GOING FROM HOME.
“I should recommend a complete change of scene altogether, Mr. Carlyle.
Say some place on the French or Belgian coast. Sea bathing might do
wonders.”
“Should you think it well for her to go so far from home?”
“I should. In these cases of protracted weakness, where you can do
nothing but try to coax the strength back again, change of air and scene
are of immense benefit.”
“I will propose it to her,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“I have just done so,” replied Dr. Martin, who was the other speaker.
“She met it with objection, which I expected, for invalids naturally
feel a disinclination to move from home. But it is necessary that she
should go.”
The object of their conversation was Lady Isabel. Years had gone on, and
there were three children now at East Lynne--Isabel, William, and
Archibald--the latter twelve months old. Lady Isabel had, a month or two
back, been attacked with illness; she recovered from the disorder; but
it had left her in an alarming state of weakness; she seemed to get
worse instead of better, and Dr. Martin was summoned from Lynneborough.
The best thing he could recommend--as you have seen--was change of air.
Lady Isabel was unwilling to take the advice; more especially to go so
far as the “French coast.” And but for a circumstance that seemed to
have happened purposely to induce her to decide, would probably never
have gone. Mrs. Ducie--the reader may not have forgotten her name--had,
in conjunction with her husband, the honorable Augustus, somewhat run
out at the elbows, and found it convenient to enter for a time on the
less expensive life of the Continent. For eighteen months she had been
staying in Paris, the education of her younger daughters being the plea
put forth, and a very convenient plea it is, and serves hundreds. Isabel
had two or three letters from her during her absence, and she now
received another, saying they were going to spend a month or two at
Boulogne-sur-Mer. Mr. Carlyle, Mr. Wainwright, and Dr. Martin--in short,
everybody--declared this must remove all Lady Isabel’s unwillingness to
go from home, for Mrs. Ducie’s society would do away with the loneliness
she had anticipated, which had been the ostensible score of her
objection.
“Boulogne-sur-Mer, of all places, in the world!” remonstrated Lady
Isabel. “It is spoken of as being crowded and vulgar.”
“The more amusing for you, my lady,” cried Dr. Martin, while Mr. Carlyle
laughed at her. And finding she had no chance against them all, she
consented to go, and plans were hastily decided upon.
“Joyce,” said Lady Isabel to her waiting maid, “I shall leave you at
home; I must take Wilson instead.”
“Oh, my lady! What have I done?”
“You have done all that you ought, Joyce, but you must stay with the
children. If I may not take them, the next best thing will be to leave
them in your charge, not Miss Carlyle’s,” she said, shaking her voice;
“if it were Wilson who remained, I could not do that.”
“My lady, I must do whatever you think best. I wish I could attend you
and stay with them, but of course I cannot do both.”
“I am sent away to get health and strength, but it may be that I shall
die, Joyce. If I never come back, will you promise to remain with my
children?”
Joyce felt a creeping sensation in her veins, the sobs rose in her
throat, but she swallowed them down and constrained her voice to
calmness. “My lady, I hope you will come back to us as well as you used
to be. I trust you will hope so too, my lady, and not give way to low
spirits.”
“I sincerely hope and trust I shall,” answered Lady Isabel, fervently.
“Still, there’s no telling, for I am very ill. Joyce, give me your
promise. In case of the worst, you will remain with the children.”
“I will, my lady--as long as I am permitted.”
“And be kind to them and love them, and shield them from--from--any
unkindness that may be put upon them,” she added, her head full of Miss
Carlyle, “and talk to them sometimes of their poor mother, who is gone?”
“I will, I will--oh my lady, I will!” And Joyce sat down in the rocking-
chair as Lady Isabel quitted her, and burst into tears.
Mr. Carlyle and Lady Isabel, with Wilson and Peter in attendance,
arrived at Boulogne, and proceeded to the Hotel des Bains. It may be as
well to mention that Peter had been transferred from Miss Carlyle’s
service to theirs, when the establishment was first formed at East
Lynne. Upon entering the hotel they inquired for Mrs. Ducie, and then a
disappointment awaited them. A letter was handed them which had arrived
that morning from Mrs. Ducie, expressing her regret that certain family
arrangements prevented her visiting Boulogne; she was proceeding to some
of the baths in Germany instead.
