MEETING OF LADY ISABEL AND AFY.
On the evening of the day when Helena Crosby communicated her future
prospects to Lady Isabel, the latter strolled out in the twilight and
took her seat on a bench in an unfrequented part of the gardens, where
she was fond of sitting. Now it occurred that Afy, some minutes
afterwards, found herself in the same walk--and a very dull one, too,
she was thinking.
“Who’s that?” quoth Afy to herself, her eyes falling upon Lady Isabel.
“Oh, it’s that governess of the Crosby’s. She may be known, a half a
mile off, by her grandmother’s bonnet. I’ll go and have a chat with
her.”
Accordingly Afy, who was never troubled with bashfulness, went up and
seated herself beside Lady Isabel. “Good evening, Madame Vine,” cried
she.
“Good evening,” replied Lady Isabel, courteously, not having the least
idea who Afy might be.
“You don’t know me, I fancy,” pursued Afy, so gathering from Lady
Isabel’s looks. “I am companion to Mrs. Latimer; and she is spending the
evening with Mrs. Crosby. Precious dull, this Stalkenberg.”
“Do you think so?”
“It is for me. I can’t speak German or French, and the upper attendants
of families here can’t; most of them speak English. I’m sure I go about
like an owl, able to do nothing but stare. I was sick enough to come
here, but I’d rather be back at West Lynne, quiet as it is.”
Lady Isabel had not been encouraging her companion, either by words or
manner, but the last sentence caused her heart to bound within her.
Control herself as she would, she could not quite hide her feverish
interest.
“Do you come from West Lynne?”
“Yes. Horrid place. Mrs. Latimer took a house there soon after I went to
live with her. I’d rather she’d taken it at Botany Bay.”
“Why do you not like it?”
“Because I don’t,” was Afy’s satisfactory answer.
“Do you know East Lynne?” resumed Lady Isabel, her heart beating and her
brain whirling, as she deliberated how she could put all the questions
she wished to ask.
“I ought to know it,” returned Afy. “My own sister, Miss Hallijohn, is
head maid there. Why, do you know it, Madame Vine?”
Lady Isabel hesitated; she was deliberating upon her answer.
“Some years ago I was staying in the neighborhood for a little time,”
she said. “I should like to hear of the Carlyles again; they were a nice
family.”
Afy tossed her head.
“Ah! But there have been changes since that. I dare say you knew them in
the time of Lady Isabel?”
Another pause.
“Lady Isabel? Yes she was Mr. Carlyle’s wife.”
“And a nice wife she made him!” ironically rejoined Afy. “You must have
heard of it, Madame Vine, unless you lived in the wood. She eloped--
abandoned him and her children.”
“Are the children living?”
“Yes, poor things. But the one’s on the road to the churchyard--if ever
I saw threatened consumption yet. Joyce, that’s my sister, is in a
flaring temper when I say it. She thinks it will get strong again.”
Lady Isabel passed her handkerchief across her moist brow.
“Which of the children is it?” she faintly asked. “Isabel?”
“Isabel!” retorted Afy. “Who’s Isabel?”
“The eldest child, I mean; Miss Isabel Carlyle.”
“There’s no Isabel. There’s Lucy. She’s the only daughter.”
“When--when--I knew them, there was only one daughter; the other two
were boys; I remember quite well that she was called Isabel.”
“Stay,” said Afy; “now you speak of it, what was it that I heard? It was
Wilson told me, I recollect--she’s the nurse. Why, the very night that
his wife went away Mr. Carlyle gave orders that the child in future
should be called Lucy, her second name. No wonder,” added Afy, violently
indignant, “that he could no longer endure the sound of her mother’s or
suffer the child to bear it.”
“No wonder,” murmured Lady Isabel. “Which child is it that’s ill?”
“It’s William, the eldest boy. He is not to say ill, but he is as thin
as a herring, with an unnaturally bright look on his cheek, and a glaze
upon his eye. Joyce says that his cheeks are no brighter than his
mother’s were, but I know better. Folks in health don’t have those
brilliant colors.”
“Did you ever see Lady Isabel?” she asked, in a low tone.
“Not I,” returned Afy; “I should have thought it demeaning. One does not
care to be brought into contact with that sort of misdoing lot, you
know, Madame Vine.”
“There as another one, a little boy--Archibald, I think, his name was.
Is he well?”
“Oh, the troublesome youngster! He is as sturdy as a Turk. No fear of
his going into consumption. He is the very image of Mr. Carlyle, is that
child. I say though, madame,” continued Afy, changing the subject
unceremoniously, “if you were stopping at West Lynne, perhaps you heard
some wicked mischief-making stories concerning me?”
“I believe I did hear your name mentioned. I cannot charge my memory now
with the particulars.”
“My father was murdered--you must have heard of that?”
“Yes, I recollect so far.”
“He was murdered by a chap called Richard Hare, who decamped instanter.
Perhaps you know the Hares also? Well, directly after the funeral I left
West Lynne; I could not bear the place, and I stopped away. And what do
you suppose they said of me? That I had gone after Richard Hare. Not
that I knew they were saying it, or I should pretty soon have been back
and given them the length of my tongue. But now I just ask you, as a
lady, Madame Vine, whether a more infamous accusation was ever pitched
upon?”
“And you had not gone after him?”
