Part 86 (1/2)

”Yes. It will not do to talk of--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 almost ashamed to speak out the thought, lest it may appear to savor of triumph--while it must have secured her own wretchedness, led to the happiness of my child; for it is certain Barbara would never love one as she loves Mr. Carlyle.”

”It did secure wretchedness to her, you think?” cried Lady Isabel, her tone 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 tone all too eager, had Mrs. Hare been suspicious. ”Did he proclaim that-- Francis Levison? Did you hear it from him?”

Mrs. Hare, gentle Mrs. Hare, drew herself up, for the words grated on her feelings and on her pride. 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 Sir 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. Carlyle's; nay, I should say, nor to any of the good and honorable. I heard it from Lord Mount Severn.”

”From Lord Mount Severn?” repeated Lady Isabel. And she opened her lips to say something more, but closed them again.

”He was here on a visit in the summer; he stayed a fortnight. Lady Isabel was the daughter of the late earl--perhaps you may not have known that. He--Lord Mount Severn--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 Severn 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 had made her peace with G.o.d.

When all else is taken from us, we turn to him; I hope she had learned to find the Refuge.”

”How did Mr. Carlyle receive the news of her death?” murmured 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 any one to enter upon with him, and most a.s.suredly 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--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 pa.s.sion felt for Lady Isabel. Poor thing! She gave up a sincere heart, a happy home.”

Ay, poor thing! She had very nearly wailed forth 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 hall.

She quitted the gray parlor 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 n.o.body was enjoying the warmth or the light. From the inner room, however, came the sound of the piano, and the tones of Mr. Carlyle's voice. She recognized the chords of the music--they were those of the accompaniment to the song he had so loved when she sang it him. Who was about to sing it to him now?

Lady Isabel stole across the drawing-room to the other door, which was ajar. Barbara was seated at the piano, and Mr. Carlyle 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 peeped the unhappy Barbara, to hear this selfsame song. She had been his wife then; she had craved, and received his kisses when it was over. Their positions were reversed.