East Lynne

M >> Mrs. Henry Wood >> East Lynne


Mr. Carlyle motioned to Barbara to seat herself, then resumed his own
seat, beside his table. Barbara could not help noticing how different
his manners were in his office from his evening manners when he was "off
duty." Here he was the staid, calm man of business.

"I have a strange thing to tell you," she began, in a whisper, "but--it
is impossible that any one can hear us," she broke off, with a look of
dread. "It would be--it might be--death!"

"It is quite impossible," calmly replied Mr. Carlyle. "The doors are
double doors; did you notice that they were?"

Nevertheless, she left her chair and stood close to Mr. Carlyle, resting
her hand upon the table. He rose, of course.

"Richard is here!"

"Richard!" repeated Mr. Carlyle. "At West Lynne!"

"He appeared at the house last night in disguise, and made signs to me
from the grove of trees. You may imagine my alarm. He has been in London
all this while, half starving, working--I feel ashamed to mention it to
you--in a stable-yard. And, oh, Archibald! He says he is innocent."

Mr. Carlyle made no reply to this. He probably had no faith in the
assertion. "Sit down, Barbara," he said drawing her chair closer.

Barbara sat down again, but her manner was hurried and nervous. "Is it
quite sure that no stranger will be coming in? It would look so peculiar
to see me here; but mamma was too unwell to come herself--or rather, she
feared papa's questioning, if he found out that she came."

"Be at ease," replied Mr. Carlyle; "this room is sacred from the
intrusion of strangers. What of Richard?"

"He says that he was not in the cottage at the time the murder was
committed; that the person who really did it was a man of the name of
Thorn."

"What Thorn?" asked Mr. Carlyle, suppressing all signs of incredulity.

"I don't know; a friend of Afy's, he said. Archibald, he swore to it
in the most solemn manner; and I believe, as truly as that I am now
repeating it to you, that he was speaking the truth. I want you to see
Richard, if possible; he is coming to the same place to-night. If he can
tell his own tale to you, perhaps you may find out a way by which his
innocence may be made manifest. You are so clever, you can do anything."

Mr. Carlyle smiled. "Not quite anything, Barbara. Was this the purport
of Richard's visit--to say this?"

"Oh, no! He thinks it is of no use to say it, for nobody would believe
him against the evidence. He came to ask for a hundred pounds; he says
he has an opportunity of doing better, if he can have that sum. Mamma
has sent me to you; she has not the money by her, and she dare not ask
papa for it, as it is for Richard. She bade me say that if you will
kindly oblige her with the money to-day, she will arrange with you about
the repayment."

"Do you want it now?" asked Mr. Carlyle. "If so, I must send to the
bank. Dill never keeps much money in the house when I'm away."

"Not until evening. Can you manage to see Richard?"

"It is hazardous," mused Mr. Carlyle; "for him, I mean. Still, if he is
to be in the grove to-night, I may as well be there also. What disguise
is he in?"

"A farm laborer's, the best he could adopt about here, with large black
whiskers. He is stopping about three miles off, he said, in some obscure
hiding-place. And now," continued Barbara, "I want you to advise me; had
I better inform mamma that Richard is here, or not?"

Mr. Carlyle did not understand, and said so.

"I declare I am bewildered," she exclaimed. "I should have premised that
I have not yet told mamma it is Richard himself who is here, but that
he has sent a messenger to beg for this money. Would it be advisable to
acquaint her?"

"Why should you not? I think you ought to do so."

"Then I will; I was fearing the hazard for she is sure to insist upon
seeing him. Richard also wishes for an interview."

"It is only natural. Mrs. Hare must be thankful to hear so far, that he
is safe."

"I never saw anything like it," returned Barbara; "the change is akin
to magic; she says it has put life into her anew. And now for the last
thing; how can we secure papa's absence from home to-night? It must
be accomplished in some way. You know his temper: were I or mamma to
suggest to him, to go and see some friend, or to go to the club, he
would immediately stop at home. Can you devise any plan? You see I
appeal to you in all my troubles," she added, "like I and Anne used to
do when we were children."

