Part 121 (2/2)

”That idiot, Sarah, says to me to-day, says she, 'Which of his two grandpapas will they bury him by, old Mr. Carlyle or Lord Mount Severn?'

'Don't be a calf!' I answered her. 'D'ye think they'll stick him out in the corner with my lord?--he'll be put into the Carlyle vault, of course,' It would have been different, you see, Madame Vine, if my lady had died at home, all proper--Mr. Carlyle's wife. They'd have buried her, no doubt, by her father, and the boy would have been laid with her.

But she did not.”

No reply was made by Madame Vine, and a silence ensued; nothing to be heard but that fleeting breath.

”I wonder how that beauty feels?” suddenly broke forth Wilson again, her tone one of scornful irony.

Lady Isabel, her eyes and her thoughts absorbed by William, positively thought Wilson's words must relate to him. She turned to her in surprise.

”That bright gem in the prison at Lynneborough,” exclaimed Wilson. ”I hope he may have found himself pretty well since yesterday! I wonder how many trainfuls from West Lynne will go to his hanging?”

Isabel's face turned crimson, her heart sick. She had not dared to inquire how the trial terminated. The subject altogether was too dreadful, and n.o.body had happened to mention it in her hearing.

”Is he condemned?” she breathed, in a low tone.

”He is condemned, and good luck to him! And Mr. Otway Bethel's let loose again, and good luck to him. A nice pair they are! n.o.body went from this house to hear the trial--it might not have been pleasant, you know, to Mr. Carlyle; but people came in last night and told us all about it.

Young Richard Hare chiefly convicted him. He is back again, and so nice- looking, they say--ten times more so than he was when quite a young man.

You should have heard, they say, the cheering and shouts that greeted Mr. Richard when his innocence came out; it pretty near rose off the roof of the court, and the judge didn't stop it.”

Wilson paused, but there was no answering comment. On she went again.

”When Mr. Carlyle brought the news home last evening, and broke it to his wife, telling her how Mr. Richard had been received with acclamations, she nearly fainted, for she's not strong yet. Mr. Carlyle called out to me to bring some water--I was in the next room with the baby--and there she was, the tears raining from her eyes, and he holding her to him. I always said there was a whole world of love between those two; though he did go and marry another. Mr. Carlyle ordered me to put the water down, and sent me away again. But I don't fancy he told her of old Hare's attack until this morning.”

Lady Isabel lifted her aching forehead. ”What attack?”

”Why, madame, don't you know. I declare you box yourself up in the house, keeping from everybody, and you hear nothing. You might as well be living at the bottom of a coal-pit. Old Hare had another stroke in the court at Lynneborough, and that's why my mistress is gone to the Grove to-day.”

”Who says Richard Hare's come home, Wilson?”

The question--the weak, scarcely audible question--had come from the dying boy. Wilson threw up her hands, and made a bound to the bed. ”The like of that!” she uttered, aside to Mrs. Vine. ”One never knows when to take these sick ones. Master William, you hold your tongue and drop to sleep again. Your papa will be home soon from Lynneborough; and if you talk and get tired, he'll say it's my fault. Come shut your eyes. Will you have a bit more jelly?”

William, making no reply to the offer of jelly, buried his face again on the pillow. But he was grievously restless; the nearly worn-out spirit was ebbing and flowing.

Mr. Carlyle was at Lynneborough. He always had much business there at a.s.size time and the Nisi Prius Court; but the previous day he had not gone himself, Mr. Dill had been dispatched to represent him.

Between seven and eight he returned home, and came into William's chamber. The boy brightened up at the well-known presence.

”Papa!”

Mr. Carlyle sat down on the bed and kissed him. The pa.s.sing beams of the sun, slanting from the horizon, shone into the room, and Mr. Carlyle could view well the dying face. The gray hue of death was certainly on it.

”Is he worse?” he exclaimed hastily, to Madame Vine, who was jacketed, and capped, and spectacled, and tied up round the throat, and otherwise disguised, in her universal fas.h.i.+on.

”He appears worse this evening, sir--more weak.”

”Papa,” panted William, ”is the trial over?”

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