“No; that I swear,” passionately returned Afy. “Make myself a companion
of my father’s murderer! If Mr. Calcraft, the hangman, finished off a
few of those West Lynne scandalmongers, it might be a warning to the
others. I said so to Mr. Carlyle.”
“To Mr. Carlyle?” repeated Lady Isabel, hardly conscious that she did
repeat it.
“He laughed, I remember, and said that would not stop the scandal. The
only one who did not misjudge me was himself; he did not believe that I
was with Richard Hare, but he was ever noble-judging was Mr. Carlyle.”
“I suppose you were in a situation?”
Afy coughed.
“To be sure. More than one. I lived as companion with an old lady, who
so valued me that she left me a handsome legacy in her will. I lived two
years with the Countess of Mount Severn.”
“With the Countess of Mount Severn!” echoed Lady Isabel, surprised into
the remark. “Why, she--she--was related to Mr. Carlyle’s wife. At least
Lord Mount Severn was.”
“Of course; everybody knows that. I was living there at the time the
business happened. Didn’t the countess pull Lady Isabel to pieces! She
and Miss Levison used to sit, cant, cant all day over it. Oh, I assure
you I know all about it, just as much as Joyce did. Have you got that
headache, that you are leaning on your hand?”
“Headache and heartache both,” she might have answered.
Miss Afy resumed.
“So, after the flattering compliment West Lynne had paid to me, you may
judge I was in no hurry to go back to it, Madame Vine. And if I had not
found that Mrs. Latimer’s promised to be an excellent place, I should
have left it, rather than be marshaled there. But I have lived it down;
I should like to hear any of them fibbing against me now. Do you know
that blessed Miss Corny?”
“I have seen her.”
“She shakes her head and makes eyes at me still. But so she would at an
angel; a cross-grained old cockatoo!”
“Is she still at East Lynne?”
“Not she, indeed. There would be drawn battles between her and Mrs.
Carlyle, if she were.”
A dart, as of an ice-bolt, seemed to arrest the blood in Lady Isabel’s
veins.
“Mrs. Carlyle,” she faltered. “Who is Mrs. Carlyle?”
“Mr. Carlyle’s wife--who should she be?”
The rushing blood leaped on now fast and fiery.
“I did not know he had married again.”
“He has been married now--oh, getting on for fifteen months; a
twelvemonth last June. I went to the church to see them married. Wasn’t
there a cram! She looked beautiful that day.”
Lady Isabel laid her hand upon her breast. But for that delectable
“loose jacket,” Afy might have detected her bosom rise and fall. She
steadied her voice sufficiently to speak.
“Did he marry Barbara Hare?”
“You may take your oath of that,” said Afy. “If folks tell true, there
was love scenes between them before he ever thought of Lady Isabel. I
had that from Wilson, and she ought to know, for she lived at the
Hares’. Another thing is said--only you must just believe one word of
West Lynne talk, and disbelieve ten--that if Lady Isabel had not died,
Mr. Carlyle never would have married again; he had scruples. Half a
dozen were given him by report; Louisa Dobede for one, and Mary Pinner
for another. Such nonsense! Folks might have made sure it would be
Barbara Hare. There’s a baby now.”
“Is there?” was the faint answer.
“A beautiful boy three or four months old. Mrs. Carlyle is not a little
proud of him. She worships her husband.”
“Is she kind to the first children?”
“For all I know. I don’t think she has much to do with them. Archibald
is in the nursery, and the other two are mostly with the governess.”
“I wonder,” cried the governess, “how the tidings of Lady Isabel’s death
were received at East Lynne?”
“I don’t know anything about that. They held it as a jubilee, I should
say, and set all the bells in town to ring, and feasted the men upon
legs of mutton and onion sauce afterward. I should, I know. A brute
animal, deaf and dumb, such as a cow or a goose, clings to its
offspring, but she abandoned hers. Are you going in Madame Vine?”
“I must go in now. Good evening to you.”
She had sat till she could sit no longer; her very heartstrings were
wrung, and she might not rise up in defence of herself. Defence? Did she
not deserve more, ten thousand times more reproach than had met her ears
now? This girl did not say of her half what the world must say.
“There is a governess?”
“Nearly the first thing that Mr. Carlyle did, after his wife’s moonlight
flitting, was to seek a governess, and she has been there ever since.
She is going to leave now; to be married, Joyce told me.”
“Are you much at East Lynne?”
Afy shook her head. “I am not going much, I can tell you, where I am
looked down upon. Mrs. Carlyle does not favor me. She knew that her
brother Richard would have given his hand to marry me, and she resents
it. Not such a great catch, I’m sure, that Dick Hare, even if he had
gone on right,” continued Afy, somewhat after the example of the fox,
looking at the unattainable grapes. “He had no brains to speak of; and
what he had were the color of a peacock’s tail--green.”
To bed at the usual time, but not to sleep. What she had heard only
increased her vain, insensate longing. A stepmother at East Lynne, and
one of her children gliding on to death! Oh! To be with them! To see
them once again! To purchase that boon, she would willingly forfeit all
the rest of her existence.
Her frame was fevered; the bed was fevered; and she arose and paced the
room. This state of mind would inevitably bring on bodily illness,
possibly an attack of the brain. She dreaded that; for there was no
telling what she might reveal in her delirium. Her temples were
throbbing, her heart was beating, and she once more threw herself upon
the bed, and pressed the pillow down upon her forehead. There is no
doubt that the news of Mr. Carlyle’s marriage helped greatly the
excitement. She did not pray to die, but she did wish that death might
come to her.
