Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “So far it looks favorable,” mentally exclaimed poor Isabel, “but there is the other side of the question. It is not only that I do not love Mr. Carlyle, but I fear I do love, or very nearly love, Francis Levison. I wish he would ask me to be his wife! — or that I had never seen him.”

  Isabel’s soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Levison and the countess. What the latter had said to the old lady to win her to the cause, was best known to herself, but she was eloquent in it. They both used every possible argument to induce her to accept Mr. Carlyle: the old lady declaring that she had never been introduced to any one she was so much taken with, and Mrs. Levison was incapable of asserting what was not true; that he was worth a dozen empty-headed men of the great world.

  Isabel listened, now swayed one way, now the other, and when afternoon came, her head was aching with perplexity. The stumbling block that she could not get over was Francis Levison. She saw Mr. Carlyle approach from her window, and went down to the drawing-room, not in the least knowing what her answer was to be; a shadowy idea was presenting itself, that she would ask him for longer time, and write her answer.

  In the drawing-room was Francis Levison, and her heart beat wildly; which said beating might have convinced her that she ought not to marry another.

  “Where have you been hiding yourself?” cried he. “Did you hear of our mishap with the pony carriage?”

  “No,” was her answer.

  “I was driving Emma into town. The pony took fright, kicked, plunged and went down upon his knees; she took fright in turn, got out, and walked back. So I gave the brute some chastisement and a race, and brought him to the stables, getting home in time to be introduced to Mr. Carlyle. He seems an out-and-out good fellow, Isabel, and I congratulate you.”

  “What!” she uttered.

  “Don’t start. We are all in the family, and my lady told; I won’t betray it abroad. She says East Lynne is a place to be coveted; I wish you happiness, Isabel.”

  “Thank you,” she returned in a sarcastic tone, though her throat beat and her lips quivered. “You are premature in your congratulations, Captain Levison.”

  “Am I? Keep my good wishes, then, till the right man comes. I am beyond the pale myself, and dare not think of entering the happy state,” he added, in a pointed tone. “I have indulged dreams of it, like others, but I cannot afford to indulge them seriously; a poor man, with uncertain prospects can only play the butterfly, perhaps to his life’s end.”

  He quitted the room as he spoke. It was impossible for Isabel to misunderstand him, but a feeling shot across her mind, for the first time, that he was false and heartless. One of the servants appeared, showing in Mr. Carlyle; nothing false or heartless about him. He closed the door, and approached her, but she did not speak, and her lips were white and trembling. Mr. Carlyle waited.

  “Well,” he said at length, in a gentle tone, “have you decided to grant my prayer?”

  “Yes. But—” She could not go on. What with one agitation and another, she had difficulty in conquering her emotion. “But — I was going to tell you — —”

  “Presently,” he whispered, leading her to a sofa, “we can both afford to wait now. Oh, Isabel, you have made me very happy!”

  “I ought to tell you, I must tell you,” she began again, in the midst of hysterical tears. “Though I have said ‘yes’ to your proposal, I do not — yet —— It has come upon me by surprise,” she stammered. “I like you very much; I esteem and respect you; but I do not love you.”

  “I should wonder if you did. But you will let me earn your love, Isabel?”

  “Oh, yes,” she earnestly answered. “I hope so.”

  He drew her closer to him, bent his face, and took from her lips his first kiss. Isabel was passive; she supposed he had gained the right to do so. “My dearest! It is all I ask.”

  CHAPTER XIII.

  A MOONLIGHT WALK.

  The sensations of Mr. Carlyle, when he returned to West Lynne, were much like those of an Eton boy, who knows he has been in mischief, and dreads detection. Always open as to his own affairs — for he had nothing to conceal — he yet deemed it expedient to dissemble now. He felt that his sister would be bitter at the prospect of his marrying; instinct had taught him that, years past; and he believed that, of all women, the most objectionable to her would be Lady Isabel, for Miss Carlyle looked to the useful, and had neither sympathy nor admiration for the beautiful. He was not sure but she might be capable of endeavoring to frustrate the marriage should news of it reach her ears, and her indomitable will had caused many strange things in her life; therefore, you will not blame Mr. Carlyle for observing entire reticence as to his future plans.

