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 that paper asserted—­that Sir Francis Levison had entered the lists in opposition to Mr. Carlyle, and was at West Lynne, 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 Levison must have.”

“Cheek!” repeated the dismayed earl, feeling as if every part of him, body and mind, were outraged by the news, “don’t speak of it in 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 West Lynne, 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’m 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 Vane 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,” laughed 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—­it may almost be said an infant—­and the viscount was not of an age to render important 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.”