What would have been the ending, it is impossible to say, but a strange
turn in affairs came; one of those wonderful coincidences sometimes, but
not often to be met with. Mrs. Crosby appeared in Madame Vine’s room
after breakfast, and gave her an account of Helena’s projected marriage.
She then apologized, the real object of her visit, for dispensing so
summarily with madame’s services, but had reason to hope that she could
introduce her to another situation. Would madame have any objection to
take one in England? Madame was upon the point of replying that she
should not choose to enter one in England, when Mrs. Crosby stopped her,
saying that she would call in Mrs. Latimer, who could tell her about it
better than she could.
Mrs. Latimer came in, all eagerness and volubility. “Ah, my dear
madame,” she exclaimed, “you would be fortunate indeed if you were to
get into this family. The nicest people they are; he so liked and
respected; she so pretty and engaging. A most desirable situation, too,
treated as a lady, and all things comfortable. There’s only one pupil, a
girl; one of the little boys, I believe, goes in for an hour or two, but
that’s not much; and the salary’s seventy guineas. They are friends of
mine; the Carlyles; such a beautiful place they live at--East Lynne.”
The Carlyles! East Lynne! Go governess there? Lady Isabel’s breath was
taken away.
“They are parting with their governess,” continued Mrs. Latimer, “and
when I was there, a day or two before I started on my tour to Germany,
Mrs. Carlyle said to me, ‘I suppose you could not pick us up a desirable
governess for Lucy; one who is mistress of French and German.’ She spoke
in a half joking tone, but I feel sure that were I to write word I had
found one desirable, it would give her pleasure. Now, Mrs. Crosby tells
me your French is quite that of a native, Madame Vine, that you read and
speak German well, and that your musical abilities are excellent. I
think you would be just the one to suit; and I have no doubt I could get
you the situation. What do you say?”
What could she say? Her brain was in a whirl.
“I am anxious to find you one if I can,” put in Mrs. Crosby. “We have
been much pleased with you, and I should like you to be desirably
placed. As Mrs. Latimer is so kind as to interest herself, it appears to
me an opportunity that should not be missed.”
“Shall I write to Mrs. Carlyle?” rejoined Mrs. Latimer.
Lady Isabel roused herself, and so far cleared her intellect as to
understand and answer the question. “Perhaps you would kindly give me
until to-morrow morning to consider on it? I had not intended to take a
situation in England.”
A battle she had with herself that day. At one moment it seemed to her
that Providence must have placed this opportunity in her way that she
might see her children, in her desperate longing; at another, a voice
appeared to whisper that it was a wily, dangerous temptation flung
across her path, one which it was her duty to resist and flee from. Then
came another phase of the picture--how should she bear to see Mr.
Carlyle the husband of another--to live in the same house with them, to
witness his attentions, possibly his caresses? It might be difficult;
but she could force and school her heart to endurance. Had she not
resolved, in her first bitter repentance, to take up her cross daily,
and bear it? No, her own feelings, let them be wrung as they would,
should not prove the obstacle.
Evening came, and she had not decided. She passed another night of pain,
of restlessness, of longing for her children; this intense longing
appeared to be overmastering all her powers of mind and body. The
temptation at length proved too strong; the project having been placed
before her covetous eyes could not be relinquished, and she finally
consented to go. “What is it that would keep me away?” she argued. “The
dread of discovery? Well if that comes it must; they could not hang me
or kill me. Deeper humiliation than ever would be my portion when they
drive me from East Lynne with abhorrence and ignominy, as a soldier is
drummed out of his regiment; but I could bear that as I must bear the
rest and I can shrink under the hedge and lay myself down to die.
Humiliation for me? No; I will not put that in comparison with seeing
and being with my children.”
Mrs. Latimer wrote to Mrs. Carlyle. She had met with a governess; one
desirable in every way who could not fail to suit her views precisely.
She was a Madame Vine, English by birth, but the widow of a Frenchman; a
Protestant, a thorough gentlewoman, an efficient linguist and musician,
and competent to her duties in all ways. Mrs. Crosby, with whom she had
lived two years regarded her as a treasure, and would not have parted
with her but for Helena’s marriage with a German nobleman. “You must not
mind her appearance,” went on the letter. “She is the oddest-looking
person; wears spectacles, caps, enormous bonnets, and has a great scar
on her mouth and chin; and though she can’t be more than thirty, her
hair is gray; she is also slightly lame. But, understand you, she is a
lady, with it all, and looks one.”
When this description reached East Lynne, Barbara laughed at it as she
read it aloud to Mr. Carlyle. He laughed also.
“It is well governesses are not chosen according to their looks,” he
said, “or I fear Madame Vine would stand but a poor chance.”
They resolved to engage her, and word went back to that effect.
A strangely wild tumult filled Lady Isabel’s bosom. She first of all
hunted her luggage over, her desk, everything belonging to her lest any
mark on the linen might be there, which could give a clue to her former
self. The bulk of her luggage remained in Paris, warehoused, where it
had been sent ere she quitted Grenoble. She next saw to her wardrobe,
making it still more unlike anything she had used to wear; her caps,
save that they were simple, and fitted closely to the face, nearly
rivaled those of Miss Carlyle. Her handwriting she had been striving for
years to change the character of, and had so far succeeded that none
would now take it for Lady Isabel Vane’s. But her hand shook as she
wrote to Mrs. Carlyle--who had written to her. She--she writing to Mr.
