East Lynne

M >> Mrs. Henry Wood >> East Lynne


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."



CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE YEARNING OF A BREAKING HEART.

At her bedroom door, the next morning, stood Lady Isabel, listening
whether the coast was clear ere she descended to the gray parlor, for
she had a shrinking dread of encountering Mr. Carlyle. When he was
glancing narrowly at her face the previous evening she had felt the
gaze, and it impressed upon her the dread of his recognition. Not only
that; he was the husband of another; therefore it was not expedient that
she should see too much of him, for he was far dearer to her than he had
ever been.

Almost at the same moment there burst out of a remote room--the
nursery--an upright, fair, noble boy, of some five years old, who began
careering along on the corridor, astride upon a hearth-broom. She did
not need to be told it was her boy, Archibald; his likeness to Mr.
Carlyle would have proclaimed it, even if her heart had not. In an
impulse of unrestrainable tenderness, she seized the child, as he was
galloping past her, and carried him into her room, broom and all.

"You must let me make acquaintance with you," she said to him by way of
excuse. "I love little boys."

Love! Down she sat upon a low chair, the child held upon her lap,
kissing him passionately, and the tears raining from her eyes. She could
not have helped the tears had it been to save her life; she could as
little have helped the kisses. Lifting her eyes, there stood Wilson, who
had entered without ceremony. A sick feeling came over Lady Isabel: she
felt as if she had betrayed herself. All that could be done now, was to
make the best of it; to offer some lame excuse. What possessed her thus
to forget herself?

"He did so put me in remembrance of my own children," she said to
Wilson, gulping down her emotion, and hiding her tears in the best
manner she could; whilst the astonished Archibald, released now, stood
with his finger in his mouth and stared at her spectacles, his great
blue eyes opened to their utmost width. "When we have lost children of
our own, we are apt to love fondly all we come near."

Wilson, who stared only in a less degree than Archie, for she deemed
the new governess had gone suddenly mad, gave some voluble assent, and
turned her attention upon Archie.

"You naughty young monkey! How dare you rush out in that way with
Sarah's heart-broom? I'll tell you what it is, sir, you are getting a
might deal too owdacious and rumbustical for the nursery. I shall speak
to your mamma about it."

She seized hold of the child and shook him. Lady Isabel started forward,
her hands up, her voice one of painful entreaty.

"Oh, don't, don't beat him! I cannot see him beaten."

"Beaten!" echoed Wilson; "if he got a good beating it would be all the
better for him; but it's what he never does get. A little shake, or a
tap, is all I must give; and it's not half enough. You wouldn't believe
the sturdy impudence of that boy, madame; he runs riot, he does. The
other two never gave a quarter of the trouble. Come along, you figure!
I'll have a bolt put at the top of the nursery door; and if I did, he'd
be for climbing up the door-post to get at it."

The last sentence Wilson delivered to the governess, as she jerked
Archie out of the room, along the passage, and into the nursery. Lady
Isabel sat down with a wrung heart, a chafed spirit. Her own child! And
she might not say to the servant, you shall not beat him.

She descended to the gray parlor. The two older children and breakfast
were waiting; Joyce quitted the room when she entered it.

A graceful girl of eight years old, a fragile boy a year younger,
both bearing her once lovely features--her once bright and delicate
complexion--her large, soft brown eyes. How utterly her heart yearned
to them; but there must be no scene like there had just been above.
Nevertheless she stooped and kissed them both--one kiss each of
impassioned fervor. Lucy was naturally silent, William somewhat
talkative.