RICHARD HARE, THE YOUNGER.
The bench of justices did not fail to keep their appointment; at seven
o’clock they arrived at Miss Carlyle’s, one following closely upon the
heels of another. The reader may dissent from the expression “Miss
Carlyle’s,” but it is the correct one, for the house was hers, not her
brother’s; though it remained his home, as it had been in his father’s
time, the house was among the property bequeathed to Miss Carlyle.
Miss Carlyle chose to be present in spite of the pipes and the smoke,
and she was soon as deep in the discussion as the justices were. It was
said in the town, that she was as good a lawyer as her father had been;
she undoubtedly possessed sound judgment in legal matters, and quick
penetration. At eight o’clock a servant entered the room and addressed
his master.
“Mr. Dill is asking to see you, sir.”
Mr. Carlyle rose, and came back with an open note in his hand.
“I am sorry to find that I must leave you for half an hour; some
important business has arisen, but I will be back as soon as I can.”
“Who has sent for you;” immediately demanded Miss Corny.
He gave her a quiet look which she interpreted into a warning not to
question. “Mr. Dill is here, and will join you to talk the affair over,”
he said to his guests. “He knows the law better than I do; but I will
not be long.”
He quitted his house, and walked with a rapid step toward the Grove. The
moon was bright as on the previous evening. After he had left the town
behind him, and was passing the scattered villas already mentioned, he
cast an involuntary glance at the wood, which rose behind them on his
left hand. It was called Abbey Wood, from the circumstance that in old
days an abbey had stood in its vicinity, all traces of which, save
tradition, had passed away. There was one small house, or cottage, just
within the wood, and in that cottage had occurred the murder for which
Richard Hare’s life was in jeopardy. It was no longer occupied, for
nobody would rent it or live in it.
Mr. Carlyle opened the gate of the Grove, and glanced at the trees on
either side of him, but he neither saw nor heard any signs of Richard’s
being concealed there. Barbara was at the window, looking out, and she
came herself and opened the door to Mr. Carlyle.
“Mamma is in the most excited state,” she whispered to him as he
entered. “I knew how it would be.”
“Has he come yet?”
“I have no doubt of it; but he has made no signal.”
Mrs. Hare, feverish and agitated, with a burning spot on her delicate
cheeks, stood by the chair, not occupying it. Mr. Carlyle placed a
pocket-book in her hands. “I have brought it chiefly in notes,” he said:
“they will be easier for him to carry than gold.”
Mrs. Hare answered only by a look of gratitude, and clasped Mr.
Carlyle’s hand in both hers. “Archibald, I must see my boy; how can it
be managed? Must I go into the garden to him, or may he come in here?”
“I think he might come in; you know how bad the night air is for you.
Are the servants astir this evening?”
“Things seem to have turned out quite kindly,” spoke up Barbara. “It
happens to be Anne’s birthday, so mamma sent me just now into the
kitchen with a cake and a bottle of wine, desiring them to drink her
health. I shut the door and told them to make themselves comfortable;
that if we wanted anything we would ring.”
“Then they are safe,” observed Mr. Carlyle, “and Richard may come in.”
“I will go and ascertain whether he is come,” said Barbara.
“Stay where you are, Barbara; I will go myself,” interposed Mr. Carlyle.
“Have the door open when you see us coming up the path.”
Barbara gave a faint cry, and, trembling, clutched the arm of Mr.
Carlyle. “There he is! See! Standing out from the trees, just opposite
this window.”
Mr. Carlyle turned to Mrs. Hare. “I shall not bring him in immediately;
for if I am to have an interview with him, it must be got over first,
that I may go back home to the justices, and keep Mr. Hare all safe.”