Carlyle’s wife! And in the capacity of a subordinate! How would she like
to live with her as a subordinate, as servant--it may be said--where she
had once reigned, the idolized lady? She must bear that, as she must
bear all else. Hot tears came into her eyes, with a gush, as they fell
on the signature, “Barbara Carlyle.”
All ready, she sat down and waited the signal of departure; but that was
not to be yet. It was finally arranged that she should travel to England
and to West Lynne with Mrs. Latimer, and that lady would not return
until October. Lady Isabel could only fold her hands and strive for
patience.
But the day did come--it actually did; and Mrs. Latimer, Lady Isabel,
and Afy quitted Stalkenberg. Mrs. Latimer would only travel slowly, and
the impatient, fevered woman thought the journey would never end.
“You have been informed, I think, of the position of these unhappy
children that you are going to,” Mrs. Latimer observed to her one day.
“You must not speak to them of their mother. She left them.”
“Yes.”
“It is never well to speak to children of a mother who has disgraced
them. Mr. Carlyle would not like it; and I dare say they are taught to
forget her, and to regard Mrs. Carlyle as their only mother.”
Her aching heart had to assent to all.
It was a foggy afternoon, gray with the coming twilight, when they
arrived at West Lynne.
Mrs. Latimer believing the governess was a novice in England, kindly put
her into a fly, and told the driver his destination. “Au revoir,
madame,” she said, “and good luck to you.”
Once more she was whirling along the familiar road. She saw Justice
Hare’s house, she saw other marks which she knew well; and once more she
saw East Lynne, the dear old house, for the fly had turned into the
avenue. Lights were moving in the windows; it looked gay and cheerful, a
contrast to her. Her heart was sick with expectation, her throat was
beating; and as the man thundered up with all the force of his one
horse, and halted at the steps, her sight momentarily left her. Would
Mr. Carlyle come to the fly to hand her out? She wished she had never
undertaken the project, now, in the depth of her fear and agitation. The
hall door was flung open, and there gushed forth a blaze of light.
Two men-servants stood there. The one remained in the hall, the other
advanced to the chaise. He assisted Lady Isabel to alight, and then
busied himself with the luggage. As she ascended to the hall she
recognized old Peter. Strange, indeed, did it seem not to say, “How are
you, Peter?” but to meet him as a stranger. For a moment, she was at a
loss for words; what should she say, or ask, coming to her own home? Her
manner was embarrassed, her voice low.
“Is Mrs. Carlyle within?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
At that moment Joyce came forward to receive her. “It is Madame Vine, I
believe,” she respectfully said. “Please to step this way, madame.”
But Lady Isabel lingered in the hall, ostensibly to see that her boxes
came in right--Stephen was bringing them up--in reality to gather a
short respite, for Joyce might be about to usher her into the presence
of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle.
Joyce, however, did nothing of the sort. She merely conducted her to the
gray parlor. A fire was burning in the grate, looking cheerful on the
autumn night.
“This is your sitting-room, madame. What will you please to take? I will
order it brought in while I show you your bed-chamber.”
“A cup of tea,” answered Lady Isabel.
“Tea and some cold meat?” suggested Joyce. But Lady Isabel interrupted
her.
“Nothing but tea and a little cold toast.”
Joyce rang the bell, ordered the refreshment to be made ready, and then
preceded Lady Isabel upstairs. On she followed her heart palpitating;
past the rooms that used to be hers, along the corridor, toward the
second staircase. The door of her old dressing-room stood open, and she
glanced in with a yearning look. No, never more, never more could it be
hers; she had put it from her by her own free act and deed. Not less
comfortable did it look now than in former days, but it had passed into
another’s occupancy. The fire threw its blaze on the furniture. There
were the little ornaments on the large dressing-table, as they used to
be in her time; and the cut glass of crystal essence-bottles was
glittering in the firelight. On the sofa lay a shawl and a book, and on
the bed a silk dress, as thrown there after being taken off. No, those
rooms were not for her now, and she followed Joyce up the other
staircase. The bedroom she was shown to was commodious and well
furnished. It was the one Miss Carlyle had occupied when she, Isabella,
had been taken a bride to East Lynne, though that lady had subsequently
quitted it for one on the lower floor. Joyce put down the waxlight she
carried and looked round.
“Would you like a fire lighted here, madame, for to-night? Perhaps it
will feel welcome after travelling.”
“Oh, no, thank you,” was the answer.
Stephen, with somebody to help him, was bringing up the luggage. Joyce
directed him where to place it, telling him to uncord the boxes. That
done, the man left the room, and Joyce turned to Lady Isabel, who had
stood like a statue, never so much as attempting to remove her bonnet.
“Can I do anything for you, madame?” she asked.
Lady Isabel declined. In the first moments of her arrival she was
dreading detection--how was it possible that she should not--and she
feared Joyce’s keen eyes more, perhaps than she feared any others. She
was only wishing that the girl would go down.
“Should you want anything, please to ring, and Hannah will come up,”
said Joyce, preparing to retire. “She is the maid who waits upon the
gray parlor, and will do anything you like up here.”
Joyce had quitted the room, and Lady Isabel had got her bonnet off, when
the door opened again. She hastily thrust it on, somewhat after the
fashion of Richard Hare’s rushing on his hat and false whiskers. It was
Joyce.
