She reached her keys from the stand at her elbow, unlocked the case, and took from it some bank-notes.
"I received these from you a month ago," she said. "They came by post."
"And never had the grace to acknowledge them," he returned, in a sort of mock reproachful tone.
"Forty pounds. That was the amount, was it not?"
"I believe so."
"Allow me to return them to you. Count them."
"Return them to me--for what?" inquired Sir Francis, in amazement.
"I have no longer anything whatever to do with you in any way. Do not make my arm ache, holding out these notes to you so long! Take them!"
Sir Francis took the notes from her hand and placed them on a stand near to her.
"If it be your wish that all relations should end between us, why, let it be so," he said. "I must confess I think it may be the wisest course, as things have come to this pass; for a cat and dog life, which would seemingly be ours, is not agreeable. Remember, though, that it is your doing, not mine. But you cannot think I am going to see you starve, Isabel. A sum--we will fix upon the amount amicably--shall be placed to your credit half-yearly, and--"
"I beg of you to cease," she passionately interrupted. "What do you take me for?"
"Take you for! Why, how can you live? You have no fortune--you must receive assistance from some one."
"I will not receive it from you. If the whole world denied me, and I could find no help from strangers, or means of earning my own bread, and it was necessary that I should still exist, I would apply to my husband for means, rather than to you. In saying this, it ought to convince you that the topic may cease."
"Your husband!" sarcastically rejoined Sir Francis. "Generous man!"
A flush, deep and painful, dyed her cheeks. "I should have said my late husband. You need not have reminded me of the mistake."
"If you will accept nothing for yourself, you must for the child. He, at any rate, falls to my share. I shall give you a few hundred a year with him."
She beat her hands before her, as if beating off the man and his words. "Not a farthing, now or ever. Were you to attempt to send money to him, I would throw it into the nearest river. /Whom/ do you take me for? What do you take me for?" she repeated, rising in her bitter mortification. "If you have put me beyond the pale of the world, I am still Lord Mount Severn's daughter!"
"You did as much toward putting yourself beyond its pale as--"
"Don't I know it? Have I not said so?" she sharply interrupted. And then she sat, striving to calm herself, clasping together her shaking hands.
"Well, if you will persist in this perverse resolution, I cannot mend it," resumed Sir Francis. "In a little time you may probably wish to recall it; in which case a line, addressed to me at my banker's, will--"
Lady Isabel drew herself up. "Put away those notes, if you please," she interrupted, not allowing him to finish his sentence."
He took out his pocket-book and placed the bank notes within it.
"Your clothes--those you left here when you went to England--you will have the goodness to order Pierre to take away this afternoon. And now, Sir Francis, I believe that is all: we will part."
"To remain mortal enemies from henceforth? Is that to be it?"
"To be strangers," she replied, correcting him. "I wish you a good day."
"So you will not even shake hands with me, Isabel?"
"I would prefer not."
And thus they parted. Sir Francis left the room, but not immediately the house. He went into a distant apartment, and, calling the servants before him--there were but two--gave them each a year's wages in advance--"That they might not have to trouble miladi for money," he said to them. Then he paid a visit to the landlord, and handed him, likewise a year's rent in advance, making the same remark. After that, he ordered dinner at a hotel, and the same night he and Pierre departed on their journey home again, Sir Francis thanking his lucky star that he had so easily got rid of a vexatious annoyance.
And Lady Isabel? She passed her evening alone, sitting in the same place, close to the fire and the sparks. The attendant remonstrated that miladi was remaining up too late for her strength, but miladi ordered her and her remonstrances into an adjoining room.
When Lady Isabel lay down to rest, she sank into a somewhat calmer sleep than she had known of late; also into a dream. She thought she was back at East Lynne--not /back/, in one sense, but that she seemed never to have gone away from it--walking in the flower garden with Mr. Carlyle, while the three children played on the lawn. Her arm was within her husband's, and he was relating something to her. What the news was, she could not remember afterward, excepting that it was connected with the office and old Mr. Dill, and that Mr. Carlyle laughed when he told it. They appeared to be interrupted by the crying of Archibald; and, in turning to the lawn to ask what was the matter, she awoke. Alas! It was the actual crying of her own child which awoke her--this last child--the ill-fated little being in the cradle beside her. But, for a single instant, she forgot recent events and doings, she believed she was indeed in her happy home at East Lynne, a proud woman, an honored wife. As recollection flashed across her, with its piercing stings, she gave vent to a sharp cry of agony, of unavailing despair.
