by Ellen Wood
Richard laughed bitterly. “A gentleman?”
“Who is it you have seen Thorn with?” inquired Barbara.
“Sir Francis Levison,” replied Richard, glancing at Miss Carlyle, who drew in her lips ominously.
“With whom?” uttered Barbara, betraying complete astonishment. “Do you know Sir Francis Levison?”
“Oh, yes, I know him. Nearly the only man about town that I do know.”
Barbara seemed lost in a puzzled reverie, and it was some time before she aroused herself from it.
“Are they at all alike?” she asked.
“Very much so, I suspect. Both bad men.”
“But I meant in person.”
“Not in the least. Except that they are both tall.”
Again Barbara sank into thought. Richard’s words had surprised her. She was aroused by it from hearing a child’s voice in the next room. She ran into it, and Miss Carlyle immediately fastened the intervening door.
It was little Archibald Carlyle. Joyce had come in with the tray to lay the luncheon, and before she could lock the door, Archibald ran in after her. Barbara lifted him in her arms to carry him back to the nursery.
“Oh, you heavy boy!” she exclaimed.
Archie laughed. “Wilson says that,” he lisped, “if ever she has to carry me.”
“I have brought you a truant, Wilson,” cried Barbara.
“Oh, is it you, Miss Barbara? How are you, miss? Naughty boy! — yes, he ran away without my noticing him — he is got now so that he can open the door.”
“You must be so kind as to keep him strictly in for to-day,” concluded Miss Barbara, authoritatively. “Miss Carlyle is not well, and cannot be subjected to the annoyance of his running into the room.”
Evening came, and the time of Richard’s departure. It was again snowing heavily, though it had ceased in the middle of the day. Money for the present had been given to him; arrangements had been discussed. Mr. Carlyle insisted upon Richard’s sending him his address, as soon as he should own one to send, and Richard faithfully promised. He was in very low spirits, almost as low as Barbara, who could not conceal her tears; they dropped in silence on her pretty silk dress. He was smuggled down the stairs, a large cloak of Miss Carlyle’s enveloping him, into the room he had entered by storm the previous night. Mr. Carlyle held the window open.
“Good-bye, Barbara dear. If ever you should be able to tell my mother of this day, say that my chief sorrow was not to see her.”
“Oh, Richard!” she sobbed forth, broken-hearted, “good-bye. May God be with you and bless you!”
“Farewell, Richard,” said Miss Carlyle; “don’t you be fool enough to get into any more scrapes.”
Last of all he rung the hand of Mr. Carlyle. The latter went outside with him for an instant, and their leave-taking was alone.
Barbara returned to the chamber he had quitted. She felt that she must indulge in a few moments sobbing; Joyce was there, but Barbara was sobbing when she entered it.
“It is hard for him, Miss Barbara, if he is really innocent.”
Barbara turned her streaming eyes upon her. “If! Joyce do you doubt that he is innocent?”
“I quite believe him to be so now, miss. Nobody could so solemnly assert what was not true. The thing at present will be to find that Captain Thorn.”
“Joyce!” exclaimed Barbara, in excitement, seizing hold of Joyce’s hands, “I thought I had found him; I believed in my own mind that I knew who he was. I don’t mind telling you, though I have never before spoken of it; and with one thing or other, this night I feel just as if I should die — as if I must speak. I thought it was Sir Francis Levison.”
Joyce stared with all her eyes. “Miss Barbara!”
“I did. I have thought it ever since the night that Lady Isabel went away. My poor brother was at West Lynne then — he had come for a few hours, and he met the man Thorn walking in Bean lane. He was in evening dress, and Richard described a peculiar motion of his — the throwing off of his hair from his brow. He said his white hand and his diamond ring glittered in the moonlight. The white hand, the ring, the motion — for he was always doing it — all reminded me of Captain Levison; and from that hour until to-day I believed him to be the man Richard saw. To-day Richard tells me that he knows Sir Francis Levison, and that he and Thorn are intimate. What I think now is, that this Thorn must have paid a flying visit to the neighborhood that night to assist Captain Levison in the wicked work that he had on hand.”