“Do you think you shall find your way down alone, madame?”
“Yes, I can do that,” she answered. Find her way in that house!
Lady Isabel slowly took her things off. What was the use of lingering--
she must meet their eyes, sooner or later. Though, in truth, there was
little, if any, fear of her detection, so effectually was she disguised
by nature’s altering hand, or by art’s. It was with the utmost
difficulty she kept tranquil. Had the tears once burst forth, they would
have gone on to hysterics, without the possibility of control. The
coming home again to East Lynne! Oh, it was indeed a time of agitation,
terrible, painful agitation, and none can wonder at it. Shall I tell you
what she did? Yes, I will at the expense of ridicule. She knelt down by
the bed and prayed for courage to go through the task she had
undertaken; prayed for self-control--even she, the sinful, who had
quitted that house under circumstances notorious. But I am not sure that
this mode of return to it was an expedition precisely calculated to call
down a blessing.
There was no excuse for lingering longer, and she descended, the
waxlight in her hand. Everything was ready in the gray parlor--the tea-
tray on the table, the small urn hissing away, the tea-caddy in
proximity to it. A silver rack of dry toast, butter, and a hot muffin
covered with a small silver cover. The things were to her sight as old
faces--the rack, the small cover, the butter-dish, the tea-service--she
remembered them all; not the urn--a copper one--she had no recollection
of that. It had possibly been bought for the use of the governess, when
a governess came into use at East Lynne. Could she have given herself
leisure to reflect on the matter, she might have told, by the signs
observable in the short period she had been in the house, that
governesses of East Lynne were regarded as gentlewomen--treated well and
liberally. Yes; for East Lynne owned Mr. Carlyle for its master.
She made the tea, and sat down with what appetite she might, her brain,
her thoughts, all in a chaos together. She wondered whether Mr. and Mrs.
Carlyle were at dinner--she wondered in what part of the house were the
children. She heard bells ring now and then; she heard servants cross
and recross the hall. Her meal over, she rang her own.
A neat-looking, good-tempered maid answered it, Hannah, who, as Joyce
had informed her, waited upon the gray parlor, and was at her, the
governess’s, especial command. She took away the things, and then Lady
Isabel sat on alone. For how long, she scarcely knew, when a sound
caused her heart to beat as if it would burst its bounds, and she
started from her chair like one who has received an electric shock.
It was nothing to be startled at either--for ordinary people--for it was
but the sound of children’s voices. Her children! Were they being
brought in to her? She pressed her hand upon her heaving bosom.
No; they were but traversing the hall, and the voices faded away up the
wide staircase. Perhaps they had been in to desert, as in the old times,
and were now going up to bed. She looked at her new watch--half past
seven.
Her new watch. The old one had been changed away for it. All her
trinkets had been likewise parted with, sold or exchanged away, lest
they should be recognized at East Lynne. Nothing whatever had she kept
except her mother’s miniature and a small golden cross, set with its
seven emeralds. Have you forgotten that cross? Francis Levison
accidentally broke it for her, the first time they ever met. If she had
looked upon the breaking of that cross which her mother had enjoined her
to set such store by, as an evil omen, at the time of the accident, how
awfully had the subsequent events seemed to bear her fancy out! These
two articles--the miniature and the cross--she could not bring her mind
to part with. She had sealed them up, and placed them in the remotest
spot of her dressing-case, away from all chance of public view. Peter
entered.
“My mistress says, ma’am, she would be glad to see you, if you are not
too tired. Will you please to walk into the drawing-room?”
A mist swam before her eyes. Was she about to enter the presence of Mrs.
Carlyle? Had the moment really come? She moved to the door, which Peter
held open. She turned her head from the man, for she could feel how ashy
white were her face and lips.
“Is Mrs. Carlyle alone?” she asked, in a subdued voice. The most
indirect way she could put the question, as to whether Mr. Carlyle was
there.
“Quite alone, ma’am. My master is dining out to-day. Madame Vine, I
think?” he added, waiting to announce her, as, the hall traversed, he
laid his hand on the drawing-room door.
“Madame Vine,” she said, correcting him. For Peter had spoken the name,
Vine, broadly, according to our English habitude; she set him right, and
pronounced it a la mode Francaise.
“Madame Vine, ma’am,” quoth Peter to his mistress, as he ushered in Lady
Isabel.
The old familiar drawing-room; its large handsome proportions, the well
arranged furniture, its bright chandelier! It all came back to her with
a heart-sickness. No longer her drawing-room, that she should take pride
in it; she had flung it away from her when she flung away the rest.
Seated under the blaze of the chandelier was Barbara. Not a day older
did she look than when Lady Isabel had first seen her at the churchyard
gates, when she had inquired of her husband who was that pretty girl.
“Barbara Hare,” he answered. Ay. She was Barbara Hare then, but now she
was Barbara Carlyle; and she, she, who had been Isabel Carlyle, was
Isabel Vane again! Oh, woe! Woe!
Inexpressibly more beautiful, looked Barbara than Lady Isabel had ever
seen her--or else she fancied it. Her evening dress was of pale sky-
blue--no other color suited Barbara so well, and there was no other she
was so fond of--and on her fair neck there was a gold chain, and on her
arms were gold bracelets. Her pretty features were attractive as ever;
her cheeks were flushed; her blue eyes sparkled, and her light hair was
rich and abundant. A contrast, her hair, to that of the worn woman
opposite to her.
