disguise. Which night, Barbara? He came more than once. The night. The night that Lady Isabel quitted East Lynn, she answered, not knowing how better to bring it to his recollection, and she stole her hand lovingly into his as she said it. Richard came back after his departure, saying he had met Thorn in Bean Lane. He described the particular motion to bring back his hair from his brow. He spoke of the white hand and the diamond ring, how it glittered in the moonlight. And do you remember? I do. The motion appeared perfectly familiar to me for I had seen it repeatedly used by one then staying at East Lynn. I wondered you did not recognise it. From that night I had little doubt as to the identity of Thorn. I believed that he and Captain Leveson were one. A pause. Why did you not tell me so, Barbara? How could I speak of that man to you at that time? Afterwards, when Richard was here that snowy winter's day he asserted that he knew Sir Francis Leveson that he had seen him and Thorn together and that put me off the scent. But today, as I was passing the raven in the carriage going very slow on account of the crowd he was perched out there addressing the people and I saw the very same action, the old action that I had used to see. Barbara paused. Mr Carlyle did not interrupt her. I feel a conviction that they are the same that Richard must have been under some unaccountable mistake in saying that he knew Francis Leveson. Besides, who but he in evening dress would have been likely to go through Bean Lane that night? It leads to no houses but one wishing to avoid the high road could get into it from these grounds and go on to West Linn. He must have gone back directly on foot to West Linn to get the post carriage as was proved and he would naturally go through Bean Lane. Forgive me Archibald for recalling these things to you but I feel so sure that Leveson and Thorn are one. I know they are he quietly said.  Oh Archibald did you know it at that time? I did not know it until this afternoon I never suspected it. I wonder you did not I have wondered often. So do I now Dale, Abonys or James and Otway Bethel who came home today were standing before the raven listening to his speech when Bethel recognized him not as Leveson he was infinitely astonished to find he was Leveson. Leveson they say was scared of the recognition and changed colour Bethel would give no explanation and moved away but James told Dale that Leveson was the man Thorn who used to be after Afi Hallijon. How did you know? breathlessly asked Barbara because Mr Ebenezer was after Afi himself and repeatedly saw Thorn in the wood Barbara I believe now that it was Leveson who killed Hallijon but I should like to know what Bethel had to do with it. Barbara clasped her hands How strange it is she exclaimed in some excitement Mama told me yesterday that she was convinced something or other was going to turn up relative to the murder. She had had the most distressing dream she said connected with Richard and Bethel and somebody else whom she appeared to know in the dream but could not recognize or remember when she was awake. She was ill as could be she does put such faith in these wretched dreams. One would think you did also Barbara by your vehemence No no you know better but it is strange you must acknowledge that it is that so sure as anything fresh happens touching on the subject of the murder so sure is a troubled dream the forerunner of it Mama does not have them at other times Bethel denied to you that he knew Thorn I know he did and now it turns out that he does know him and he is always in Mama's dreams none more prominent in them than Bethel but Archibald Archibald I am not telling you I have sent for Richard You have I felt sure that Levinson was Thorn I did not expect that others would recognize him and I acted on the impulse of the moment and wrote to Richard telling him to be here on Saturday evening though letter is gone Well we must shelter him as best we can Archibald Dear Archibald what can be done to clear him by forcing to her eyes being Levinson I cannot act what she uttered not act not act for Richard he bent his clear truthful eyes upon her my dearest how can I she looked a little rebellious and the tears fell you have not considered Barbara any one in the world but Levinson it would look like my own revenge forgive me she softly whispered you are always right I did not think of it in that light but what steps do you imagine can be taken it is a case encompassed with difficulties me used Mr Carlisle let us wait until Richard comes do you happen to find a five pound note in your pocket Archibald I had not one to send to him and borrowed it from Madame Vine he took it out of his pocket book and gave it to her End of chapter 36 part 1