Chapter 32 part 2 of East Lynn. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. East Lynn by Mrs. Henry Wood. Chapter 32 part 2.  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 arts. 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 Lynn. 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 side of 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 a wax light in her hand. Everything was ready in the grey parlour. 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 Lynn. Could she have given herself leisure to reflect on the matter? She might have told, by the signs of observable in the short period she had been in the house, that governesses of East Lynn were regarded as gentle women, treated well and liberally. Yes, for East Lynn owned Mr Carlisle 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 Carlisle were at dinner. She wondered in what part of the house were the children. She heard Bell's 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 grey parlour, and was at her, the governess's, a special 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 dessert, 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 recognised at East Lynn. 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. Carlisle? 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. Carlisle alone, she asked, in a subdued voice, the most indirect way she could put the question as to whether Mr. Carlisle was there? Quite alone, ma'am. My master is dining out today. Madam Vine, I think, he added, waiting to announce her as the whole traversed, he laid his hand on the drawing-room door. Madam 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 à la mode français. Madame Vine, ma'am, quote Peter to his mistress, as he ushered in Lady Isabelle. 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 could 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 Isabelle had first seen her at the churchyard gates, when she had inquired of her husband, who was that pretty girl. Barbara Hare, he answered. Aye, she was Barbara Hare then, but now she was Barbara Carlyle, and she, she who had been Isabelle Carlyle, was Isabelle Vane again. Oh, whoa, whoa. Inexpressibly, more beautiful looked Barbara than Lady Isabelle had ever seen her. Or else she fancied it. Her evening dress was of pale sky blue. No other colour 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 hands stretched out with a kindly greeting. I hope you are not very much tired after your journey. Lady Isabelle murmured something. She did not know what, and pushed the chair set for her as much as possible into the shade. You're 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 Isabelle declined. Better get the interview over by candlelight than by daylight. You look so 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 a 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 Isabelle. But in her heart she was thinking that death was not the worst kind of parting. There was another far more dreadful. Mrs. Carlisle 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. Carlisle's first wife. And Mr. Carlisle's interrupted Lady Isabelle. 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 there must be no speaking on impulse at East Lynn. Mr. Carlisle's, of course, said Barbara, believing Madame Vine had asked the question. Their position, the girls in particular, is a sad one, for their mother left them. Oh, it was a shocking business. She is dead, I hear, said Lady Isabelle, hoping to turn the immediate point of conversation. Mrs. Carlisle, however, continued as though she had not heard her. Mr. Carlisle married Lady Isabelle 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 Isabelle, feeling that she was expected to say something. Besides, she had her role to play. Sad? It was wicked. It was infamous, returned Mrs. Carlisle, giving way to some excitement. Of all men living, of all husbands, Mr. Carlisle 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 anyone that Lady Isabelle entertained a liking for another. It was Francis Levison she eloped with. Sir Francis, he is now. He had been staying at East Lynn, but no one detected any undue intimacy between them, not even Mr. Carlisle. 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 Isabelle?  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. Carlisle would naturally wish them to do so. Most certainly, there is little doubt that Mr. Carlisle would blot out the recollection of her, were it possible. But unfortunately, she was the children's mother, and for that there is 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 Isabelle, with more fervour 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 upon. 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. Carlisle's views were correct ones. When I first came to East Lynn, I found Miss Manning, the governess, was doing everything necessary for Mr. Carlisle'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'm 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 Carlisle, and were a bit late in returning home. It was foggy, and the boy coughed dreadfully after he came in. Mr. Carlisle 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 mothers. She died young, you will say. I, 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 more by letter. I was born and reared a gentle woman, answered Lady Isabel. Yes, I am sure of it. There is no mistaking the tone of a gentle woman, said Barbara.  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. Carlisle 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. Carlisle rose but hesitated as she was moving away. I will have the baby here tonight, she said to the girl. Tell nurse to put a shawl round him and bring him down. It is the hour for my baby supper, she smiled. Turning to Lady Isabel. I may as well have him here for once, as Mr. Carlisle 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. Carlisle 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. Carlisle'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 the baby as fair upon her own knee, but all that was past and gone.  