Part 19 (1/2)

”I am very sorry,” she stammered; and with the effort of speaking, emotion quite got the better of her, and she burst into tears. ”I did not know anything of all this; my father's affairs were not spoken of before me. I believe I have not anything; if I had, I would divide it amongst you as equally as I could. But, should the means ever be in my power--should money ever be mine, I will thankfully pay all your claims.”

All your claims! Lady Isabel little thought what that ”all” would comprise. However, such promises, made at such a moment, fell heedlessly upon the ear. Scarcely one present but felt sympathy and sorrow for her, and Mr. Carlyle drew her from the room. He closed the door upon the noisy crew, and then sobs came forth hysterically.

”I am so grieved, Lady Isabel! Had I foreseen this annoyance, you should have been spared it. Can you go upstairs alone, or shall I call Mrs.

Mason?”

”Oh, yes! I can go alone; I am not ill, only frightened and sick. This is not the worst,” she s.h.i.+vered. ”There are two men up--up--with papa.”

”Up with papa.” Mr. Carlyle was puzzled. He saw that she was shaking from head to foot, as she stood before him.

”I cannot understand it, and it terrifies me,” she continued, attempting an explanation. ”They are sitting in the room, close to him: they have taken him, they say.”

A blank, thunderstruck pause. Mr. Carlyle looked at her--he did not speak; and then he turned and looked at the butler, who was standing near. But the man only responded by giving his head a half shake, and Mr. Carlyle saw that it was an ominous one.

”I will clear the house of these,” he said to Lady Isabel, pointing back to the dining-room, ”and then join you upstairs.”

”Two ruffians, sir, and they have got possession of the body,” whispered the butler in Mr. Carlyle's ear, as Lady Isabel departed. ”They obtained entrance to the chamber by a sly, deceitful trick, saying they were the undertaker's men, and that he can't be buried unless their claims are paid, if it's for a month to come. It has upset all our stomachs, sir; Mrs. Mason while telling me--for she was the first one to know it--was as sick as she could be.”

At present Mr. Carlyle returned to the dining-room, and bore the brunt of the anger of those savage, and it may be said, ill-used men. Not that it was vented upon him--quite the contrary--but on the memory of the unhappy peer, who lay overhead. A few had taken the precaution to insure the earl's life, and they were the best off. They left the house after a short s.p.a.ce of time; for Mr. Carlyle's statement was indisputable, and they knew the law better than to remain, trespa.s.sers on his property.

But the custodians of the dead could not be got rid of. Mr. Carlyle proceeded to the death-chamber, and examined their authority. A similar case had never occurred under his own observation, though it had under his father's, and Mr. Carlyle remembered hearing of it. The body of a church dignitary, who had died deeply in debt, was arrested as it was being carried through the cloisters to its grave in the cathedral. These men, sitting over Lord Mount Severn, enforced heavy claims; and there they must sit until the arrival of Mr. Vane from Castle Marling--now the Earl of Mount Severn.

On the following morning, Sunday, Mr. Carlyle proceeded again to East Lynne, and found, to his surprise, that there was no arrival. Isabel sat in the breakfast-room alone, the meal on the table untouched, and she s.h.i.+vering--as it seemed--on a low ottoman before the fire. She looked so ill that Mr. Carlyle could not forbear remarking upon it.

”I have not slept, and I am very cold,” she answered. ”I did not close my eyes all night, I was so terrified.”

”Terrified at what?” he asked.

”At those men,” she whispered. ”It is strange that Mr. Vane has not come.”

”Is the post in?”

”I don't know,” she apathetically replied. ”I have received nothing.”

She had scarcely spoke when the butler entered with his salver full of letters, most of them bearing condolence with Lady Isabel. She singled out one and hastened to open it, for it bore the Castle Marling post- mark. ”It is Mrs. Vane's handwriting,” she remarked to Mr. Carlyle.

CASTLE MARLING, Sat.u.r.day.

”MY DEAR ISABEL--I am dreadfully grieved and shocked at the news conveyed in Mr. Carlyle's letter to my husband, for he has gone cruising in his yacht, and I opened it. Goodness knows where he may be, round the coast somewhere, but he said he should be home for Sunday, and as he is pretty punctual in keeping his word, I expect him. Be a.s.sured he will not lose a moment in hastening to East Lynne.

”I cannot express what I feel for you, and am too bouleversee to write more. Try and keep up your spirits, and believe me, dear Isabel, with sincere sympathy and regret, faithfully yours,

”EMMA MOUNT SEVERN.”

The color came into Isabel's pale cheek when she read the signature. She thought, had she been the writer, she should, in that first, early letter, have still signed herself Emma Vane. Isabel handed the note to Mr. Carlyle. ”It is very unfortunate,” she sighed.

Mr. Carlyle glanced over it as quickly as Mrs. Vane's illegible writing allowed him, and drew in his lips in a peculiar manner when he came to the signature. Perhaps at the same thought which had struck Isabel.

”Had Mrs. Vane been worth a rush, she would have come herself, knowing your lonely situation,” he uttered, impulsively.

Isabel leaned her head upon her hand. All the difficulties and embarra.s.sments of her position came crowding on her mind. No orders had been given in preparation for the funeral, and she felt that she had no right to give any. The earls of Mount Severn were buried at Mount Severn; but to take her father thither would involve great expense; would the present earl sanction that? Since the previous morning, she seemed to have grown old in the world's experience; her ideas were changed, the bent of her thoughts had been violently turned from its course. Instead of being a young lady of high position, of wealth and rank, she appeared to herself more in the light of an unfortunate pauper and interloper in the house she was inhabiting. It has been the custom in romance to present young ladies, especially if they be handsome and interesting, as being entirely oblivious of matter-of-fact cares and necessities, supremely indifferent to future prospects of poverty-- poverty that brings hunger and thirst and cold and nakedness; but, be a.s.sured, this apathy never existed in real life. Isabel Vane's grief for her father--whom, whatever may have been the aspect he wore for others, she had deeply loved and reverenced--was sharply poignant; but in the midst of that grief, and of the singular troubles his death had brought forth, she could not shut her eyes to her own future. Its blank uncertainty, its shadowed-forth embarra.s.sments did obtrude themselves and the words of that plain-speaking creditor kept ringing in her ears: ”You won't have a roof to put your head under, or a guinea to call your own.” Where was she to go? With whom to live? She was in Mr. Carlyle's house now. And how was she to pay the servants? Money was owing to them all.