"I might have known that you would steal back to the place where for an hour or two we were happy; I might have guessed that. I have seen you once or twice about the house and the grounds, and wondered a little who you were, and why I was so strongly moved at the sight of you. But we must not think any more of ourselves," she went on eagerly—"we must think of those who have grown up to take our places."
"They have grown up to take our places indeed," I said. "The new Barbara rises up in your image, to find herself hopelessly in love with a boy who may be something like myself twenty years ago; like myself, the boy has no chance, from a worldly point of view. Some strange fate has cast us up here together, like ghosts out of the past, and it is for us to help them. That will be beautiful, Barbara, because in doing that we may mend that broken love story that was our own."
"I have thought of that, too," she replied. We had risen to our feet, and she was looking at me earnestly. "I saw Barbara go away to-night with a strange man: I was watching in the garden. She went reluctantly; I heard her question him as to whether he was sure of this and that. Tell me what it meant."
"Danger for her—ruin for her, unless she can be found," I replied. Then I told her rapidly of all that had happened that night, and of the plot that was afoot. She listened eagerly, questioning me on this detail and on that, speaking especially about the boy, and what attitude he would take in the business.
"Don't you see, Barbara," I exclaimed in a whisper—"don't you understand that he sets his feet to-night absolutely in the footmarks that were mine twenty years ago?"
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly, catching at my arm.
"Barbara, I set out twenty years ago to make a man eat his words, or to kill the lie that he had told about you. To-night this boy sets out on the same errand, with a new Barbara—your child—to inspire him. She is to him as pure and precious a thing as you were to me all those years ago. If he finds the man, he will strike him down, as I struck down Gavin Hockley; he will suffer as I suffered—although they may be more merciful in his case, and may take his life. Think of it!" I cried, wringing my hands as I stood there, bareheaded, trembling and helpless in the winter night—"think of it! I can do nothing, because I have no money and no strength left; you can do nothing, because you died to the world years ago, and at the best, even though you lived, you are poor and helpless as I am. While we stand here—two poor ghosts come back out of the world that is dead—this boy and girl take up the tale, and rush straight to disaster, just as we did."
"But we have come back to save her," she exclaimed quickly. "This is no time for despair, Charlie; we have a greater power given to us than you imagine. We shall work in secret—you and I—and we shall succeed. See now"—she held my hands, and looked into my eyes, and smiled encouragingly—"you are calmer already than you have been. It seems to me that the best thing we can do is to get to London at the earliest possible moment. Barbara has been taken there—the boy has gone there; this man Murray Olivant will inevitably follow. You know where he is to be found, and we may be able to trace the boy. There is nothing to be frightened of yet, Charlie; we will fight together, because we understand so much more than these other people do."
She was so wise and calm that she seemed to give me wisdom too. I presently found myself walking beside her back towards the town; it was her intention to shelter me for the night at that tiny cottage where she lived near Hammerstone Market. She had a key to the place, and we crept in silently; she gave me some poor food she had there, and insisted that I should stretch my weary limbs on an old couch in the sitting-room for the remainder of the night.
I slept heavily, and long before dawn, as it seemed, I found her standing beside me, gently waking me. She had prepared some steaming hot coffee, and I drank it gratefully, while she sat beside me and told me what I was to do.