It may be questioned if Mr. Carlyle heard the last remark. He had
dropped his eyelids in thought. "Have you told me all?" he asked
presently, lifting them.

"I think so."

"Then I will consider it over, and--"

"I shall not like to come here again," interrupted Barbara. "It--it
might excite suspicions; some one might see me, too, and mention it to
papa. Neither ought you to send to our house."

"Well--contrive to be in the street at four this afternoon. Stay, that's
your dinner hour; be walking up the street at three, three precisely; I
will meet you."

He rose, shook hands, and escorted Barbara through the small hall, along
the passage to the house door; a courtesy probably not yet shown to any
client by Mr. Carlyle. The house door closed upon her, and Barbara had
taken one step from it, when something large loomed down upon her, like
a ship in full sail.

She must have been the tallest lady in the world--out of a caravan. A
fine woman in her day, but angular and bony now. Still, in spite of
the angles and the bones, there was majesty in the appearance of Miss
Carlyle.

"Why--what on earth!" began she, "have _you_ been with Archibald for?"

Barbara Hare, wishing Miss Carlyle over in Asia, stammered out the
excuse she had given Mr. Dill.

"Your mamma sent you on business! I never heard of such a thing. Twice
I have been to see Archibald, and twice did Dill answer that he was
engaged and must not be interrupted. I shall make old Dill explain his
meaning for observing a mystery over it to me."

"There is no mystery," answered Barbara, feeling quite sick lest Miss
Carlyle should proclaim there was, before the clerks, or her father.
"Mamma wanted Mr. Carlyle's opinion upon a little private business, and
not feeling well enough to come herself, she sent me."

Miss Carlyle did not believe a word. "What business?" asked she
unceremoniously.

"It is nothing that could interest you. A trifling matter, relating to a
little money. It's nothing, indeed."

"Then, if it's nothing, why were you closeted so long with Archibald?"

"He was asking the particulars," replied Barbara, recovering her
equanimity.

Miss Carlyle sniffed, as she invariably did, when dissenting from a
problem. She was sure there was some mystery astir. She turned and
walked down the street with Barbara, but she was none the more likely to
get anything out of her.

Mr. Carlyle returned to his room, deliberated a few moments, and then
rang his bell. A clerk answered it.

"Go to the Buck's Head. If Mr. Hare and the other magistrates are there,
ask them to step over to me."

The young man did as he was bid, and came back with the noted justices
at his heels. They obeyed the summons with alacrity, for they believed
they had got themselves into a judicial scrape, and that Mr. Carlyle
alone could get them out of it.

"I will not request you to sit down," began Mr. Carlyle, "for it is
barely a moment I shall detain you. The more I think about this
man's having been put in prison, the less I like it; and I have been
considering that you had better all five, come and smoke your pipes at
my house this evening, when we shall have time to discuss what must be
done. Come at seven, not later, and you will find my father's old jar
replenished with the best broadcut, and half a dozen churchwarden pipes.
Shall it be so?"

The whole five accepted the invitation eagerly. And they were filing out
when Mr. Carlyle laid his finger on the arm of Justice Hare.

"_You_ will be sure to come, Hare," he whispered. "We could not get on
without you; all heads," with a slight inclination towards those going
out, "are not gifted with the clear good sense of yours."

"Sure and certain," responded the gratified justice; "fire and water
shouldn't keep me away."

Soon after Mr. Carlyle was left alone another clerk entered.

"Miss Carlyle is asking to see you, sir, and Colonel Bethel's come
again."

"Send in Miss Carlyle first," was the answer. "What is it, Cornelia?"

"Ah! You may well ask what? Saying this morning that you could not dine
at six, as usual, and then marching off, and never fixing the hour. How
can I give my orders?"

