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.
