East Lynne

M >> Mrs. Henry Wood >> East Lynne


They went out and proceeded unmolested to the house of Justice Hare.
It was past nine, then. "I am so much obliged to you Mr. Carlyle,"
whispered Richard, as they walked up the path.

"I wish I could help you more effectually, Richard, and clear up the
mystery. Is Barbara on the watch? Yes; there's the door slowly opening."

Richard stole across the hall and into the parlor to his mother. Barbara
approached and softly whispered to Mr. Carlyle, standing, just outside
the portico; her voice trembled with the suspense of what the answer
might be.

"Is it the same man--the same Thorn?"

"No. Richard says this man bears no resemblance to the real one."

"Oh!" uttered Barbara, in her surprise and disappointment. "Not the
same! And for the best part of poor Richard's evening to have been taken
up for nothing."

"Not quite nothing," said Mr. Carlyle. "The question is now set at
rest."

"Set at rest!" repeated Barbara. "It is left in more uncertainty than
ever."

"Set at rest so far as regards Captain Thorn. And whilst our suspicions
were concentrated upon him, we thought not of looking to other
quarters."

When they entered the sitting-room Mrs. Hare was crying over Richard,
and Richard was crying over her; but she seized the hand of Mr. Carlyle.

"You have been very kind; I don't know whatever we should do without
you. And I want to tax your kindness further. Has Barbara mentioned it?"

"I could not talk in the hall, mamma; the servants might have
overheard."

"Mr. Hare is not well, and we terribly fear he will be home early, in
consequence; otherwise we should have been quite safe until after ten,
for he is gone to the Buck's Head, and they never leave, you know, till
that hour has struck. Should he come in and see Richard--oh, I need not
enlarge upon the consequences to you, Archibald; the very thought sends
me into a shiver. Barbara and I have been discussing it all the evening,
and we can only think of one plan; it is, that you will kindly stay in
the garden, near the gate; and, should he come in, stop him, and keep
him in conversation. Barbara will be with you, and will run in with the
warning, and Richard can go inside the closet in the hall till Mr. Hare
has entered and is safe in this room, and then he can make his escape.
Will you do this, Archibald?"

"Certainly I will."

"I cannot part with him before ten o'clock, unless I am forced," she
whispered, pressing Mr. Carlyle's hands, in her earnest gratitude. "You
don't know what it is, Archibald, to have a lost son home for an hour
but once in seven years. At ten o'clock we will part."

Mr. Carlyle and Barbara began to pace in the path in compliance with
the wish of Mrs. Hare, keeping near the entrance gate. When they were
turning the second time, Mr. Carlyle offered her his arm; it was an act
of mere politeness. Barbara took it; and there they waited and waited;
but the justice did not come.

Punctually to the minute, half after nine, Lady Isabel's carriage
arrived at Mrs. Jefferson's, and she came out immediately--a headache
being the plea for her early departure. She had not far to go to reach
East Lynne--about two miles--and it was a by-road nearly all the way.
They could emerge into the open road, if they pleased, but it was a
trifle further. Suddenly a gentleman approached the carriage as it was
bowling along, and waved his hand to the coachman to pull up. In spite
of the glowing moonlight, Lady Isabel did not at first recognize him,
for he wore a disfigured fur cap, the ears of which were tied over his
ears and cheeks. It was Francis Levison. She put down the window.

"I thought it must be your carriage. How early you are returning! Were
you tired of your entertainers?"

"Why, he knew what time my lady was returning," thought John to himself;
"he asked me. A false sort of a chap that, I've a notion."

"I came out for a midnight stroll, and have tired myself," he proceeded.
"Will you take compassion on me, and give me a seat home?"

She acquiesced. She could not do otherwise. The footman sprang from
behind the door, and Francis Levison took his place beside Lady Isabel.
"Take the high road," he put out his head to say to the coachman; and
the man touched his hat--which high road would cause them to pass Mr.
Hare's.

"I did not know you," she began, gathering herself into her own corner.
"What ugly thing is that you have on? It is like a disguise."

He was taking off the "ugly thing" as she spoke and began to twirl it
round his hand. "Disguise? Oh, no; I have no creditors in the immediate
neighborhood of East Lynne."

False as ever it was worn as a disguise and he knew it.

"Is Mr. Carlyle at home?" she inquired.

"No." Then, after a pause--"I expect he is more agreeably engaged."