“I might almost have known it,” remarked Isabel. “She was always the
most changeable of women.”
Mr. Carlyle went out in search of lodgings, Isabel objecting to remain
in the bustling hotel. He succeeded in finding some very desirable ones,
situated in the Rue de l’Ecu, near the port, and they moved into them.
He thought the journey had done her good, for she looked better, and
said she already felt stronger. Mr. Carlyle remained with her three
days; he had promised only one, but he was pleased with everything
around him, pleased with Isabel’s returning glimpses of health, and
amused with the scenes of the busy town.
The tide served at eight o’clock the following morning, and Mr. Carlyle
left by the Folkestone boat. Wilson made his breakfast, and after
swallowing it in haste, he returned to his wife’s room to say farewell.
“Good-bye, my love,” he said, stooping to kiss her, “take care of
yourself.”
“Give my dear love to the darlings, Archibald. And--and----”
“And what?” he asked. “I have not a moment to lose.”
“Do not get making love to Barbara Hare while I am away.”
She spoke in a tone half jest, half serious--could he but have seen how
her heart was breaking! Mr. Carlyle took it wholly as a jest, and went
away laughing. Had he believed she was serious, he could have been
little more surprised had she charged him not to go about the country on
a dromedary.
Isabel rose later, and lingered over her breakfast, listless enough. She
was wondering how she would make the next few weeks pass; what she
should do with her time. She had taken two sea baths since her arrival,
but they had appeared not to agree with her, leaving her low and
shivering afterwards, so it was not deemed advisable that she should
attempt more. It was a lovely morning, and she determined to venture on
to the pier, to where they had sat on the previous evening. She had not
Mr. Carlyle’s arm, but it was not far, and she could take a good rest at
the end of it.
She went, attended by Peter, took her seat, and told him to come for her
in an hour. She watched the strollers on the pier as they had done the
previous evening; not in crowds now, but stragglers, coming on at
intervals. There came a gouty man, in a list shoe, there came three
young ladies and their governess, there came two fast puppies in
shooting jackets and eye-glasses, which they turned with a broad stare
on Lady Isabel; but there was something about her which caused them to
drop their glasses and their ill manners together. After an interval,
there appeared another, a tall, handsome, gentlemanly man. Her eyes fell
upon him; and--what was it that caused every nerve in her frame to
vibrate, every pulse to quicken? Whose form was it that was thus
advancing and changing the monotony of her mind into tumult? It was that
of one whom she was soon to find had never been entirely forgotten.
Captain Levison came slowly on, approaching the pier where she sat. He
glanced at her; not with the hardihood displayed by the two young men,
but with quite sufficiently evident admiration.
“What a lovely girl!” thought he to himself. “Who can she be, sitting
there alone?”
All at once a recollection flashed into his mind; he raised his hat and
extended his hand, his fascinating smile in full play.
“I certainly cannot be mistaken. Have I the honor of once more meeting
Lady Isabel Vane?”
She rose from the seat, and allowed him to take her hand, answering a
few words at random, for her wits seemed wool-gathering.
“I beg your pardon--I should have said Lady Isabel Carlyle. Time has
elapsed since we parted, and in the pleasure of seeing you again so
unexpectedly, I thought of you as you were then.”
She sat down again, the brilliant flush of emotion dying away upon her
cheeks. It was the loveliest face Francis Levison had seen since he saw
hers, and he thought so as he gazed at it.
“What can have brought you to this place?” he inquired, taking a seat
beside her.
“I have been ill,” she explained, “and am ordered to the sea-side. We
should not have come here but for Mrs. Ducie; we expected to meet her.
Mr. Carlyle only left me this morning.”
“Mrs. Ducie is off to Ems. I see them occasionally. They have been
fixtures in Paris for some time. You do indeed look ill,” he abruptly
added, in a tone of sympathy, “alarmingly ill. Is there anything I can
do for you?”
