by Ellen Wood
Isabel’s mantle was procured from the ante-room where it had been left, and she descended the stairs with Mr. Carlyle. The carriage was drawn up close to the entrance, and the coachman had his reins gathered, ready to start. The footman — not the one who had gone upstairs — threw open the carriage door as he saw her. He was new in the service, a simple country native, just engaged. She withdrew her arm from Mr. Carlyle’s, and stood a moment before stepping in, looking at the man.
“Is papa much worse?”
“Oh, yes, my lady; he was screaming shocking. But they think he’ll live till morning.”
With a sharp cry, she seized the arm of Mr. Carlyle — seized it for support in her shock of agony. Mr. Carlyle rudely thrust the man away; he would willingly have flung him at full length on the pavement.
“Oh, Mr. Carlyle, why did you not tell me?” she shivered.
“My dear Lady Isabel, I am grieved that you are told now. But take comfort; you know how ill he frequently is, and this may be but an ordinary attack. Step in. I trust we shall find it nothing more.”
“Are you going home with me?”
“Certainly; I shall not leave you to go alone.”
She moved to the other side of the chariot, making room for him.
“Thank you. I will sit outside.”
“But the night is cold.”
“Oh, no.” He closed the door, and took his seat by the coachman; the footman got up behind, and the carriage sped away. Isabel gathered herself into her corner, and moaned aloud in her suspense and helplessness.
The coachman drove rapidly, and soon whipped his horses through the lodge-gates.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Mason, waited at the hall-door to receive Lady Isabel. Mr. Carlyle helped her out of the carriage, and gave her his arm up the steps. She scarcely dared to inquire.
“Is he better? May I go to his room?” she panted.
Yes, the earl was better — better, in so far as that he was quiet and senseless. She moved hastily toward his chamber. Mr. Carlyle drew the housekeeper aside.
“Is there any hope?”
“Not the slightest, sir. He is dying.”
The earl knew no one; pain was gone for the present, and he lay on his bed, calm; but his face, which had death in it all too plainly, startled Isabel. She did not scream or cry; she was perfectly quiet, save that she had a fit of shivering.
“Will he soon be better?” she whispered to Mr. Wainwright, who stood there.
The surgeon coughed. “Well, he — he — we must hope it, my lady.”
“But why does his face look like that? It is pale — gray; I never saw anybody else look so.”
“He has been in great pain, my lady, and pain leaves its traces on the countenance.”
Mr. Carlyle, who had come, and was standing by the surgeon, touched his arm to draw him from the room. He noticed the look on the earl’s face, and did not like it; he wished to question the surgeon. Lady Isabel saw that Mr. Carlyle was about to quit the room, and beckoned to him.
“Do not leave the house, Mr. Carlyle. When he wakes up, it may cheer him to see you here; he liked you very much.”
“I will not leave it, Lady Isabel. I did not think of doing so.”
In time — it seemed an age — the medical men arrived from Lynneborough — three of them — the groom had thought he could not summon too many. It was a strange scene they entered upon: the ghastly peer, growing restless again now, battling with his departing spirit, and the gala robes, the sparkling gems adorning the young girl watching at his side. They comprehended the case without difficulty; that she had been suddenly called from some scene of gayety.
They stooped to look at the earl, and felt his pulse, and touched his heart, and exchanged a few murmured words with Mr. Wainwright. Isabel had stood back to give them place, but her anxious eyes followed their every movement. They did not seem to notice her, and she stepped forward.
“Can you do anything for him? Will he recover?”
They all turned at the address, and looked at her. One spoke; it was an evasive answer.
“Tell me the truth!” she implored, with feverish impatience: “you must not trifle with me. Do you not know me? I am his only child, and I am here alone.”
The first thing was to get her away from the room, for the great change was approaching, and the parting struggle between the body and the spirit might be one of warfare — no sight for her. But in answer to their suggestion that she should go, she only leaned her head upon the pillow by her father and moaned in despair.
“She must be got out of the room,” cried one of the physicians, almost angrily. “Ma’am,” turning suddenly upon Mrs. Mason, “are there no reserves in the house — no one who can exert influence over the young lady?”
“She has scarcely any relatives in the world,” replied the housekeeper; “no near ones; and we happen to be, just now, quite alone.”
But Mr. Carlyle, seeing the urgency of the case, for the earl, with every minute, grew more excited, approached and whispered her: “You are as anxious as we can be for your father’s recovery?”
“As anxious!” she uttered reproachfully.
“You know what I would imply. Of course our anxiety can be as nothing to yours.”
“As nothing — as nothing. I think my heart will break.”
“Then — forgive me — you should not oppose the wishes of his medical attendants. They wish to be alone with him, and time is being lost.”
She rose up; she placed her hands on her brow, as if to collect the sense of the words, and then she addressed the doctors, —
“Is it really necessary that I should leave the room — necessary for him?”
“It is necessary, my lady — absolutely essential.”
She broke into a passion of tears and sobs as Mr. Carlyle lead her to another apartment.
“He is my dear father; I have but him in the wide world!” she exclaimed.
