“Mr. Carlyle’s not fickle.”
“I can tell you more yet. Two or three days after that, Miss Corny came up to our house with the news of his marriage. I was in mistress’s bedroom, and they were in the room underneath, the windows open, and I heard Miss Corny tell the tale, for I was leaning out. Up came Miss Barbara upon an excuse and flew into her room, and I went into the corridor. A few moments and I heard a noise—it was a sort of wail, or groan—and I opened the door softly, fearing she might be fainting. Joyce, if my heart never ached for anybody before, it ached then. She was lying upon the floor, her hands writhed together, and her poor face all white, like one in mortal agony. I’d have given a quarter’s wages to be able to say a word of comfort to her; but I didn’t dare interfere with such sorrow as that. I came out again and shut the door without her seeing me.”
“How thoroughly stupid she must have been!” uttered Joyce, “to go caring for one who did not care for her.”
“I tell you, Joyce, you don’t know that he did not care. You are as obstinate as the justice, and I wish to goodness you wouldn’t interrupt me. They came up here to pay the wedding visit—master, mistress, and she, came in state in the grand chariot, with the coachman and Jasper. If you have got any memory at all, you can’t fail to recollect it. Miss Barbara remained behind at East Lynne to spend the rest of the day.”
“I remember it.”
“I was sent to fetch her home in the evening, Jasper being out. I came the field way; for the dust by the road was enough to smother one, and by the last stile but one, what do you think I came upon?”
Joyce lifted her eyes. “A snake perhaps.”
“I came upon Miss Barbara and Mr. Carlyle. What had passed, nobody knows but themselves. She was leaning back against the stile, crying; low, soft sobs breaking from her, like one might expect to hear from a breaking heart. It seemed as if she had been reproaching him, as if some explanation had passed, and I heard him say that from henceforth they could only be brother and sister. I spoke soon, for fear they should see me, and Mr. Carlyle got over the stile. Miss Barbara said to him that he need not come any further, but he held out his arm, and came with her to our back gate. I went on then to open the door, and I saw him with his head bent down to her, and her two hands held in his. We don’t know how it is between them, I tell you.”
“At any rate, she is a downright fool to suffer herself to love him still!” uttered Joyce, indignantly.
“So she is, but she does do it. She’ll often steal out to the gate about the time she knows he’ll be passing, and watch him by, not letting him see her. It is nothing but her unhappiness, her jealousy of Lady Isabel, that makes her cross. I assure you, Joyce, in this past year she had so changed that she’s not like the same person. If Mr. Carlyle should ever get tired of my lady, and—”