Stealing over her more especially this night, there, as she knelt, her head lying on the counterpane, came the recollection of that first illness of hers. How she had lain, and, in that unfounded jealousy, imagined Barbara the house's mistress. She dead! Barbara exalted to her place. Mr. Carlyle's wife, her child's stepmother! She recalled the day when, her mind excited by a certain gossip of Wilson's--it was previously in a state of fever bordering on delirium--she had prayed her husband, in terror and anguish, not to marry Barbara. "How could he marry her?" he had replied, in his soothing pity. "She, Isabel, was his wife. Who was Barbara? Nothing to them?" But it had all come to pass. /She/ had brought it forth. Not Mr. Carlyle; not Barbara; she alone. Oh, the dreadful misery of the retrospect!
Lost in thought, in anguish past and present, in self-condemning repentance, the time passed on. Nearly an hour must have elapsed since Mr. Carlyle's departure, and William had not disturbed her. But who was this, coming into the room? Joyce.
She hastily rose up, as Joyce, advancing with a quiet step drew aside the clothes to look at William. "Master says he has been wanting me," she observed. "Why--oh!"
It was a sharp, momentary cry, subdued as soon as uttered. Madame Vine sprang forward to Joyce's side, looking also. The pale young face lay calm in its utter stillness; the busy little heart had ceased to beat.
Jesus Christ had indeed come and taken the fleeting spirit.
Then she lost all self-control. She believed that she had reconciled herself to the child's death, that she could part with him without too great emotion. But she had not anticipated it would be quite so soon; she had deemed that some hours more would at least be given him, and now the storm overwhelmed her. Crying, sobbing, calling, she flung herself upon him; she clasped him to her; she dashed off her disguising glasses; she laid her face upon his, beseeching him to come back to her, that she might say farewell--to her, his mother; her darling child, her lost William!
Joyce was terrified--terrified for consequences. With her full strength she pulled her from the boy, praying her to consider--to be still. "Do not, do not, for the love of Heaven! /My lady! My lady!/"
It was the old familiar title that struck upon her fears and induced calmness. She stared at Joyce, and retreated backward, after the manner of one receding from some hideous vision. Then, as recollection came to her, she snatched her glasses up and hurried them on.
"My lady, let me take you into your room. Mr. Carlyle is come; he is just bringing up his wife. Only think if you should give way before him! Pray come away!"
"How did you know me?" she asked in a hollow voice.
"My lady, it was that night when there was an alarm of fire. I went close up to you to take Master Archibald from your arms; and, as sure as I am now standing here, I believe that for the moment my senses left me. I thought I saw a spectre--the spectre of my dead lady. I forgot the present; I forgot that all were standing round me; that you, Madame Vine, were alive before me. Your face was not disguised then; the moonlight shone full upon it, and I knew it, after the first few moments of terror, to be, in dreadful truth, the /living/ one of Lady Isabel. My lady, come away! We shall have Mr. Carlyle here."
Poor thing! She sank upon her knees, in her humility, her dread. "Oh, Joyce, have pity upon me! don't betray me! I will leave the house; indeed I will. Don't betray me while I am in it!"
"My lady, you have nothing to fear from me. I have kept the secret buried within my breast since then. Last April! It has nearly been too much for me. By night and by day I have had no peace, dreading what might come out. Think of the awful confusion, the consequences, should it come to the knowledge of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle. Indeed, my lady, you never ought to have come."
"Joyce," she said, hollowly, lifting her haggard face, "I could not keep away from my unhappy children. Is it no punishment to /me/, think you, the being here?" she added, vehemently. "To see him--my husband--the husband of another! It is killing me."
"Oh, my lady, come away! I hear him; I hear him!"
Partly coaxing, partly dragging her, Joyce took her into her own room, and left her there. Mr. Carlyle was at that moment at the door of the sick one. Joyce sprang forward. Her face, in her emotion and fear, was of one livid whiteness, and she shook as William had shaken, poor child, in the afternoon. It was only too apparent in the well-lighted corridor.
"Joyce," he exclaimed, in amazement, "what ails you?"
"Sir! master!" she panted; "be prepared. Master William--Master William----"
"Joyce! Not /dead/!"
"Alas, yes, sir!"
Mr. Carlyle strode into the chamber. But ere he was well across it, he turned back to slip the bolt of the door. On the pillow lay the white, thin face, at rest now.
"My boy! my boy! Oh, my God!" he murmured, in bowed reverence, "mayest Thou have received this child to rest in Jesus, even as, I trust, Thou hadst already received his unhappy mother!"