“How strange it all sounds!” uttered Joyce.
“And I never could tell my suspicions to Mr. Carlyle! I did not like to mention Francis Levison’s name to him.”
Barbara soon returned down stairs. “I must be going home,” she said to Mr. Carlyle. “It is turned half-past seven, and mamma will be uneasy.”
“Whenever you like, Barbara.”
“But can I not walk? I am sorry to take out your ponies again, and in this storm.”
Mr. Carlyle laughed. “Which would feel the storm the worst, you or the ponies?”
But when Barbara got outside, she saw that it was not the pony carriage, but the chariot that was in waiting for her. She turned inquiringly to Mr. Carlyle.
“Did you think I should allow you to go home in an open carriage to-night, Barbara?”
“Are you coming also?”
“I suppose I had better,” he smiled. “To see that you and the carriage do not get fixed in a rut.”
Barbara withdrew to her corner of the chariot, and cried silently. Very, very deeply did she mourn the unhappy situation — the privations of her brother; and she knew that he was one to feel them deeply. He could not battle with the world’s hardships so bravely as many could. Mr. Carlyle only detected her emotion as they were nearing the Grove. He leaned forward, took her hand, and held it between his.
“Don’t grieve, Barbara. Bright days may be in store for us yet.”
The carriage stopped.
“You may go back,” he said to the servants, when he alighted. “I shall walk home.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Barbara, “I do think you intend to spend the evening with us? Mamma will be so pleased.”
Her voice sounded as if she was also. Mr. Carlyle drew her hand within his arm as they walked up the path.
But Barbara had reckoned without her host. Mrs. Hare was in bed, consequently could not be pleased at the visit of Mr. Carlyle. The justice had gone out, and she, feeling tired and not well, thought she would retire to rest. Barbara stole into her room, but found her asleep, so that it fell to Barbara to entertain Mr. Carlyle.
They stood together before the large pierglass, in front of the blazing fire. Barbara was thinking over the events of the day. What Mr. Carlyle was thinking of was best known to himself; his eyes, covered with their drooping eyelids, were cast upon Barbara. There was a long silence, at length Barbara seemed to feel that his gaze was upon her, and she looked up at him.
“Will you marry me, Barbara?”
The words were spoken in the quietest, most matter-of-fact tone, just as if he had said, “Shall I give you a chair, Barbara?” But, oh! The change that passed over her countenance! The sudden light of joy! The scarlet flush of emotion and happiness. Then it all faded down to paleness and sadness.
She shook her head in the negative. “But you are very kind to ask me,” she added in words.
“What is the impediment, Barbara?”
Another rush of color as before and a deep silence. Mr. Carlyle stole his arm around her and bent his face on a level with hers.
“Whisper it to me, Barbara.”
She burst into a flood of tears.
“Is it because I once married another?”
“No, no. It is the remembrance of that night — you cannot have forgotten it, and it is stamped on my brain in letters of fire. I never thought so to betray myself. But for what passed that night you would not have asked me now.”
“Barbara!”
She glanced up at him; the
tone was so painful.
“Do you know that I love you? That there is none other in the whole world whom I would care to marry but you? Nay, Barbara, when happiness is within our reach, let us not throw it away upon a chimera.”
She cried more softly, leaning upon his arm. “Happiness? Would it be happiness for you?”
“Great and deep happiness,” he whispered.
She read truth in his countenance, and a sweet smile illumined her sunny features. Mr. Carlyle read its signs.
“You love me as much as ever, Barbara!”
“Far more, far more,” was the murmured answer, and Mr. Carlyle held her closer, and drew her face fondly to his. Barbara’s heart was at length at rest, and she had been content to remain where she was forever.
