Two men-servants stood there.  The one remained in the hall, the other advanced to the chaise.  He assisted Lady Isabel to alight, and then busied himself with the luggage.  As she ascended to the hall she recognized old Peter.  Strange, indeed, did it seem not to say, “How are you, Peter?” but to meet him as a stranger.  For a moment, she was at a loss for words; what should she say, or ask, coming to her own home?  Her manner was embarrassed, her voice low.

“Is Mrs. Carlyle within?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At that moment Joyce came forward to receive her.  “It is Madame Vine, I believe,” she respectfully said.  “Please to step this way, madame.”

But Lady Isabel lingered in the hall, ostensibly to see that her boxes came in right—­Stephen was bringing them up—­in reality to gather a short respite, for Joyce might be about to usher her into the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle.

Joyce, however, did nothing of the sort.  She merely conducted her to the gray parlor.  A fire was burning in the grate, looking cheerful on the autumn night.

“This is your sitting-room, madame.  What will you please to take?  I will order it brought in while I show you your bed-chamber.”

“A cup of tea,” answered Lady Isabel.

“Tea and some cold meat?” suggested Joyce.  But Lady Isabel interrupted her.

“Nothing but tea and a little cold toast.”

Joyce rang the bell, ordered the refreshment to be made ready, and then preceded Lady Isabel upstairs.  On she followed her heart palpitating; past the rooms that used to be hers, along the corridor, toward the second staircase.  The door of her old dressing-room stood open, and she glanced in with a yearning look.  No, never more, never more could it be hers; she had put it from her by her own free act and deed.  Not less comfortable did it look now than in former days, but it had passed into another’s occupancy.  The fire threw its blaze on the furniture.  There were the little ornaments on the large dressing-table, as they used to be in her time; and the cut glass of crystal essence-bottles was glittering in the firelight.  On the sofa lay a shawl and a book, and on the bed a silk dress, as thrown there after being taken off.  No, those rooms were not for her now, and she followed Joyce up the other staircase.  The bedroom she was shown to was commodious and well furnished.  It was the one Miss Carlyle had occupied when she, Isabella, had been taken a bride to East Lynne, though that lady had subsequently quitted it for one on the lower floor.  Joyce put down the waxlight she carried and looked round.

“Would you like a fire lighted here, madame, for to-night?  Perhaps it will feel welcome after travelling.”

“Oh, no, thank you,” was the answer.

Stephen, with somebody to help him, was bringing up the luggage.  Joyce directed him where to place it, telling him to uncord the boxes.  That done, the man left the room, and Joyce turned to Lady Isabel, who had stood like a statue, never so much as attempting to remove her bonnet.