East Lynne [118]
and you countermanded it. You have told her that master worked like a dog to support her extravagances, when you know that she never was extravagant; that none were less inclined to go beyond proper limits than she. I have seen her, ma'am, come away from your reproaches with the tears in her eyes, and her hands meekly clasped upon her bosom, as though life was heavy to bear. A gentle- spirited, high-born lady, as I know she was, could not fail to be driven to desperation; and I know that she has been."
Mr. Carlyle turned to his sister. "Can this be true?" he inquired, in a tone of deep agitation.
She did not answer. Whether it was the shade cast by the nightcap, or the reflection of the wax taper, her face looked of a green cast, and, for the first time probably in Miss Carlyle's life, her words failed her.
"May God forgive you, Cornelia!" he muttered, as he went out of the chamber.
He descended to his own. That his wife had laid violent hands upon herself, his reason utterly repudiated, she was one of the least likely to commit so great a sin. He believed that, in her unhappiness, she might have wandered out in the grounds, and was lingering there. By this time the house was aroused, and the servants were astir. Joyce --surely a supernatural strength was given her, for though she had been able to put her foot to the ground, she had not yet walked upon it--crept downstairs, and went into Lady Isabel's dressing-room. Mr. Carlyle was hastily assuming the articles of attire he had not yet put on, to go out and search the grounds, when Joyce limped in, holding out a note. Joyce did not stand on ceremony that night.
"I found this in the dressing-glass drawer, sir. It is my lady's writing."
He took it in his hand and looked at the address--"Archibald Carlyle." Though a calm man, one who had his emotions under his own control, he was no stoic, and his fingers shook as he broke the seal.
"When years go on, and my children ask where their mother is, and why she left them, tell them that you, their father, goaded her to it. If they inquire what she is, tell them, also, if you so will; but tell them, at the same time, that you outraged and betrayed her, driving her to the very depth of desperation ere she quitted them in her despair."
The handwriting, his wife's, swam before the eyes of Mr. Carlyle. All, save the disgraceful fact that she had /flown/--and a horrible suspicion began to dawn upon him, with whom--was totally incomprehensible. How had he outraged her? In what manner had he goaded her to it. The discomforts alluded to by Joyce, and the work of his sister, had evidently no part in this; yet what had /he/ done? He read the letter again, more slowly. No he could not comprehend it; he had not the clue.
At that moment the voices of the servants in the corridor outside penetrated his ears. Of course they were peering about, and making their own comments. Wilson, with her long tongue, the busiest. They were saying that Captain Levison was not in his room; that his bed had not been slept in.
Joyce sat on the edge of a chair--she could not stand--watching her master with a blanched face. Never had she seen him betray agitation so powerful. Not the faintest suspicion of the dreadful truth yet dawned upon her. He walked to the door, the open note in his hand; then turned, wavered, and stood still, as if he did not know what he was doing. Probably he did not. Then he took out his pocket-book, put the note inside it, and returned it to his pocket, his hands trembling equally with his livid lips.
"You need not mention this," he said to Joyce, indicating the note. "It concerns myself alone."
"Sir, does it say she's dead?"
"She is not dead," he answered. "Worse than that," he added in his heart.
"Why--who's this?" uttered Joyce.
It was little Isabel, stealing in with a frightened face, in her white nightgown. The commotion had aroused her.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "Where's mamma?"
"Child, you'll catch your death of cold," said Joyce. "Go back to bed."
"But I want mamma."
Mr. Carlyle turned to his sister. "Can this be true?" he inquired, in a tone of deep agitation.
She did not answer. Whether it was the shade cast by the nightcap, or the reflection of the wax taper, her face looked of a green cast, and, for the first time probably in Miss Carlyle's life, her words failed her.
"May God forgive you, Cornelia!" he muttered, as he went out of the chamber.
He descended to his own. That his wife had laid violent hands upon herself, his reason utterly repudiated, she was one of the least likely to commit so great a sin. He believed that, in her unhappiness, she might have wandered out in the grounds, and was lingering there. By this time the house was aroused, and the servants were astir. Joyce --surely a supernatural strength was given her, for though she had been able to put her foot to the ground, she had not yet walked upon it--crept downstairs, and went into Lady Isabel's dressing-room. Mr. Carlyle was hastily assuming the articles of attire he had not yet put on, to go out and search the grounds, when Joyce limped in, holding out a note. Joyce did not stand on ceremony that night.
"I found this in the dressing-glass drawer, sir. It is my lady's writing."
He took it in his hand and looked at the address--"Archibald Carlyle." Though a calm man, one who had his emotions under his own control, he was no stoic, and his fingers shook as he broke the seal.
"When years go on, and my children ask where their mother is, and why she left them, tell them that you, their father, goaded her to it. If they inquire what she is, tell them, also, if you so will; but tell them, at the same time, that you outraged and betrayed her, driving her to the very depth of desperation ere she quitted them in her despair."
The handwriting, his wife's, swam before the eyes of Mr. Carlyle. All, save the disgraceful fact that she had /flown/--and a horrible suspicion began to dawn upon him, with whom--was totally incomprehensible. How had he outraged her? In what manner had he goaded her to it. The discomforts alluded to by Joyce, and the work of his sister, had evidently no part in this; yet what had /he/ done? He read the letter again, more slowly. No he could not comprehend it; he had not the clue.
At that moment the voices of the servants in the corridor outside penetrated his ears. Of course they were peering about, and making their own comments. Wilson, with her long tongue, the busiest. They were saying that Captain Levison was not in his room; that his bed had not been slept in.
Joyce sat on the edge of a chair--she could not stand--watching her master with a blanched face. Never had she seen him betray agitation so powerful. Not the faintest suspicion of the dreadful truth yet dawned upon her. He walked to the door, the open note in his hand; then turned, wavered, and stood still, as if he did not know what he was doing. Probably he did not. Then he took out his pocket-book, put the note inside it, and returned it to his pocket, his hands trembling equally with his livid lips.
"You need not mention this," he said to Joyce, indicating the note. "It concerns myself alone."
"Sir, does it say she's dead?"
"She is not dead," he answered. "Worse than that," he added in his heart.
"Why--who's this?" uttered Joyce.
It was little Isabel, stealing in with a frightened face, in her white nightgown. The commotion had aroused her.
"What's the matter?" she asked. "Where's mamma?"
"Child, you'll catch your death of cold," said Joyce. "Go back to bed."
"But I want mamma."