He proceeded on his way, gained the trees, and plunged into them; and,
leaning against one, stood Richard Hare. Apart from his disguise, and
the false and fierce black whiskers, he was a blue-eyed, fair, pleasant-
looking young man, slight, and of middle height, and quite as yielding
and gentle as his mother. In her, this mild yieldingness of disposition
was rather a graceful quality; in Richard it was regarded as a
contemptible misfortune. In his boyhood he had been nicknamed Leafy
Dick, and when a stranger inquired why, the answer was that, as a leaf
was swayed by the wind, so he was swayed by everybody about him, never
possessing a will of his own. In short, Richard Hare, though of an
amiable and loving nature, was not over-burdened with what the world
calls brains. Brains he certainly had, but they were not sharp ones.
“Is my mother coming out to me?” asked Richard, after a few interchanged
sentences with Mr. Carlyle.
“No. You are to go indoors. Your father is away, and the servants are
shut up in the kitchen and will not see you. Though if they did, they
could never recognize you in that trim. A fine pair of whiskers,
Richard.”
“Let us go in, then. I am all in a twitter till I get away. Am I to have
the money?”
“Yes, yes. But, Richard, your sister says you wish to disclose to me the
true history of that lamentable night. You had better speak while we are
here.”
“It was Barbara herself wanted you to hear it. I think it of little
moment. If the whole place heard the truth from me, it would do no good,
for I should get no belief--not even from you.”
“Try me, Richard, in as few words as possible.”
“Well, there was a row at home about my going so much to Hallijohn’s.
The governor and my mother thought I went after Afy; perhaps I did, and
perhaps I didn’t. Hallijohn had asked me to lend him my gun, and that
evening, when I went to see Af--when I went to see some one--never mind-
-”
“Richard,” interrupted Mr. Carlyle, “there’s an old saying, and it is
sound advice: ‘Tell the whole truth to your lawyer and your doctor.’ If
I am to judge whether anything can be attempted for you, you must tell
it to me; otherwise, I would rather hear nothing. It shall be sacred
trust.”
“Then, if I must, I must,” returned the yielding Richard. “I did love
the girl. I would have waited till I was my own master to make her my
wife, though it had been for years and years. I could not do it, you
know, in the face of my father’s opposition.”
“Your wife?” rejoined Mr. Carlyle, with some emphasis.
Richard looked surprised. “Why, you don’t suppose I meant anything else!
I wouldn’t have been such a blackguard.”
“Well, go on, Richard. Did she return your love?”
“I can’t be certain. Sometimes I thought she did, sometimes not; she
used to play and shuffle, and she liked too much to be with--him. I
would think her capricious--telling me I must not come this evening, and
I must not come the other; but I found out they were the evenings when
she was expecting him. We were never there together.”
“You forget that you have not indicted ‘him’ by any name, Richard. I am
at fault.”
Richard Hare bent forward till his black whiskers brushed Mr. Carlyle’s
shoulder. “It was that cursed Thorn.”
Mr. Carlyle remembered the name Barbara had mentioned. “Who was Thorn? I
never heard of him.”
“Neither had anybody else, I expect, in West Lynne. He took precious
good care of that. He lives some miles away, and used to come over in
secret.”
“Courting Afy?”
“Yes, he did come courting her,” returned Richard, in a savage tone.
“Distance was no barrier. He would come galloping over at dusk, tie his
horse to a tree in the wood, and pass an hour or two with Afy. In the
house, when her father was not at home; roaming about the woods with
her, when he was.”
“Come to the point, Richard--to the evening.”
“Hallijohn’s gun was out of order, and he requested the loan of mine. I
had made an appointment with Afy to be at her house that evening, and I
went down after dinner, carrying the gun with me. My father called after
me to know where I was going; I said, out with young Beauchamp, not
caring to meet his opposition; and the lie told against me at the
inquest. When I reached Hallijohn’s, going the back way along the
fields, and through the wood-path, as I generally did go, Afy came out,
all reserve, as she could be at times, and said she was unable to
receive me then, that I must go back home. We had a few words about it,
and as we were speaking, Locksley passed, and saw me with the gun in my
hand; but it ended in my giving way. She could do just what she liked
with me, for I loved the very ground she trod on. I gave her the gun,
telling her it was loaded, and she took it indoors, shutting me out. I
did not go away; I had a suspicion that she had got Thorn there, though
she denied it to me; and I hid myself in some trees near the house.
