Cautiously peeping over the gate again, she looked down the road. A tall form, whose very height and strength bore a grace of which its owner was unconscious, was advancing rapidly toward her from the direction of West Lynne. Again she shrank away; true love is ever timid; and whatever may have been Barbara Hare's other qualities, her love at least was true and deep. But instead of the gate opening, with the firm quick motion peculiar to the hand which guided it, the footsteps seemed to pass, and not to have turned at all toward it. Barbara's heart sank, and she stole to the gate again, and looked out with a yearning look.
Yes, sure enough he was striding on, not thinking of her, not coming to her; and she, in the disappointment and impulse of the moment, called to him,--
"Archibald!"
Mr. Carlyle--it was no other--turned on his heel, and approached the gate.
"Is it you, Barbara! Watching for thieves and poachers? How are you?"
"How are you?" she returned, holding the gate open for him to enter, as he shook hands, and striving to calm down her agitation. "When did you return?"
"Only now, by the eight o'clock train, which got in beyond its time, having drawled unpardonably at the stations. They little thought they had me in it, as their looks betrayed when I got out. I have not been home yet."
"No! What will Cornelia say?"
"I went to the office for five minutes. But I have a few words to say to Beauchamp, and am going up at once. Thank you, I cannot come in now; I intend to do so on my return."
"Papa has gone up to Mr. Beauchamp's."
"Mr. Hare! Has he?"
"He and Squire Pinner," continued Barbara. "They have gone to have a smoking bout. And if you wait there with papa, it will be too late to come in, for he is sure not to be home before eleven or twelve."
Mr. Carlyle bent his head in deliberation. "Then I think it is of little use my going on," said he, "for my business with Beauchamp is private. I must defer it until to-morrow."
He took the gate out of her hand, closed it, and placed the hand within his own arm, to walk with her to the house. It was done in a matter-of-fact, real sort of way; nothing of romance or sentiment hallowed it; but Barbara Hare felt that she was in Eden.
"And how have you all been, Barbara, these few days?"
"Oh, very well. What made you start off so suddenly? You never said you were going, or came to wish us good-bye."
"You have just expressed it, Barbara--'suddenly.' A matter of business suddenly arose, and I suddenly went upon it."
"Cornelia said you were only gone for a day."
"Did she? When in London I find so many things to do! Is Mrs. Hare better?"
"Just the same. I think mamma's ailments are fancies, half of them; if she would rouse herself she would be better. What is in that parcel?"
"You are not to inquire, Miss Barbara. It does not concern you. It only concerns Mrs. Hare."
"Is it something you have brought for mamma, Archibald?"
"Of course. A countryman's visit to London entails buying presents for his friends; at least, it used to be so, in the old-fashioned days."
"When people made their wills before starting, and were a fortnight doing the journey in a wagon," laughed Barbara. "Grandpapa used to tell us tales of that, when we were children. But is it really something for mamma?"
"Don't I tell you so? I have brought something for you."
"Oh! What is it?" she uttered, her color rising, and wondering whether he was in jest or earnest.
"There's an impatient girl! 'What is it?' Wait a moment, and you shall see what it is."
He put the parcel or roll he was carrying upon a garden chair, and proceeded to search his pockets. Every pocket was visited, apparently in vain.
"Barbara, I think it is gone. I must have lost it somehow."
Her heart beat as she stood there, silently looking up at him in the moonlight. /Was/ it lost? /What/ had it been?
But, upon a second search, he came upon something in the pocket of his coat-tail. "Here it is, I believe; what brought it there?" He opened a small box, and taking out a long, gold chain, threw it around her neck. A locket was attached to it.
Her cheeks' crimson went and came; her heart beat more rapidly. She could not speak a word of thanks; and Mr. Carlyle took up the roll, and walked on into the presence of Mrs. Hare.
Barbara followed in a few minutes. Her mother was standing up, watching with pleased expectation the movements of Mr. Carlyle. No candles were in the room, but it was bright with firelight.
"Now, don't laugh at me," quoth he, untying the string of the parcel. "It is not a roll of velvet for a dress, and it is not a roll of parchment, conferring twenty thousand pounds a year. But it is--an air cushion!"