“I know — I know; I feel for you all that you are feeling. Twenty times this night I have wished — forgive me the thought — that you were my sister, so that I might express my sympathy more freely and comfort you.”
“Tell me the truth, then, why I am kept away. If you can show me sufficient cause, I will be reasonable and obey; but do not say again I should be disturbing him, for it is not true.”
“He is too ill for you to see him — his symptoms are too painful. In fact, it would not be proper; and were you to go in in defiance of advice, you would regret it all your after life.”
“Is he dying?”
Mr. Carlyle hesitated. Ought he to dissemble with her as the doctors had done? A strong feeling was upon him that he ought not.
“I trust to you not to deceive me,” she simply said.
“I fear he is — I believe he is.”
She rose up — she grasped his arm in the sudden fear that flashed over her.
“You are deceiving me, and he is dead!”
“I am not deceiving you, Lady Isabel. He is not dead, but — it may be very near.”
She laid her face down upon the soft pillow.
“Going forever from me — going forever? Oh, Mr. Carlyle, let me see him for a minute — just one farewell! Will you not try for me!”
He knew how hopeless it was, but he turned to leave the room.
“I will go and see. But you will remain here quietly — you will not come.”
She bowed her head in acquiescence, and he closed the door. Had she indeed been his sister, he would probably have turned the key upon her. He entered the earl’s chamber, but not many seconds did he remain in it.
“It is over,” he whispered to Mrs. Mason, whom he met in the corridor, “and Mr. Wainwright is asking for you.”
“You are soon back,” cried Isabel, lifting her head. “May I go?”
He sat down and took her hand, shrinking from his task.
“I wish I could comfort you!” he exclaimed, in a tone of deep emotion.
Her face turned of
a ghastly whiteness — as white as another’s not far away.
“Tell me the worst,” she breathed.
“I have nothing to tell you but the worst. May God support you, dear Lady Isabel!”
She turned to hide her face and its misery away from him, and a low wail of anguish broke from her, telling its own tale of despair.
The gray dawn of morning was breaking over the world, advent of another bustling day in life’s history; but the spirit of William Vane, Earl of Mount Severn, had soared away from it forever.
CHAPTER X.
THE KEEPERS OF THE DEAD.
Events, between the death of Lord Mount Severn and his interment, occurred quickly; and to one of them the reader may feel inclined to demur, as believing that it could have no foundation in fact, in the actions of real life, but must be a wild creation of the author’s brain. He would be wrong. The author is no more fond of wild creations than the reader. The circumstance did take place.
The earl died on Friday morning at daylight. The news spread rapidly. It generally does on the death of a peer, if he has been of note, whether good or bad, in the world, and was known in London before the day was over — the consequence of which was, that by Saturday morning, early, a shoal of what the late peer would have called harpies, had arrived, to surround East Lynne. There were creditors of all sorts; for small sums and for great, for five or ten pounds up to five or ten thousand. Some were civil, some impatient, some loud and rough and angry; some came to put in executions on the effects, and some — to arrest the body!
This last act was accomplished cleverly. Two men, each with a remarkably hooked nose, stole away from the hubbub of the clamorous, and peering cunningly about, made their way to the side or tradesman’s entrance. A kitchen-maid answered their gentle appeal at the bell.
“Is the coffin come yet?” said they.
“Coffin — no!” was the girl’s reply. “The shell ain’t here yet. Mr. Jones didn’t promise that till nine o’clock, and it haven’t gone eight.”
“It won’t be long,” quoth they; “its on its road. We’ll go up to his lordship’s room, please, and be getting ready for it.”
The girl called the butler. “Two men from Jones’, the undertaker’s, sir,” announced she. “The shell’s coming on and they want to go up and make ready for it.”
The butler marshaled them upstairs himself, and introduced them to the room. “That will do,” said they, as he was about to enter with them, “we won’t trouble you to wait.” And closing the door upon the unsuspicious butler, they took up their station on either side of the dead, like a couple of ill-omened mutes. They had placed an arrest upon the corpse; it was theirs until their claim was satisfied, and they sat down to thus watch and secure it. Pleasant occupation!
It may have been an hour later that Lady Isabel, leaving her own chamber, opened noiselessly that of the dead. She had been in it several times during the previous day; at first with the housekeeper; afterward, when the nameless dread was somewhat effaced, alone. But she felt nervous again this morning, and had gained the bed before she ventured to lift her eyes from the carpet and encounter the sight. Then she started, for there sat two strange-looking men — and not attractive men either.
It darted through her mind that they must be people from the neighborhood, come to gratify an idle and unpardonable curiosity. Her first impulse was to summon the butler; her second, to speak to them herself.
“Do you want anything here?” she quietly said.
“Much obleeged for the inquiry, miss. We are all right.”
The words and tone struck her as being singular in the extreme; and they kept their seats, too, as though they had a right to be there.
“Why are you here?” she repeated. “What are you doing?”
“Well, miss, I don’t mind telling you, for I suppose you are his daughter” — pointing his left thumb over his shoulder at the late peer— “and we hear he have got no other relative anigh him. We have been obleeged, miss, to perform an unpleasant dooty and secure him.”
