MRS. CARLYLE IN FULL DRESS, AFY ALSO.
Merrily rose West Lynne on Thursday morning; merrily rang out the bells,
clashing and chiming. The street was alive with people; the windows were
crowded with heads; something unusual was astir. It was the day of the
nomination of the two candidates, and everybody took the opportunity to
make a holiday.
Ten o’clock was the hour named; but, before that hour struck, West Lynne
was crammed. The country people had come in, thick and threefold; rich
and poor; people of note, and people of none; voters and non-voters, all
eager to mix themselves up with the day’s proceedings. You see the
notorious fact of Sir Francis Levison’s having come forward to oppose
Mr. Carlyle, caused greater interest in this election than is usual,
even in small country places--and that need not be. Barbara drove in her
carriage, the two children with her, and the governess. The governess
said she preferred to remain at home. Barbara would not hear of it;
almost felt inclined to resent it as a slight; besides, if she took no
interest in Mr. Carlyle, she must go to take care of Lucy; she, Barbara,
would be too much occupied to look after children. So Madame Vine,
perforce, stepped into the barouche and sat opposite to Mrs. Carlyle,
her thick veil shading her features, and their pallor contrasting with
the blue spectacles.
They alighted at the residence of Miss Carlyle. Quite a gathering was
already there. Lady and Miss Dobede, the Herberts, Mrs. Hare, and many
others; for the house was in a good spot for seeing the fun; and all the
people were eager to testify their respect to Mr. Carlyle, in
contradiction to that other one. Miss Carlyle was in full rig; a
brocaded dress, and a scarlet-and-purple bow in front of it, the size of
a pumpkin. It was about the only occasion, in all Miss Carlyle’s life,
that she deemed it necessary to attire herself beyond common. Barbara
wore no bow, but she exhibited a splendid bouquet of scarlet-and-purple
flowers. Mr. Carlyle had himself given it to her that morning.
Mr. Carlyle saw them all at the windows of the large upper drawing-room,
and came in; he was then on his way to the town-hall. Shaking hands,
laughter, hearty and hasty good wishes; and he quitted the room again.
Barbara stole after him for a sweeter farewell.
“God bless you and prosper you, Archibald, my dearest!”
The business of the day began. Mr. Carlyle was proposed by Sir John
Dobede, and seconded by Mr. Herbert. Lord Mount Severn, than whom not a
busier man was there, would willingly have been proposer and seconder
too, but he had no local influence in the place. Sir Francis Levison was
proposed also by two gentlemen of standing. The show of hands was
declared to be in favor of Mr. Carlyle. It just was in favor of him;
about twenty to one. Upon which the baronet’s friends demanded a poll.
Then all was bustle, and scuffle, and confusion, every one tearing away
to the hustings, which had been fixed in a convenient spot, the town-
hall, not affording the accommodation necessary for a poll. Candidates,
and proposers and seconders, and gentlemen, and officers, and mob,
hustling and jostling each other. Mr. Carlyle was linked arm-in-arm with
Sir John Dobede; Sir John’s arm was within Lord Mount Severn’s--but, as
to order, it was impossible to observe any. To gain the place they had
to pass the house of Miss Carlyle. Young Vane, who was in the thick of
the crowd, of course, cast his eyes up to its lined windows, took off
his hat and waved it. “Carlyle and honor forever!” shouted he.
The ladies laughed and nodded, and shook their handkerchiefs, and
displayed their scarlet and purple colors. The crowd took up the shout,
till the very air echoed with it. “Carlyle and honor forever!” Barbara’s
tears were falling; but she smiled through them at one pair of loving
eyes, which sought out hers.
“A galaxy of beauty!” whispered Mr. Drake in the ear of Sir Francis.
“How the women rally round him! I tell you what, Levison, you and the
government were stupid to go on with the contest, and I said so days
ago. You have no more chance against Carlyle than that bit of straw has
against the wind. You ought to have withdrawn in time.”
“Like a coward?” angrily returned Sir Francis. “No, I’ll go on with it
to the last, though I do get beaten.”
“How lovely his wife is,” observed Mr. Drake, his admiring eyes cast up
at Barbara. “I say, Levison, was the first one as charming?”