It was what poor Mrs. Hare, so worn with sitting and lying, had often longed for. She had heard such a luxury was to be bought in London, but never remembered to have seen one. She took it almost with a greedy hand, casting a grateful look at Mr. Carlyle.
"How am I to thank you for it?" she murmured through her tears.
"If you thank me at all, I will never bring you anything again," cried he, gaily. "I have been telling Barbara that a visit to London entails bringing gifts for friends," he continued. "Do you see how smart I have made her?"
Barbara hastily took off the chain, and laid it before her mother.
"What a beautiful chain!" muttered Mrs. Hare, in surprise. "Archibald, you are too good, too generous! This must have cost a great deal; this is beyond a trifle."
"Nonsense!" laughed Mr. Carlyle. "I'll tell you both how I happened to buy it. I went into a jeweller's about my watch, which has taken to lose lately in a most unceremonious fashion, and there I saw a whole display of chains hanging up; some ponderous enough for a sheriff, some light and elegant enough for Barbara. I dislike to see a thick chain on a lady's neck. They put me in mind of the chain she lost, the day she and Cornelia went with me to Lynchborough, which loss Barbara persisted in declaring was my fault, for dragging her through the town sight-seeing, while Cornelia did her shopping--for it was then the chain was lost."
"But I was only joking when I said so," was the interruption of Barbara. "Of course it would have happened had you not been with me; the links were always snapping."
"Well, these chains in the shop in London put me in mind of Barbara's misfortune, and I chose one. Then the shopman brought forth some lockets, and enlarged upon their convenience for holding deceased relatives' hair, not to speak of sweethearts', until I told him he might attach one. I thought it might hold that piece of hair you prize, Barbara," he concluded, dropping his voice.
"What piece?" asked Mrs. Hare.
Mr. Carlyle glanced round the room, as if fearful the very walls might hear his whisper. "Richard's. Barbara showed it me one day when she was turning out her desk, and said it was a curl taken off in that illness."
Mrs. Hare sank back in her chair, and hid her face in her hands, shivering visibly. The words evidently awoke some poignant source of deep sorrow. "Oh, my boy! My boy!" she wailed--"my boy! My unhappy boy! Mr. Hare wonders at my ill-health, Archibald; Barbara ridicules it; but there lies the source of all my misery, mental and bodily. Oh, Richard! Richard!"
There was a distressing pause, for the topic admitted of neither hope nor consolation. "Put your chain on again, Barbara," Mr. Carlyle said, after a while, "and I wish you health to wear it out. Health and reformation, young lady!"
Barbara smiled and glanced at him with her pretty blue eyes, so full of love. "What have you brought for Cornelia?" she resumed.
"Something splendid," he answered, with a mock serious face; "only I hope I have not been taken in. I bought her a shawl. The venders vowed it was true Parisian cashmere. I gave eighteen guineas for it."
"That is a great deal," observed Mrs. Hare. "It ought to be a very good one. I never gave more than six guineas for a shawl in all my life."
"And Cornelia, I dare say, never more than half six," laughed Mr. Carlyle. "Well, I shall wish you good evening, and go to her; for if she knows I am back all this while, I shall be lectured."
He shook hands with them both. Barbara, however, accompanied him to the front door, and stepped outside with him.
"You will catch cold, Barbara. You have left your shawl indoors."
"Oh, no, I shall not. How very soon you are leaving. You have scarcely stayed ten minutes."
"But you forget I have not been at home."
"You were on your road to Beauchamp's, and would not have been at home for an hour or two in that case," spoke Barbara, in a tone that savored of resentment.
"That was different; that was upon business. But, Barbara, I think your mother looks unusually ill."
"You know she suffers a little thing to upset her; and last night she had what she calls one of her dreams," answered Barbara. "She says that it is a warning that something bad is going to happen, and she has been in the most unhappy, feverish state possible all day. Papa has been quite angry over her being so weak and nervous, declaring that she ought to rouse herself out of her 'nerves.' Of course we dare not tell him about the dream."
"It related to--the----"
Mr. Carlyle stopped, and Barbara glanced round with a shudder, and drew closer to him as she whispered. He had not given her his arm this time.