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 where a man's colour 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. Carlisle, 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.  He is the very image of my darling husband. When you see Mr. Carlisle, Barbara stopped and bent her ear as listening. Mr. Carlisle 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. Carlisle husband, would 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. Carlisle 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 some-time husband. He did not perceive that anyone 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 upon 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. Carlisle came forward and saw her. He looked somewhat surprised. Madam 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. Carlisle, 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. Carlisle 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 today? 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 Mama 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. Carlisle. 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. Carlisle'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. Carlisle 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. Carlisle took him. It is no use, Barbara, for 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 peer-glass until the rebel was in an ecstasy 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. Carlisle came up to her.  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 monopolised. 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. Carlisle 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 else she might wish in a way of refreshment would she ring for? Barbara shook hands with her in a friendly way, and Mr. Carlisle 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. Carlisle? 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. Carlisle in a dreamy tone. Of whom? Her face, I mean, he said, still dreaming. So little can be seen of it, resumed Mrs. Carlisle. 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. End of Chapter 32, Part 2 Chapter 33 of East Lynn This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Sally McConnell East Lynn by Mrs. Henry Wood Chapter 33 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 grey parlour, for she had a shrinking dread of encountering Mr. Carlisle. 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 the corridor astride upon a hearth-brom. She did not need to be told it was her boy Archibald. His likeness to Mr. Carlisle would have proclaimed it, even if her heart had not. In an impulse of unrestrainable tenderness he seized the child as he was galloping past her and carried him into her room, room and all.   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!  I'll tell you what it is, sir. You are getting a might-deal to our dacious and rumbustical for the nursery. I shall speak to your mama 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 give 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 doorpost 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 run heart, a chafed spirit, her own child, and she might not say to the servant you shall not beat him. She descended to the grey parlour. 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 fervour. Lucy was naturally silent. William somewhat talkative. You are our new governess, said he. Yes, we must be good friends. Why not? said the boy. We were good friends with Miss Manning. I am to go into Latin soon as soon as my cough's gone. Do you know Latin? No, not to teach it, she said, studiously avoiding all endearing epithets. Papa said you would be almost sure not to know Latin, for ladies rarely did.  Mr. Cain, the music master. How did you know he was a music master? cried shrewd William. And Lady Isabel felt the red blush flush to her face of the unlucky admission she had made. It flushed deeper at her own falsehood as she muttered some evasive words about hearing of him from Mrs. Latimer. Yes, he is a music teacher, but he does not get much money at it, and he teaches the classics as well. He has come up to teach us music since Miss Manning lived. Mama said that we ought not to lose our lessons. Mama, how the word applied to Barbara grated on her ear. Whom does he teach, she asked. Us too, replied William, pointing to his sister and himself. Do you always take bread and milk, she inquired, perceiving that to be what they were eating. We get tired of it sometimes, and then we have milk and water and bread and butter or honey, and then we take to bread and milk again. It's Aunt Cornelia who thinks we should eat bread and milk for breakfast. She says Papa never had anything else when he was a boy. Lucy looked up. Papa would give me an egg when I breakfasted with him, cried she, and Aunt Cornelia said it was not good for me, but Papa gave it to me all the same. I always had breakfast with him then. And why do you not now? asked Lady Isabel. I don't know. I've not since Mama came. The word stepmother rose up rebelliously in the heart of Lady Isabel. Was Mrs. Carlisle putting away the children from their father? Breakfast over, she gathered them to her, asking them various questions about their studies, their hours of recreation, the daily routine of their lives. This is not the schoolroom, you know, cried William when she made some inquiry as to their books. No, the schoolroom is upstairs. This is for our meals and for you in the evening. The voice of Mr. Carlisle was heard at this juncture in the hall, and Lucy was springing toward the sound. Lady Isabel, fearful lest he might enter if the child showed herself, stopped her with a hurried hand. Stay here, Isabel. Her name's Lucy, said William looking up quickly. Why do