Sir Francis looked perfectly savage; the allusion did not please him.
But, ere another word could be spoken, some one in the garb of a
policeman, who had wound his way through the crowd, laid his hand upon
the baronet.
“Sir Francis Levison, you are my prisoner.”
Nothing worse than debt occurred at that moment to the mind of Sir
Francis. But that was quite enough, and he turned purple with rage.
“Your hands off, vermin! How dare you?”
A quick movement, a slight click, a hustle from the wondering crowd more
immediately around, and the handcuffs were on. Utter amazement alone
prevented Mr. Drake from knocking down the policeman. A dozen
vituperating tongues assailed him.
“I’m sorry to do it in this public place and manner,” spoke the officer,
partly to Sir Francis, partly to the gentlemen around, “but I couldn’t
come across you last night, do as I would. And the warrant has been in
my hands since five o’clock yesterday afternoon. Sir Francis Levison, I
arrest you for the wilful murder of George Hallijohn.”
The crowd fell back; the crowd was paralyzed with consternation; the
word was passed from one extreme to the other, and back and across
again, and the excitement grew high. The ladies looking from Miss
Carlyle’s windows saw what had happened, though they could not divine
the cause. Some of them turned pale at sight of the handcuffs, and Mary
Pinner, an excitable girl, fell into a screaming fit.
Pale! What was their gentle paleness compared with the frightfully livid
one of Francis Levison? His agitation was pitiable to witness, his face
a terror to look upon; once or twice he gasped, as if in an agony; and
then his eyes happened to fall on Otway Bethel, who stood near. Shorn of
his adornments--which might not be thought adornments upon paper--the
following was the sentence that burst involuntarily from his lips,--
“You hound! It is you who have done this!”
“No! by--” Whether Mr. Otway Bethel was about to swear by Jupiter or
Juno never was decided, the sentence being cut ignominiously short at
the above two words. Another policeman, in the summary manner exercised
towards Sir Francis, had clapped a pair of handcuffs upon him.
“Mr. Otway Bethel, I arrest you as an accomplice in the murder of George
Hallijohn.”
You may be sure that the whole assembly was arrested, too--figuratively-
-and stood with eager gaze and open ears. Colonel Bethel, quitting the
scarlet-and-purple, flashed into those of the yellows. He knew his
nephew was graceless enough; but--to see him with a pair of handcuffs
on!
“What does all this mean?” he authoritatively demanded of the officers.
“It’s no fault of ours, colonel, we have but executed the warrant,”
answered one of them. “The magistrate, issued it yesterday against these
two gentlemen, on suspicion of their being concerned in the murder of
Hallijohn.”
“In conjunction with Richard Hare?” cried the astounded colonel, gazing
from one to the other, prisoners and officers, in scared bewilderment.
“It’s alleged now that Richard Hare didn’t have nothing to do with it,”
returned the man. “It’s said he is innocent. I’m sure I don’t know.”
“I swear that I am innocent,” passionately uttered Otway Bethel.
“Well, sir, you have only got to prove it,” civilly rejoined the
policeman.
Miss Carlyle and Lady Isabel leaned from the window, their curiosity too
much excited to remain silent longer. Mrs. Hare was standing by their
side.
“What is the matter?” both asked of the upturned faces immediately
beneath.
“Them two--the fine member as wanted to be, and young Bethel--be
arrested for murder,” spoke a man’s clear voice in answer. “The tale
runs as they murdered Hallijohn, and then laid it on the shoulders of
young Dick Hare, who didn’t do it after all.”
A faint wailing cry of startled pain, and Barbara flew to Mrs. Hare,
from whom it proceeded.
“Oh, mamma, my dear mamma, take comfort! Do not suffer this to agitate
you to illness. Richard is innocent, and it will surely be so proved.
Archibald,” she added, beckoning to her husband in her alarm, “come, if
you can, and say a word of assurance to mamma!”
It was impossible that Mr. Carlyle could hear the words, but he could
see that his wife was greatly agitated, and wanted him.
“I will be back with you in a few moments,” he said to his friends, as
he began to elbow his way through the crowd, which made way when they
saw who the elbower was.
