East Lynne [178]
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
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