  A family of the name of Carew had been about taking East Lynne; they wished to rent it, furnished, for three years. Upon some of the minor arrangements they and Mr. Carlyle were opposed, but the latter declined to give way. During his absence at Castle Marling, news had arrived from them — they had acceded to all his terms, and would enter upon East Lynne as soon as it was convenient. Miss Carlyle was full of congratulations; it was off their hands, she said; but the first letter Mr. Carlyle wrote was — to decline them. He did not tell this to Miss Carlyle. The final touches to the house were given, preparatory to the reception of its inhabitants, and three maids and two men servants hired and sent there, upon board wages, until the family should arrive.

  One evening three weeks subsequent to Mr. Carlyle’s visit to Castle Marling, Barbara Hare called at Miss Carlyle’s, and found them going to tea much earlier than usual.

  “We dined earlier,” said Miss Corny, “and I ordered tea as soon as the dinner went away. Otherwise, Archibald would have taken none.”

  “I am as well without tea. And I have a mass of business to get through yet.”

  “You are not as well without it,” cried Miss Corny, “and I don’t choose you should go without it. Take off your bonnet, Barbara. He does things like nobody else; he is off to Castle Marling to-morrow, and never could open his lips till just now that he was going.”

  “Is that invalid — Brewster, or whatever his name is — laid up at Castle Marling, still?” exclaimed Barbara.

  “He is still there,” said Mr. Carlyle.

  Barbara sprang up the moment tea was over.

  “Dill is waiting for me in the office, and I have some hours’ work before me. However, I suppose you won’t care to put up with Peter’s attendance, so make haste with your bonnet, Barbara.”

  She took his arm, and they walked on, Mr. Carlyle striking the hedge and the grass with her parasol. Another minute, and the handle was in two.

  “I thought you would do it,” said Barbara, while he was regarding the parasol with ludicrous dismay. “Never mind, it is an old one.”

  “I will bring you another to replace it. What is the color? Brown. I won’t forget. Hold the relics a minute, Barbara.”

  He put the pieces in her hand, and taking out a note case, made a note in pencil.

  “What’s that for?” she inquired.

  He held it close to her eyes, that she might discern what he had written: “Brown parasol. B. H.”

  “A reminder for me, Barbara, in case I forget.”

  Barbara’s eyes detected another item or two already entered in the note case: “piano,” “plate.”

  “I jot down the things as they occur to me, that I must get in London,” he explained. “Otherwise I should forget half.”

  “In London? I thought you were going in an opposite direction — to Castle Marling?”

  It was a slip of the tongue, but Mr. Carlyle repaired it.

  “I may probably have to visit London as well as Castle Marling. How bright the moon looks rising there, Barbara!”

  “So bright — that or the sky — that I saw your secret,” answered she. “Piano! Plate! What can you want with either, Archibald?”

  “They are for East Lynne,” he quietly replied.

  “Oh, for the Carews.” And Barbara’s
interest in the item was gone.

  They turned into the road just below the grove, and reached it. Mr. Carlyle held the gate open for Barbara.

  “You will come in and say good-night to mamma. She was saying to-day what a stranger you have made of yourself lately.”

  “I have been busy; and I really have not the time to-night. You must remember me to her instead.” And cordially shaking her by the hand, he closed the gate.

  It was two or three mornings after the departure of Mr. Carlyle that Mr. Dill appeared before Miss Carlyle, bearing a letter. She was busy regarding the effect of some new muslin curtains, just put up, and did not pay attention to him.

  “Will you please take the letter, Miss Cornelia? The postman left it in the office with ours. It is from Mr. Archibald.”

  “Why, what has he got to write to me about?” retorted Miss Corny. “Does he say when he is coming home?”

