u once spoke to me about--he who had used to
gallop over from Swainson to court Afy Hallijohn?"
"It has struck me so, most forcibly," replied Mr. Carlyle. "Dill,
I would give five hundred pounds out of my pocket this moment to be
assured of the fact--if he is the same."
"I have seen him several times since he has been staying with the
Herberts," pursued the old gentleman, "and my doubts have naturally been
excited as to whether it could be the man in question. Curious enough,
Bezant, the doctor, was over here yesterday from Swainson; and as I was
walking with him, arm-in-arm, we met Captain Thorn. The two recognized
each other and bowed, merely as distant acquaintances. 'Do you know that
gentleman?' said I to Bezant. 'Yes,' he answered, 'it is Mr. Frederick.'
'Mr. Frederick with something added on to it,' said I; 'his name is
Thorn.' 'I know that,' returned Bezant; 'but when he was in Swainson
some years ago, he chose to drop the Thorn, and the town in general knew
him only as Mr. Frederick.' 'What was he doing there, Bezant?' I asked.
'Amusing himself and getting into mischief,' was the answer; 'nothing
very bad, only the random scrapes of young men.' 'Was he often on
horseback, riding to a distance?' was my next question. 'Yes, that he
was,' replied Bezant; 'none more fond of galloping across the country
than he; I used to tell him he'd ride his horse's tail off.' Now, Mr.
Archibald, what do you think?" concluded the old clerk; "and so far as
I could make out, this was about the very time of the tragedy at
Hallijohn's."
"Think?" replied Mr. Carlyle. "What can I think but that it is the same
man. I am convinced of it now."
And, leaning back into his chair, he fell into a deep reverie,
regardless of the parchments that lay before him.
The weeks went on--two or three--and things seemed to be progressing
backward, rather than forward--if that's not Irish. Francis Levison's
affairs--that is, the adjustment of them--did not advance at all.
Another thing that may be said to be progressing backward, for it was
going on fast to bad, instead of good, was the jealousy of Lady Isabel.
How could it be otherwise, kept up, as it was, by Barbara's frequent
meetings with Mr. Carlyle, and by Captain Levison's exaggerated whispers
of them. Discontented, ill at ease with herself and with everybody
about her, Isabel was living now in a state of excitement, a dangerous
resentment against her husband beginning to rise up in her
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