"n.o.body. I suppose I am," he thoughtfully added. "If Joyce or Lucy cried, now, there'd be some sense in it, for they have known me all my life."

"You are so apt to fancy things! You are always doing it. It is not likely that madame would be crying because you are ill."

Madame came in with the bank-note. Barbara thanked her, ran upstairs, and in another minute or two was in her carriage.

She was back again, and dressing when the gentlemen returned to dinner.

Mr. Carlyle came upstairs. Barbara, like most persons who do things without reflection, having had time to cool down from her ardor, was doubting whether she had acted wisely in sending so precipitately for Richard. She carried her doubt and care to her husband, her sure refuge in perplexity.

"Archibald, I fear I have done a foolish thing."

He laughed. "I fear we all do that at times, Barbara. What is it?"

He had seated himself in one of Barbara's favorite low chairs, and she stood before him, leaning on his shoulder, her face a little behind, so that he could not see it. In her delicacy she would not look at him while she spoke what she was going to speak.

"It is something that I have had upon my mind for years, and I did not like to tell it to you."

"For years?"

"You remember that night, years ago, when Richard was at the Grove in disguise--"

"Which night, Barbara? He came more than once."

"The night--the night that Lady Isabel quitted East Lynne," she answered, not knowing how better to bring it to his recollection and she stole her hand lovingly into his, as she said it. "Richard came back after his departure, saying he had met Thorn in Bean lane. He described the peculiar motion of the hand as he threw back his hair from his brow; he spoke of the white hand and the diamond ring--how it glittered in the moonlight. Do you remember?"

"I do."

"The motion appeared perfectly familiar to me, for I had seen it repeatedly used by one then staying at East Lynne. I wondered you did not recognize it. From that night I had little doubt as to the ident.i.ty of Thorn. I believed that he and Captain Levison were one."

A pause. "Why did you not tell me so, Barbara?"

"How could I speak of that man to you, at that time? Afterwards, when Richard was here, that snowy winter's day, he a.s.serted that he knew Sir Francis Levison; that he had seen him and Thorn together; and that put me off the scent. But to-day, as I was pa.s.sing the Raven, in the carriage--going very slow, on account of the crowd--he was perched out there, addressing the people, and I saw the very same action--the old action that I had used to see."

Barbara paused. Mr. Carlyle did not interrupt her.

"I feel a conviction that they are the same--that Richard must have been under some unaccountable mistake in saying that he knew Francis Levison.

Besides, who but he, in evening dress, would have been likely to go through Bean lane that night? It leads to no houses, but one wishing to avoid the high road could get into it from these grounds, and so on to West Lynne. He must have gone back directly on foot to West Lynne, to get the post carriage, as was proved, and he would naturally go through Bean lane. Forgive me, Archibald, for recalling these things to you, but I feel so sure that Levison and Thorn are one."

"I know they are," he quietly said.

Barbara, in her astonishment drew back and stared him in the face--a face of severe dignity it was just then.

"Oh, Archibald! Did you know it at that time?"

"I did not know it until this afternoon. I never suspected it."

"I wonder you did not. I have wondered often."

"So do I now. Dill, Ebenezer James, and Otway Bethel--who came home to- day--were standing before the Raven, listening to his speech, when Bethel recognized him; not as Levison--he was infinitely astonished to find he was Levison. Levison, they say, was scared at the recognition, and changed color. Bethel would give no explanation, and moved away; but James told Dill that Levison was the man Thorn who used to be after Afy Hallijohn."

"How did you know?" breathlessly asked Barbara.

"Because Mr. Ebenezer was after Afy himself, and repeatedly saw Thorn in the wood. Barbara, I believe now that it was Levison who killed Hallijohn, but I should like to know what Bethel had to do with it."

Barbara clasped her hands. "How strange it is!" she exclaimed, in some excitement. "Mamma told me, yesterday, that she was convinced something or other was going to turn up relative to the murder. She had had the most distressing dream, she said, connected with Richard and Bethel, and somebody else, whom she appeared to know in the dream, but could not recognize or remember when she was awake. She was as ill as could be-- she does put such faith in these wretched dreams."

"One would think you did also, Barbara, by your vehemence."

"No, no; you know better. But it is strange--you must acknowledge that it is--that, so sure as anything fresh happens touching the subject of the murder, so sure is a troubled dream the forerunner of it. Mamma does not have them at other times. Bethel denied to you that he knew Thorn."

"I know he did."

"And now it turns out that he does know him, and he is always in mamma's dreams--none more prominent in them than Bethel. But, Archibald, I am not telling you--I have sent for Richard."

"You have?"

"I felt sure that Levison was Thorn. I did not expect that others would recognize him, and I acted on the impulse of the moment and wrote to Richard, telling him to be here on Sat.u.r.day evening. The letter is gone."

"Well, we must shelter him as best we can."

"Archibald--dear Archibald, what can be done to clear him?" she asked, the tears rising to her eyes.

"Being Levison, I cannot act."

"What!" she uttered. "Not act--not act for Richard!"

He bent his clear, truthful eyes upon her.

"My dearest, how can I?"

She looked a little rebellious, and the tears fell.

"You have not considered, Barbara. Any one in the world but Levison; it would look like my own revenge."

"Forgive me!" she softly whispered. "You are always right. I did not think of it in that light. But, what steps do you imagine can be taken?"

"It is a case encompa.s.sed with difficulties," mused Mr. Carlyle. "Let us wait until Richard comes."

"Do you happen to have a five-pound note in your pocket, Archibald? I had not one to send to him, and borrowed it from Madame Vine."

He took out his pocket book and gave it to her.

In the gray parlor, in the dark twilight of the April evening--or it was getting far into the night--were William Carlyle and Lady Isabel. It had been a warm day, but the spring evenings were still chilly, and a fire burned in the grate. There was no blaze, the red embers were smoldering and half dead, but Madame Vine did not bestir herself to heed the fire.

William lay on the sofa, and she sat by, looking at him. Her gla.s.ses were off, for the tears wetted them continually; and it was not the recognition of the children she feared. He was tired with the drive to Lynneborough and back, and lay with eyes shut; she thought asleep.

Presently he opened them.

"How long will it be before I die?"

The words took her utterly by surprise, and her heart went round in a whirl. "What do you mean, William? Who said anything about dying?"