  “You had better see, Miss Cornelia. Mine does not.”

  “CASTLE MARLING, May 1st.

  “MY DEAR CORNELIA — I was married this morning to Lady Isabel Vane, and hasten briefly to acquaint you with the fact. I will write you more fully to-morrow or the next day, and explain all things.

  “Your ever affectionate brother,

  “ARCHIBALD CARLYLE.”

  “It is a hoax,” was the first gutteral sound that escaped from Miss Carlyle’s throat when speech came to her.

  Mr. Dill only stood like a stone image.

  “It is a hoax, I say,” raved Miss Carlyle. “What are you standing there for, like a gander on one leg?” she reiterated, venting her anger upon the unoffending man. “Is it a hoax or not?”

  “I am overdone with amazement, Miss Corny. It is not a hoax; I have had a letter, too.”

  “It can’t be true — it can’t be true. He had no more thought of being married when he left here, three days ago, than I have.”

  “How can we tell that, Miss Corny? How are we to know he did not go to be married? I fancy he did.”

  “Go to be married!” shrieked Miss Corny, in a passion. “He would not be such a fool. And to that fine lady-child! No — no.”

  “He has sent this to be put in the county journals,” said Mr. Dill, holding forth a scrap of paper. “They are married, safe enough.”

  Miss Carlyle took it and held it before her: her hand was cold as ice, and shook as if with palsy.

  “MARRIED. — On the 1st inst., at Castle Marling, by the chaplain to the Earl of Mount Severn, Archibald Carlyle, Esquire, of East Lynne, to the Lady Isabel Mary Vane, only child of William, late Earl of Mount Severn.”

  Miss Carlyle tore the paper to atoms and scattered it. Mr. Dill afterward made copies from memory, and sent them to the journal offices. But let that pass.

  “I will never forgive him,” she deliberately uttered, “and I will never forgive or tolerate her.”

  CHAPTER XIV.

  THE EARL’S ASTONISHMENT.

  The announcement of the marriage in the newspapers was the first intimation of it Lord Mount Severn received. He was little less thunderstruck than Miss Corny, and came steaming to England the same day, thereby missing his wife’s letter, which gave her version of the affair. He met Mr. Carlyle and Lady Isabel in London, where they were staying at one of the west-end hotels — only for a day or two, however, for they were going further. Isabel was alone when the earl was announced.

  “What is the meaning of this, Isabel?” began he, without the circumlocution of greeting. “You are married?”

  “Yes,” she answered, with her pretty, innocent blush. “Some time ago.”

  “And to Carlyle, the lawyer! How did it come about?”

  Isabel began to think how it did come about, sufficiently to give a clear answer. “He asked me,” she said, “and I accepted him. He came to Castle Marling at Easter, and asked me then. I was very much surprised.”

  The earl looked at her attentively. “Why was I kept in ignorance of this, Isabel?”

  “I did not know you were kept in ignorance of it. Mr. Carlyle wrote to you, as did Lady Mount Severn.”

  Lord Mount Severn was a man in the dark, and looked like it. “I suppose this comes,” soliloquized he, aloud, “of your father’s having allowed the gentleman to dance daily attendance at East Lynne. And so you fell in love with him.”

  “Indeed, no!” answered she, in an amused tone. “I never thought of such a thing as falling in love with Mr. Carlyle.”

  “Then don’t you love him?” abruptly asked the earl.

  “No!” she whispered, timidly; “but I like him much — oh, very much! And he is so good to me!”

  The earl stroked his chin and mused. Isabel had destroyed the only reasonable conclusion he had been able to come to as to the motives for the hasty marriage. “If you do not love Mr. Carlyle, how comes it that you are so wise in the distinction between ‘liking’ and ‘love?’ It cannot be that you love anybody else?”

  The question turned home, and Isabel turned crimson. “I shall love my husband in time,” was all she answered, as she bent her head, and played nervously with her watch chain.

