"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.