"I thought business would have called me out, but I am not going now. We
will dine a little earlier, though, Cornelia, say a quarter before six.
I have invited--"

"What's up, Archibald?" interrupted Miss Carlyle.

"Up! Nothing that I know of. I am very busy, Cornelia, and Colonel
Bethel is waiting; I will talk to you at dinner-time. I have invited a
party for to-night."

"A party!" echoed Miss Carlyle.

"Four or five of the justices are coming in to smoke their pipes. You
must put out your father's leaden tobacco-box, and--"

"They shan't come!" screamed Miss Carlyle. "Do you think I'll be
poisoned with tobacco smoke from a dozen pipes?"

"You need not sit in the room."

"Nor they either. Clean curtains are just put up throughout the house,
and I'll have no horrid pipes to blacken them."

"I'll buy you some new curtains, Cornelia, if their pipes spoil these,"
he quietly replied. "And now, Cornelia, I really must beg you to leave
me."

"When I have come to the bottom of this affair with Barbara Hare,"
resolutely returned Miss Corny, dropping the point of the contest as to
the pipes. "You are very clever, Archie, but you can't do me. I asked
Barbara what she came here for; business for mamma, touching money
matters, was her reply. I ask you: to hear your opinion about the scrape
the bench have got into, is yours. Now, it's neither one nor the other;
and I tell you, Archibald, I'll hear what it is. I should like to know
what you and Barbara do with a secret between you."

Mr. Carlyle knew her and her resolute expression well, and he took his
course, to tell her the truth. She was, to borrow the words Barbara had
used to her brother with regard to him, true as steel. Confide to Miss
Carlyle a secret, and she was trustworthy and impervious as he could be;
but let her come to suspect that there was a secret which was being kept
from her, and she would set to work like a ferret, and never stop until
it was unearthed.

Mr. Carlyle bent forward and spoke in a whisper. "I will tell you, if
you wish, Cornelia, but it is not a pleasant thing to hear. Richard Hare
has returned."

Miss Carlyle looked perfectly aghast. "Richard Hare! Is he mad?"

"It is not a very sane proceeding. He wants money from his mother, and
Mrs. Hare sent Barbara to ask me to manage it for her. No wonder poor
Barbara was flurried and nervous, for there's danger on all sides."

"Is he at their house?"

"How could he be there and his father in it? He is in hiding two or
three miles off, disguised as a laborer, and will be at the grove
to-night to receive this money. I have invited the justices to get
Mr. Hare safe away from his own house. If he saw Richard, he would
undoubtedly give him up to justice, and--putting graver considerations
aside--that would be pleasant for neither you nor for me. To have a
connection gibbeted for a willful murder would be an ugly blot on the
Carlyle escutcheon, Cornelia."

Miss Carlyle sat in silence revolving the news, a contraction on her
ample brow.

"And now you know all, Cornelia, and I do beg you to leave me, for I am
overwhelmed with work to-day."



CHAPTER VI.

RICHARD HARE, THE YOUNGER.

The bench of justices did not fail to keep their appointment; at seven
o'clock they arrived at Miss Carlyle's, one following closely upon
the heels of another. The reader may dissent from the expression "Miss
Carlyle's," but it is the correct one, for the house was hers, not her
brother's; though it remained his home, as it had been in his father's
time, the house was among the property bequeathed to Miss Carlyle.

Miss Carlyle chose to be present in spite of the pipes and the smoke,
and she was soon as deep in the discussion as the justices were. It was
said in the town, that she was as good a lawyer as her father had been;
she undoubtedly possessed sound judgment in legal matters, and quick
penetration. At eight o'clock a servant entered the room and addressed
his master.

"Mr. Dill is asking to see you, sir."

Mr. Carlyle rose, and came back with an open note in his hand.

"I am sorry to find that I must leave you for half an hour; some
important business has arisen, but I will be back as soon as I can."

"Who has sent for you;" immediately demanded Miss Corny.

