Poor thing—­poor Lady Isabel!  She had sacrificed husband, children, reputation, home, all that makes life of value to woman.  She had forfeited her duty to God, had deliberately broken his commandments, for the one poor miserable mistake of flying with Francis Levison.  But the instant the step was irrevocable, the instant she had left the barrier behind, repentance set in.  Even in the first days of her departure, in the fleeting moments of abandonment, when it may be supposed she might momentarily forget conscience, it was sharply wounding her with its adder stings; and she knew that her whole future existence, whether spent with that man or without him, would be a dark course of gnawing retribution.

Nearly a year went by, save some six or eight weeks, when, one morning in July, Lady Isabel made her appearance in the breakfast-room.  They were staying now at Grenoble.  Taking that town on their way to Switzerland through Savoy, it had been Captain Levison’s pleasure to halt in it.  He engaged apartments, furnished, in the vicinity of the Place Grenette.  A windy, old house it was, full of doors and windows, chimneys and cupboards; and he said he should remain there.  Lady Isabel remonstrated; she wished to go farther on, where they might get quicker news from England; but her will now was as nothing.  She was looking like the ghost of her former self.  Talk of her having looked ill when she took that voyage over the water with Mr. Carlyle; you should have seen her now—­misery marks the countenance worse than sickness.  Her face was white and worn, her hands were thin, her eyes were sunken and surrounded by a black circle—­care was digging caves for them.  A stranger might have attributed these signs to the state of her health; she knew better—­knew that they were the effects of her wretched mind and heart.

It was very late for breakfast, but why should she rise early only to drag through another endless day?  Languidly she took her seat at the table, just as Captain Levison’s servant, a Frenchman whom he had engaged in Paris, entered the room with two letters.

“Point de gazette, Pierre?” she said.

“Non, miladi.”

And all the time the sly fox had got the Times in his coat pocket.  But he was only obeying the orders of his master.  It had been Captain Levison’s recent pleasure that the newspapers should not be seen by Lady Isabel until he had over-looked them.  You will speedily gather his motive.

Pierre departed toward Captain Levison’s room, and Lady Isabel took up the letters and examined their superscription with interest.  It was known to her that Mr. Carlyle had not lost a moment in seeking a divorce and the announcement that it was granted was now daily expected.  She was anxious for it—­anxious that Captain Levison should render her the only reparation in his power before the birth of her unhappy child.  Little thought she that there was not the least intention on his part to make her reparation, any more than he had made it to others who had gone before her.  She had become painfully aware of the fact that the man for whom she had chosen to sacrifice herself was bad, but she had not learned all his badness yet.