Barbara came forward, her hand stretched out with a kindly greeting. “I
hope you are not very much tired after your journey?”
Lady Isabel murmured something--she did not know what--and pushed the
chair set for her as much as possible into the shade.
“You are not ill, are you?” uttered Barbara, noting the intensely pale
face--as much as could be seen of it for the cap and the spectacles.
“Not ill,” was the low answer; “only a little fatigued.”
“Would you prefer that I spoke with you in the morning? You would like,
possibly, to retire to bed at once.”
But Lady Isabel declined. Better get the interview over by candlelight
than by daylight.
“You look so very pale, I feared you might be ill.”
“I am generally pale; sometimes remarkably so; but my health is good.”
“Mrs. Latimer wrote us word that you would be quite sure to suit us,”
freely spoke Barbara. “I hope you will; and that you may find your
residence here agreeable. Have you lived much in England?”
“In the early portion of my life.”
“And you have lost your husband and your children? Stay. I beg your
pardon if I am making a mistake; I think Mrs. Latimer did mention
children.”
“I have lost them,” was the faint, quiet response.
“Oh, but it must be terrible grief when children die!” exclaimed
Barbara, clasping her hands in emotion. “I would not lose my babe for
the world! I could not part with him.”
“Terrible grief, and hard to bear,” outwardly assented Lady Isabel. But
in her heart she was thinking that death was not the worst kind of
parting. There was another far more dreadful. Mrs. Carlyle began to
speak of the children she was to take charge of.
“You are no doubt aware that they are not mine; Mrs. Latimer would tell
you. They are the children of Mr. Carlyle’s first wife.”
“And Mr. Carlyle’s,” interrupted Lady Isabel. What in the world made her
put in that? She wondered herself the moment the words were out of her
mouth. A scarlet streak flushed her cheeks, and she remembered that
there must be no speaking upon impulse at East Lynne.
“Mr. Carlyle’s, of course,” said Barbara, believing Madame Vine had
asked the question. “Their position--the girl’s in particular--is a sad
one, for their mother left them. Oh, it was a shocking business!”
“She is dead, I hear,” said Lady Isabel hoping to turn the immediate
point of conversation. Mrs. Carlyle, however, continued as though she
had not heard her.
“Mr. Carlyle married Lady Isabel Vane, the late Lord Mount Severn’s
daughter. She was attractive and beautiful, but I do not fancy she cared
very much for her husband. However that may have been, she ran away from
him.”
“It was very sad,” observed Lady Isabel, feeling that she was expected
to say something. Besides, she had her role to play.
“Sad? It was wicked--it was infamous!” returned Mrs. Carlyle, giving way
to some excitement. “Of all men living, of all husbands, Mr. Carlyle
least deserved such a requital. You will say so when you come to know.
And the affair altogether was a mystery; for it never was observed or
suspected by any one that Lady Isabel entertained a liking for another.
It was Francis Levison she eloped with--Sir Francis he is now. He had
been staying at East Lynne, but no one detected any undue intimacy
between them, not even Mr. Carlyle. To him, as others, her conduct must
always remain a mystery.”
Madame appeared to be occupied with her spectacles, setting them
straight. Barbara continued,--
“Of course the disgrace is reflected on the children, and always will
be; the shame of having a divorced mother--”
“Is she not dead?” interrupted Lady Isabel.
“She is dead--oh, yes. But they will not be the less pointed at, the
girl especially, as I say. They allude to their mother now and then in
conversation, Wilson tells me; but I would recommend you, Madame Vine,
not to encourage them in that. They had better forget her.”
“Mr. Carlyle would naturally wish them to do so.”
“Most certainly. There is little doubt that Mr. Carlyle would blot out
the recollection of her, were it possible. But unfortunately she was the
children’s mother, and, for that, there’s no help. I trust you will be
able to instill principles into the little girl which will keep her from
a like fate.”
“I will try,” answered Lady Isabel, with more fervor than she had yet
spoken. “Do you have the children much with you, may I inquire?”
“No. I never was fond of being troubled with children. When my own grow
up into childhood I shall deem the nursery and the schoolroom the fitter
place for them. What I trust I shall never give up to another, will be
the training of my children,” pursued Barbara. “Let the offices properly
pertaining to a nurse be performed by the nurse--of course, taking care
that she is thoroughly to be depended on. Let her have the trouble of
the children, their noise, their romping; in short, let the nursery be
her place, and the children’s. But I hope that I shall never fail to
gather my children round me daily, at stated and convenient periods, for
higher purposes; to instill into them Christian and moral duties; to
strive to teach them how best to fulfil the obligations of life. This is
a mother’s task--as I understand the question--let her do this work
well, and the nurse can attend to the rest. A child should never hear
aught from his mother’s lips but persuasive gentleness; and this becomes
impossible if she is very much with her children.”
Lady Isabel silently assented. Mrs. Carlyle’s views were correct ones.
“When I first came to East Lynne I found Miss Manning, the governess,
was doing everything necessary for Mr. Carlyle’s children in the way of
the training that I speak of,” resumed Barbara. “She had them with her
for a short period every morning, even the little one; I saw that it was
all right, therefore did not interfere. Since she left--it is nearly a
month now--I have taken them myself. We were sorry to part with Miss
Manning; she suited very well. But she has been long engaged, it turns
out, to an officer in the navy, and now they are to be married. You will
have the entire charge of the little girl; she will be your companion
out of school hours; did you understand that?”