The tone, a most significant one, brought the tingling blood to the
cheeks of Lady Isabel. She wished to preserve a dignified silence, and
did for a few moments; but the jealous question broke out,--

"Engaged in what manner?"

"As I came by Hare's house just now, I saw two people, a gentleman and
a young lady, coupled lovingly together, enjoying a _tete-a-tete_ by
moonlight. Unless I am mistaken, he was the favored individual whom you
call lord and master."

Lady Isabel almost gnashed her teeth; the jealous doubts which had been
tormenting her all the evening were confirmed. That the man whom she
hated--yes, in her blind anger, she hated him then--should so impose
upon her, should excuse himself by lies, lies base and false as he was,
from accompanying her out, on purpose to pass the hours with Barbara
Hare! Had she been alone in the carriage, a torrent of passion had
probably escaped her.

She leaned back, panting in her emotion, but hiding it from Captain
Levison. As they came opposite to Justice Hare's she deliberately bent
forward and scanned the garden with eager eyes.

There, in the bright moonlight, all too bright and clear, slowly paced
arm in arm, and drawn close to each other, her husband and Barbara Hare.
With a choking sob that could no longer be controlled or hidden, Lady
Isabel sunk back again.

He, that bold, bad man, dared to put his arm around her, to draw her to
his side; to whisper that _his_ love was left to her, if another's was
withdrawn. She was most assuredly out of her senses that night, or she
never would have listened.

A jealous woman is mad; an outraged woman is doubly mad; and the
ill-fated Lady Isabel truly believed that every sacred feeling which
ought to exist between man and wife was betrayed by Mr. Carlyle.

"Be avenged on that false hound, Isabel. He was never worthy of you.
Leave your life of misery, and come to happiness."

In her bitter distress and wrath, she broke into a storm of sobs.
Were they caused by passion against her husband, or by those bold and
shameless words? Alas! Alas! Francis Levison applied himself to soothe
her with all the sweet and dangerous sophistry of his crafty nature.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Barbara! Barbara!" he called. "I have seen Thorn."

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

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

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

"When I left here, I cut across into Bean lane, which is more private
for me than this road," proceeded Richard. "Just as I got to that clump
of trees--you know it, Barbara--I saw somebody coming toward me from a
distance. I stepped back behind the trunks of the trees, into the shade
of the hedge, for I don't care to be met, though I am disguised. He came
along the middle of the lane, going toward West Lynne, and I looked out
upon him. I knew him long before he was abreast of me; it was Thorn."
Barbara made no comment; she was digesting the news.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forgetting the strange appearances it would have--her flying along the
public road at that hour of the night--should she meet any who knew
her--forgetting what the consequence might be, did Justice Hare return
and find her absent, Barbara set off with a fleet foot, Richard more
stealthily following her--his eyes cast in all directions. Fortunately
Barbara wore a bonnet and mantle, which she had put on to pace the
garden with Mr. Carlyle; fortunately, also, the road was remarkably
empty of passengers. She succeeded in reaching Mr. Carlyle before he
turned into East Lynne gates.

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

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

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

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

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

"How was he dressed? As a gentleman?"

"Catch him dressing as anything else," returned Richard. "He was in an
evening suit of black, with a sort of thin overcoat thrown on, but it
was flung back at the shoulders, and I distinctly saw his clothes. A
gray alpaca, it looked like. As I have told Barbara, I should have known
him by this action of the hand," imitating it, "as he pushed his hair
off his forehead; it was the delicate white hand of the days gone by,
Mr. Carlyle; it was the flashing of the diamond ring!"

Mr. Carlyle was silent; Barbara also; but the thoughts of both were
busy. "Richard," observed the former, "I should advise you to remain a
day or two in the neighborhood, and look out for this man. You may see
him again, and may track him home; it is very desirable to find out who
he really is if practicable."

"But the danger?" urged Richard.

"Your fears magnify that. I am quite certain that nobody would know you
in broad daylight, disguised as you are now. So many years have flown
since, that people have forgotten to think about you, Richard."

But Richard could not be persuaded; he was full of fears. He described
the man as accurately as he could to Mr. Carlyle and Barbara, and told
them _they_ must look out. With some trouble, Mr. Carlyle got from him
an address in London, to which he might write, in case anything turned
up, and Richard's presence should be necessary. He then once more said
farewell, and quitted them, his way lying past East Lynne.

