Lord Vane 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 for a minute, Lucy; I want to say some thing to Madame Vine.  Has Carlyle 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?  But she suspected too well, and the words died away on her unwilling lips.

“That brute, Levison.  If Carlyle riddled his body with shots for this move, and then kicked him till he died, he’d only get his deserts, and the world would applaud. He oppose Carlyle!  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.

“She was Lucy’s mother, you know, and I loved her.  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,” murmured Lady Isabel, arousing to recollection.

“Oh, hearsay! Has Carlyle 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 Lynne!”

“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 canvass.  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 baronet’s 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—­county gentry, magistrates, Lord Mount Severn.  Sometimes Mr. Carlyle would be with them, arm-and-arm with the latter.  If the contesting 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 Lynne.  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 dependant.  They started, and had walked as far as Mrs. Hare’s gate, when Miss Carlyle turned out of it.