"I have seen the flowers," interrupted William, rising in his earnestness. "They are ten times brighter than our flowers here."
"Seen the flowers! The flowers we shall see in Heaven?" she echoed.
"I have seen a picture of them. We went to Lynneborough to see Martin's picture of the Last Judgment--I don't mean Dr. Martin," said William interrupting himself.
"I know."
"There were three pictures. One was called the 'Plains of Heaven,' and I liked that best; and so we all did. Oh, you should have seen it! Did you ever see them, Madame Vine?"
"No. I have heard of them."
"There was a river, you know, and boats, beautiful gondolas they looked, taking the redeemed to the shores of Heaven. They were shadowy figures in white robes, myriads of them, for they reached all up in the air to the holy city; it seemed to be in the clouds coming down from God. The flowers grew on the banks of the river, pink, and blue, and violet, all colors they were, but so bright and beautiful; brighter than our flowers are."
"Who took you to see the pictures?"
"Papa. He took me and Lucy; and Mrs. Hare went with us, and Barbara--she was not our mamma then. But, madame"--dropping his voice--"what stupid thing do you think Lucy asked papa?"
"What did she ask him?"
"She asked whether mamma was amongst that crowd in the white robes; whether she was gone up to Heaven? Our mamma that was, you know, and lots of people could hear what she said."
Lady Isabel dropped her face upon her hands.
"What did your papa answer?" she breathed.
"I don't know. Nothing, I think; he was talking to Barbara. But it was very stupid of Lucy, because Wilson has told her over and over again that she must never talk of Lady Isabel to papa. Miss Manning told her so too. When we got home, and Wilson heard of it, she said Lucy deserved a good shaking."
"Why must not Lady Isabel be talked of to him?"
A moment after the question had left her lips, she wondered what possessed her to give utterance to it.
"I'll tell you," said William in a whisper. "She ran away from papa.
Lucy talks nonsense about her having been kidnapped, but she knows nothing. I do, though they don't think it, perhaps."
"She may be among the redeemed, some time, William, and you with her."
He fell back on the sofa-pillow with a weary sigh, and lay in silence.
Lady Isabel shaded her face, and remained in silence also. Soon she was aroused from it; William was in a fit of loud, sobbing tears.
"Oh, I don't want to die! I don't want to die! Why should I go and leave papa and Lucy?"
She hung over him; she clasped her arms around him; her tears, her sobs, mingling with his. She whispered to him sweet and soothing words; she placed him so that he might sob out his grief upon her bosom; and in a little while the paroxy** had passed.
"Hark!" exclaimed William. "What's that?"
A sound of talking and laughter in the hall. Mr. Carlyle, Lord Mount Severn, and his son were leaving the dining-room. They had some committee appointed that evening at West Lynne and were departing to keep it. As the hall-door closed upon them, Barbara came into the gray parlor. Up rose Madame Vine, scuffled on her spectacles, and took her seat soberly upon a chair.
"All in the dark, and your fire going out!" exclaimed Barbara, as she hastened to stir the latter and send it into a blaze. "Who's on the sofa? William, you ought to be to bed!"
"Not yet, mamma. I don't want to go yet."
"But it is quite time that you should," she returned, ringing the bell. "To sit up at night is not the way to make you strong."
William was dismissed. And then she returned to Madame Vine, and inquired what Dr. Martin had said.
"He said the lungs were undoubtedly affected; but, like all doctors, he would give no decisive opinion. I could see that he had formed one."
Mrs. Carlyle looked at her. The firelight played especially upon the spectacles, and she moved her chair into the shade.
"Dr. Martin will see him again next week; he is coming to West Lynne.
I am sure, by the tone of his voice, by his evasive manner, that he anticipates the worst, although he would not say so in words."
"I will take William into West Lynne myself," observed Barbara. "The doctor will, of course, tell me. I came in to pay my debts," she added, dismissing the subject of the child, and holding out a five-pound note.
Lady Isabel mechanically stretched out her hand for it.
"Whilst we are, as may be said, upon the money topic," resumed Barbara, in a gay tone, "will you allow me to intimate that both myself and Mr. Carlyle very much disapprove of your ****** presents to the children. I was calculating, at a rough guess the cost of the toys and things you have bought for them, and I think it must amount to a very large portion of the salary you have received. Pray do not continue this, Madame Vine."
"I have no one else to spend my money on; I love the children," was madame's answer, somewhat sharply given, as if she were jealous of the interference between her and the children, and would resent it.
"Nay, you have yourself. And if you do not require much outlay, you have, I should suppose, a reserve fund to which to put your money. Be so kind as to take the hint, madame, otherwise I shall be compelled more peremptorily to forbid your generosity. It is very good of you, very kind; but if you do not think yourself, we must for you."
"I will buy them less," was the murmured answer. "I must give them a little token of love now and then."
"That you are welcome to do--a 'little token,' once in a way, but not the costly toys you have been purchasing. Have you ever had an acquaintance with Sir Francis Levison?" continued Mrs. Carlyle, passing with abruptness from one point to another.
An inward shiver, a burning cheek, a heartpang of wild remorse, and a faint answer. "No."
"I fancied from your manner when I was speaking of him the other day, that you knew him or had known him. No compliment, you will say, to assume an acquaintance with such a man. He is a stranger to you, then?"
Another faint reply. "Yes."
Barbara paused.
"Do you believe in fatality, Madame Vine?"
"Yes, I do," was the steady answer.