And Richard? Had he got clear off? Richard was stealing along the road, plunging into the snow by the hedge because it was more sheltered there than in the beaten path, when his umbrella came in contact with another umbrella. Miss Carlyle had furnished it to him; not to protect his battered hat but to protect his face from being seen by the passers by. The umbrella he encountered was an aristocratic silk one, with an ivory handle; Dick’s was of democratic cotton, with hardly any handle at all; and the respective owners had been bearing on, heads down and umbrellas out, till they, the umbrellas, met smash, right under a gas lamp. Aside went the umbrellas, and the antagonists stared at each other.
“How dare you, fellow? Can’t you see where you are going on?”
Dick thought he should have dropped. He would have given all the money his pockets held if the friendly earth had but opened and swallowed him in; for he was now peering into the face of his own father.
Uttering an exclamation of dismay, which broke from him involuntarily, Richard sped away with the swiftness of an arrow. Did Justice Hare recognize the tones? It cannot be said. He saw a rough, strange looking man, with bushy, black whiskers, who was evidently scared at the sight of him. That was nothing; for the justice, being a justice, and a strict one, was regarded with considerable awe in the parish by those of Dick’s apparent caliber. Nevertheless, he stood still and gazed in the direction until all sound of Richard’s footsteps had died away in the distance.
Tears were streaming down the face of Mrs. Hare. It was a bright morning after the snowstorm, so bright that the sky was blue, and the sun was shining, but the snow lay deeply upon ground. Mrs. Hare sat in her chair, enjoying the brightness, and Mr. Carlyle stood near her. The tears were of joy and of grief mingled — of grief at hearing that she should at last have to part with Barbara, of joy that she was going to one so entirely worthy of her as Mr. Carlyle.
“Archibald, she has had a happy home here; you will render yours as much so?”
“To the very utmost of my power.”
“You will be ever kind to her, and cherish her?”
“With my whole strength and heart. Dear Mrs. Hare; I thought you knew me too well to doubt me.”
“Doubt you! I do not doubt you, I trust you implicitly, Archibald. Had the whole world laid themselves at Barbara’s feet, I should have prayed that she might choose you.”
A small smile flitted over Mr. Carlyle’s lips. He knew it was what Barbara would have done.
“But, Archibald, what about Cornelia?” returned Mrs. Hare. “I would not for a moment interfere in your affairs, or in the arrangements you and Barbara may agree upon, but I cannot help thinking that married people are better alone.”
“Cornelia will quit East Lynne,” said Mr. Carlyle. “I have not spoken to her yet, but I shall do so now. I have long made my mind up that if ever I did marry again, I and my wife would live alone. It is said she interfered too much with my former wife. Had I suspected it, Cornelia should not have remained in the house a day. Rest assured that Barbara shall not be an object to the chance.”
“How did you come over her?” demanded the justice, who had already given his gratified consent, and who now entered in his dressing gown and morning wig. “Others have tried it on, and Barbara would not listen to them.”
“I suppose I must have cast a spell upon her,” answered Mr. Carlyle, breaking into a smile.
“Here she is. Barbara,” carried on the unceremonious justice, “what is it that you see in Carlyle more than anybody else?”
Barbara’s scarlet cheeks answered for her. “Papa,” she said, “Otway Bethel is at the door asking to speak to you. Jasper says he won’t come in.”
“Then I’m sure I’m not going out to him in the cold. Here, Mr. Otway, what are you afraid of?” he called out. “Come in.”
Otway Bethel made his appearance in his usual sporting costume. But he did not seem altogether at his ease in the presence of Mrs. Hare and Barbara.
“The colonel wished to see you, justice, and ask you if you had any objection to the meeting’s being put off from one o’clock till two,” cried he, after nodding to Mr. Carlyle. “He has got a friend coming to see him unexpectedly who will leave again by the two o’clock train.”
“I don’t care which it is,” answered Mr. Hare. “Two o’clock will do as well as one, for me.”
“That’s all right, then; and I’ll drop in upon Herbert and Pinner and acquaint them.”
Miss Carlyle’s cold was better that evening, in fact she seemed quite herself again, and Mr. Carlyle introduced the subject of his marriage. It was after dinner that he began upon it.