He gave her a quiet look which she interpreted into a warning not to
question. "Mr. Dill is here, and will join you to talk the affair over,"
he said to his guests. "He knows the law better than I do; but I will
not be long."

He quitted his house, and walked with a rapid step toward the Grove. The
moon was bright as on the previous evening. After he had left the town
behind him, and was passing the scattered villas already mentioned, he
cast an involuntary glance at the wood, which rose behind them on his
left hand. It was called Abbey Wood, from the circumstance that in
old days an abbey had stood in its vicinity, all traces of which, save
tradition, had passed away. There was one small house, or cottage, just
within the wood, and in that cottage had occurred the murder for which
Richard Hare's life was in jeopardy. It was no longer occupied, for
nobody would rent it or live in it.

Mr. Carlyle opened the gate of the Grove, and glanced at the trees on
either side of him, but he neither saw nor heard any signs of Richard's
being concealed there. Barbara was at the window, looking out, and she
came herself and opened the door to Mr. Carlyle.

"Mamma is in the most excited state," she whispered to him as he
entered. "I knew how it would be."

"Has he come yet?"

"I have no doubt of it; but he has made no signal."

Mrs. Hare, feverish and agitated, with a burning spot on her delicate
cheeks, stood by the chair, not occupying it. Mr. Carlyle placed a
pocket-book in her hands. "I have brought it chiefly in notes," he said:
"they will be easier for him to carry than gold."

Mrs. Hare answered only by a look of gratitude, and clasped Mr.
Carlyle's hand in both hers. "Archibald, I _must_ see my boy; how can it
be managed? Must I go into the garden to him, or may he come in here?"

"I think he might come in; you know how bad the night air is for you.
Are the servants astir this evening?"

"Things seem to have turned out quite kindly," spoke up Barbara. "It
happens to be Anne's birthday, so mamma sent me just now into the
kitchen with a cake and a bottle of wine, desiring them to drink her
health. I shut the door and told them to make themselves comfortable;
that if we wanted anything we would ring."

"Then they are safe," observed Mr. Carlyle, "and Richard may come in."

"I will go and ascertain whether he is come," said Barbara.

"Stay where you are, Barbara; I will go myself," interposed Mr. Carlyle.
"Have the door open when you see us coming up the path."

Barbara gave a faint cry, and, trembling, clutched the arm of Mr.
Carlyle. "There he is! See! Standing out from the trees, just opposite
this window."

Mr. Carlyle turned to Mrs. Hare. "I shall not bring him in immediately;
for if I am to have an interview with him, it must be got over first,
that I may go back home to the justices, and keep Mr. Hare all safe."

He proceeded on his way, gained the trees, and plunged into them; and,
leaning against one, stood Richard Hare. Apart from his disguise,
and the false and fierce black whiskers, he was a blue-eyed, fair,
pleasant-looking young man, slight, and of middle height, and quite as
yielding and gentle as his mother. In her, this mild yieldingness of
disposition was rather a graceful quality; in Richard it was regarded
as a contemptible misfortune. In his boyhood he had been nicknamed Leafy
Dick, and when a stranger inquired why, the answer was that, as a leaf
was swayed by the wind, so he was swayed by everybody about him, never
possessing a will of his own. In short, Richard Hare, though of an
amiable and loving nature, was not over-burdened with what the world
calls brains. Brains he certainly had, but they were not sharp ones.

"Is my mother coming out to me?" asked Richard, after a few interchanged
sentences with Mr. Carlyle.

"No. You are to go indoors. Your father is away, and the servants are
shut up in the kitchen and will not see you. Though if they did,
they could never recognize you in that trim. A fine pair of whiskers,
Richard."

"Let us go in, then. I am all in a twitter till I get away. Am I to have
the money?"

"Yes, yes. But, Richard, your sister says you wish to disclose to me the
true history of that lamentable night. You had better speak while we are
here."

"It was Barbara herself wanted you to hear it. I think it of little
moment. If the whole place heard the truth from me, it would do no good,
for I should get no belief--not even from you."