you call her Isabel? I thought I heard her called Isabel, stammered the unfortunate lady, feeling quite confused with the errors she was committing. My name is Isabel Lucy, said the child, but I don't know who could have told you, for I'm never called Isabel. I have not been since—since—shall I tell you? Since Mama went away, she concluded, dropping her voice, Mama that was, you know. Did she go? cried Lady Isabel, full of emotion, and possessing a very faint idea of what she was saying. She was kidnapped, whispered Lucy. Kidnapped? was the surprised answer? Yes, or she would not have gone. There was a wicked man on a visit to Papa, and he stole her. Wilson said she knew he was a kidnapper before he took Mama. Papa said I was never to be called Isabel again, but Lucy—Isabel was Mama's name. How do you know Papa said it? Dreamily returned Lady Isabel. I heard him. He said it to Joyce, and Joyce told the servants, I put only Lucy to my copies. I did put Isabel Lucy, but Papa saw it one day, and he drew his pencil through Isabel, and told me to show it to Miss Manning. After that Miss Manning let me put nothing but Lucy. I asked her why, and she told me Papa preferred the name, and that I was not to ask questions. She could not well stop the child, but every word was rending her heart. Lady Isabel was our very, very earned Mama, pursued Lucy. This Mama is not. Do you love this one as you did the other? Lady Isabel. Oh, I loved Mama! I loved Mama! uttered Lucy, clasping her hands. But it's all over. Wilson said we must not love her any longer, and Aunt Cornelia said it. Wilson said if she loved us, she would not have gone away from us. Wilson said so, resentfully, spoke Lady Isabel. She said she need not let that man kidnap her. I'm afraid he beat her, for she died. I lie in my bed at night, and wonder whether he did beat her, and what made her die. It was after she died that our new Mama came home. Papa said that she was to be our Mama in place of Lady Isabel, and we were to love her dearly. Do you love her? Almost passionately asked Lady Isabel. Lucy shook her head. Not as I loved Mama. Joyce entered to show the way to the schoolroom, and they followed her upstairs. As Lady Isabel stood at the window, she saw Mr. Carl Isle depart on foot on his way to the office. Barbara was with him hanging fondly on his arm, about to accompany him to the park gates. So had she fondly hung. So had she accompanied him in the days gone forever. Barbara came into the schoolroom in the course of the morning, and entered upon the subject of their studies, the different allotted hours, some to play, some to work. She spoke in a courteous but decided tone, showing that she was the unmistakable mistress of the house and children, and meant to be. Never had Lady Isabel felt her position so keenly. Never did it so gore and fret her spirit, but she barred to make obedience. A hundred times that day did she yearn to hold the children to her heart, and a hundred times she had to repress the longing. In a soft, damask dress, not unlike the colour of the walls from which the room took its name, a cap of Honiton lace-shading her delicate features, sat Mrs. Hare. The justice was in London with Squire Pinner, and Barbara had gone to the grove and brought Hermamar away in triumph. It was evening now, and Mrs. Hare was paying a visit to the Grey Parlor. Miss Carlisle had been dining there, and Lady Isabel, under plea of a violent headache, had begged to decline the invitation to take tea in the drawing-room, for she feared the sharp eyes of Miss Carlisle. Barbara, upon leaving the dessert-table, went to the nursery as usual, to her baby, and Mrs. Hare took the opportunity to sit here and sit a few minutes with the governess. She feared the governess must be very lonely. Miss Carlisle, scorning usage and ceremony, had remained in the dining-room with Mr. Carlisle, a lecture for him upon some defalcation or other, most probably in store. Lady Isabel was alone. Lucy had gone to keep a birthday in the neighbourhood, and William was in the nursery. Mrs. Hare found her in a sad attitude. Her hands pressed upon her temples. She had not yet made acquaintance with her beyond a minute's formal introduction. I'm sorry to hear you are not well this evening, she gently said. Thank you, my headaches much, which was no false plea. I fear you must feel your solitude irksome. It is dull for you to be here all alone. I am so used to solitude. Mrs. Hare sat down and gazed with sympathy at the young, though somewhat strange-looking woman before her.  You have seen sorrow, she uttered, bending forward and speaking with the utmost sweetness. Oh, great sorrow! Burst from Lady Isabel for her wretched fate was very palpable to her mind that evening, and the turn of sympathy rendered it nearly irrepressible. My daughter tells me that you have lost your children and you have lost your fortune and position. Indeed, I feel for you. I wish I could comfort you. This did not decrease her anguish. She completely lost all self-control and a gush of tears fell from her eyes. Don't pity me, don't pity me, dear Mrs. Hare. Indeed, it only makes endurance harder. Some of us, she added, looking up with a sickly smile, are born to sorrow. We are all born to it, cried Mrs. Hare. I, in truth, have caused to say so. Oh, you know not what my position has been, the terrible weight of grief that I have to bear. For many years I can truly say that I have not known one completely happy moment. All do not have to bear this killing sorrow, said Lady Isabel. Rely upon it, sorrow of some nature does sooner or later come to all. In the brightest apparent lot on earth dark days must mix. Not that there is a dot, but that it falls unequally. Some, as you observe, seem born to it for it clings to them all their days. Others are more favoured, as we reckon favour. Perhaps this great amount of trouble is no more than is necessary to take us to heaven. You