Into another room, away from the gay visitors, they got Mrs. Hare, and
Mr. Carlyle locked the door to keep them out, unconsciously taking out
the key. Only himself and his wife were with her, except Madame Vine, in
her bonnet, who had been dispatched by somebody with a bottle of
smelling salts. Barbara knelt at her mamma’s feet; Mr. Carlyle leaned
over her, her hands held sympathizingly in his. Madame Vine would have
escaped, but the key was gone.
“Oh, Archibald, tell me the truth. You will not, deceive me?” she
gasped, in earnest entreaty, the cold dew gathering on her pale, gentle
face. “Is the time come to prove my boy’s innocence?”
“It is.”
“Is it possible that it can be that false, bad man who is guilty?”
“From my soul I believe him to be,” replied Mr. Carlyle, glancing round
to make sure that none could hear the assertion save those present. “But
what I say to you and Barbara, I would not say to the world. Whatever be
the man’s guilt, I am not his Nemesis. Dear Mrs. Hare, take courage,
take comfort--happier days are coming round.”
Mrs. Hare was weeping silently. Barbara rose and laid her mamma’s head
lovingly upon her bosom.
“Take care of her, my darling,” Mr. Carlyle whispered to his wife.
“Don’t leave her for a moment, and don’t let that chattering crew in
from the next room. I beg your pardon, madame.”
His hand had touched Madame Vine’s neck in turning round--that is, had
touched the jacket that encased it. He unlocked the door and regained
the street, while Madame Vine sat down with her beating and rebellious
heart.
Amidst the shouts, the jeers, and the escort of the mob, Sir Francis
Levison and Otway Bethel were lodged in the station-house, preparatory
to their examination before the magistrates. Never, sure, was so
mortifying an interruption known. So thought Sir Francis’s party. And
they deemed it well, after some consultation amongst themselves, to
withdraw his name as a candidate for the membership. That he never had a
shadow of chance from the first, most of them knew.
But there’s an incident yet to tell of the election day. You have seen
Miss Carlyle in her glory, her brocaded silk standing on end with
richness, her displayed colors, her pride in her noble brother. But now
could you--or she, which it is more to the purpose--have divined who and
what was right above her head at an upper window, I know not what the
consequence would have been.
No less an eyesore to Miss Carlyle than that “brazen hussy,” Afy
Hallijohn! Smuggled in by Miss Carlyle’s servants, there she was--in
full dress, too. A green-and-white checked sarcenet, flounced up to the
waist, over a crinoline extending from here to yonder; a fancy bonnet,
worn on the plait of hair behind, with a wreath and a veil; delicate
white gloves, and a swinging handkerchief of lace, redolent of musk. It
was well for Miss Corny’s peace of mind ever after that she remained in
ignorance of that daring act. There stood Afy, bold as a sunflower,
exhibiting herself and her splendor to the admiring eyes of the mob
below, gentle and simple.
“He is a handsome man, after all,” quoth she to Miss Carlyle’s maids,
when Sir Francis Levison arrived opposite the house.
“But such a horrid creature!” was the response. “And to think that he
should come here to oppose Mr. Archibald!”
“What’s that?” cried Afy. “What are they stopping for? There are two
policemen there! Oh!” shrieked Afy, “if they haven’t put handcuffs on
him! Whatever has he done? What can he have been up to?”
“Where? Who? What?” cried the servants, bewildered with the crowd. “Put
handcuffs on which?”
“Sir Francis Levison. Hush! What is that they say?”
Listening, looking, turning from white to red, from red to white, Afy
stood. But she could make nothing of it; she could not divine the cause
of the commotion. The man’s answer to Miss Carlyle and Lady Dobede,
clear though it was, did not quite reach her ears.
“What did he say?” she cried.
“Good Heavens!” cried one of the maids, whose hearing had been quicker
than Afy’s. “He says they are arrested for the wilful murder of Hal---of
your father, Miss Afy! Sir Francis Levison and Otway Bethel.”
“What!” shrieked Afy, her eyes starting.
“Levison was the man who did it, he says,” continued the servant,
bending her ear to listen. “And young Richard Hare, he says, has been
innocent all along.”
Afy slowly gathered in the sense of the words. She gasped twice, as if
her breath had gone, and then, with a stagger and a shiver, fell heavily
to the ground.