“Cornelia, when I married Lady Isabel Vane, you reproached me severely with having kept you in the dark—”
“If you had not kept me in the dark, but consulted me, as any other Christian would, the course of events would have been wholly changed, and the wretchedness and disgrace that fell on this house been spared to it,” fiercely interrupted Miss Carlyle.
“We will leave the past,” he said, “and consider the future. I was about to remark, that I do not intend to fall under your displeasure again for the like offense. I believe you have never wholly forgiven it.”
“And never shall,” cried she, impetuously. “I did not deserve the slight.”
“Therefore, almost as soon as I know it myself, I acquaint you. I am about to marry a second time, Cornelia.”
Miss Carlyle started up. Her spectacles dropped off her nose, and a knitting-box which she happened to have on her knees, clattered to the floor.
“What did you say?” she uttered, aghast.
“I’m about to marry.”
“You!”
“I. Is there anything so very astonishing in it?”
“For the love of common sense, don’t go and make such a fool of yourself. You have done it once; was not that enough for you, but you must run your head into the noose again?”
“Now, Cornelia, can you wonder that I do not speak of things when you meet them in this way? You treat me just as you did when I was a child. It is very foolish.”
“When folk act childishly, they must be treated as children. I always thought you were mad when you married before, but I shall think you doubly mad now.”
“Because you have preferred to remain single and solitary yourself, is it any reason why you should condemn me to do the same? You are happy alone; I should be happier with a wife.”
“That she may go and disgrace you, as the last one did!” intemperately spoke Miss Carlyle, caring not a rush what she said in her storm of anger.
Mr. Carlyle’s brow flushed, but he controlled his temper.
“No,” he calmly replied. “I am not afraid of that in the one I have now chosen.”
Miss Corny gathered her knitting together, he had picked up her box. Her hands trembled, and the lines of her face were working. It was a blow to her as keen as the other had been.
“Pray who is it that you have chosen?” she jerked forth. “The whole neighborhood has been after you.”
“Let it be who it will, Cornelia, you will be sure to grumble. Were I to say that it was a royal princess, or a peasant’s daughter, you would equally see grounds for finding fault.”
“Of course I should. I know who it is — that stuck-up Louisa Dobede.”
“No, it is not. I never had the slightest intention of choosing Louisa Dobede, nor she of choosing me. I am marrying to please myself, and, for a wife, Louisa Dobede would not please me.”
“As you did before,” sarcastically put in Miss Corny.
“Yes; as I did before.”
“Well, can’t you open your mouth and say who it is?” was the exasperated rejoinder.
“It is Barbara Hare.”
“Who?” shrieked Miss Carlyle.
“You are not deaf, Cornelia.”
“Well, you are an idiot!” she exclaimed, lifting up her hands and eyes.
“Thank you,” he said, but without any signs of irritation.
“And so you are; you are, Archibald. To suffer that girl, who has been angling after you so long, to catch you at last.”
“She has not angled after me; had she done so, she would probably never have been Mrs. Carlyle. Whatever passing fancy she may have entertained for me in earlier days, she has shown no symptoms of it of late years; and I am quite certain that she had no more thought or idea that I should choose her for my second wife, than you had I should choose you. Others have angled after me too palpably, but Barbara has not.”
“She is a conceited minx, as vain as she is high.”
“What else have you to urge against her?”
“I would have married a girl without a slur, if I must have married,” aggravatingly returned Miss Corny.
“Slur?”
“Slur, yes. Dear me, is it an honor — the possessing a brother such as Richard?”
Miss Corny sniffed. “Pigs may fly; but I never saw them try at it.”
“The next consideration, Cornelia, is about your residence. You will go back, I presume, to your own home.”
Miss Corny did not believe her own ears. “Go back to my own home!” she exclaimed. “I shall do nothing of the sort. I shall stop at East Lynne. What’s to hinder me?”
Mr. Carlyle shook his head. “It cannot be,” he said, in a low, decisive tone.
“Who says so?” she sharply asked.
“I do. Have you forgotten that night — when she went away — the words spoken by Joyce? Cornelia, whether they were true or false, I will not subject another to the chance.”