She was aware that she looked unusually ill at that moment, for the
agitation and surprise of meeting him were fading away, leaving her face
an ashy whiteness. Exceedingly vexed and angry with herself did she feel
that the meeting should have power to call forth emotion. Until that
moment she was unconscious that she retained any sort of feeling for
Captain Levison.
“Perhaps I have ventured out too early,” she said, in a tone that would
seem to apologize for her looks: “I think I will return. I shall meet my
servant, no doubt. Good-morning, Captain Levison.”
“But indeed you do not appear fit to walk alone,” he remonstrated. “You
must allow me to see you safely home.”
Drawing her hand within his own quite as a matter of course, as he had
done many a time in days gone by, he proceeded to assist her down the
pier. Lady Isabel, conscious of her own feelings, felt that it was not
quite the thing to walk thus familiarly with him, but he was a sort of
relation of the family--a connection, at any rate--and she could find no
ready excuse for declining.
“Have you seen Lady Mount Severn lately?” he inquired.
“I saw her when I was in London this spring with Mr. Carlyle. The first
time we have met since my marriage; and we do not correspond. Lord Mount
Severn had paid us two or three visits at East Lynne. They are in town
yet, I believe.”
“For all I know; I have not seen them, or England either, for ten
months. I have been staying in Paris, and got here yesterday.”
“A long leave of absence,” she observed.
“Oh, I have left the army. I sold out. The truth is, Lady Isabel--for I
don’t mind telling you--things are rather down with me at present. My
old uncle has behaved shamefully; he has married again.”
“I heard that Sir Peter had married.”
“He is seventy-three--the old simpleton! Of course this materially
alters my prospects, for it is just possible he may have a son of his
own now; and my creditors all came down upon me. They allowed me to run
into debt with complacency when I was heir to the title and estates, but
as soon as Sir Peter’s marriage appeared in the papers, myself and my
consequence dropped a hundred per cent; credit was stopped, and I dunned
for payment. So I thought I’d cut it altogether, and I sold out and came
abroad.”
“Leaving your creditors?”
“What else could I do? My uncle would not pay them, or increase my
allowance.”
“What are your prospects then?” resumed Lady Isabel.
“Prospects! Do you see that little ragged boy throwing stones into the
harbor?--it is well the police don’t drop upon him,--ask him what his
prospects are, and he will stare you in the face, and say, ‘None.’ Mine
are on a like par.”
“You may succeed Sir Peter yet.”
“I may, but I may not. When those old idiots get a young wife--”
“Have you quarreled with Sir Peter?” interrupted Lady Isabel.
“I should quarrel with him as he deserves, if it would do any good, but
I might get my allowance stopped. Self interest, you see, Lady Isabel,
is the order of the day with most of us.”
“Do you propose staying in Boulogne long?”
“I don’t know. As I may find amusement. Paris is a fast capital, with
its heated rooms and its late hours, and I came down for the refreshment
of a few sea dips. Am I walking too fast for you?”
“You increased your pace alarmingly when you spoke of Sir Peter’s
marriage. And I am not sorry for it,” she added, good-naturedly, “for it
has proved to me how strong I am getting. A week ago I could not have
walked half so fast.”
He interrupted with eager apologies, and soon they reached her home.
Captain Levison entered with her--uninvited. He probably deemed between
connections great ceremonies might be dispensed with, and he sat a
quarter of an hour, chatting to amuse her. When he rose, he inquired
what she meant to do with herself in the afternoon.
“To lie down,” replied Isabel. “I am not strong enough to sit up all
day.”
“Should you be going out afterwards, you must allow me to take care of
you,” he observed. “I am glad that I happened to be here, for I am sure
you are not fit to wander out without an arm, and only followed by a
servant. When Mr. Carlyle comes, he will thank me for my pains.”
What was she to urge in objection? Simply nothing. He spoke, let us not
doubt, from a genuine wish to serve her, in a plain, easy tone, as any
acquaintance might speak. Lady Isabel schooled herself severely. If
those old feelings were not quite dead within her, why, she must smother
them down again as effectually as if they were; the very fact of
recognizing such to her own heart, brought a glow of shame to her brow.