"Try me, Richard, in as few words as possible."

"Well, there was a row at home about my going so much to Hallijohn's.
The governor and my mother thought I went after Afy; perhaps I did, and
perhaps I didn't. Hallijohn had asked me to lend him my gun, and that
evening, when I went to see Af--when I went to see some one--never
mind--"

"Richard," interrupted Mr. Carlyle, "there's an old saying, and it is
sound advice: 'Tell the whole truth to your lawyer and your doctor.' If
I am to judge whether anything can be attempted for you, you must tell
it to me; otherwise, I would rather hear nothing. It shall be sacred
trust."

"Then, if I must, I must," returned the yielding Richard. "I did love
the girl. I would have waited till I was my own master to make her my
wife, though it had been for years and years. I could not do it, you
know, in the face of my father's opposition."

"Your wife?" rejoined Mr. Carlyle, with some emphasis.

Richard looked surprised. "Why, you don't suppose I meant anything else!
I wouldn't have been such a blackguard."

"Well, go on, Richard. Did she return your love?"

"I can't be certain. Sometimes I thought she did, sometimes not; she
used to play and shuffle, and she liked too much to be with--him. I
would think her capricious--telling me I must not come this evening, and
I must not come the other; but I found out they were the evenings when
she was expecting him. We were never there together."

"You forget that you have not indicted 'him' by any name, Richard. I am
at fault."

Richard Hare bent forward till his black whiskers brushed Mr. Carlyle's
shoulder. "It was that cursed Thorn."

Mr. Carlyle remembered the name Barbara had mentioned. "Who was Thorn? I
never heard of him."

"Neither had anybody else, I expect, in West Lynne. He took precious
good care of that. He lives some miles away, and used to come over in
secret."

"Courting Afy?"

"Yes, he did come courting her," returned Richard, in a savage tone.
"Distance was no barrier. He would come galloping over at dusk, tie his
horse to a tree in the wood, and pass an hour or two with Afy. In the
house, when her father was not at home; roaming about the woods with
her, when he was."

"Come to the point, Richard--to the evening."

"Hallijohn's gun was out of order, and he requested the loan of mine. I
had made an appointment with Afy to be at her house that evening, and I
went down after dinner, carrying the gun with me. My father called after
me to know where I was going; I said, out with young Beauchamp, not
caring to meet his opposition; and the lie told against me at the
inquest. When I reached Hallijohn's, going the back way along the
fields, and through the wood-path, as I generally did go, Afy came
out, all reserve, as she could be at times, and said she was unable to
receive me then, that I must go back home. We had a few words about it,
and as we were speaking, Locksley passed, and saw me with the gun in my
hand; but it ended in my giving way. She could do just what she liked
with me, for I loved the very ground she trod on. I gave her the gun,
telling her it was loaded, and she took it indoors, shutting me out. I
did not go away; I had a suspicion that she had got Thorn there, though
she denied it to me; and I hid myself in some trees near the house.
Again Locksley came in view and saw me there, and called out to know why
I was hiding. I shied further off, and did not answer him--what were my
private movements to him?--and that also told against me at the inquest.
Not long afterwards--twenty minutes, perhaps--I heard a shot, which
seemed to be in the direction of the cottage. 'Somebody having a late
pop at the partridges,' thought I; for the sun was then setting, and at
the moment I saw Bethel emerge from the trees, and run in the direction
of the cottage. That was the shot that killed Hallijohn."

There was a pause. Mr. Carlyle looked keenly at Richard there in the
moonlight.

"Very soon, almost in the same moment, as it seemed, some one came
panting and tearing along the path leading from the cottage. It was
Thorn. His appearance startled me: I had never seen a man show more
utter terror. His face was livid, his eyes seemed starting, and his lips
were drawn back from his teeth. Had I been a strong man I should surely
have attacked him. I was mad with jealousy; for I then saw that Afy had
sent me away that she might entertain him."