know the saying, adversity hardens the heart, or it opens it to paradise. It may be that our hearts continue so hard that the long-continued life's trouble is requisite to soften them. My dear Mrs. Hare added in a lower turn while the tears glistened on her pale cheeks, that there will be a bliss at rest for the wary when this toilsome life is ended, let us find comfort in that thought. Aye, aye, moment, Lady Isabel. It is all that is left to me. You are young to have acquired so much experience of sorrow. We cannot estimate sorrow by years. We may live a whole lifetime of it in a single hour, but we generally bring ill fate upon ourselves, she continued in a desperation of remorse, as our conduct is, so will our happiness or misery be. Not always, sighed Mrs. Hare. Sorrow, I grant, you does come all too frequently from ill-doing, but the worst is the consequences of this ill-doing fall upon the innocent as well as upon the guilty. A husband's errors will involve his innocent wife. Parents' sins fall upon their children. Children will break the hearts of their parents. I can truly say, speaking in all humble submission, that I am unconscious of having deserved the great sorrow which came upon me, that no act of mine invited it on, but though it has nearly killed me. I entertain no doubt that it is lined with mercy if I could only bring my weak rebellious heart to look for it, you, I feel sure, have been equally undeserving. She, Mrs. Hare, marked not the flush of shame the drooping of the islands. You have lost your little ones, Mrs. Hare resumed. That is grief, great grief. I would not underrate it. But, believe me, it is as nothing compared to the awful fate that it ever fall upon you of finding your children grow up and become that which makes you wish they had died in their infancy. There are times when I am tempted to regret that all my treasures are not in that other world, that they are not gone before me. Yes, sorrow is the lot of all. Surely not of all, dissented Lady Isabel. There are some bright lots on earth. There is not a lot but must bear its appointed share, returned Mrs. Hare. Bright as it may appear, I, and as it may continue to be for years depend upon it, some darkness must overshadow it earlier or later. Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle, what sorrow can be in store for them? asked Lady Isabel, her voice ringing with a strange sound which Mrs. Hare noted, though she understood it not. Mrs. Carlisle's lot is bright, she said, a sweet smile illuminating her features. She loves her husband with an impassioned love and he is worthy of it. A happy fate, indeed, is hers, but she must not expect to be exempted from sorrow. Mr. Carlisle has had his share of it, continued Mrs. Hare. Ah, you had doubtless been made acquainted with his history. His first wife left him, and her children. He bore it bravely before the world, but I know that had run his very heart strings. She was his heart's soul idol. She, not Barbara, the moment the word Barbara had escaped her lips Lady Isabel recollected herself. She was only Madame Vine, the governess. What would Mrs. Hare think of her familiarity? Mrs. Hare did not appear to have noticed that she was absorbed in the subject. Barbara, she uttered, certainly not. Had his first love been given to Barbara he would have chosen her then. It was given to Lady Isabel. It is given his wife now. Mrs. Hare nearly laughed. Of course it is. Would you wish it to be buried in the grave with the dead and with one who was false to him? But, my dear, she was the sweetest woman, that unfortunate Lady Isabel. I loved her then, and I cannot help loving her still. Others blamed her, but I pitied. They were well matched. He is so good and noble. She so lovely and endearing. And she left him, threw him to the winds with all his nobility and love, exclaimed the poor governess, with a gesture of the hands that looked very much like despair. Yes, it will not do to talk of it. It is a miserable subject. How she could abandon such a husband, such children, was a marvel to many, but to none more than it was to me and my daughter. The false step, though I feel most ashamed to speak out the thought, lest it may appear to savor of triumph, while it must have secured her own wretchedness, head to the happiness of my child, for it is certain Barbara would never love one as she loves Mr. Carl Isle. It did secure wretchedness to her, you think, cried Lady Isabel, her turn one of bitter mockery more than anything else. Mrs. Hare was surprised at the question. No woman ever took that fatal step yet, without its entailing on her the most dire wretchedness, she replied. It cannot be otherwise. And Lady Isabel was of a nature to feel remorse beyond common, to meet it half-way, refined, modest, with every feeling of an English gentlewoman. She was the very last one would have thought to act so. It was as if she had gone away in a dream, not knowing what she was doing. I have thought so many a time. That terrible mental wretchedness and remorse did overtake her. I know. How did you know it? Did you hear it? exclaimed Lady Isabel, her turn all too eager had Mrs. Hare been suspicious. Did he proclaim that? Francis Levison, did you hear it from him? Mrs.  