She would meet Captain Levison, and suffer his companionship, as she
would that of the most indifferent stranger.
It was just the wrong way for her to go to work, though.
As the days passed on, Lady Isabel improved wonderfully. She was soon
able to go to the sands in the morning and sit there to enjoy the sea
air, watching the waves come up to recede with the tide. She made no
acquaintance whatever in the place, and when she had a companion it was
Captain Levison. He would frequently join her there, sometimes take her,
almost always give her his arm home. Of all things, she disliked the
having to take his arm, would a thousand times over rather have taken
good old Peter’s. A secret prick of the conscience whispered it might be
better if she did not. One day she said, in a joking sort of manner--she
would not say it in any other--that now she was strong, she had no need
of his arm and his escort. He demanded, in evident astonishment, what
had arisen that he might not still afford it, seeing her husband was not
with her to give her his. She had no answer in reply to this, no excuse
to urge, and, in default of one, took his arm, as usual. In the evening
he would be ready to take her to the pier, but they sat apart, mixing
not with the bustling crowd--he lending to his manner, as he conversed
with her, all that he would call up of fascination--and fascination,
such as Francis Levison’s, might be dangerous to any ear, in the sweet
evening twilight. The walk over, he left her at her own door; she never
asked him in in the evening, and he did not intrude without, as he
sometimes would of a morning.
Now, where was the help for this? You may say that she should have
remained indoors, and not have subjected herself to his companionship.
But the remaining indoors would not have brought her health, and it was
health that she was staying in Boulogne to acquire, and the sooner it
came the better pleased she would be, for she wanted to be at home with
her husband and children.
In a fortnight from the period of his departure, Mr. Carlyle was
expected in Boulogne. But what a marvellous change had this fortnight
wrought in Lady Isabel! She did not dare to analyze her feelings, but
she was conscious that all the fresh emotions of her youth had come
again. The blue sky seemed as of the sweetest sapphire, the green fields
and waving trees were of an emerald brightness, the perfume of the
flowers was more fragrant than any perfume had yet seemed. She knew that
the sky, that the grassy plains, the leafy trees, the brilliant flowers,
were but as they ever had been; she knew that the sunny atmosphere
possessed no more of loveliness or power of imparting delight than of
old; and she knew that the change, the sensation of ecstacy, was in her
own heart. No wonder that she shrank from self-examination.
The change from listless languor to her present feeling brought the hue
and contour of health to her face far sooner than anything else could
have done. She went down with Captain Levison to meet Mr. Carlyle, the
evening he came in, and when Mr. Carlyle saw her behind the cords, as he
was going to the custom-house, he scarcely knew her. Her features had
lost their sharpness, her cheeks wore a rosy flush, and the light of
pleasure at meeting him again shone in her eyes.
“What can you have been doing to yourself, my darling?” he uttered in
delight as he emerged from the custom-house and took her hands in his.
“You look almost well.”
“Yes, I am much better, Archibald, but I am warm now and flushed. We
have waited here some time, and the setting sun was full upon us. How
long the boat was in coming in!”
“The wind was against us,” replied Mr. Carlyle, wondering who the
exquisite was at his wife’s side. He thought he remembered his face.
“Captain Levison,” said Lady Isabel. “I wrote you word in one of my
letters that he was here. Have you forgotten it?” Yes, it had slipped
from his memory.
“And I am happy that it happened so,” said that gentleman, interposing,
“for it has enabled me to attend Lady Isabel in some of her walks. She
is stronger now, but at first she was unfit to venture alone.”
“I feel much indebted to you,” said Mr. Carlyle, warmly.
The following day was Sunday, and Francis Levison was asked to dine with
them--the first meal he had been invited to in the house. After dinner,
when Lady Isabel left them, he grew confidential over his claret to Mr.
Carlyle, laying open all his intricate affairs and his cargo of
troubles.
“This compulsory exile abroad is becoming intolerable,” he concluded;
“and a Paris life plays the very deuce with one. Do you see any chance
of my getting back to England?”
