Mrs. Hare shook her heard. "I tell you, my dear, the remembrance has pa.s.sed from me; so whether his hair was black or light, I cannot say. I think he was tall, but he was sitting down, and Otway Bethel stood behind his chair. I seemed to feel that Richard was outside the door in hiding, trembling lest the man should go out and see him there; and I trembled, too. Oh, Barbara, it was a distressing dream!"

"I wish you could avoid having them, mamma, for they seem to upset you very much."

"Why did you ask whether the man was tall, and had black hair?"

Barbara returned an evasive answer. It would not do to tell Mrs. Hare that her suspicions pointed to one particular quarter; it would have agitated her too greatly.

So vivid was the dream, she could scarcely persuade herself, when she awoke, that it was not real, and the murderer actually at West Lynne.

"Oh, Barbara, Barbara!" she exclaimed, in a wailing tone, "when will this mystery be cleared, and my own restored to me? Seven years since he stole here to see us, and no tidings yet."

"People say that changes come every seven years, mamma," said Barbara, hopefully; "but I will go down and send you up some more tea."

"And guard your countenance well," returned her mother. "Don't let your father suspect anything. Remember his oath to bring Richard to justice.

If he thought we dwelt on his innocence, there is no knowing what he might do to find him, he is so very just."

"So very cruel and unnatural, I call it, mamma. But never fear my betraying anything. But have you heard about Joyce?"

"No. What is it?"

"She had a severe fall while playing with little Isabel, and it is said she will be confined to bed for several weeks. I am very sorry for her."

And, composing her face, she descended to the breakfast-room.

The dinner hour at the Hares', when they were alone, was four o'clock and it arrived that day as usual, and they sat down to table. Mrs. Hare was better then; the sunshine and the business of stirring life had in some measure effaced the visions of the night, and restored her to her wonted frame of mind.

The cloth removed, the justice sat but a little while over his port wine, for he was engaged to smoke an after-dinner pipe with a brother magistrate, Mr. Justice Herbert.

"Shall you be home to tea, papa?" inquired Barbara.

"Is it any business of yours, young lady?"

"Oh, not in the least," answered Miss Barbara. "Only if you had been coming home to tea, I suppose we must have waited, had you not been in time."

"I thought you said, Richard, that you were going to stay the evening with Mr. Herbert?" observed Mrs. Hare.

"So I am," responded the justice. "But Barbara has a great liking for the sound of her own tongue."

The justice departed, striding pompously down the gravel walk. Barbara waltzed round the large room to a gleeful song, as if she felt his absence a relief. Perhaps she did. "You can have tea now, mamma, at any time you please, if you are thirsty, without waiting till seven," quoth she.

"Barbara!" said Mrs. Hare.

"What, mamma?"

"I am sorry to hear of the calamity which has fallen upon Joyce! I should like to walk to East Lynne this evening and inquire after her, and see her, if I may; it would be but neighborly. I feel quite equal to it. Since I have accustomed myself to take more exercise I feel better for it, you know; and we have not been out to-day. Poor Joyce! What time shall we go, Barbara?"

"If we were to get there by--by seven, I should think; their dinner will be over then."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Hare, with alacrity, who was always pleased when somebody else decided for her. "But I should like some tea before we start, Barbara."

Barbara took care that her mamma should have some tea and then they proceeded toward East Lynne. It was a lovely evening--the air warm, and the humming gnats sported in it as if to make the most of the waning summer. Mrs. Hare enjoyed it at first, but ere she reached East Lynne, she became aware that the walk was too much for her. She did not usually venture upon half so long a one, and probably the fever and agitation of the morning had somewhat impaired her day's strength. She laid her hand upon the iron gate as they turned into the park, and stood still.

"I did wrong to come, Barbara."

"Lean on me, mamma. When you reach those benches, you can take a good rest before proceeding to the house. It is very warm, and that may have fatigued you."

