"Dying!" exclaimed Miss Corny, in disbelieving derision. "That Joyce has been more like a ******ton lately than like herself. I can't think what has come to the woman."
She took off her bonnet and mantle, and laid them on a chair, gave a twitch or two to her cap, as she surveyed it in the pier-glass, and went upstairs. Joyce answered her knock at the invalid's door; and Joyce, when she saw who it was, turned as white as any sheet.
"Oh, ma'am, you must not come in!" she blundered out, in her confusion and fear, as she put herself right in the doorway.
"Who is to keep me out?" demanded Miss Carlyle, after a pause of surprise, her tone of quiet power. "Move away, girl. Joyce, I think your brain must be softening. What will you try at next?"
Joyce was powerless, both in right and strength, and she knew it. She knew there was no help--that Miss Carlyle would and must enter. She stood aside, shivering, and passed out of the room as soon as Miss Carlyle was within it.
Ah! there could no longer be concealment now! There she was, her pale face lying against the pillow, free from its disguising trappings. The band of gray velvet, the spectacles, the wraps for the throat and chin, the huge cap, all were gone. It was the face of Lady Isabel; changed, certainly, very, very much; but still hers. The silvered hair fell on either side of her face, like the silky curls had once fallen; the sweet, sad eyes were the eyes of yore.
"Mercy be good to us!" uttered Miss Carlyle.
They remained gazing at each other, both panting with emotion; yes, even Miss Carlyle. Though a wild suspicion had once crossed her brain that Madame Vine might be Lady Isabel, it had died away again, from the sheer improbability of the thing, as much as from the convincing proofs offered by Lord Mount Severn. Not but what Miss Carlyle had borne in mind the suspicion, and had been fond of tracing the likeness in Madame Vine's face.
"How could you dare come back here!" she abruptly asked, her tone of sad, soft wailing, not one of reproach.
Lady Isabel humbly crossed her attenuated hands upon her chest. "My children," she whispered. "How could I stay away from them? Have pity, Miss Carlyle! Don't reproach me. I am on my way to God, to answer for all my sins and sorrows."
"I do not reproach you," said Miss Carlyle.
"I am so glad to go," she continued to murmur, her eyes full of tears.
"Jesus did not come, you know, to save the good like you; He came for the sake of us poor sinners. I tried to take up my cross, as He bade us, and bear it bravely for His sake; but its weight has killed me."
The good like you! Humbly, meekly, deferentially was it expressed, in all good faith and trust, as though Miss Corny was a sort of upper angel. Somehow the words grated on Miss Corny's ear: grated fiercely on her conscience. It came into her mind, then, as she stood there, that the harsh religion that she had through life professed, was not the religion that would best bring peace to her dying bed.
"Child," said she, drawing near to and leaning over Lady Isabel, "had I anything to do with sending you from East Lynne?"
Lady Isabel shook her head and cast down her gaze, as she whispered:
"You did not send me; you did not help to send me. I was not very happy with you, but that was not the cause--of my going away. Forgive me, Miss Carlyle, forgive me!"
"Thank God!" inwardly breathed Miss Carlyle. "Forgive me," she said, aloud and in agitation, touching her hand. "I could have made your home happier, and I wish I had done it. I have wished it ever since you left it."
Lady Isabel drew the hand in hers. "I want to see Archibald," she whispered, going back, in thought, to the old time and the old name.
"I have prayed Joyce to bring him to me, and she will not. Only for a minute! Just to hear him say that he forgives me! What can it matter, now that I am as one lost to the world? I should die easier."
Upon what impulse or grounds Miss Carlyle saw fit to accede to the request, cannot be told. Probably she did not choose to refuse a death-bed prayer; possibly she reasoned, as did Lady Isabel--what could it matter? She went to the door. Joyce was in the corridor, leaning against the wall, her apron up to her eyes. Miss Carlyle beckoned to her.
"How long have you known of this?"
"Since that night in the spring, when there was an alarm of fire. I saw her then, with nothing on her face, and knew her; though, at the first moment, I thought it was her ghost. Ma'am, I have just gone about since, like a ghost myself from fear."
"Go and request your master to come up to me."
"Oh, ma'am! Will it be well to tell him?" remonstrated Joyce. "Well that he should see her?"
"Go and request your master to come to me," unequivocally repeated Miss Carlyle. "Are you mistress, Joyce, or am I?"
Joyce went down and brought Mr. Carlyle up from the dinner-table.
"Is Madame Vine worse, Cornelia? Will she see me?"
"She wishes to see you."
Miss Carlyle opened the door as she spoke. He motioned her to pass in first. "No," she said, "you had better see her alone."
He was going in when Joyce caught his arm. "Master! Master! You ought to be prepared. Ma'am, won't you tell him?"
He looked at them, thinking they must be moonstruck, for their conduct seemed inexplicable. Both were in evident agitation, an emotion Miss Carlyle was not given to. Her face and lips were twitching, but she kept a studied silence. Mr. Carlyle knit his brow and went into the chamber. They shut him in.
He walked gently at once to the bed, in his straightforward manner.
"I am grieved, Madame Vine----"
The words faltered on his tongue. He was a man as little given to show emotion as man can well be. Did he think, as Joyce had once done, that it was a ghost he saw? Certain it is that his face and lips turned the hue of death, and he backed a few steps from the bed. The falling hair, the sweet, mournful eyes, the hectic which his presence brought to her cheeks, told too plainly of the Lady Isabel.
"Archibald!"
She put out her trembling hand. She caught him ere he had drawn quite beyond her reach. He looked at her, he looked round the room, as does one awaking from a dream.