“Not the least,” was the candid answer, “unless you can manage to
satisfy or partially satisfy those claims you have been telling me of.
Will not Sir Peter assist you?”
“I believe he would, were the case fairly represented to him; but how am
I to get over to do it? I have written several letters to him lately,
and for some time I got no reply. Then came an epistle from Lady
Levison; not short and sweet, but short and sour. It was to the effect
that Sir Peter was ill, and could not at present be troubled with
business matters.”
“He cannot be very ill,” remarked Mr. Carlyle; “he passed through West
Lynne, in his open carriage, a week ago.”
“He ought to help me,” grumbled Captain Levison. “I am his heir, so long
as Lady Levison does not give him one. I do not hear that she has
expectations.”
“You should contrive to see him.”
“I know I should; but it is not possible under present circumstances.
With these thunder-clouds hanging over me, I dare not set foot in
England, and run the risk to be dropped upon. I can stand a few things,
but I shudder at the bare idea of a prison. Something peculiar in my
idiosyncrasy, I take it, for those who have tried it, say that it’s
nothing when you’re used to it.”
“Some one might see him for you.”
“Some one--who? I have quarreled with my lawyers, Sharp & Steel, of
Lincoln’s Inn.”
“Keen practitioners,” put in Mr. Carlyle.
“Too keen for me. I’d send them over the herring-pond if I could. They
have used me shamefully since my uncle’s marriage. If ever I do come
into the Levison estates they’ll be ready to eat their ears off; they
would like a finger in a pie with such property as that.”
“Shall I see Sir Peter Levison for you?”
“Will you?” returned Captain Levison, his dark eyes lighting up.
“If you like as your friend, you understand; not as your solicitor; that
I decline. I have a slight knowledge of Sir Peter; my father was well
acquainted with him; and if I can render you any little service, I shall
be happy, in return for your kind attention to my wife. I cannot promise
to see him for those two or three weeks, though,” resumed Mr. Carlyle,
“for we are terribly busy. I never was so driven; but for being so I
should stay here with my wife.”
Francis Levison expressed his gratitude, and the prospect, however
remote, of being enabled to return to England increased his spirits to
exultation. Whilst they continued to converse, Lady Isabel sat at the
window in the adjoining room, listlessly looking out on the crowds of
French who were crowding to and from the port in their Sunday holiday
attire. Looking at them with her eyes, not with her senses--her senses
were holding commune with herself, and it was not altogether
satisfactory--she was aware that a sensation all too warm, a feeling of
attraction toward Francis Levison, was working within her. Not a
voluntary one; she could no more repress it than she could repress her
own sense of being; and, mixed with it, was the stern voice of
conscience, overwhelming her with the most lively terror. She would have
given all she possessed to be able to overcome it. She would have given
half the years of her future life to separate herself at once and
forever from the man.
But do not mistake the word terror, or suppose that Lady Isabel Carlyle
applied it here in the vulgar acceptation of the term. She did not fear
for herself; none could be more conscious of self-rectitude of principle
and conduct; and she would have believed it as impossible for her ever
to forsake her duty as a wife, a gentlewoman, and a Christian, as for
the sun to turn round from west to east. That was not the fear which
possessed her; it had never presented itself to her mind; what she did
fear was, that further companionship with Francis Levison might augment
the sentiments she entertained for him to a height that her life, for
perhaps years to come, would be one of unhappiness, a sort of
concealment; and, more than all, she shrank from the consciousness of
the bitter wrong that these sentiments cast upon her husband.
“Archibald, I have a favor to ask you,” she said, after Captain
Levison’s departure. “Take me back with you.”
“Impossible, my love. The change is doing you so much good; and I took
the apartments for six weeks. You must at least remain that time.”
The color flowed painfully into her cheek. “I cannot stay without you,
Archibald.”
“Tell me why.”
“I am so dull without you,” was all she could say. He felt that this was
not reason enough for altering an arrangement that was so beneficial to
her; so he left her the following morning, commending her to the
continued care of Captain Levison.