Afy Hallijohn, recovered from her fainting fit, had to be smuggled out
of Miss Carlyle’s, as she had been smuggled in. She was of an elastic
nature, and the shock, or the surprise, or the heat, whatever it may
have been, being over, Afy was herself again.
Not very far removed from the residence of Miss Carlyle was a shop in
the cheese and ham and butter and bacon line. A very respectable shop,
too, and kept by a very respectable man--a young man of mild
countenance, who had purchased the good-will of the business through an
advertisement, and come down from London to take possession. His
predecessor had amassed enough to retire, and people foretold that Mr.
Jiffin would do the same. To say that Miss Carlyle dealt at the shop
will be sufficient to proclaim the good quality of the articles kept in
it.
When Afy arrived opposite the shop, Mr. Jiffin was sunning himself at
the door; his shopman inside being at some urgent employment over the
contents of a butter-cask. Afy stopped. Mr. Jiffin admired her
uncommonly, and she, always ready for anything in that way, had already
enjoyed several passing flirtations with him.
“Good day, Miss Hallijohn,” cried he, warmly, tucking up his white apron
and pushing it round to the back of his waist, in the best manner he
could, as he held out his hand to her. For Afy had once hinted in terms
of disparagement at that very apron.
“Oh--how are you Jiffin?” cried Afy, loftily, pretending not to have
seen him standing there. And she condescended to put the tips of her
white gloves into the offered hand, as she coquetted with her
handkerchief, her veil, and her ringlets. “I thought you would have shut
up your shop to-day, Mr. Jiffin, and taken a holiday.”
“Business must be attended to,” responded Mr. Jiffin, quite lost in the
contemplation of Afy’s numerous attractions, unusually conspicuous as
they were. “Had I known that you were abroad, Miss Hallijohn, and
enjoying a holiday, perhaps I might have done it, too, in the hope of
coming across you somewhere or other.”
His words were bona fide as his admiration. Afy saw that, so she could
afford to treat him rather de haut en bas. “And he’s as simple as a
calf,” thought she.
“The greatest pleasure I have in life, Miss Hallijohn, is to see you go
by the shop window,” continued Mr. Jiffin. “I’m sure it’s like as if the
sun itself passed.”
“Dear me!” bridled Afy, with a simper, “I don’t know any good that can
do you. You might have seen me go by an hour or two ago--if you had
possessed eyes. I was on my way to Miss Carlyle’s,” she continued, with
the air of one who proclaims the fact of a morning call upon a duchess.
“Where could my eyes have been?” exclaimed Mr. Jiffin, in an agony of
regret. “In some of those precious butter-tubs, I shouldn’t wonder! We
have had a bad lot in, Miss Hallijohn, and I am going to return them!”
“Oh,” said Afy, conspicuously resenting the remark. “I don’t know
anything about that sort of thing. Butter-tubs are beneath me.”
“Of course, of course, Miss Hallijohn,” deprecated poor Jiffin. “They
are very profitable, though, to those who understand the trade.”
“What is all that shouting?” cried Afy, alluding to a tremendous noise
in the distance, which had continued for some little time.
“It’s the voters cheering Mr. Carlyle. I suppose you know that he’s
elected, Miss Hallijohn?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“The other was withdrawn by his friends, so they made short work of it,
and Mr. Carlyle is our member. God bless him! there’s not many like him.
But, I say, Miss Hallijohn, whatever is it that the other one has done?
Murder, they say. I can’t make top nor tail of it. Of course we know he
was bad enough before.”
“Don’t ask me,” said Afy. “Murder’s not a pleasant subject for a lady to
discuss. Are all these customers? Dear me, you’ll have enough to do to
attend to them; your man can’t do it all; so I won’t stay talking any
longer.”
With a gracious flourish of her flounces and wave of the handkerchief
Afy sailed off. And Mr. Jiffin, when he could withdraw his fascinated
eyes from following her, turned into his shop to assist in serving four
or five servant girls, who had entered it.
“It wouldn’t be such a bad catch, after all,” soliloquized Afy, as she
and her crinoline swayed along. “Of course I’d never put my nose inside
the shop--unless it was to order things like another customer. The worst
is the name. Jiffin, Joe Jiffin. How could I ever bear to be called Mrs.
