THE MOONLIGHT INTERVIEW.
Cold and still looked the old house in the moonbeams. Never was the moon
brighter; it lighted the far-stretching garden, it illuminated even the
weathercock aloft, it shone upon the portico, and upon one who appeared
in it. Stealing to the portico from the house had come Barbara Hare, her
eyes strained in dread affright on the grove of trees at the foot of the
garden. What was it that had stepped out of that grove of trees, and
mysteriously beckoned to her as she stood at the window, turning her
heart to sickness as she gazed? Was it a human being, one to bring more
evil to the house, where so much evil had already fallen? Was it a
supernatural visitant, or was it but a delusion of her own eyesight? Not
the latter, certainly, for the figure was now emerging again, motioning
to her as before; and with a white face and shaking limbs, Barbara
clutched her shawl around her and went down that path in the moonlight.
The beckoning form retreated within the dark recess as she neared it,
and Barbara halted.
“Who and what are you?” she asked, under her breath. “What do you want?”
“Barbara,” was the whispered, eager answer, “don’t you recognize me?”
Too surely she did--the voice at any rate--and a cry escaped her,
telling more of sorrow than of joy, though betraying both. She
penetrated the trees, and burst into tears as one in the dress of a farm
laborer caught her in his arms. In spite of his smock-frock and his
straw-wisped hat, and his false whiskers, black as Erebus, she knew him
for her brother.
“Oh, Richard! Where have you come from? What brings you here?”
“Did you know me, Barbara?” was his rejoinder.
“How was it likely--in this disguise? A thought crossed my mind that it
might be some one from you, and even that made me sick with terror. How
could you run such a risk as to come here?” she added, wringing her
hands. “If you are discovered, it is certain death; death--upon--you
know!”
“Upon the gibbet,” returned Richard Hare. “I do know it, Barbara.”
“Then why risk it? Should mamma see you it will kill her outright.”
“I can’t live on as I am living,” he answered, gloomily. “I have been
working in London ever since--”
“In London!” interrupted Barbara.
“In London, and have never stirred out of it. But it is hard work for
me, and now I have an opportunity of doing better, if I can get a little
money. Perhaps my mother can let me have it; it is what I have come to
ask for.”
“How are you working? What at?”
“In a stable-yard.”
“A stable-yard!” she uttered, in a deeply shocked tone. “Richard!”
“Did you expect it would be as a merchant, or a banker, or perhaps as
secretary to one of her majesty’s ministers--or that I was a gentleman
at large, living on my fortune?” retorted Richard Hare, in a tone of
chafed anguish, painful to hear. “I get twelve shillings a week, and
that has to find me in everything!”
“Poor Richard, poor Richard!” she wailed, caressing his hand and weeping
over it. “Oh, what a miserable night’s work that was! Our only comfort
is, Richard, that you must have committed the deed in madness.”
“I did not commit it at all,” he replied.
“What!” she exclaimed.
“Barbara, I swear that I am innocent; I swear I was not present when the
man was murdered; I swear that from my own positive knowledge, my
eyesight, I know no more who did it than you. The guessing at it is
enough for me; and my guess is as sure and true a one as that the moon
is in the heavens.”
Barbara shivered as she drew close to him. It was a shivering subject.
“You surely do not mean to throw the guilt on Bethel?”
“Bethel!” lightly returned Richard Hare. “He had nothing to do with it.
He was after his gins and his snares, that night, though, poacher as he
is!”
“Bethel is no poacher, Richard.”
“Is he not?” rejoined Richard Hare, significantly. “The truth as to what
he is may come out, some time. Not that I wish it to come out; the man
has done no harm to me, and he may go on poaching with impunity till
doomsday for all I care. He and Locksley--”
“Richard,” interrupted his sister, in a hushed voice, “mamma entertains
one fixed idea, which she cannot put from her. She is certain that
Bethel had something to do with the murder.”
“Then she is wrong. Why should she think so?”
“How the conviction arose at first, I cannot tell you; I do not think
she knows herself. But you remember how weak and fanciful she is, and
since that dreadful night she is always having what she calls ‘dreams’--
meaning that she dreams of the murder. In all these dreams Bethel is
prominent; and she says she feels an absolute certainty that he was, in
some way or other, mixed up in it.”
“Barbara, he was no more mixed up in it than you.”
“And--you say that you were not?”
“I was not even at the cottage at the time; I swear it to you. The man
who did the deed was Thorn.”
“Thorn!” echoed Barbara, lifting her head. “Who is Thorn?”
“I don’t know who. I wish I did; I wish I could unearth him. He was a
friend of Afy’s.”
Barbara threw back her neck with a haughty gesture. “Richard!”
“What?”
“You forget yourself when you mention that name to me.”