"Yes, to the murder. You know mamma has always declared that Bethel had something to do with it; she says her dreams would have convinced her of it, if nothing else did; and she dreamt she saw him with--with --you know."
"Hallijohn?" whispered Mr. Carlyle.
"With Hallijohn," assented Barbara, with a shiver. "He was standing over him as he lay on the floor; just as he /did/ lay on it. And that wretched Afy was standing at the end of the kitchen, looking on."
"But Mrs. Hare ought not to suffer dreams to disturb her peace by day," remonstrated Mr. Carlyle. "It is not to be surprised at that she dreams of the murder, because she is always dwelling upon it; but she should strive and throw the feeling from her with the night."
"You know what mamma is. Of course she ought to do so, but she does not. Papa wonders what makes her get up so ill and trembling of a morning; and mamma has to make all sorts of evasive excuses; for not a hint, as you are aware, must be breathed to him about the murder."
Mr. Carlyle gravely nodded.
"Mamma does so harp about Bethel. And I know that dream arose from nothing in the world but because she saw him pass the gate yesterday. Not that she thinks that it was he who did it; unfortunately, there is no room for that; but she will persist that he had a hand in it in some way, and he haunts her dreams."
Mr. Carlyle walked on in silence; indeed there was no reply that he could make. A cloud had fallen upon the house of Mr. Hare, and it was an unhappy subject. Barbara continued,--
"But for mamma to have taken it into her head that 'some evil is going to happen,' because she had this dream, and to make herself miserable over it, is so absurd, that I have felt quite cross with her all day. Such nonsense, you know, Archibald, to believe that dreams give signs of what is going to happen, so far behind these enlightened days!"
"Your mamma's trouble is great, Barbara; and she is not strong."
"I think all our troubles have been great since--since that dark evening," responded Barbara.
"Have you heard from Anne?" inquired Mr. Carlyle, willing to change the subject.
"Yes, she is very well. What do you think they are going to name the baby? Anne; after her mamma. So very ugly a name! Anne!"
"I do not think so," said Mr. Carlyle. "It is simple and unpretending, I like it much. Look at the long, pretentious names of our family-- Archibald! Cornelia! And yours, too--Barbara! What a mouthful they all are!"
Barbara contracted her eyebrows. It was equivalent to saying that he did not like her name.
They reached the gate, and Mr. Carlyle was about to pass out of it when Barbara laid her hand on his arm to detain him, and spoke in a timid voice,--
"Archibald!"
"What is it?"
"I have not said a word of thanks to you for this," she said, touching the chain and locket; "my tongue seemed tied. Do not deem me ungrateful."
"You foolish girl! It is not worth them. There! Now I am paid. Good- night, Barbara."
He had bent down and kissed her cheek, swung through the gate, laughing, and strode away. "Don't say I never gave you anything," he turned his head round to say, "Good-night."
All her veins were tingling, all her pulses beating; her heart was throbbing with its sense of bliss. He had never kissed her, that she could remember, since she was a child. And when she returned indoors, her spirits were so extravagantly high that Mrs. Hare wondered.
"Ring for the lamp, Barbara, and you can get to your work. But don't have the shutters closed; I like to look out on these light nights."
Barbara, however, did not get to her work; she also, perhaps, liked "looking out on a light night," for she sat down at the window. She was living the last half hour over again. " 'Don't say I never gave you anything,' " she murmured; "did he allude to the chain or to the-- kiss? Oh, Archibald, why don't you say that you love me?"
Mr. Carlyle had been all his life upon intimate terms with the Hare family. His father's first wife--for the late lawyer Carlyle had been twice married--had been a cousin of Justice Hare's, and this had caused them to be much together. Archibald, the child of the second Mrs. Carlyle, had alternately teased and petted Anne and Barbara Hare, boy fashion. Sometimes he quarreled with the pretty little girls, sometimes he caressed them, as he would have done had they been his sisters; and he made no scruple of declaring publicly to the pair that Anne was his favorite. A gentle, yielding girl she was, like her mother; whereas Barbara displayed her own will, and it sometimes clashed with young Carlyle's.