Again Locksley came in view and saw me there, and called out to know why
I was hiding. I shied further off, and did not answer him--what were my
private movements to him?--and that also told against me at the inquest.
Not long afterwards--twenty minutes, perhaps--I heard a shot, which
seemed to be in the direction of the cottage. ‘Somebody having a late
pop at the partridges,’ thought I; for the sun was then setting, and at
the moment I saw Bethel emerge from the trees, and run in the direction
of the cottage. That was the shot that killed Hallijohn.”
There was a pause. Mr. Carlyle looked keenly at Richard there in the
moonlight.
“Very soon, almost in the same moment, as it seemed, some one came
panting and tearing along the path leading from the cottage. It was
Thorn. His appearance startled me: I had never seen a man show more
utter terror. His face was livid, his eyes seemed starting, and his lips
were drawn back from his teeth. Had I been a strong man I should surely
have attacked him. I was mad with jealousy; for I then saw that Afy had
sent me away that she might entertain him.”
“I thought you said this Thorn never came but at dusk,” observed Mr.
Carlyle.
“I never knew him to do so until that evening. All I can say is, he was
there then. He flew along swiftly, and I afterwards heard the sound of
his horse’s hoofs galloping away. I wondered what was up that he should
look so scared, and scutter away as though the deuce was after him; I
wondered whether he had quarreled with Afy. I ran to the house, leaped
up the two steps, and--Carlyle--I fell over the prostrate body of
Hallijohn! He was lying just within, on the kitchen floor, dead. Blood
was round about him, and my gun, just discharged, was thrown near. He
had been shot in the side.”
Richard stopped for breath. Mr. Carlyle did not speak.
“I called to Afy. No one answered. No one was in the lower room; and it
seemed that no one was in the upper. A sort of panic came over me, a
fear. You know they always said at home I was a coward: I could not have
remained another minute with that dead man, had it been to save my own
life. I caught up the gun, and was making off, when--”
“Why did you catch up the gun?” interrupted Mr. Carlyle.
“Ideas pass through our minds quicker than we can speak them, especially
in these sorts of moments,” was the reply of Richard Hare. “Some vague
notion flashed on my brain that my gun ought not to be found near the
murdered body of Hallijohn. I was flying from the door, I say, when
Locksley emerged from the wood, full in view; and what possessed me I
can’t tell, but I did the worst thing I could do--flung the gun indoors
again, and got away, although Locksley called after me to stop.”
“Nothing told against you so much as that,” observed Mr. Carlyle.
“Locksley deposed that he had seen you leave the cottage, gun in hand,
apparently in great commotion; that the moment you saw him, you
hesitated, as from fear, flung back the gun, and escaped.”
Richard stamped his foot. “Aye; and all owing to my cursed cowardice.
They had better have made a woman of me, and brought me up in
petticoats. But let me go on. I came upon Bethel. He was standing in
that half-circle where the trees have been cut. Now I knew that Bethel,
if he had gone straight in the direction of the cottage, must have met
Thorn quitting it. ‘Did you encounter that hound?’ I asked him. ‘What
hound?’ returned Bethel. ‘That fine fellow, that Thorn, who comes after
Afy,’ I answered, for I did not mind mentioning her name in my passion.
‘I don’t know any Thorn,’ returned Bethel, ‘and I did not know anybody
was after Afy but yourself.’ ‘Did you hear a shot?’ I went on. ‘Yes, I
did,’ he replied; ‘I suppose it was Locksley, for he’s about this
evening,’ ‘And I saw you,’ I continued, ‘just at the moment the shot was
fired, turn round the corner in the direction of Hallijohn’s.’ ‘So I
did,’ he said, ‘but only to strike into the wood, a few paces up. What’s
your drift?’ ‘Did you not encounter Thorn, running from the cottage?’ I
persisted. ‘I have encountered no one,’ he said, ‘and I don’t believe
anybody’s about but ourselves and Locksley.’ I quitted him, and came
off,” concluded Richard Hare. “He evidently had not seen Thorn, and knew
nothing.”
