"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."
"In the morning, dear," evasively returned Joyce. "Sir, please, must not Isabel go back to bed?"
Mr. Carlyle made no reply to the question; most likely he never heard its import. But he touched Isabel's shoulder to draw Joyce's attention to the child.
"Joyce--/Miss Lucy/ in future."
He left the room, and Joyce remained silent from amazement. She heard him go out at the hall door and bang it after him. Isabel--nay, we must say "Lucy" also--went and stood outside the chamber door; the servants gathered in a group near, did not observe her. Presently she came running back, and disturbed Joyce from her reverie.
"Joyce, is it true?"
"Is what true, my dear?"
"They are saying that Captain Levison has taken away my mamma."
Joyce fell back in her chair with a scream. It changed to a long, low moan of anguish.
"What has he taken her for--to kill her? I thought it was only kidnappers who took people."
"Child, child, go to bed."
"Oh, Joyce, I want mamma. When will she come back?"
Joyce hid her face in her hands to conceal its emotion from the motherless child. And just then Miss Carlyle entered on tiptoe, and humbly sat down on a low chair, her green face--green that night--in its grief, its remorse, and its horror, looking nearly as dark as her stockings.
She broke into a subdued wail.
"God be merciful to this dishonored house!"
Mr. Justice Hare turned into the gate between twelve and one--turned in with a jaunty air; for the justice was in spirits, he having won nine sixpences, and his friend's tap of ale having been unusually good. When he reached his bedroom, he told Mrs. Hare of a chaise and four which had gone tearing past at a furious pace as he was closing the gate, coming from the direction of East Lynne. He wondered where it could be going at that midnight hour, and whom it contained.