“Well,” returned Richard. “It was not to discuss these things that I put
myself in jeopardy; and to assert my innocence can do no good; it cannot
set aside the coroner’s verdict of ‘Wilful murder against Richard Hare,
the younger.’ Is my father as bitter against me as ever?”
“Quite. He never mentions your name, or suffers it to be mentioned; he
gave his orders to the servants that it never was to be spoken in the
house again. Eliza could not, or would not remember, and she persisted
in calling your room ‘Mr. Richard’s.’ I think the woman did it
heedlessly, not maliciously, to provoke papa; she was a good servant,
and had been with us three years you know. The first time she
transgressed, papa warned her; the second, he thundered at her as I
believe nobody else in the world can thunder; and the third he turned
her from the doors, never allowing her to get her bonnet; one of the
others carrying her bonnet and shawl to the gate, and her boxes were
sent away the same day. Papa took an oath--did you hear of it?”
“What oath? He takes many.”
“This was a solemn one, Richard. After the delivery of the verdict, he
took an oath in the justice-room, in the presence of his brother
magistrates, that if he could find you he would deliver you up to
justice, and that he would do it, though you might not turn up for ten
years to come. You know his disposition, Richard, and therefore may be
sure he will keep it. Indeed, it is most dangerous for you to be here.”
“I know that he never treated me as he ought,” cried Richard, bitterly.
“If my health was delicate, causing my poor mother to indulge me, ought
that to have been a reason for his ridiculing me on every possible
occasion, public and private? Had my home been made happier I should not
have sought the society I did elsewhere. Barbara, I must be allowed an
interview with my mother.”
Barbara Hare reflected before she spoke. “I do not see how it can be
managed.”
“Why can’t she come out to me as you have done? Is she up, or in bed?”
“It is impossible to think of it to-night,” returned Barbara in an
alarmed tone. “Papa may be in at any moment; he is spending the evening
at Beauchamp’s.”
“It is hard to have been separated from her for eighteen months, and to
go back without seeing her,” returned Richard. “And about the money? It
is a hundred pounds that I want.”
“You must be here again to-morrow night, Richard; the money, no doubt,
can be yours, but I am not so sure about your seeing mamma. I am
terrified for your safety. But, if it is as you say, that you are
innocent,” she added, after a pause, “could it not be proved?”
“Who is to prove it? The evidence is strong against me; and Thorn, did I
mention him, would be as a myth to other people; nobody knew anything of
him.”
“Is he a myth?” said Barbara, in a low voice.
“Are you and I myths?” retorted Richard. “So, even you doubt me?”
“Richard,” she suddenly exclaimed, “why not tell the whole circumstances
to Archibald Carlyle? If any one can help you, or take measures to
establish your innocence, he can. And you know that he is true as
steel.”
“There’s no other man living should be trusted with the secret that I am
here, except Carlyle. Where is it they suppose that I am, Barbara?”
“Some think that you are dead; some that you are in Australia; the very
uncertainty has nearly killed mamma. A report arose that you had been
seen at Liverpool, in an Australian-bound ship, but we could not trace
it to any foundation.”
“It had none. I dodged my way to London, and there I have been.”
“Working in a stable-yard?”
“I could not do better. I was not brought up to anything, and I did
understand horses. Besides, a man that the police-runners were after
could be more safe in obscurity, considering that he was a gentleman,
than--”
Barbara turned suddenly, and placed her hand upon her brother’s mouth.
“Be silent for your life,” she whispered, “here’s papa.”
Voices were heard approaching the gate--those of Justice Hare and Squire
Pinner. The latter walked on; the former came in. The brother and sister
cowered together, scarcely daring to breathe; you might have heard
Barbara’s heart beating. Mr. Hare closed the gate and walked on up the
path.
“I must go, Richard,” said Barbara, hastily; “I dare not stay another
minute. Be here again to-morrow night, and meanwhile I will see what can
be done.”
She was speeding away, but Richard held her back. “You did not seem to
believe my assertion of innocence. Barbara, we are here alone in the
still night, with God above us; as truly as that you and I must sometime
meet Him face to face, I told you the truth. It was Thorn murdered
Hallijohn, and I had nothing whatever to do with it.”
Barbara broke out of the trees and flew along, but Mr. Hare was already
in, locking and barring the door. “Let me in, papa,” she called out.
The justice opened the door again, and thrusting forth his flaxen wig,
his aquiline nose, and his amazed eyes, gazed at Barbara.
“Halloo! What brings you out at this time of night, young lady?”
“I went down to the gate to look for you,” she panted, “and had--had--
strolled over to the side path. Did you not see me?”
Barbara was truthful by nature and habit; but in such a cause, how could
she avoid dissimulation?
“Thank you, papa,” she said, as she went in.
“You ought to have been in bed an hour ago,” angrily responded Mr.
Justice Hare.