"And now to see you back, Barbara," said Mr. Carlyle.

"Indeed you shall not do it--late as it is, and tired as you must be. I
came here alone; Richard did not keep near me."

"I cannot help your having come here alone, but you may rely upon it,
I do not suffer you to go back so. Nonsense, Barbara! Allow you to go
along the high road by yourself at eleven o'clock at night? What are you
thinking of?"

He gave Barbara his arm, and they pursued their way. "How late Lady
Isabel will think you!" observed Barbara.

"I don't know that Lady Isabel has returned home yet. My being late once
in a while is of no consequence."

Not another word was spoken, save by Barbara. "Whatever excuse can I
make, should papa come home?" Both were buried in their own reflections.
"Thank you very greatly," she said as they reached her gate, and Mr.
Carlyle finally turned away. Barbara stole in, and found the coast
clear; her papa had not arrived.

Lady Isabel was in her dressing-room when Mr. Carlyle entered; she was
seated at a table, writing. A few questions as to her evening's visit,
which she answered in the briefest way possible, and then he asked her
if she was not going to bed.

"By and by. I am not sleepy."

"I must go at once, Isabel, for I am dead tired." And no wonder.

"You can go," was her answer.

He bent down to kiss her, but she dexterously turned her face away. He
supposed that she felt hurt that he had not gone with her to the party,
and placed his hand on her shoulder with a pleasant smile.

"You foolish child, to be aggrieved at that! It was no fault of mine,
Isabel; I could not help myself. I will talk to you in the morning; I am
too tired to-night. I suppose you will not be long."

Her head was bent over her writing again, and she made no reply. Mr.
Carlyle went into his bedroom and shut the door. Some time after, Lady
Isabel went softly upstairs to Joyce's room. Joyce, fast in her first
sleep, was suddenly aroused from it. There stood her mistress, a wax
light in her hand. Joyce rubbed her eyes, and collected her senses, and
finally sat up in bed.

"My lady! Are you ill?"

"Ill! Yes; ill and wretched," answered Lady Isabel; and ill she did
look, for she was perfectly white. "Joyce, I want a promise from you. If
anything should happen to me, stay at East Lynne with my children."

Joyce stared in amazement, too much astonished to make any reply.

"Joyce, you promised it once before; promise it again. Whatever betide
you, you will stay with my children when I am gone."

"I will stay with them. But, oh, my lady, what can be the matter with
you? Are you taken suddenly ill?"

"Good-bye, Joyce," murmured Lady Isabel, gliding from the chamber as
quietly as she had entered it. And Joyce, after an hour of perplexity,
dropped asleep again.

Joyce was not the only one whose rest was disturbed that eventful night.
Mr. Carlyle himself awoke, and to his surprise found that his wife had
not come to bed. He wondered what the time was, and struck his repeater.
A quarter past three!

Rising, he made his way to the door of his wife's dressing-room. It
was in darkness; and, so far as he could judge by the absence of sound,
unoccupied.

"Isabel!"

No reply. Nothing but the echo of his own voice in the silence of the
night.

He struck a match and lighted a taper, partially dressed himself, and
went about to look for her. He feared she might have been taken ill; or
else that she had fallen asleep in some one of the rooms. But nowhere
could he find her, and feeling perplexed, he proceeded to his sister's
chamber door and knocked.

Miss Carlyle was a slight sleeper, and rose up in bed at once. "Who's
that?" cried out she.

"It is only I, Cornelia," said Mr. Carlyle.

"You!" cried Miss Corny. "What in the name of fortune do you want? You
can come in."

Mr. Carlyle opened the door, and met the keen eyes of his sister bent on
him from the bed. Her head was surmounted by a remarkable nightcap, at
least a foot high.

"Is anybody ill?" she demanded.

"I think Isabel must be, I cannot find her."

"Not find her?" echoed Miss Corny. "Why, what's the time? Is she not in
bed?"

"It is three o'clock. She had not been to bed. I cannot find her in the
sitting-rooms; neither is she in the children's room."

"Then I'll tell you what it is, Archibald; she's gone worrying after
Joyce. Perhaps the girl may be in pain to-night."

Mr. Carlyle was in full retreat toward Joyce's room, at this suggestion,
when his sister called to him.

