"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 form 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.