“I am quite ready and willing to undertake it,” said Lady Isabel, her
heart fluttering. “Are the children well? Do they enjoy good health?”
“Quite so. They had the measles in the spring, and the illness left a
cough upon William, the eldest boy. Mr. Wainwright says he will outgrow
it.”
“He has it still, then?”
“At night and morning. They went last week to spend the day with Miss
Carlyle, and were a little late in returning home. It was foggy, and the
boy coughed dreadfully after he came in. Mr. Carlyle was so concerned
that he left the dinner table and went up to the nursery; he gave Joyce
strict orders that the child should never again be out in the evening so
long as the cough was upon him. We had never heard him cough like that.”
“Do you fear consumption?” asked Lady Isabel, in a low tone.
“I do not fear that, or any other incurable disease for them,” answered
Barbara. “I think, with Mr. Wainwright, that time will remove the cough.
The children come of a healthy stock on the father’s side; and I have no
reason to think they do not on their mother’s. She died young you will
say. Ay, but she did not die of disease; her death was the result of
accident. Mrs. Latimer wrote us word you were of gentle birth and
breeding,” she continued, changing the subject of conversation. “I am
sure you will excuse my speaking of these particulars,” Barbara added,
in a tone of apology, “but this is our first interview--our preliminary
interview, it may in a measure be called, for we could not say much by
letter.”
“I was born and reared a gentlewoman,” answered Lady Isabel.
“Yes, I am sure of it; there is no mistaking the tone of a gentlewoman,”
said Barbara. “How sad it is when pecuniary reverses fall upon us! I
dare say you never thought to go out as a governess.”
A half smile positively crossed her lips. She think to go out as a
governess!--the Earl of Mount Severn’s only child! “Oh, no, never,” she
said, in reply.
“Your husband, I fear, could not leave you well off. Mrs. Latimer said
something to that effect.”
“When I lost him, I lost all,” was the answer. And Mrs. Carlyle was
struck with the wailing pain betrayed in the tone. At that moment a maid
entered.
“Nurse says the baby is undressed, and quite ready for you ma’am,” she
said, addressing her mistress.
Mrs. Carlyle rose, but hesitated as she was moving away.
“I will have the baby here to-night,” she said to the girl. “Tell nurse
to put a shawl round him and bring him down. It is the hour for my
baby’s supper,” she smiled, turning to Lady Isabel. “I may as well have
him here for once, as Mr. Carlyle is out. Sometimes I am out myself, and
then he has to be fed.”
“You do not stay indoors for the baby, then?”
“Certainly not. If I and Mr. Carlyle have to be out in the evening, baby
gives way. I should never give up my husband for my baby; never, never,
dearly as I love him.”
The nurse came in--Wilson. She unfolded a shawl, and placed the baby on
Mrs. Carlyle’s lap. A proud, fine, fair young baby, who reared his head
and opened wide his great blue eyes, and beat his arms at the lights of
the chandelier, as no baby of nearly six months ever did yet. So thought
Barbara. He was in his clean white nightgown and nightcap, with their
pretty crimped frills and border; altogether a pleasant sight to look
upon. She had once sat in that very chair, with a baby as fair upon her
own knee; but all that was past and gone. She leaned her hot head upon
her hand, and a rebellious sigh of envy went forth from her aching
heart.
Wilson, the curious, was devouring her with her eyes. Wilson was
thinking she never saw such a mortal fright as the new governess. Them
blue spectacles capped everything, she decided; and what on earth made
her tie up her throat in that fashion? As well wear a man’s color and
stock at once! If her teaching was no better than her looks, Miss Lucy
might as well go to the parish charity school!
“Shall I wait, ma’am?” demurely asked Wilson, her investigation being
concluded.
“No,” said Mrs. Carlyle. “I will ring.”
Baby was exceedingly busy taking his supper. And of course, according to
all baby precedent, he ought to have gone off into a sound sleep over
it. But the supper concluded, and the gentleman seemed to have no more
sleep in his eyes than he had before he began. He sat up, crowed at the
lights, stretched out his hands for them, and set his mother at
defiance, absolutely refusing to be hushed up.
“Do you wish to keep awake all night, you rebel?” cried Barbara, fondly
looking on him.
A loud crow, by way of answer. Perhaps it was intended to intimate he
did. She clasped him to her with a sudden gesture of rapture, a sound of
love, and devoured his pretty face with kisses. Then she took him in her
arms, putting him to sit upright, and approached Madame Vine.
“Did you ever see a more lovely child?”
“A fine baby, indeed,” she constrained herself to answer; and she could
have fancied it her own little Archibald over again when he was a baby.
“But he is not much like you.”
“He is the very image of my darling husband. When you see Mr. Carlyle--”
Barbara stopped, and bent her ear, as listening.
“Mr. Carlyle is probably a handsome man!” said poor Lady Isabel,
believing that the pause was made to give her an opportunity of putting
in an observation.
“He is handsome: but that is the least good about him. He is the most
noble man! Revered, respected by everyone; I may say loved! The only one
who could not appreciate him was his wife; and we must assume that she
did not, by the ending that came. However she could leave him--how she
could even look at another, after calling Mr. Carlyle husband--will
always be a marvel to those who know him.”