"I thought you said this Thorn never came but at dusk," observed Mr.
Carlyle.

"I never knew him to do so until that evening. All I can say is, he was
there then. He flew along swiftly, and I afterwards heard the sound of
his horse's hoofs galloping away. I wondered what was up that he should
look so scared, and scutter away as though the deuce was after him; I
wondered whether he had quarreled with Afy. I ran to the house, leaped
up the two steps, and--Carlyle--I fell over the prostrate body of
Hallijohn! He was lying just within, on the kitchen floor, dead. Blood
was round about him, and my gun, just discharged, was thrown near. He
had been shot in the side."

Richard stopped for breath. Mr. Carlyle did not speak.

"I called to Afy. No one answered. No one was in the lower room; and
it seemed that no one was in the upper. A sort of panic came over me, a
fear. You know they always said at home I was a coward: I could not have
remained another minute with that dead man, had it been to save my own
life. I caught up the gun, and was making off, when--"

"Why did you catch up the gun?" interrupted Mr. Carlyle.

"Ideas pass through our minds quicker than we can speak them, especially
in these sorts of moments," was the reply of Richard Hare. "Some vague
notion flashed on my brain that _my gun_ ought not to be found near
the murdered body of Hallijohn. I was flying from the door, I say, when
Locksley emerged from the wood, full in view; and what possessed me I
can't tell, but I did the worst thing I could do--flung the gun indoors
again, and got away, although Locksley called after me to stop."

"Nothing told against you so much as that," observed Mr. Carlyle.
"Locksley deposed that he had seen you leave the cottage, gun in
hand, apparently in great commotion; that the moment you saw him, you
hesitated, as from fear, flung back the gun, and escaped."

Richard stamped his foot. "Aye; and all owing to my cursed cowardice.
They had better have made a woman of me, and brought me up in
petticoats. But let me go on. I came upon Bethel. He was standing in
that half-circle where the trees have been cut. Now I knew that Bethel,
if he had gone straight in the direction of the cottage, must have met
Thorn quitting it. 'Did you encounter that hound?' I asked him. 'What
hound?' returned Bethel. 'That fine fellow, that Thorn, who comes after
Afy,' I answered, for I did not mind mentioning her name in my passion.
'I don't know any Thorn,' returned Bethel, 'and I did not know anybody
was after Afy but yourself.' 'Did you hear a shot?' I went on. 'Yes,
I did,' he replied; 'I suppose it was Locksley, for he's about this
evening,' 'And I saw you,' I continued, 'just at the moment the shot
was fired, turn round the corner in the direction of Hallijohn's.' 'So I
did,' he said, 'but only to strike into the wood, a few paces up. What's
your drift?' 'Did you not encounter Thorn, running from the cottage?'
I persisted. 'I have encountered no one,' he said, 'and I don't believe
anybody's about but ourselves and Locksley.' I quitted him, and came
off," concluded Richard Hare. "He evidently had not seen Thorn, and knew
nothing."

"And you decamped the same night, Richard; it was a fatal step."

"Yes, I was a fool. I thought I'd wait quiet, and see how things turned
out; but you don't know all. Three or four hours later, I went to the
cottage again, and I managed to get a minute's speech with Afy. I never
shall forget it; before I could say one syllable she flew out at me,
accusing me of being the murderer of her father, and she fell into
hysterics out there on the grass. The noise brought people from the
house--plenty were in it then--and I retreated. 'If _she_ can think me
guilty, the world will think me guilty,' was my argument; and that night
I went right off, to stop in hiding for a day or two, till I saw my way
clear. It never came clear; the coroner's inquest sat, and the verdict
floored me over. And Afy--but I won't curse her--fanned the flame
against me by denying that any one had been there that night. 'She had
been at home,' she said, 'and had strolled out at the back door, to the
path that led from West Lynne, and was lingering there when she heard
a shot. Five minutes afterward she returned to the house, and found
Locksley standing over her dead father.'"