They gained the benches, which were placed under some of the park trees, in front of the gates and the road, but not of the house, and Mrs. Hare sat down. Another minute and they were surrounded. Mr. Carlyle, his wife, and sister, who were taking an after-dinner stroll amidst the flowers with their guest, Francis Levison, discerned them, and came up.

The children, except the youngest, were of the party. Lady Isabel warmly welcomed Mrs. Hare; she had become quite attached to the delicate and suffering woman.

"A pretty one, I am, am I not, Archibald, to come inquiring after one invalid, and am so much of an invalid myself that I have to stop half- way?" Mrs. Hare exclaimed, as Mr. Carlyle shook her hand. "I was so greatly concerned to hear of poor Joyce."

"You must stay the evening, now you are here," cried Lady Isabel. "It will afford you a good rest; and tea will refresh you."

"Oh thank you, but we have taken tea," said Mrs. Hare.

"There is no reason why you should not take some more," she laughed.

"Indeed, you seem too fatigued to be anything but a prisoner with us for the next hour or two."

"I fear I am," answered Mrs. Hare.

"Who the d.i.c.kens are they?" Captain Levison was muttering to himself, as he contemplated the guests from a distance. "It's a deuced pretty girl, whoever she may be. I think I'll approach, they don't look formidable."

He did approach, and the introduction was made: "Captain Levison, Mrs.

Hare and Miss Hare." A few formal words, and Captain Levison disappeared again, challenging little William Carlyle to a foot-race.

"How very poorly your mamma looks!" Mr. Carlyle exclaimed to Barbara, when they were beyond the hearing of Mrs. Hare, who was busy talking with Lady Isabel and Miss Carlyle. "And she has appeared so much stronger lately; altogether better."

"The walk here has fatigued her; I feared it would be too long; so that she looks unusually pale," replied Barbara. "But what do you think it is that has upset her again, Mr. Carlyle?"

He turned his inquiring eyes upon Barbara.

"Papa came downstairs this morning, saying mamma was ill, that she had one of her old attacks of fever and restlessness. I declare, as papa spoke, I thought to myself could mamma have been dreaming some foolish dream again--for you remember how ill she used to be after them. I ran upstairs and the first thing that mamma said to me was, that she had had one of those dreadful dreams."

"I fancied she must have outlived her fear of them; that her own plain sense had come to her aid long ago, showing her how futile dreams are, meaning nothing, even if hers do occasionally touch upon that--that unhappy mystery."

"You may just as well reason with a post as reason with mamma when she is suffering from the influence of one of those dreams," returned Barbara. "I tried it this morning. I asked her to call up--as you observe--good sense to her aid. And her reply was, 'How could she help her feelings? She did not induce the dream by thinking of Richard, or in any other way, and yet it came and shattered her.' Of course so far, mamma is right, for she cannot help the dreams coming."

Mr. Carlyle made no immediate reply. He picked up a ball belonging to one of the children, which lay in his path, and began tossing it gently in his hand. "It is a singular thing," he observed, presently, "that we do not hear from Richard."

"Oh, very, very. And I know mamma distresses over it. A few words which she let fall this morning, betrayed it plainly. I am no believer in dreams," continued Barbara, "but I cannot deny that these, which take such a hold upon mamma, do bear upon the case in a curious manner--the one she had last night especially."

"What was it?" asked Mr. Carlyle.

"She dreamed that the real murderer was at West Lynne. She thought he was at our house--as a visitor, she said, or like one making a morning call--and we, she and I, were conversing with him about the murder. He wanted to deny it--to put it on Richard; and he turned and whispered to Otway Bethel, who stood behind his chair. This is another strange thing," added Barbara, lifting her blue eyes in their deep earnestness to the face of Mr. Carlyle.

"What is strange? You speak in enigmas, Barbara."

"I mean that Otway Bethel should invariably appear in her dreams. Until that stolen visit of Richard's we had no idea he was near the spot at the time, and yet he had always made a prominent feature in these dreams."