“And you decamped the same night, Richard; it was a fatal step.”
“Yes, I was a fool. I thought I’d wait quiet, and see how things turned
out; but you don’t know all. Three or four hours later, I went to the
cottage again, and I managed to get a minute’s speech with Afy. I never
shall forget it; before I could say one syllable she flew out at me,
accusing me of being the murderer of her father, and she fell into
hysterics out there on the grass. The noise brought people from the
house--plenty were in it then--and I retreated. ‘If she can think me
guilty, the world will think me guilty,’ was my argument; and that night
I went right off, to stop in hiding for a day or two, till I saw my way
clear. It never came clear; the coroner’s inquest sat, and the verdict
floored me over. And Afy--but I won’t curse her--fanned the flame
against me by denying that any one had been there that night. ‘She had
been at home,’ she said, ‘and had strolled out at the back door, to the
path that led from West Lynne, and was lingering there when she heard a
shot. Five minutes afterward she returned to the house, and found
Locksley standing over her dead father.’”
Mr. Carlyle remained silent, rapidly running over in his mind the chief
points of Richard Hare’s communication. “Four of you, as I understand
it, were in the vicinity of the cottage that night, and from one or the
other the shot no doubt proceeded. You were at a distance, you say,
Richard; Bethel, also, could not have been--”
“It was not Bethel who did it,” interrupted Richard; “it was an
impossibility. I saw him, as I tell you, in the same moment that the gun
was fired.”
“But now, where was Locksley?”
“It is equally impossible that it could have been Locksley. He was
within my view at the same time, at right angles from me, deep in the
wood, away from the paths altogether. It was Thorn did the deed, beyond
all doubt, and the verdict ought to have been willful murder against
him. Carlyle, I see you don’t believe my story.”
“What you say has startled me, and I must take time to consider whether
I believe it or not,” said Mr. Carlyle, in his straightforward manner.
“The most singular thing is, if you witnessed this, Thorn’s running from
the cottage in the manner you describe, that you did not come forward
and denounce him.”
“I didn’t do it, because I was a fool, a weak coward, as I have been all
my life,” rejoined Richard. “I can’t help it; it was born with me, and
will go with me to my grave. What would my word have availed that it was
Thorn, when there was nobody to corroborate it? And the discharged gun,
mine, was a damnatory proof against me.”
“Another thing strikes me as curious,” cried Mr. Carlyle. “If this man,
Thorn, was in the habit of coming to West Lynne, evening after evening,
how was it that he never was observed? This is the first time I have
heard any stranger’s name mentioned in connection with the affair, or
with Afy.”
“Thorn chose by-roads, and he never came, save that once, but at dusk
and dark. It was evident to me at the time that he was striving to do it
on the secret. I told Afy so, and that it augured no good for her. You
are not attaching credit to what I say, and it is only as I expected;
nevertheless, I swear that I have related the facts. As surely as that
we--I, Thorn, Afy and Hallijohn, must one day meet together before our
Maker, I have told you the truth.”
The words were solemn, their tone earnest, and Mr. Carlyle remained
silent, his thoughts full.
“To what end, else, should I say this?” went on Richard. “It can do me
no service; all the assertion I could put forth would not go a jot
toward clearing me.”
“No, it would not,” assented Mr. Carlyle. “If ever you are cleared, it
must be by proofs. But--I will keep my thought on the matter, and should
anything arise----What sort of a man was this Thorn?”
“In age he might be three or four and twenty, tall and slender; an out-
and-out aristocrat.”
“And his connections? Where did he live?”
“I never knew. Afy, in her boasting way, would say he had come from
Swainson, a ten mile ride.”
