There had been other things, too.  The re-appearance of Francis Levison at West Lynne, in fresh contact, as may be said, with herself, had struck terror to her heart, and the dark charge brought against him augmented awfully her remorse.  Then, the sharp lances perpetually thrust upon her memory—­the Lady Isabel’s memory—­from all sides, were full of cruel stings, unintentionally though they were hurled.  And there was the hourly chance of discovery, and the never ceasing battle with her conscience, for being at East Lynne at all.  No wonder that the chords of life were snapping; the wonder would have been had they remained whole.

“She brought it upon herself—­she ought not to have come back to East Lynne!” groans our moralist again.

Didn’t I say so?  Of course she ought not.  Neither ought she to have suffered her thoughts to stray, in the manner they did, towards Mr. Carlyle.  She ought not, but she did.  If we all did just what we “ought,” this lower proverb touching fruit defendu would go out as a dead letter.

She was nearer to death than she imagined.  She knew, judging by her declining strength and her inner feelings, that it could not be far off; but she did not deem it was coming so very soon.  Her mother had died in a similar way.  Some said of consumption—­Dr. Martin did, you may remember; some said of “waste;” the earl, her husband, said a broken heart—­you heard him say so to Mr. Carlyle in the first chapter of this history.  The earl was the one who might be supposed to know best.  Whatever may have been Lady Mount Severn’s malady, she—­to give you the phrase that was in people’s mouth’s at the time—­“went out like the snuff of a candle.”  It was now the turn of Lady Isabel.  She had no more decided disorder than the countess had had, yet death had marked her.  She felt that it had, and in its approach she dreaded not, as she once had done, the consequences that must ensue, did discovery come.  Which brings us back to the point whence ensued this long digression.  I dare say you are chafing at it, but it is not often I trouble you with one.

But she would not willingly let discovery come, neither had she the least intention of remaining at East Lynne to die.  Where she should take refuge was quite a secondary consideration, only let her get smoothly and plausibly away.  Joyce, in her dread, was forever urging it.  Of course, the preliminary step was to arrange matters with Mrs. Carlyle, and in the afternoon of the day following the funeral, Lady Isabel proceeded to her dressing-room, and craved an interview.

Mr. Carlyle quitted the room as she entered it.  Barbara, fatigued with a recent drive, was lying on the sofa.  She would scarcely take the notice.

“We shall be so sorry to lose you, Madame Vine.  You are all we could wish for Lucy, and Mr. Carlyle feels truly grateful for your love and attention to his poor boy.”

“To leave you will give me pain also,” Madame Vine answered, in a subdued tone.  Pain?  Ay.  Mrs. Carlyle little guessed at its extent.  All she cared for on earth she should leave behind her at East Lynne.