"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.
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."