Another moment, and she was mild and kind again, for she reflected that the poor, sorrowful governess must have spoken without thought. I know not what so Francis Levison may have chose to proclaim, she said, but you may be sure he would not be allowed opportunity to proclaim anything to me or to any other friend of Mr. Carlisle's. Nay, I should say, nor to any of the good and honourable. I heard it from Lord Mount Seven. From Lord Mount Seven, repeated Lady Isabel, and she opened her lips to say something more, but closed them again. He was here on a summer visit. He stayed a fortnight. Lady Isabel was the daughter of the late Earl. Perhaps you may not have known that. Lady Lord Mount Seven told me in confidence that he had sought out Lady Isabel when the man Levison left her. He found her sick, poor, broken-hearted, in some remote French town, utterly borne down with remorse and repentance. Could it be otherwise? sharply asked Lady Isabel. My dear, I have said it could not. The very thought of her deserted children would entail it, if nothing she did. There was a baby born abroad, added Mrs. Hare, dropping her voice. An infant in its cradle, Lord Mount Seven said, but that child we knew could only bring pain and shame. True issued from her trembling lips. Next came her death, and I cannot but think it was sent to her in mercy. I trust she was prepared for it and made her peace with God. When all else is taken from us, we turned to him. I hope she had learned to find the refuge. How did Mr. Carla, I will receive the news of her death, moment Lady Isabel, a question which had been often in her thoughts. I cannot tell. He made no outward sign either of satisfaction or grief. It was too delicate a subject for anyone to enter upon with him. Just assuredly he did not enter upon it himself. After he was engaged to my child, he told me he should never have married during Lady Isabel's life. From the remains of affection? I should think not. I inferred it to be from conscientious scruples. All his affection is given to his present wife. There is no doubt that he loves her with a true, a fervent, a lasting love. Though there may have been more romantic sentiment in the early passion felt for Lady Isabel. Poor thing. She gave up a sincere heart, a happy home. I, poor thing, she had very nearly wailed for her vain despair. I wonder whether the drawing-room is tenanted yet? smiled Mrs. Hare, breaking a pause which had ensued. If so, I suppose they will be expecting me there. I will ascertain for you," said Lady Isabel, speaking in the impulse of the moment, for she was craving an instant to herself, even though it were but in the next haul. She quitted the grey parlour and approached the drawing-room. Not a sound came from it, and, believing it was empty, she opened the door and looked cautiously in. Quite empty. The fire blazed. The chandelier was lighted, but nobody was enjoying the warmth or the light. From the inner-room, however, came a sound of the piano and the tones of Mr. Carl Isle's voice. She recognised the chords of the music. They were those of the accompaniment to the song he had so loved when she sang it to him. Who was it about to sing it to him now? Lady Isabel stole across the drawing-room going on to the other door which was a jar. Barbara was seated at the piano, and Mr. Carl Isle stood by her, his arm on her chair, and bending his face on a level with hers, possibly to look at the music. So once had stolen. So once had peaked the unhappy Barbara to hear this self-same song. She had been his wife then. She had craved and received his kisses when it was over. Their positions were reversed. Barbara began. Her voice had not the brilliant power of Lady Isabel's, but it was a sweet and pleasant voice to listen to. When other lips and other hearts their tales of love shall tell In language whose excess imparts the power they feel so well There may perhaps in such a scene Some recollection be Of days that have as happy been And you remember me. Days that had as happy been I did he remember her. Did a thought of her, his first and best love Flit across him as the words fell on his ear. Did a past vision of the time When she had sat there and sung it to him Arouse his heart to even momentary recollection. Terribly indeed were their positions reversed. Most terribly was she feeling it. And by whose act and will had the change been wrought? Barbara was now the cherished wife, Eastland's mistress. And what was she? Not even the courted, welcomed guest of an hour As Barbara had been, but an interloper. A criminal woman who had thrust herself into the house. Her act in doing so not justifiable Her position a most false one. Was it right, even if she did succeed In remaining undiscovered, that she and Barbara Should dwell in the same habitation Mr. Carlisle being in it? Did she deem it to be right? No, she did not. But one act of ill-doing entails more. These thoughts were passing through her mind As she stood there, listening to the song. Stood there as one turned to stone. Her throbbing temples pressed against the door's pillar. The song was over and Barbara turned to her husband A whole world of love in her bright blue eyes.  Lady Isabel saw that. But she would not wait to see the caress That most probably followed it. She turned and crossed the room again. Her hands clasped tightly on her bosom. Her breath catching itself in hysterical sobs. Miss Carlisle was entering the hall. They had not yet met. And Lady Isabel swept meekly past her With a hurried curtsy. Miss Carlisle spoke, but she dared not answer. To wait would have been to betray herself. Sunday came and that was the worst of all. In the old Eastland, pured St. Jude's So conspicuous to the congregation sat she As in former times No excuse dared she the governess make To remain away. It was the first time she had entered An English Protestant church Since she had lost sat in it There with Mr. Carlisle. Can you wonder that the fact to learn With all the terrible remembrances It brought in its train was sufficient To overwhelm her with emotion. She sat at the upper end now with Lucy. Barbara occupied the place that had been hers By the side of Mr. Carlisle. Barbara there in her own right his wife. She severed from him forever and forever. She scarcely raised her head.  She kept her spectacles bent toward the ground. Lucy thought she must be crying.  