“I have let it furnished; the people enter to-day.  So you cannot turn me out of East Lynne into the road, or to furnished lodgings, Archibald.  There’ll be enough expense without our keeping on two houses; and most people in your place would jump at the prospect of my living here.  Your wife will be mistress.  I do not intend to take her honors from her; but I will save her a world of trouble in management—­be as useful to her as a housekeeper.  She will be glad of that, inexperienced as she is.  I dare say she never gave a domestic order in her life.”

This was a view of the case, to Mr. Carlyle, so plausibly put, that he began to think it might be all for the best.  He had great reverence for his sister’s judgment; force of habit is strong upon all of us.  Still he did not know.

“Did you buy that fine piano which has arrived?” angrily asked Miss Carlyle.

“It was my present to Isabel.”

Miss Corny groaned.  “What did it cost?”

“The cost is of no consequence.  The old piano here was a bad one, and I bought a better.”

“What did it cost?” repeated Miss Carlyle.

“A hundred and twenty guineas,” he answered.  Obedience to her will was yet powerful within him.

Miss Corny threw up her hands and eyes.  But at that moment Peter entered with some hot water which his master had rung for.  Mr. Carlyle rose and looked on the side-board.

“Where is the wine, Peter?”

The servant put it out, port and sherry.  Mr. Carlyle drank a glass, and then proceeded to mix some wine and water.  “Shall I mix some for you, Cornelia?” he asked.

“I’ll mix for myself if I want any.  Who’s that for?”

“Isabel.”

He quitted the room, carrying the wine and water, and entered his wife’s.  She was sitting half buried, it seemed, in the arm-chair, her face muffled up.  As she raised it, he saw that it was flushed and agitated; that her eyes were bright, and her frame was trembling.

“What is the matter?” he hastily asked.

“I got nervous after Marvel went,” she whispered, laying hold of him, as if for protection from terror.  “I came back to the chair and covered my head over, hoping some one would come up.”

“I have been talking to Cornelia.  But what made you nervous?”

“Oh!  I was very foolish.  I kept thinking of frightful things.  They would come into my mind.  Do not blame me, Archibald.  This is the room papa died in.”

“Blame you, my darling,” he uttered with deep feeling.

“I thought of a dreadful story about the bats, that the servants told—­I dare say you never heard it; and I kept thinking.  ’Suppose they were at the windows now, behind the blinds.’  And then I was afraid to look at the bed; I fancied I might see—­you are laughing!”

Yes, he was smiling; for he knew that these moments of nervous fear are best met jestingly.  He made her drink the wine and water, and then he showed her where the bell was, ringing it as he did so.  Its position had been changed in some late alterations to the house.