“And she left him—­threw him to the winds with all his nobility and love!” exclaimed the poor governess, with a gesture of the hands that looked very much like despair.

“Yes.  It will not do to talk of—­it is a miserable subject.  How she could abandon such a husband, such children, was a marvel to many; but to none more than it was to me and my daughter.  The false step—­though I feel almost ashamed to speak out the thought, lest it may appear to savor of triumph—­while it must have secured her own wretchedness, led to the happiness of my child; for it is certain Barbara would never love one as she loves Mr. Carlyle.”

“It did secure wretchedness to her, you think?” cried Lady Isabel, her tone one of bitter mockery more than anything else.

Mrs. Hare was surprised at the question.

“No woman ever took that fatal step yet, without its entailing on her the most dire wretchedness,” she replied.  “It cannot be otherwise.  And Lady Isabel was of a nature to feel remorse beyond common—­to meet it half-way.  Refined, modest, with every feeling of an English gentlewoman, she was the very last, one would have thought, to act so.  It was as if she had gone away in a dream, not knowing what she was doing; I have thought so many a time.  That terrible mental wretchedness and remorse did overtake her, I know.”

“How did you know it?  Did you hear it?” exclaimed Lady Isabel, her tone all too eager, had Mrs. Hare been suspicious.  “Did he proclaim that—­Francis Levison?  Did you hear it from him?”

Mrs. Hare, gentle Mrs. Hare, drew herself up, for the words grated on her feelings and on her pride.  Another moment, and she was mild and kind again, for she reflected that the poor, sorrowful governess must have spoken without thought.

“I know not what Sir Francis Levison may have chose to proclaim,” she said, “but you may be sure he would not be allowed opportunity to proclaim anything to me, or to any other friend of Mr. Carlyle’s; nay, I should say, nor to any of the good and honorable.  I heard it from Lord Mount Severn.”

“From Lord Mount Severn?” repeated Lady Isabel.  And she opened her lips to say something more, but closed them again.

“He was here on a visit in the summer; he stayed a fortnight.  Lady Isabel was the daughter of the late earl—­perhaps you may not have known that.  He—­Lord Mount Severn—­told me, in confidence, that he had sought out Lady Isabel when the man, Levison, left her; he found her sick, poor, broken-hearted, in some remote French town, utterly borne down with remorse and repentance.”

“Could it be otherwise?” sharply asked Lady Isabel.

“My dear, I have said it could not.  The very thought of her deserted children would entail it, if nothing she did.  There was a baby born abroad,” added Mrs. Hare, dropping her voice, “an infant in its cradle, Lord Mount Severn said; but that child, we knew, could only bring pain and shame.”