"The schoolroom is upstairs. This is for our meals, and for you in an evening."
The voice of Mr. Carlyle was heard at this juncture in the hall, and Lucy was springing toward the sound. Lady Isabel, fearful lest he might enter if the child showed herself, stopped her with a hurried hand.
"Stay here, Isabel."
"Her name's Lucy," said William, looking quickly up. "Why do you call her Isabel?"
"I thought--thought I had heard her called Isabel," stammered the unfortunate lady, feeling quite confused with the errors she was committing.
"My name is Isabel Lucy," said the child; "but I don't know who could have told you, for I am never called Isabel. I have not been since--since--shall I tell you?--since mamma went away," she concluded, dropping her voice. "Mamma that was, you know."
"Did she go?" cried Lady Isabel, full of emotion, and possessing a very faint idea of what she was saying.
"She was kidnapped," whispered Lucy.
"Kidnapped!" was the surprised answer.
"Yes, or she would not have gone. There was a wicked man on a visit to papa, and he stole her. Wilson said she knew he was a kidnapper before he took mamma. Papa said I was never to be called Isabel again, but Lucy. Isabel was mamma's name."
"How do you know papa said it?" dreamily returned Lady Isabel.
"I heard him. He said it to Joyce, and Joyce told the servants. I put only Lucy to my copies. I did put Isabel Lucy, but papa saw it one day, and he drew his pencil through Isabel, and told me to show it to Miss Manning. After that, Miss Manning let me put nothing but Lucy. I asked her why, and she told me papa preferred the name, and that I was not to ask questions."
She could not well stop the child, but every word was rending her heart.
"Lady Isabel was our very, very own mamma," pursued Lucy. "This mamma is not."
"Do you love this one as you did the other?" breathed Lady Isabel.
"Oh, I loved mamma--I loved mamma!" uttered Lucy, clasping her hands.
"But its all over. Wilson said we must not love her any longer, and Aunt Cornelia said it. Wilson said, if she loved us she would not have gone away from us."
"Wilson said so?" resentfully spoke Lady Isabel.
"She said she need not let that man kidnap her. I am afraid he beat her, for she died. I lie in my bed at night, and wonder whether he did beat her, and what made her die. It was after she died that our new mamma came home. Papa said that she was to be our mamma in place of Lady Isabel and we were to love her dearly."
"/Do/ you love her?" almost passionately asked Lady Isabel.
Lucy shook her head.
"Not as I loved mamma."
Joyce entered to show the way to the schoolroom, and they followed her upstairs. As Lady Isabel stood at the window, she saw Mr. Carlyle depart on foot on his way to the office. Barbara was with him, hanging fondly on his arm, about to accompany him to the park gates. So had /she/ fondly hung, so had /she/ accompanied him, in the days gone forever.
Barbara came into the schoolroom in the course of the morning, and entered upon the subject of their studies, the different allotted hours, some to play, some to work. She spoke in a courteous but decided tone, showing that she was the unmistakable mistress of the house and children, and meant to be. Never had Lady Isabel felt her position so keenly--never did it so gall and fret her spirit; but she bowed to meek obedience. A hundred times that day did she yearn to hold the children to her heart, and a hundred times she had to repress the longing.
In a soft, damask dress, not unlike the color of the walls from which the room took its name, a cap of Honiton lace shading her delicate features, sat Mrs. Hare. The justice was in London with Squire Pinner, and Barbara had gone to the Grove and brought her mamma away in triumph. It was evening now, and Mrs. Hare was paying a visit to the gray parlor. Miss Carlyle had been dining there, and Lady Isabel, under plea of a violent headache, had begged to decline the invitation to take tea in the drawing-room, for she feared the sharp eyes of Miss Carlyle. Barbara, upon leaving the dessert-table, went to the nursery, as usual, to her baby, and Mrs. Hare took the opportunity to go and sit a few minutes with the governess--she feared the governess must be very lonely. Miss Carlyle, scorning usage and ceremony, had remained in the dining-room with Mr. Carlyle, a lecture for him, upon some defalcation or other most probably in store. Lady Isabel was alone.
Lucy had gone to keep a birthday in the neighborhood, and William was in the nursery. Mrs. Hare found her in a sad attitude, her hands pressed upon her temples. She had not yet made acquaintance with her beyond a minute's formal introduction.
"I am sorry to hear you are not well, this evening," she gently said.
"Thank you. My head aches much"--which was no false plea.
"I fear you must feel your solitude irksome. It is dull for you to be here all alone."
"I am so used to solitude."
Mrs. Hare sat down, and gazed with sympathy at the young, though somewhat strange-looking woman before her. She detected the signs of mental suffering on her face.
"You have seen sorrow," she uttered, bending forward, and speaking with the utmost sweetness.
"Oh, great sorrow!" burst from Lady Isabel, for her wretched fate was very palpable to her mind that evening, and the tone of sympathy rendered it nearly irrepressible.
"My daughter tells me that you have lost your children, and you have lost your fortune and position. Indeed I feel for you. I wish I could comfort you!"
This did not decrease her anguish. She completely lost all self control, and a gush of tears fell from her eyes.
"Don't pity me! Don't pity me dear Mrs. Hare! Indeed, it only makes endurance harder. Some of us," she added, looking up, with a sickly smile, "are born to sorrow."
"We are all born to it," cried Mrs. Hare. "I, in truth, have cause to say so. Oh, you know not what my position has been--the terrible weight of grief that I have to bear. For many years, I can truly say that I have not known one completely happy moment."
"All do not have to bear this killing sorrow," said Lady Isabel.