Lucy was mistaken. Tears came not to solace the bitter anguish Of hopeless, self-condemning remorse. How she sat out the service she could not tell. She could not tell how she could sit out Other services as the Sundays came round. The congregation did not forget to stare at her. What an extraordinary looking governess Mrs. Carlisle had picked up. They went out when it was over. Mr. and Mrs. Carlisle in advance. She humbly following them with Lucy. She glanced aside at the tomb in the churchyard's corner Where moulded the remains of her father. And a yearning cry went forth From the very depth of her soul. Now that I were laid there with him Why did I come back again to East Lynn? Why truly? But she had never thought that her cross Would be so sharp as this. End of Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Part 1 of East Lynn This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Read by Sally McConnell East Lynn by Mrs. Henry Wood Chapter 34 Part 1 An MP for West Lynn This is not a history of the British Constitution. It does not concern it to relate how Or why West Lynn got into hot water With the House of Commons. The House threatened to disenfranchise it And West Lynn under the fear Went into mourning for its sins. The threat was not carried out But one of the sitting members was unseated With ignominy and sent to the right about. Being considerably humiliated thereby And in disgust with West Lynn He retired accordingly And a fresh writ was issued. West Lynn then returned Honourable Mr. Ackley, a county nobleman's son. But he died in the very midst of his first session. And another writ had to be issued. Of course the consideration now was Who should be the next lucky man fixed upon. All the notables within ten miles Were discussed not accepting the bench justices. Mr. Justice Hare? No, he was too uncompromising. He would study his own will, But not that of West Lynn. Squire Pinner? He never made a speech in his life And had not an idea beyond turnips and farming stock. Colonel Bethel? He had no money to spend upon an election. Sir John Dubede? He was too old by a good twenty years Locked Sir John to himself. But here we stand like a pack of noodles Conning over the incapables And passing by the right one. Continued Sir John. There's only one man amongst us fit to be our member. Who's that? cried the meeting. Archibald Carlisle? A pause of consternation. Consternation of their collective forgetfulness And then a loud murmur of approaching To a shot filled the room. Archibald Carlisle? It should be no other. If we can get him, cried Sir John, He may decline, you know. The best thing all agreed was to act promptly. A deputation half the length of the street, Its whole length, if you include the tag-rag And bobtail that attended behind, Set off on the spur of the moment To the office of Mr. Carlisle. They found that gentleman About to leave it for the evening To return home to dinner. For, in the discussion of the all-important topic, The meeting had suffered time To run on to a late hour. Those gentlemen who had died At a somewhat earlier one had, For once in their lives, Patiently allowed their dinners And their stomachs to wait, Which is saying a great deal Of justice. Mr. Carlisle was taken by surprise. Make me your member, cried he merrily. How do you know I should not sell you all? We'll trust you, Carlisle, Too happy to do that. I'm not sure that I could spare the time, Deliberated Mr. Carlisle. Now, Carlisle, you must remember That you avowed to me no longer than last Christmas Your intention of going into Parliament some time Struck in, Mr. Justice Herbert, You can't deny it. Some time, yes, Replied Mr. Carlisle. But I did not say when. I have no thoughts of it yet a while. You must allow us to put you in nomination. You must indeed, Mr. Carlisle.  An extremely flattering reason For proposing to shift the honour upon me, Laughed Mr. Carlisle.  There's not a man in the whole county So suitable as you. Search it to the extremity of its boundaries. You must know there is not. I don't know anything of the sort, To return to Mr. Carlisle. At any rate, we shall do it, For we have determined upon having you. When you walk into Westland tomorrow, You will see the walks alive with placards, Carlisle, forever. Suppose you allow me until tomorrow To consider of it, And defer the garnishing of the walls a day later. Said Mr. Carlisle, A serious tone peeping out In the midst of his jocularity. Do you not fear the expenses? It was but a glance, he returned in answer.  Come, decide now, Carlisle, Give us your promise. If I decide now, It will be in the negative, Replied Mr. Carlisle. It is a question that demands consideration. Give me to tomorrow for that, And it is possible that I may accede to your request. This was the best that could be made of him, And the deputation backed out, And as nothing more could be done, Departed to their several dinner-tables. Mr. Dill, who had been present, Remained rubbing his hands with satisfaction Casting admiring glances at Mr. Carlisle. What's the matter, Dill? Asked the latter. You look as though you were pleased at this movement, And assumed that I should accept it. And so you will, Mr. Archibald, And as to the looking pleased, There's not a man, woman, or child in West Lynn Who won't do that. Don't make too sure, Dill. Of which, sir, of your becoming our member, Or of the people looking pleased, Of either, laughed Mr. Carlisle. He quitted the office to walk home Revolving the proposition as he did, sir. That he had long thought of some time Entering Parliament was certain, Though no definite period of the win Had fixed itself in his mind. He saw not why he should confine His days entirely to toil To the work of his calling. Pecuniary considerations did not require it, For his realized property, Combined with the fortune brought by Barbara, Was quite sufficient to meet expenses According to their present style of living. Not that he had the least intention Of giving up his business, It was honourable as he conducted it, And lucrative, and he rarely liked it. He would not have been condemned To lead an idle life for the world, But there was no necessity for