Joe Jiffin! Not but--Goodness me! what do you want?”
The interruption to Afy’s chickens was caused by Mr. Ebenezer James.
That gentleman, who had been walking with quick steps to overtake her,
gave her flounces a twitch behind, to let her know somebody had come up.
“How are you, Afy? I was going after you to Mrs. Latimer’s, not knowing
but you had returned home. I saw you this morning at Miss Corny’s
windows.”
“Now, I don’t want any of your sauce, Ebenezer James. Afy-ing me! The
other day, when you were on with your nonsense, I said you should keep
your distance. You took and told Mr. Jiffin that I was an old sweetheart
of yours. I heard of it.”
“So you were,” laughed Mr. Ebenezer.
“I never was,” flashed Afy. “I was the company of your betters in those
days: and if there had been no betters in the case, I should have
scorned you. Why! you have been a strolling player!”
“And what have you been?” returned Mr. Ebenezer, a quiet tone of meaning
running through his good-humored laughter.
Afy’s cheeks flushed scarlet, and she raised her hand with a quick,
menacing gesture. But that they were in the public street Mr. Ebenezer
might have found his ears boxed. Afy dropped her hand again, and made a
dead standstill.
“If you think any vile, false insinuations that you may concoct will
injure me, you are mistaken, Ebenezer James. I am too much respected in
the place. So don’t try it on.”
“Why, Afy, what has put you out? I don’t want to injure you. Couldn’t do
it, if I tried, as you say,” he added, with another quiet laugh. “I have
been in too many scrapes myself to let my tongue bring other folks into
one.”
“There, that’s enough. Just take yourself off. It’s not over reputable
to have you at one’s side in public.”
“Well, I will relieve you of my company, if you’ll let me deliver my
commission. Though, as to ‘reputable’--however, I won’t put you out
further. You are wanted at the justice-room at three o’clock this
afternoon. And don’t fail, please.”
“Wanted at the justice-room!” retorted Afy. “I! What for?”
“And must not fail, as I say,” repeated Mr. Ebenezer. “You saw Levison
taken up--your old flame----”
Afy stamped her foot in indignant interruption. “Take care what you say,
Ebenezer James! Flame! He? I’ll have you put up for defamation of
character.”
“Don’t be a goose, Afy. It’s of no use riding the high horse with me.
You know where I saw you--and saw him. People here said you were with
Dick Hare; I could have told them better; but I did not. It was no
affair of mine, that I should proclaim it, neither is it now. Levison
alias Thorn is taken up for your father’s murder, and you are wanted to
give evidence. There! that’s your subpoena; Ball thought you would not
come without one.”
“I will never give evidence against Levison,” she uttered, tearing the
subpoena to pieces, and scattering them in the street. “I swear I won’t.
There, for you! Will I help to hang an innocent man, when it was Dick
Hare who was the guilty one? No! I’ll walk myself off a hundred miles
away first, and stop in hiding till it’s over. I shan’t forget this turn
that you have chosen to play me, Ebenezer James.”
“I chosen! Why, do you suppose I have anything to do with it? Don’t take
up that notion, Afy. Mr. Ball put that subpoena in my hand, and told me
to serve it. He might have given it to the other clerk, just as he gave
it to me; it was all chance. If I could do you a good turn I’d do it--
not a bad one.”
Afy strode on at railroad speed, waving him off. “Mind you don’t fail,
Afy,” he said, as he prepared to return.
“Fail,” answered she, with flashing eyes. “I shall fail giving evidence,
if you mean that. They don’t get me up to their justice-room, neither by
force or stratagem.”
Ebenezer James stood and looked after her as she tore along.
“What a spirit that Afy has got, when it’s put up!” quoth he. “She’ll be
doing as she said--make off--unless she’s stopped. She’s a great
simpleton! Nothing particular need come out about her and Thorn, unless
she lets it out herself in her tantrums. Here comes Ball, I declare! I
must tell him.”
On went Afy, and gained Mrs. Latimer’s. That lady, suffering from
indisposition was confined to the house. Afy, divesting herself of
certain little odds and ends of her finery, made her way into Mrs.
Latimer’s presence.