“From Swainson?” quickly interrupted Mr. Carlyle.
“Could it be one of the Thorns of Swainson?”
“None of the Thorns that I know. He was a totally different sort of man,
with his perfumed hands, and his rings, and his dainty gloves. That he
was an aristocrat I believe, but of bad taste and style, displaying a
profusion of jewellery.”
A half smile flitted over Carlyle’s face.
“Was it real, Richard?”
“It was. He would wear diamond shirt-studs, diamond rings, diamond pins;
brilliants, all of the first water. My impression was, that he put them
on to dazzle Afy. She told me once that she could be a grander lady, if
she chose, than I could ever make her. ‘A lady on the cross,’ I
answered, ‘but never on the square.’ Thorn was not a man to entertain
honest intentions to one in the station of Afy Hallijohn; but girls are
simple as geese.”
“By your description, it could not have been one of the Thorns of
Swainson. Wealthy tradesmen, fathers of young families, short, stout,
and heavy as Dutchmen, staid and most respectable. Very unlikely men are
they, to run into an expedition of that sort.”
“What expedition?” questioned Richard. “The murder?”
“The riding after Afy. Richard, where is Afy?”
Richard Hare lifted his eyes in surprise. “How should I know? I was just
going to ask you.”
Mr. Carlyle paused. He thought Richard’s answer an evasive one. “She
disappeared immediately after the funeral; and it was thought--in short,
Richard, the neighborhood gave her credit for having gone after and
joined you.”
“No! did they? What a pack of idiots! I have never seen or heard of her,
Carlyle, since that unfortunate night. If she went after anybody, it was
after Thorn.”
“Was the man good-looking?”
“I suppose the world would call him so. Afy thought such an Adonis had
never been coined, out of fable. He had shiny black hair and whiskers,
dark eyes and handsome features. But his vain dandyism spoilt him; would
you believe that his handkerchiefs were soaked in scent? They were of
the finest cambric, silky as a hair, as fine as the one Barbara bought
at Lynneborough and gave a guinea for; only hers had a wreath of
embroidery around it.”
Mr. Carlyle could ascertain no more particulars, and it was time Richard
went indoors. They proceeded up the path. “What a blessing it is the
servants’ windows don’t look this way,” shivered Richard, treading on
Mr. Carlyle’s heels. “If they should be looking out upstairs!”
His apprehensions were groundless, and he entered unseen.
Mr. Carlyle’s part was over; he left the poor banned exile to his short
interview with his hysterical and tearful mother, Richard nearly as
hysterical as she, and made the best of his way home again, pondering
over what he had heard.
The magistrates made a good evening of it. Mr. Carlyle entertained them
to supper--mutton chops and bread and cheese. They took up their pipes
for another whiff when the meal was over, but Miss Carlyle retired to
bed; the smoke, to which she had not been accustomed since her father’s
death, had made her head ache and her eyes smart. About eleven they
wished Mr. Carlyle good-night, and departed, but Mr. Dill, in obedience
to a nod from his superior, remained.
“Sit down a moment, Dill; I want to ask you a question. You are intimate
with the Thorns, of Swainson; do they happen to have any relative, a
nephew or cousin, perhaps, a dandy young fellow?”
“I went over last Sunday fortnight to spend the day with young Jacob,”
was the answer of Mr. Dill, one wider from the point than he generally
gave. Mr. Carlyle smiled.
“Young Jacob! He must be forty, I suppose.”
“About that. But you and I estimate age differently, Mr. Archibald. They
have no nephew; the old man never had but those two children, Jacob and
Edward. Neither have they any cousin. Rich men they are growing now.
Jacob has set up his carriage.”
Mr. Carlyle mused, but he expected the answer, for neither had he heard
of the brothers Thorn, tanners, curriers, and leather-dressers,
possessing a relative of the name. “Dill,” said he, “something has
arisen which, in my mind, casts a doubt upon Richard Hare’s guilt. I
question whether he had anything to do with the murder.”