  “My poor child!” involuntarily exclaimed the earl. But he was one who liked to fathom the depth of everything. “Who has been staying at Castle Marling since I left?” he asked sharply.

  “Mrs. Levison came down.”

  “I alluded to gentlemen — young men.”

  “Only Francis Levison,” she replied.

  “Francis Levison! You have never been so foolish as to fall in love with him?”

  The question was so pointed, so abrupt, and Isabel’s self-consciousness, moreover, so great, that she betrayed lamentable confusion, and the earl had no further need to ask. Pity stole into his hard eyes as they fixed themselves on her downcast, glowing face.

  “Isabel,” he gravely began, “Captain Levison is not a good man; if ever you were inclined to think him one, dispossess your mind of the idea, and hold him at arm’s distance. Drop his acquaintance — encourage no intimacy with him.”

  “I have already dropped it,” said Isabel, “and I shall not take it up again. But Lady Mount Severn must think well of him, or she would not have him there.”

  “She thinks none too well of him; none can of Francis Levison,” returned the earl significantly.

  Before Isabel could reply, Mr. Carlyle entered. He held out his hand to the earl; the earl did not appear to see it.

  “Isabel,” said he, “I am sorry to turn you out, but I suppose you have but this one sitting-room. I wish to say a few words to Mr. Carlyle.”

  She quitted them, and the earl wheeled round and faced Mr. Carlyle, speaking in a stern, haughty tone.

  “How came this marriage about, sir? Do you possess so little honor, that, taking advantage of my absence, you must intrude yourself into my family, and clandestinely espouse Lady Isabel Vane?”

  Mr. Carlyle stood confounded, and confused. He drew himself up to his full height, looking every whit as fearless and far more noble than the peer. “My lord, I do not understand you.”

  “Yet I speak plainly. What is it but a clandestine procedure to take advantage of a guardian’s absence and beguile a young girl into a marriage beneath her?”

  “There has been nothing clandestine in my conduct toward Lady Isabel Vane; there shall be nothing but honor in my conduct toward Lady Isabel Carlyle. Your lordship has been misinformed.”

  “I have not been informed at all,” retorted the earl. “I was allowed to learn this from the public papers — I, the only relative of Lady Isabel.”

  “When I proposed for Lady Isabel—”

  “But a month ago,” sarcastically interrupted the earl.

  “But a month ago,” calmly repeated Mr. Carlyle, “my first action, after Isabel accepted me, was to write to you. But that I imagine you may not have received the letter, by stating you first heard of our marriage through the papers, I should say, the want of courtesy lay on your lordship’s side for having vouchsafed me no reply to it.”r />
  “What were the contents of the letter?”

  “I stated what had occurred, mentioning what I was able to do in the way of settlements, and also that both Isabel and myself wished the ceremony to take place as soon as might be.”

  “And pray where did you address the letter?”

  “Lady Mount Severn could not give me the address. She said if I would intrust the letter to her, she would forward it with the rest she wrote, for she expected daily to hear from you. I did give her the letter, and I heard no more of the matter, except that her ladyship sent me a message when Isabel was writing to me, that as you had returned no reply, you of course approved.”

  “Is this the fact?” cried the earl.

  “My lord,” coldly replied Mr. Carlyle, “whatever may be my defects in your eyes, I am at least a man of truth. Until this moment, the suspicion that you were in ignorance of the contemplated marriage never occurred to me.”

  “So far, then, I beg your pardon, Mr. Carlyle. But how came the marriage about at all — how came it to be hurried over in this unseemly fashion? You made the offer at Easter, Isabel tells me, and you married her three weeks after it.”

  “And I would have married her and brought her away with me the day I did make it, had it been practicable,” returned Mr. Carlyle. “I have acted throughout for her comfort and happiness.”

  “Oh, indeed!” exclaimed the earl, returning to his disagreeable tone. “Perhaps you will put me in possession of the facts, and of your motives.”