The words were like Greek to her, and the men saw that they were.
“He unfortunately owed a slight amount of money, miss — as you, perhaps, be aware on, and our employers is in, deep. So, as soon as they heard what had happened, they sent us down to arrest the dead corpse, and we have done it.”
Amazement, horror, fear, struggled together in the shocked mind of Lady Isabel. Arrest the dead. She had never heard of a like calamity: nor could she have believed in such. Arrest it for what purpose? What to do? To disfigure it? — to sell it? With a panting heart and ashy lips, she turned from the room. Mrs. Mason happened to be passing near the stairs, and Isabel flew to her, laying hold of her with both hands, in her terror, as she burst into a fit of nervous tears.
“Those men — in there!” she gasped.
“What men, my lady?” returned Mrs. Mason, surprised.
“I don’t know; I don’t know. I think they are going to stop there; they say they have taken papa.”
After a pause of bewildered astonishment, the housekeeper left her standing where she was, and went to the earl’s chamber, to see if she could fathom the mystery of the words. Isabel leaned against the balustrades; partly for support, partly that she seemed afraid to stir from them; and the ominous disturbances downstairs reached her ears. Strangers, interlopers, appeared to be in the hall, talking vehemently, and complaining in bitter tones. More and more terrified, she held her breath to listen.
“Where’s the good of your seeing the young lady?” cried the butler, in a tone of remonstrance. “She knows nothing about the earl’s affairs; she is in grief enough just now, without any other worry.”
“I will see her,” returned a dogged voice. “If she’s too start-up and mighty to come down and answer a question or two, why I’ll find my way on to her. Here we are a shameful crowd of us, swindled out of our own, told there’s nobody we can speak to; nobody here but the young lady, and she must not be troubled. She didn’t find it trouble to help to spend our money. She has got no honor and feelings of a lady, if she don’t come and speak to us. There.”
Repressing her rebellious emotions, Lady Isabel glided partly down the staircase, and softy called to the butler. “What is all this?” she asked. “I must know.”
“Oh, my lady, don’t go amongst those rough men! You can’t do any good; pray go back before they see you. I have sent for Mr. Carlyle, and expect him here momentarily.”
“Did Papa owe them all money?” she said, shivering.
“I’m afraid he did, my lady.”
She went swiftly on; and passing through the few stragglers in the hall, entered the dining-room, where the chief mass had congregated, and the hubbub was loudest. All anger, at least external anger, was hushed at her sight. She looked so young, so innocent, so childlike in her pretty morning dress of peach-colored muslin, her fair face shaded by its falling curls, so little fit to combat with, or understand their business, that instead of pouring forth complaints, they hushed them into silence.
“I heard some one calling out that I ought to see you,” she began, her agitation causing the words to come forth in a jerking manner. “What did you want with me?”
Then they poured forth their complaints, but not angrily, and she listened till she grew sick. There were many and formidable claims; promissory notes and I O Us, overdue bills and underdue bills; heavy outstanding debts of all sorts, and trifles, comparatively speaking, for housekeeping, servants’ liveries, out-door servants’ wages, bread and meat.
What was Isabel Vane to answer? What excuse to offer? What hope or promise to give? She stood in bewilderment, unable to speak, turning from one to the other, her sweet eyes full of pity and contrition.
“The fact is, young lady,” spoke up one who bore the exterior of a gentleman, “we should not have come down troubling you — at least, I can answer for myself — but his lordship’s men of business, Warburton & Ware, to whom many of us hastened last evening, tol
d us there would not be a shilling for anybody unless it could be got from furniture. When it comes to that, it is ‘first come, first served,’ and I got down by morning light, and levied an execution.”
“Which was levied before you came,” put in a man who might be brother to the two upstairs, to judge by his nose. “But what’s such furniture as this to our claims — if you come to combine ‘em? No more than a bucket of water is to the Thames.”
“What can I do?” shivered Lady Isabel. “What is it you wish me to do? I have no money to give you, I—”
“No, miss,” broke in a quiet, pale man; “if report tells me, you are worse wronged than we are, for you won’t have a roof to put your head under, or a guinea to call your own.”
“He has been a scoundrel to everybody,” interrupted an intemperate voice; “he has ruined thousands.”
The speech was hissed down; even they were not men gratuitously to insult a delicate young lady.
“Perhaps you’ll just answer us a question, miss,” persisted the voice, in spite of the hisses. “Is there any ready money that can—”
But another person had entered the room — Mr. Carlyle. He caught sight of the white face and trembling hands of Isabel, and interrupted the last speaker with scant ceremony.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, in a tone of authority. “What do you want?”
“If you are a friend of the late peer’s, you ought to know what we want,” was the response. “We want our debts paid.”
“But this is not the place to come to,” returned Mr. Carlyle; “your coming here flocking in this extraordinary manner, will do no good. You must go to Warburton & Ware.”
“We have been to them and received their answer — a cool assurance that there’ll be nothing for anybody.”
“At any rate, you’ll get nothing here,” observed Mr. Carlyle, to the assembly, collectively. “Allow me to request that you leave the house at once.”
It was little likely that they would for him, and they said it.