By and by Mr. Carlyle came back again; he had got nearly home when he remembered that he had left a parchment at our house. It seemed to be nothing but coming back; for just after he had gone a second time, Richard returned in a state of excitement, stating that he had seen Thorn--Thorn the murderer, I mean--in Bean lane. For a moment I doubted him, but not for long, and we ran after Mr. Carlyle. Richard described Thorn's appearance; his evening dress, his white hands and diamond ring; more particularly he described a peculiar motion of his hand as he threw back his hair. In that moment it flashed across me that Thorn must be Captain Levison; the description was exact. Many and many a time since have I wondered that the thought did not strike Mr. Carlyle."
Lady Isabel sat with her mouth open, as if she could not take in the sense of the words; and when it did become clear to her, she utterly rejected it.
"Francis Levison a murderer! Oh, no! bad man as he is, he is not that."
"Wait," said Mrs. Carlyle. "I did not speak of this doubt--nay, this conviction--which had come; how could I mention to Mr. Carlyle the name of the man who did him that foul wrong? And Richard has remained so long in exile, with the ban of guilt upon him. To-day as my carriage passed through West Lynne, Francis Levison was haranguing the people. I saw that very same action--the throwing back of the hair with his white hand. I saw the selfsame diamond ring; and my conviction that he was the same man became more firmly seated than ever."
"It is impossible!" murmured Lady Isabel.
"Wait, I say," said Barbara. "When Mr. Carlyle came home to dinner, I, for the first time, mentioned this to him. It was no news--the fact was not. This afternoon during that same harangue, Francis Levison was recognized by two witnesses to be the man Thorn--the man who went after Afy Hallijohn. It is horrible."
Lady Isabel sat and looked at Mrs. Carlyle. Not yet did she believe it.
"Yes, it does appear to me as being perfectly horrible," continued Mrs. Carlyle. "He murdered Hallijohn--he, that bad man; and my poor brother has suffered the odium. When Richard met him that night in Bean lane, he was sneaking to West Lynne in search of the chaise that afterward bore away him and his companion. Papa saw them drive away.
Papa stayed out late; and, in returning home, a chaise and four tore past, just as he was turning in at the gate. If that miserable Lady Isabel had but known with whom she was flying! A murderer! In addition to his other achievements. It is a mercy for her that she is no longer alive. What would her feelings be?"
What were they, then, as she sat there? A /murderer/? And she had----In spite of her caution, of her strife for self-command, she turned of a deadly whiteness, and a low, sharp cry of horror and despair burst from her lips.
Mrs. Carlyle was astonished. Why should her communication have produced this effect upon Madame Vine? A renewed suspicion that she knew more of Francis Levison than she would acknowledge, stole over her.
"Madame Vine, what is he to you?" she asked, bending forward.
Madame Vine, doing fierce battle with herself, recovered her outward equanimity. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Carlyle," she said, shivering; "I am apt to picture things too vividly. It is, as you say, so very horrible."
"Is he nothing to you? Don't you know him?"
"He is nothing to me--less than nothing. As to knowing him--I saw him yesterday, when they put him into the pond. A man like that! I should shudder to meet him!"
"Ay, indeed!" said Barbara, reassured. "You will understand, Madame Vine, that this history has been given to you in confidence. I look upon you as one of ourselves."
There was no answer. Madame Vine sat on, with her white face. She and it wore altogether a ghastly look.
"It tells like a fable out of a romance," resumed Mrs. Carlyle. "Well for him if the romance be not ended in the gibbet. Fancy what it would be for him--Sir Francis Levison--to be hung for murder!"
"Barbara, my dearest!"
The voice was Mr. Carlyle's, and she flew off on the wings of love. It appeared that the gentlemen had not yet departed, and now thought they would take coffee first.
She flew off to her idolized husband, leaving her who had once been idolized to her loneliness. She sank down on the sofa; she threw her arms up in her heart-sickness; she thought she would faint; she prayed to die. It /was/ horrible, as Barbara had called it. For that man with the red stain upon his hand and soul she had flung away Archibald Carlyle.
If ever retribution came home to woman, it came home in that hour to Lady Isabel.
