Part 81 (1/2)

Mrs. Latimer wrote to Mrs. Carlyle. She had met with a governess; one desirable in every way who could not fail to suit her views precisely.

She was a Madame Vine, English by birth, but the widow of a Frenchman; a Protestant, a thorough gentlewoman, an efficient linguist and musician, and competent to her duties in all ways. Mrs. Crosby, with whom she had lived two years regarded her as a treasure, and would not have parted with her but for Helena's marriage with a German n.o.bleman. ”You must not mind her appearance,” went on the letter. ”She is the oddest-looking person; wears spectacles, caps, enormous bonnets, and has a great scar on her mouth and chin; and though she can't be more than thirty, her hair is gray; she is also slightly lame. But, understand you, she is a lady, with it all, and looks one.”

When this description reached East Lynne, Barbara laughed at it as she read it aloud to Mr. Carlyle. He laughed also.

”It is well governesses are not chosen according to their looks,” he said, ”or I fear Madame Vine would stand but a poor chance.”

They resolved to engage her, and word went back to that effect.

A strangely wild tumult filled Lady Isabel's bosom. She first of all hunted her luggage over, her desk, everything belonging to her lest any mark on the linen might be there, which could give a clue to her former self. The bulk of her luggage remained in Paris, warehoused, where it had been sent ere she quitted Gren.o.ble. She next saw to her wardrobe, making it still more unlike anything she had used to wear; her caps, save that they were simple, and fitted closely to the face, nearly rivaled those of Miss Carlyle. Her handwriting she had been striving for years to change the character of, and had so far succeeded that none would now take it for Lady Isabel Vane's. But her hand shook as she wrote to Mrs. Carlyle--who had written to her. She--she writing to Mr.

Carlyle's wife! And in the capacity of a subordinate! How would she like to live with her as a subordinate, as servant--it may be said--where she had once reigned, the idolized lady? She must bear that, as she must bear all else. Hot tears came into her eyes, with a gush, as they fell on the signature, ”Barbara Carlyle.”

All ready, she sat down and waited the signal of departure; but that was not to be yet. It was finally arranged that she should travel to England and to West Lynne with Mrs. Latimer, and that lady would not return until October. Lady Isabel could only fold her hands and strive for patience.

But the day did come--it actually did; and Mrs. Latimer, Lady Isabel, and Afy quitted Stalkenberg. Mrs. Latimer would only travel slowly, and the impatient, fevered woman thought the journey would never end.

”You have been informed, I think, of the position of these unhappy children that you are going to,” Mrs. Latimer observed to her one day.

”You must not speak to them of their mother. She left them.”

”Yes.”

”It is never well to speak to children of a mother who has disgraced them. Mr. Carlyle would not like it; and I dare say they are taught to forget her, and to regard Mrs. Carlyle as their only mother.”

Her aching heart had to a.s.sent to all.

It was a foggy afternoon, gray with the coming twilight, when they arrived at West Lynne.

Mrs. Latimer believing the governess was a novice in England, kindly put her into a fly, and told the driver his destination. ”Au revoir, madame,” she said, ”and good luck to you.”

Once more she was whirling along the familiar road. She saw Justice Hare's house, she saw other marks which she knew well; and once more she saw East Lynne, the dear old house, for the fly had turned into the avenue. Lights were moving in the windows; it looked gay and cheerful, a contrast to her. Her heart was sick with expectation, her throat was beating; and as the man thundered up with all the force of his one horse, and halted at the steps, her sight momentarily left her. Would Mr. Carlyle come to the fly to hand her out? She wished she had never undertaken the project, now, in the depth of her fear and agitation. The hall door was flung open, and there gushed forth a blaze of light.

Two men-servants stood there. The one remained in the hall, the other advanced to the chaise. He a.s.sisted Lady Isabel to alight, and then busied himself with the luggage. As she ascended to the hall she recognized old Peter. Strange, indeed, did it seem not to say, ”How are you, Peter?” but to meet him as a stranger. For a moment, she was at a loss for words; what should she say, or ask, coming to her own home? Her manner was embarra.s.sed, her voice low.

”Is Mrs. Carlyle within?”

”Yes, ma'am.”

At that moment Joyce came forward to receive her. ”It is Madame Vine, I believe,” she respectfully said. ”Please to step this way, madame.”

But Lady Isabel lingered in the hall, ostensibly to see that her boxes came in right--Stephen was bringing them up--in reality to gather a short respite, for Joyce might be about to usher her into the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle.

Joyce, however, did nothing of the sort. She merely conducted her to the gray parlor. A fire was burning in the grate, looking cheerful on the autumn night.

”This is your sitting-room, madame. What will you please to take? I will order it brought in while I show you your bed-chamber.”

”A cup of tea,” answered Lady Isabel.

”Tea and some cold meat?” suggested Joyce. But Lady Isabel interrupted her.

”Nothing but tea and a little cold toast.”