"If anything is amiss with Joyce, you come and tell me, Archibald, for
I shall get up and see after her. The girl was my servant before she was
your wife's."

He reached Joyce's room, and softly unlatched the door, fully expecting
to find a light there, and his wife sitting by the bedside. There was no
light there, however, save that which came from the taper he held, and
he saw no signs of his wife. _Where_ was she? Was it probable that Joyce
should tell him? He stepped inside the room and called to her.

Joyce started up in a fright, which changed to astonishment when she
recognized her master. He inquired whether Lady Isabel had been there,
and for a few moments Joyce did not answer. She had been dreaming of
Lady Isabel, and could not at first detach the dream from the visit
which had probably given rise to it.

"What did you say, sir? Is my lady worse?"

"I asked if she had been here. I cannot find her."

"Why, yes," said Joyce, now fully aroused. "She came here and woke me.
That was just before twelve, for I heard the clock strike. She did not
stay here a minute, sir."

"Woke you!" repeated Mr. Carlyle. "What did she want? What did she come
here for?"

Thoughts are quick; imagination is still quicker; and Joyce was giving
the reins to both. Her mistress's gloomy and ambiguous words were
crowding on her brain. Three o'clock and she had not been in bed, and
was not to be found in the house? A nameless horror struggled to Joyce's
face, her eyes were dilating with it; she seized and threw on a large
flannel gown which lay on a chair by the bed, and forgetful of
her master who stood there, out she sprang to the floor. All minor
considerations faded to insignificance beside the terrible dread which
had taken possession of her. Clasping the flannel gown tight around her
with one hand, she laid the other on the arm of Mr. Carlyle.

"Oh, master! Oh, master! She has destroyed herself! I see it all now."

"Joyce!" sternly interrupted Mr. Carlyle.

"She has destroyed herself, as true as that we two are living here,"
persisted Joyce, her own face livid with emotion. "I can understand her
words now; I could not before. She came here--and her face was like a
corpse as the light fell upon it--saying she had come to get a promise
from me to stay with her children when she was gone, I asked whether she
was ill, and she answered, 'Yes, ill and wretched.' Oh, sir, may heaven
support you under this dreadful trial!"

Mr. Carlyle felt bewildered--perplexed. Not a syllable did he believe.
He was not angry with Joyce, for he thought she had lost her reason.

"It is so, sir, incredible as you may deem my words," pursued Joyce,
wringing her hands. "My lady has been miserably unhappy; and that has
driven her to it."

"Joyce, are you in your senses or out of them?" demanded Mr. Carlyle, a
certain sternness in his tone. "Your lady miserably unhappy! What do you
mean?"

Before Joyce could answer, an addition was received to the company in
the person of Miss Carlyle, who appeared in black stockings and a shawl,
and the lofty nightcap. Hearing voices in Joyce's room, which was above
her own, and full of curiosity, she ascended, not choosing to be shut
out from the conference.

"Whatever's up?" cried she. "Is Lady Isabel found?"

"She is not found, and she never will be found but in her
winding-sheet," returned Joyce, whose lamentable and unusual state of
excitement completely overpowered her customary quiet respect and plain
good sense. "And, ma'am, I am glad that you have come up; for what I was
about to say to my master I would prefer to say in your presence. When
my lady is brought into this house, and laid before us dead, what
will your feelings be? My master has done his duty by her in love; but
you--you have made her life a misery. Yes, ma'am, you have."

"Hoity-toity!" muttered Miss Carlyle, staring at Joyce in consternation.
"What is all this? Where's my lady?"

"She has gone and taken the life that was not hers to take," sobbed
Joyce, "and I say she has been driven to it. She has not been allowed to
indulge a will of her own, poor thing, since she came to East Lynne; in
her own house she has been less free than either of her servants. You
have curbed her, ma'am, and snapped at her, and you made her feel that
she was but a slave to your caprices and temper. All these years she has
been crossed and put upon; everything, in short, but beaten--ma'am, you
know she has--and has borne it all in silence, like a patient angel,
never, as I believe, complaining to master; he can say whether she has
or not. We all loved her, we all felt for her; and my master's heart
would have bled had he suspected what she had to put up with day after
day, and year after year."

Miss Carlyle's tongue was glued to her mouth. Her brother, confounded at
the rapid words, could scarcely gather in their sense.

"What is it that you are saying, Joyce?" he asked, in a low tone. "I do
not understand."