Mr. Dill opened his eyes. “But his flight, Mr. Archibald, And his
stopping away?”
“Suspicious circumstances, I grant. Still, I have good cause to doubt.
At the time it happened, some dandy fellow used to come courting Afy
Hallijohn in secret; a tall, slender man, as he is described to me,
bearing the name of Thorn, and living at Swainson. Could it have been
one of the Thorn family?”
“Mr. Archibald!” remonstrated the old clerk; “as if those two respected
gentlemen, with their wives and babies, would come sneaking after that
flyaway Afy!”
“No reflection on them,” returned Mr. Carlyle. “This was a young man,
three or four and twenty, a head taller than either. I thought it might
be a relative.”
“I have repeatedly heard them say that they are alone in the world; that
they are the two last of the name. Depend upon it, it was nobody
connected with them;” and wishing Mr. Carlyle good-night, he departed.
The servant came in to remove the glasses and the obnoxious pipes. Mr.
Carlyle sat in a brown study; presently he looked round at the man.
“Is Joyce gone to bed?”
“No, sir. She is just going.”
“Send her here when you have taken away those things.”
Joyce came in--the upper servant at Miss Carlyle’s. She was of middle
height, and would never see five and thirty again; her forehead was
broad, her gray eyes were deeply set, and her face was pale. Altogether
she was plain, but sensible-looking. She was the half-sister of Afy
Hallijohn.
“Shut the door, Joyce.”
Joyce did as she was bid, came forward, and stood by the table.
“Have you ever heard from your sister, Joyce?” began Mr. Carlyle,
somewhat abruptly.
“No, sir,” was the reply; “I think it would be a wonder if I did hear.”
“Why so?”
“If she would go off after Richard Hare, who had sent her father into
his grave, she would be more likely to hide herself and her doings than
to proclaim them to me, sir.”
“Who was that other, that fine gentleman, who came after her?”
The color mantled in Joyce’s cheeks, and she dropped her voice.
“Sir! Did you hear of him?”
“Not at that time. Since. He came from Swainson, did he not?”
“I believe so, sir. Afy never would say much about him. We did not agree
upon the point. I said a person of his rank would do her no good; and
Afy flew out when I spoke against him.”
Mr. Carlyle caught her up. “His rank. What was his rank?”
“Afy bragged of his being next door to a lord; and he looked like it. I
only saw him once; I had gone home early, and there sat him and Afy. His
white hands were all glittering with rings, and his shirt was finished
off with shining stones where the buttons ought to be.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“Never since, never but once; and I don’t think I should know him if I
did see him. He got up, sir, as soon as I went into the parlor, shook
hands with Afy, and left. A fine, upright man he was, nearly as tall as
you, sir, but very slim. Those soldiers always carry themselves well.”
“How do you know he was a soldier?” quickly rejoined Mr. Carlyle.
“Afy told me so. ‘The Captain’ she used to call him; but she said he was
not a captain yet awhile--the next grade to it, a--a----”
“Lieutenant?” suggested Mr. Carlyle.
“Yes, sir, that was it--Lieutenant Thorn.”
“Joyce,” said Mr. Carlyle, “has it never struck you that Afy is more
likely to have followed Lieutenant Thorn than Richard Hare?”
“No, sir,” answered Joyce; “I have felt certain always that she is with
Richard Hare, and nothing can turn me from the belief. All West Lynne is
convinced of it.”
Mr. Carlyle did not attempt to “turn her from her belief.” He dismissed
her, and sat on still, revolving the case in all its bearings.
Richard Hare’s short interview with his mother had soon terminated. It
lasted but a quarter of an hour, both dreading interruptions from the
servants; and with a hundred pounds in his pocket, and desolation in his
heart, the ill-fated young man once more quitted his childhood’s home.
Mrs. Hare and Barbara watched him steal down the path in the telltale
moonlight, and gain the road, both feeling that those farewell kisses
they had pressed upon his lips would not be renewed for years, and might
not be forever.