UNTIL ETERNITY.
Barbara was at the seaside, and Lady Isabel was in
her bed, dying. You remember the old French saying,
L’homme propose, et Dieu dispose.
An exemplification of it was here.
She, Lady Isabel, had consented to remain at East
Lynne during Mrs. Carlyle’s absence, on purpose
that she might be with her children. But the
object was frustrated, for Lucy and Archibald had been
removed to Miss Carlyle’s. It was Mr. Carlyle’s
arrangement. He thought the governess ought to
have entire respite from all charge; and that poor
governess dared not say, let them stay with me.
Lady Isabel had also purposed to be safely away from
East Lynne before the time came for her to die; but
that time had advanced with giant strides, and the
period for removal was past. She was going out
as her mother had done, rapidly unexpectedly, “like
the snuff of a candle.” Wilson was in attendance
on her mistress; Joyce remained at home.
Barbara had chosen a watering-place near, not thirty
miles off, so that Mr. Carlyle went there most evenings,
returning to his office in the mornings. Thus
he saw little of East Lynne, paying one or two flying
visits only. From the Saturday to the Wednesday
in the second week, he did not come home at all, and
it was in those few days that Lady Isabel had changed
for the worse. On the Wednesday he was expected
home to dinner and to sleep.
Joyce was in a state of frenzy—or next
door to it. Lady Isabel was dying, and what would
become of the ominous secret? A conviction, born
of her fears, was on the girl’s mind that, with
death, the whole must become known; and who was to
foresee what blame might not be cast upon her, by
her master and mistress, for not having disclosed it?
She might be accused of having been an abettor in
the plot from the first! Fifty times it was in
Joyce’s mind to send for Miss Carlyle and tell
her all.
The afternoon was fast waning, and the spirit of Lady
Isabel seemed to be waning with it. Joyce was
in the room in attendance upon her. She had been
in a fainting state all day, but felt better now.
She was partially raised in bed by pillows, a white
Cashmere shawl over her shoulders, her nightcap off,
to allow as much air as possible to come to her, and
the windows stood open.
Footsteps sounded on the gravel in the quiet stillness
of the summer air. They penetrated even to her
ear, for all her faculties were keen yet. Beloved
footsteps; and a tinge of hectic rose to her cheeks.
Joyce, who stood at the window, glanced out.
It was Mr. Carlyle.
“Joyce!” came forth a cry from the bed,
sharp and eager.
Joyce turned round. “My lady?”
“I should die happily if I might see him.”
“See him!” uttered Joyce, doubting her
own ears. “My lady! See him!
Mr. Carlyle!”
“What can it signify? I am already as one
dead. Should I ask it or wish it, think you,
in rude life? The yearning has been upon me for
days Joyce; it is keeping death away.”