A bitter groan--and it nearly escaped her lips.
“That certainly is the pony carriage,” cried Barbara, bending her ear
again. “If so, how very early Mr. Carlyle is home! Yes, I am sure it is
the sound of the wheels.”
How Lady Isabel sat she scarcely knew; how she concealed her trepidation
she never would know. A pause: an entrance to the hall; Barbara, baby in
arms, advanced to the drawing-room door, and a tall form entered. Once
more Lady Isabel was in the presence of her sometime husband.
He did not perceive that any one was present, and he bent his head and
fondly kissed his wife. Isabel’s jealous eyes were turned upon them. She
saw Barbara’s passionate, lingering kiss in return, she heard her
fervent, whispered greeting, “My darling!” and she watched him turn to
press the same fond kisses on the rosy open lips of his child. Isabel
flung her hand over her face. Had she bargained for this? It was part of
the cross she had undertaken to carry, and she must bear it.
Mr. Carlyle came forward and saw her. He looked somewhat surprised.
“Madame Vine,” said Barbara; and he held out his hand and welcomed her
in the same cordial, pleasant manner that his wife had done. She put her
shaking hand into his; there was no help for it. Little thought Mr.
Carlyle that that hand had been tenderly clasped in his a thousand
times--that it was the one pledged to him at the altar of Castle
Marling.
She sat down on her chair again, unable to stand, feeling as though
every drop of blood within her had left her body. It had certainly left
her face. Mr. Carlyle made a few civil inquiries as to her journey, but
she did not dare to raise her eyes to his, as she breathed forth the
answers.
“You are at home soon, Archibald,” said Barbara, addressing him. “I did
not expect you so early. I did not think you could get away. Do you know
what I was wishing to-day?” she continued. “Papa is going to London with
Squire Pinner to see those new agricultural implements--or whatever it
is. They are sure to be away as much as three days. I was thinking if we
could but persuade mamma to come to us for the time papa is to be away,
it would be a delightful little change for her--a break in her
monotonous life.”
“I wish you could,” warmly spoke Mr. Carlyle. “Her life, since you left,
is a monotonous one; though, in her gentle patience, she will not say
so. It is a happy thought, Barbara, and I only hope it may be carried
out. Mrs. Carlyle’s mother is an invalid, and lonely, for she has no
child at home with her now,” he added, in a spirit of politeness,
addressing himself to Madame Vine.
She simply bowed her head; trust herself to speak she did not. Mr.
Carlyle scanned her face attentively, as she sat, her spectacles bent
downward. She did not appear inclined to be sociable, and he turned to
the baby, who was wider awake than ever.
“Young sir, I should like to know what brings you up, and here, at this
hour.”
“You may well ask,” said Barbara. “I just had him brought down, as you
were not here, thinking he would be asleep directly. And only look at
him!--no more sleep in his eyes than there is in mine.”
She would have hushed him to her as she spoke, but the young gentleman
stoutly repudiated it. He set up a half cry, and struggled his arms, and
head free again, crowing the next moment most impudently. Mr. Carlyle
took him.
“It is no use, Barbara; he is beyond your coaxing this evening.” And he
tossed the child in his strong arms, held him up to the chandelier, made
him bob at the baby in the pier-glass, until the rebel was in an ecstacy
of delight. Finally he smothered his face with kisses, as Barbara had
done. Barbara rang the bell.
Oh! Can you imagine what it was for Lady Isabel? So had he tossed, so
had he kissed her children, she standing by, the fond, proud, happy
mother, as Barbara was standing now. Mr. Carlyle came up to her.
“Are you fond of these little troubles, Madame Vine? This one is a fine
fellow, they say.”
“Very fine. What is his name?” she replied, by way of saying something.
“Arthur.”
“Arthur Archibald,” put in Barbara to Madame Vine. “I was vexed that his
name could not be entirely Archibald, but that was already monopolized.
Is that you, Wilson? I don’t know what you’ll do with him, but he looks
as if he would not be asleep by twelve o’clock.”
Wilson, with a fresh satisfying of her curiosity, by taking another
prolonged stare from the corner of her eyes at Madame Vine, received the
baby from Mr. Carlyle, and departed with him.
Madame Vine rose. “Would they excuse her?” she asked, in a low tone;
“she was tired and would be glad to retire to rest.”
“Of course. And anything she might wish in the way of refreshment, would
she ring for?” Barbara shook hands with her, in her friendly way; and
Mr. Carlyle crossed the room to open the door for her, and bowed her out
with a courtly smile.
She went up to her chamber at once. To rest? Well, what think you? She
strove to say to her lacerated and remorseful heart that the cross--far
heavier though it was proving than anything she had imagined or
pictured--was only what she had brought upon herself, and must bear.
Very true; but none of us would like such a cross to be upon our
shoulders.
“Is she not droll looking?” cried Barbara, when she was alone with Mr.
Carlyle. “I can’t think why she wears those blue spectacles; it cannot
be for her sight, and they are very disfiguring.”
“She puts me in mind of--of----” began Mr. Carlyle, in a dreamy tone.
“Of whom?”
“Her face, I mean,” he said, still dreaming.
“So little can be seen of it,” resumed Mrs. Carlyle. “Of whom does she
put you in mind?”
“I don’t know. Nobody in particular,” returned he, rousing himself. “Let
us have tea in, Barbara.”