“Oh, ma’am, such heartrending news as I have had!” began she. “A
relation of mine is dying, and wants to see me. I ought to be away by
the next train.”
“Dear me!” cried Mrs. Latimer, after a pause of dismay. “But how can I
do without you, Afy?”
“It’s a dying request, ma’am,” pleaded Afy, covering her eyes with her
handkerchief--not the lace one--as if in the depth of woe. “Of course I
wouldn’t ask you under any other circumstances, suffering as you are!”
“Where is it to!” asked Mrs. Latimer. “How long shall you be away?”
Afy mentioned the first town that came uppermost, and “hoped” she might
be back to-morrow.
“What relation is it?” continued Mrs. Latimer. “I thought you had no
relatives, except Joyce and your aunt, Mrs. Kane.”
“This is another aunt,” cried Afy, softly. “I have never mentioned her,
not being friends. Differences divided us. Of course that makes me all
the more anxious to obey her request.”
An uncommon good hand at an impromptu tale was Afy. And Mrs. Latimer
consented to her demand. Afy flew upstairs, attired herself once more,
put one or two things in a small leather bag, placed some money in her
purse, and left the house.
Sauntering idly on the pavement on the sunny side of the street was a
policeman. He crossed over to Afy, with whom he had a slight
acquaintance.
“Good-day, Miss Hallijohn. A fine day, is it not?”
“Fine enough,” returned Afy, provoked at being hindered. “I can’t talk
to you now, for I am in a hurry.”
The faster she walked, the faster he walked, keeping at her side. Afy’s
pace increased to a run. His increased to a run too.
“Whatever are you in such haste over?” asked he.
“Well, it’s nothing to you. And I am sure I don’t want you to dance
attendance upon me just now. There’s a time for all things. I’ll have
some chatter with you another day.”
“One would think you were hurrying to catch a train.”
“So I am--if you must have your curiosity satisfied. I am going on a
little pleasure excursion, Mr. Inquisitive.”
“For long?”
“U--m! Home to-morrow, perhaps. Is it true that Mr. Carlyle’s elected?”
“Oh, yes; don’t go up that way, please.”
“Not up this way?” repeated Afy. “It’s the nearest road to the station.
It cuts off all that corner.”
The officer laid his hand upon her, gently. Afy thought he was venturing
upon it in sport--as if he deemed her too charming to be parted with.
“What do you mean by your nonsense? I tell you I have not time for it
now. Take your hand off me,” she added grimly--for the hand was clasping
her closer.
“I am sorry to hurt a lady’s feelings, especially yours, miss, but I
daren’t take it off, and I daren’t part with you. My instructions are to
take you on at once to the witness-room. Your evidence is wanted this
afternoon.”
If you ever saw a ghost more livid than ghosts in ordinary, you may
picture to your mind the appearance of Afy Hallijohn just then. She did
not faint as she had done once before that day, but she looked as if she
should die. One sharp cry, instantly suppressed, for Afy did retain some
presence of mind, and remembered that she was in the public road--one
sharp tussle for liberty, over as soon, and she resigned herself,
perforce, to her fate.
“I have no evidence to give,” she said, in a calmer tone. “I know
nothing of the facts.”
“I’m sure I don’t know anything of them,” returned the man. “I don’t
know why you are wanted. When instructions are given us, miss, we can’t
ask what they mean. I was bid to watch that you didn’t go off out of the
town, and to bring you on to the witness-room if you attempted it, and I
have tried to do it as politely as possible.”
“You don’t imagine I am going to walk through West Lynne with your hand
upon me!”
“I’ll take it off, Miss Hallijohn, if you’ll give a promise not to bolt.
You see, ‘twould come to nothing if you did, for I should be up with you
in a couple of yards; besides, it would be drawing folks’ attention on
you. You couldn’t hope to outrun me, or be a match for me in strength.”
“I will go quietly,” said Afy. “Take it off.”
She kept her word. Afy was no simpleton, and knew that she was no match
for him. She had fallen into the hands of the Philistines, was
powerless, and must make the best of it. So they walked through the
street as if they were taking a quiet stroll, he gallantly bearing the
leather bag. Miss Carlyle’s shocked eyes happened to fall upon them as
they passed her window. She wondered where could be the eyes of the
man’s inspector.