his being Always at it. Mr. Dill made as good a principle as he did, And, if length of service and experience Might be countered, a better one. He could safely be left to manage During the time it would be necessary For him, Mr. Carlisle, to be in London. He would rather represent Westland Than any other spot on the face of the earth, No matter what might be the other's importance. And, as Westland was now in want of a member, Perhaps his opportunity had come. That he would make a good And efficient public servant, he believed. His talents were superior, His oratory persuasive, And he had the gift of a true And honest spirit. That he would have the interest Of Westland at heart was certain, And he knew that he should serve His constituents to the very best Of his power and ability. They knew it also. Before Mr. Carlisle had reached Eastland, He had decided that it should be. It was a fine spring evening. The lilac was in bloom, The hedges and trees were clothed In their early green, And all things seemed full of promise. Even Mr. Carlisle's heart was rejoicing In the prospect open to it. He was sure he would like public life. But in the sanguine moments of realisation Or of hope, some dark shade Will step in to mar the brightness. Barbara stood at the drawing-room window Watching for him. Not in her was the dark shade. Her dress was a marvel of vanity And prettiness, and she had chosen To place on her fair hair A dainty headdress of lace, As if her hair required any such ornament. She waltzed up to Mr. Carlisle When he entered and saucily held up her face The light of love dancing in her bright blue eyes. What do you want? He provokingly asked, Putting his hands behind him And letting her stand there. Oh, well, if you won't say good evening to me, I have a great mind to say You should not kiss me for a week, Archibald. He laughed. Who would be punished by that? Whispered he. Barbara pouted her pretty lips And the tears positively came into her eyes. Which is as much as to say It would be no punishment to you, Archibald. Don't you care for me? He threw his arms around her And clasped her to his heart Taking plenty of kisses then. You know whether I care or not. He fondly whispered. But now will you believe That that unfortunate Lady Isabel Had been a witness to this? Well, it was only what his greeting To her had once been. Her pale face flushed scarlet And she glided out of the room again As softly as she had entered it. They had not seen her. Mr. Carlisle drew his wife to the window And stood there, his arms round her waist. Barbara, what should you say To living in London for a few months Out of the twelve? London? I am very happy where I am. Why should you ask me that? You are not going to live in London? I am not sure of that. I think I am, for portion of the year. I have had an offer made me this afternoon, Barbara. She looked at him, wondering what he meant. Wondering whether he was serious. An offer? What sort of an offer? Of what nature could it be? He smiled at her perplexity. Should you like to see M.P. Attached to my name? West Lynn wants me to become its member. A pause to take in the news, A sudden rush of colour And then she gleefully clasped Her hands around his arm, Her eyes sparkling with pleasure. Oh Archibald, how glad I am! I knew how you were appreciated And you will be appreciated more and more. This is right. It is not well for you to remain What you are for life, a private individual, A country lawyer. I am perfectly contented with my lot, Barbara, He said seriously. I am too busy to be otherwise. I know that. Were you but a labouring man, Toiling daily for the bread you eat? You would be contented, Feeling that you were fulfilling Your appointed duty to the utmost. She impulsively said, But Archibald, can you not still be A busy man at West Lynn, Although you do become its representative? If I could not, I should never accept the honour, Barbara. For some few months of the year I would not be in town, But still is an efficient substitute, And I can run down for a week Or so between times. Part of Saturday, Sunday, And part of Monday. I can always pass here, if I please. Of course these changes have their drawbacks As well as their advantages. Where would the drawbacks be in this? She interrupted. Well, smiled Mr Carlisle. In the first place, I suppose you could not always be with me. Her hands fell. Her colour faded. Oh, Archibald! If I do become their member, I must go up to town as soon as elected, And I don't think it will do for my little wife To be quitting her home to travel about just now. Barbara's face wore a very blank look. She could not dissent From Mr Carlisle's reasoning. And you must remain in London To the end of the session While I am here, Separated. Archibald! She passionately added While the tears gushed into her eyes. I could not live without you. Then what is to be done? Must I decline it? Decline it, of course not! I know we are looking on the dark side of things. I can go very well with you For a month, perhaps, too. You think so? I am sure so. And, mind you, You must not encourage Mama to talk me out of it. Archibald!    