“Couldn’t Barbara?” pleaded Richard.
Barbara was standing with her arm entwined within her husband’s, and Mr. Carlyle looked down as he answered,—
“Barbara is my wife.”
It was a sufficient answer.
“Then the thing’s again at an end,” said Richard, gloomily, “and I must give up hope of ever being cleared.”
“By no means,” said Mr. Carlyle. “The one who ought to act in this is your father, Richard; but we know he will not. Your mother cannot. She has neither health nor energy for it; and if she had a full supply of both, she would not dare to brave her husband and use them in the cause. My hands are tied; Barbara’s equally so, as part of me. There only remains yourself.”
“And what can I do?” wailed poor Dick. “If your hands are tied, I’m sure my whole body is, speaking in comparison; hands, and legs, and neck. It’s in jeopardy, that is, every hour.”
“Your acting in this affair need not put it any the more in jeopardy. You must stay in the neighborhood for a few days—”
“I dare not,” interposed Richard, in a fright. “Stay in the neighborhood for a few days! No; that I never may.”
“Listen, Richard. You must put away these timorous fears, or else you must make up your mind to remain under the ban for good; and, remember, your mother’s happiness is at stake equally with yours—I could almost say her life. Do you suppose I would advise you for danger? You used to say there was some place, a mile or two from this, where you could sojourn in safety.”