East Lynne. Henry Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ in the pony carriage, Francis Levison driving.

      “We can go down now, Isabel, nobody will be there.”

      She assented, and went down with William; but scarcely were they in the drawing-room when a servant entered with a card on a salver.

      “A gentleman, my lady, wishes to see you.”

      “To see me!” returned Isabel, in surprise, “or Lady Mount Severn?”

      “He asked for you, my lady.”

      She took up the card. “Mr. Carlyle.” “Oh!” she uttered, in a tone of joyful surprise, “show him in.”

      It is curious, nay, appalling, to trace the thread in a human life; how the most trivial occurrences lead to the great events of existence, bringing forth happiness or misery, weal or woe. A client of Mr. Carlyle’s, travelling from one part of England to the other, was arrested by illness at Castle Marling—grave illness, it appeared to be, inducing fears of death. He had not, as the phrase goes, settled his affairs, and Mr. Carlyle was telegraphed for in haste, to make his will, and for other private matters. A very simple occurrence it appeared to Mr. Carlyle, this journey, and yet it was destined to lead to events that would end only with his own life.

      Mr. Carlyle entered, unaffected and gentlemanly as ever, with his noble form, his attractive face, and his drooping eyelids. She advanced to meet him, holding out her hand, her countenance betraying her pleasure.

      “This is indeed unexpected,” she exclaimed. “How very pleased I am to see you.”

      “Business brought me yesterday to Castle Marling. I could not leave it again without calling on you. I hear that Lord Mount Severn is absent.”

      “He is in France,” she rejoined. “I said we should be sure to meet again; do you remember, Mr. Carlyle? You–”

      Isabel suddenly stopped; for with the word “remember,” she also remembered something—the hundred pound note—and what she was saying faltered on her tongue. Confused, indeed, grew she: for, alas! she had changed and partly spent it. How was it possible to ask Lady Mount Severn for money? And the earl was nearly always away. Mr. Carlyle saw her embarrassment, though he may not have detected its cause.

      “What a fine boy!” exclaimed he, looking at the child.

      “It is Lord Vane,” said Isabel.

      “A truthful, earnest spirit, I am sure,” he continued, gazing at his open countenance. “How old are you, my little man?”

      “I am six, sir; and my brother was four.”

      Isabel bent over the child—an excuse to cover her perplexity. “You do not know this gentleman, William. It is Mr. Carlyle, and he has been very kind to me.”

      The little lord had turned his thoughtful eyes on Mr. Carlyle, apparently studying his countenance. “I shall like you, sir, if you are kind to Isabel. Are you kind to her?”

      “Very, very kind,” murmured Lady Isabel, leaving William, and turning to Mr. Carlyle, but not looking at him. “I don’t know what to say; I ought to thank you. I did not intend to use the—to use it; but I—I—”

      “Hush!” he interrupted, laughing at her confusion. “I do not know what you are talking of. I have a great misfortune to break to you, Lady Isabel.”

      She lifted her eyes and her glowing cheeks, somewhat aroused from her own thoughts.

      “Two of your fish are dead. The gold ones.”

      “Are they?”

      “I believe it was the frost killed them; I don’t know what else it could have been. You may remember those bitter days we had in January; they died then.”

      “You are very good to take care of them all this while. How is East Lynne looking? Dear East Lynne! Is it occupied?”

      “Not yet. I have spent some money upon it, and it repays the outlay.”

      The excitement of his arrival had worn off, and she was looking herself again, pale and sad; he could not help observing that she was changed.

      “I cannot expect to look so well at Castle Marling as I did at East Lynne,” she answered.

      “I trust it is a happy home to you?” said Mr. Carlyle, speaking upon impulse.

      She glanced up at him a look that he would never forget; it certainly told of despair. “No,” she said, shaking her head, “it is a miserable home, and I cannot remain in it. I have been awake all night, thinking where I can go, but I cannot tell; I have not a friend in the wide world.”

      Never let people talk secrets before children, for be assured that they comprehend a vast deal more than is expedient; the saying “that little pitchers have great ears” is wonderfully true. Lord Vane held up his hand to Mr. Carlyle,—

      “Isabel told me this morning that she should go away from us. Shall I tell you why? Mamma beat her yesterday when she was angry.”

      “Be quiet, William!” interrupted Lady Isabel, her face in a flame.

      “Two great slaps upon her cheeks,” continued the young viscount; “and Isabel cried so, and I screamed, and then mamma hit me. But boys are made to be hit; nurse says so. Marvel came into the nursery when we were at tea, and told nurse about it. She says Isabel’s too good-looking, and that’s why mamma—”

      Isabel stopped the child’s tongue, rang a peal on the bell, and marched him to the door, dispatching him to the nursery by the servant who answered it.

      Mr. Carlyle’s eyes were full of indignant sympathy. “Can this be true?” he asked, in a low tone when she returned to him. “You do, indeed, want a friend.”

      “I must bear my lot,” she replied, obeying the impulse which prompted her to confide in Mr. Carlyle; “at least till Lord Mount Severn returns.”

      “And then?”

      “I really do not know,” she said, the rebellious tears rising faster than she could choke them down. “He has no other home to offer me; but with Lady Mount Severn I cannot and will not remain. She would break my heart, as she has already well-nigh broken my spirit. I have not deserved it of her, Mr. Carlyle.”

      “No, I am sure you have not,” he warmly answered. “I wish I could help you! What can I do?”

      “You can do nothing,” she said. “What can any one do?”

      “I wish, I wish I could help you!” he repeated. “East Lynne was not, take it for all in all, a pleasant home to you, but it seems you changed for the worse when you left.”

      “Not a pleasant home?” she echoed, its reminiscences appearing delightful in that moment, for it must be remembered that all things are estimated by comparison. “Indeed it was; I may never have so pleasant a one again. Mr. Carlyle, do not disparage East Lynne to me! Would I could awake and find the last few months but a hideous dream!—that I could find my dear father alive again!—that we were still living peacefully at East Lynne. It would be a very Eden to me now.”

      What was Mr. Carlyle about to say? What emotion was it that agitated his countenance, impeded his breath, and dyed his face blood-red? СКАЧАТЬ