He bent his own down upon it. What do you think about it, my darling? Once more, An opportune moment for her to enter, Lady Isabel. Barbara heard her this time Sprang away from her husband. Mr. Carlyle turned round at the movement And saw Madame Vine. She came forward, her lips ashy, Her voice subdued. Six months now had she been at East Lynn, And had hitherto escaped detection. Time and familiarity render us accustomed To most things, to danger among the rest, And she had almost ceased to fear recognition, Living so far as that point went, Far more peaceably than she had done at first. She and the children were upon the best of terms. She had greatly endeared herself to them. She loved them, and they loved her. Perhaps nature was asserting her own hidden claims. She felt very anxious about William. He seemed to grow weaker, And she determined to make her fears known To Mr. Carlyle. She quitted the parlour. She had heard Mr. Carlyle come in. Crossing the hall, she tapped softly At the drawing-room door, And then as softly entered. It was the moment of Mr. Carlyle's Loud greeting to his wife. They stood together, heedless of her. Gliding out again, she paced the hall, Her hands pressed upon her beating heart. How dared that heart rise up in sharp rebellion To witness tokens of love! Was Barbara not his wife? Had she not a legal claim to all his tenderness? Who was she that she should resent them In her jealousy? What, though they had once been hers, Hers only, had she not signed and sealed Her own forfeit of them, And so made room for Barbara? Back to the grey parlour. There she stood, her elbow on the mantelpiece, Her eyes hidden by her hand. Thus she remained for some minutes, And Lucy thought how sad she looked. But Lucy felt hungry, and was casting Longing glances to the tea-table. She wondered how long her governess Made to keep it waiting. Madam Vine, she cried presently, Don't you know that tea is ready? This caused Madam Vine to raise her eyes. They fell on the pale boy at her feet. She made no immediate answer, Only placed her hand on Lucy's shoulder. Oh, Lucy dear, I have so many sorrows to bear. The tea will warm you, And there's some nice jam, Was Miss Lucy's offered consolation. Their greeting, tender as it may be, Is surely over by this time, Thought Lady Isabel, Pressured something like mockery curving her lips.  But they had heard her this time, And she had to advance, In spite of her spirit of misery And her whitened features. Would you be so good, sir, As to come and look at William? She asked in a low tone of Mr. Carlisle. Certainly. What for? Interjected Barbara. He looks very ill. I do not like his looks. I am fearing whether he can be worse Than we have thought. They went to the Grey Parlor, all three of them. Mr. Carlisle was in first, And had taken a long silent look at William Before the others entered. What is he doing on the floor? Explained Barbara in her astonishment. He should not lie on the floor, Madam Vine. He lays himself down there at the dusk hour, And I cannot get him up again. I try to persuade him to use the sofa, But it is of no use. The floor will not hurt him, said Mr. Carlisle. This was the dark shade, His boys' failing help. William opened his eyes. Who's that? Papa? Don't you feel well, William? Oh yes, I'm very well, but I am tired. Why do you lie down here?  Indeed. Suppose you get up and tell me all about it. I don't know about it myself yet, Said William, softly rising. The gardener told Lucy when she was up just now. I did not go. I was tired. He said, What has tired you? Interrupted Mr. Carlisle, taking hold of the boy's hand. Oh, nothing. I'm always tired. Do you tell Mr. Wainwright that you are tired? No. Why should I tell him? I wish he would not order me to take that nasty midsum, that cod liver oil. But it is to make you strong, my boy. It makes me sick. I always feel sick after it, Papa. Madam Wain says I ought to have cream. That would be nice. Cream, repeated Mr. Carlisle, turning his eyes on Madam Wain. I have known cream to do a great deal of good in a case like Williams, she observed. I believe that no better medicine can be given, that it has, in fact, no substitute. It can be tried, said Mr. Carlisle. Pray give your orders, Madam Vine, for anything you think may be beneficial to him, Mrs. Carlisle added. You have had more experience with children than I. Joyce, what does Wainwright say? Interrupted Mr. Carlisle, speaking to his wife in his low tone. I do not always see him when he comes archibald. Madam Vine does, I believe. Oh, dear, cried Lucy, can't we have tea? I want some bread and jam. Mr. Carlisle turned round, smiled, and nodded at her. Patience is good for little girls, Miss Lucy. Would you like some bread and jam, my boy? William shook his head. I can't eat jam. I'm only thirsty. Carlisle cast a long and intent look at him and then left the room.  Do you think him very ill, sir? She whispered. I think he looks, sir. What does Mr. Wainwright say? He says nothing to me. I have not inquired his true condition until tonight it did not come to me that there was any apprehension. Does he look so much worse tonight? Not any worse than customary. Laterally he had looked just like this in the evening. It was a remark of Hannah's that roused my alarm. She thinks he is on the road to death. What can we do to save him? She clasped her hands as she spoke and the intensity of her emotion. She almost forgot, as they stood there together talking of the welfare of the child, their child, that he was no longer her husband. Almost, not quite. Utterly impossible would it be for her wholly to forget the dreadful present. Neither he nor the child could again belong to her in this world. A strange rising of the throat in her wild despair. A meek curtsy, as she turned from him, his last words ringing in her ears. I shall call in further advice for him, Madame Vine. William was clinging round Mrs. Carlisle in a coaxing attitude when she re-interred the gray parlour. I know what I could eat, Mama, if you'd let me have it, cried he, in answer to her remonstrance that he must eat something. What could you eat? Some cheese. Cheese? Cheese with tea, laughed Mrs. Carlisle. For the last week or two he has fancied strange things, the effect of a diseased appetite, exclaimed Madame Vine. But if I allow them to be brought in he barely tastes them. I am sure, Mama, I could eat some cheese now, said William. You may have it, answered Mrs. Carlisle. As she turned to leave the room the impatient knock and ring of a visitor was heard. Barbara wondered who could be arriving at their dinner hour. Sailing majestically into the hall her lips compressed, her aspect threatening came Mrs. Carlisle. End of Part 1 of Chapter 34.