Mr. Carlyle, when he received the letter and marked its earnest tone, wondered much.  In reply, he stated that he would be with her on the following Saturday, and then her returning, or not, with him could be settled.  Fully determined not to meet Captain Levison, Isabel, in the intervening days, only went out in a carriage.  He called once, and was shown into the drawing-room; but Lady Isabel, who happened to be in her own chamber, sent out a message, which was delivered by Peter.  “My lady’s compliments, but she must decline receiving visitors.”

Sunday morning—­it had been impossible for him to get away before—­brought Mr. Carlyle.  He strongly combatted her wish to return home until six weeks should have expired, he nearly said he would not take her, and she grew earnest over it, almost to agitation.

“Isabel,” he said, “let me know your motive, for it appears to me you have one.  The sojourn here is evidently doing you a vast deal of good, and what you urge about ‘being dull,’ sounds very like nonsense.  Tell me what it is.”

A sudden impulse flashed over her that she would tell him the truth.  Not tell him that she loved Francis Levison, or that he had spoken to her as he did; she valued her husband too greatly to draw him into any unpleasantness whose end could not be seen; but own to him that she had once felt a passing fancy for Francis Levison, and preferred not to be subjected to his companionship now.  Oh, that she had done so!  Her kind, her noble, her judicious husband!  Why did she not?  The whole truth, as to her present feelings, it was not expedient that she should tell, but she might have confided to him quite sufficient.  He would only have cherished her the more deeply, and sheltered her under his fostering care, safe from harm.

Why did she not?  In the impulse of the moment she was about to do so, when Mr. Carlyle, who had been taking a letter from his pocket book put it into her hand.  Upon what slight threads the events of life turn!  Her thoughts diverted, she remained silent while she opened the letter.  It was from Miss Carlyle, who had handed it to her brother in the moment of his departure, to carry to Lady Isabel and save postage.  Mr. Carlyle had nearly dropped it into the Folkestone post office.

A letter as stiff as Miss Corny herself.  The children were well, and the house was going on well, and she hoped Lady Isabel was better.  It filled three sides of note paper, but that was all the news it contained, and it wound up with the following sentence, “I would continue my epistle, but Barbara Hare, who is to spend the day with us, has just arrived.”

Barbara Hare spending the day at East Lynne!  That item was quite enough for Lady Isabel, and her heart and her confidence closed to her husband.  She must go home to her children, she urged; she could not remain longer away from them; and she urged it at length with tears.

“Nay, Isabel,” said Mr. Carlyle; “if you are so much in earnest as this, you shall certainly go back with me.”