Rising, he made his way to the door of his wife's dressing-room. It was in darkness; and, so far as he could judge by the absence of sound, unoccupied.
"Isabel!"
No reply. Nothing but the echo of his own voice in the silence of the night.
He struck a match and lighted a taper, partially dressed himself, and went about to look for her. He feared she might have been taken ill; or else that she had fallen asleep in some one of the rooms. But nowhere could he find her, and feeling perplexed, he proceeded to his sister's chamber door and knocked.
Miss Carlyle was a slight sleeper, and rose up in bed at once. "Who's that?" cried out she.
"It is only I, Cornelia," said Mr. Carlyle.
"You!" cried Miss Corny. "What in the name of fortune do you want? You can come in."
Mr. Carlyle opened the door, and met the keen eyes of his sister bent on him from the bed. Her head was surmounted by a remarkable nightcap, at least a foot high.
"Is anybody ill?" she demanded.
"I think Isabel must be, I cannot find her."
"Not find he?" echoed Miss Corny. "Why, what's the time? Is she not in bed?"
"It is three o'clock. She had not been to bed. I cannot find her in the sitting-rooms; neither is she in the children's room."
"Then I'll tell you what it is, Archibald; she's gone worrying after Joyce. Perhaps the girl may be in pain to-night."
Mr. Carlyle was in full retreat toward Joyce's room, at this suggestion, when his sister called to him.
"If anything is amiss with Joyce, you come and tell me, Archibald, for I shall get up and see after her. The girl was my servant before she was your wife's."
He reached Joyce's room, and softly unlatched the door, fully expecting to find a light there, and his wife sitting by the bedside.
There was no light there, however, save that which came from the taper he held, and he saw no signs of his wife. /Where/ was she? Was it probable that Joyce should tell him? He stepped inside the room and called to her.
Joyce started up in a fright, which changed to astonishment when she recognized her master. He inquired whether Lady Isabel had been there, and for a few moments Joyce did not answer. She had been dreaming of Lady Isabel, and could not at first detach the dream from the visit which had probably given rise to it.
"What did you say, sir? Is my lady worse?"
"I asked if she had been here. I cannot find her."
"Why, yes," said Joyce, now fully aroused. "She came here and woke me.
That was just before twelve, for I heard the clock strike. She did not stay here a minute, sir."
"Woke you!" repeated Mr. Carlyle. "What did she want? What did she come here for?"
Thoughts are quick; imagination is still quicker; and Joyce was giving the reins to both. Her mistress's gloomy and ambiguous words were crowding on her brain. Three o'clock and she had not been in bed, and was not to be found in the house? A nameless horror struggled to Joyce's face, her eyes were dilating with it; she seized and threw on a large flannel gown which lay on a chair by the bed, and forgetful of her master who stood there, out she sprang to the floor. All minor considerations faded to insignificance beside the terrible dread which had taken possession of her. Clasping the flannel gown tight around her with one hand, she laid the other on the arm of Mr. Carlyle.
"Oh, master! Oh, master! She has destroyed herself! I see it all now."
"Joyce!" sternly interrupted Mr. Carlyle.
"She has destroyed herself, as true as that we two are living here," persisted Joyce, her own face livid with emotion. "I can understand her words now; I could not before. She came here--and her face was like a corpse as the light fell upon it--saying she had come to get a promise from me to stay with her children when she was gone, I asked whether she was ill, and she answered, 'Yes, ill and wretched.' Oh, sir, may heaven support you under this dreadful trial!"
Mr. Carlyle felt bewildered--perplexed. Not a syllable did he believe.
He was not angry with Joyce, for he thought she had lost her reason.
"It is so, sir, incredible as you may deem my words," pursued Joyce, wringing her hands. "My lady has been miserably unhappy; and that has driven her to it."
"Joyce, are you in your senses or out of them?" demanded Mr. Carlyle, a certain sternness in his tone. "Your lady miserably unhappy! What do you mean?"
Before Joyce could answer, an addition was received to the company in the person of Miss Carlyle, who appeared in black stockings and a shawl, and the lofty nightcap. Hearing voices in Joyce's room, which was above her own, and full of curiosity, she ascended, not choosing to be shut out from the conference.
"Whatever's up?" cried she. "Is Lady Isabel found?"
"She is not found, and she never will be found but in her winding-sheet," returned Joyce, whose lamentable and unusual state of excitement completely overpowered her customary quiet respect and plain good sense. "And, ma'am, I am glad that you have come up; for what I was about to say to my master I would prefer to say in your presence. When my lady is brought into this house, and laid before us dead, what will your feelings be? My master has done his duty by her in love; but you--you have made her life a misery. Yes, ma'am, you have."
"Hoity-toity!" muttered Miss Carlyle, staring at Joyce in consternation. "What is all this? Where's my lady?"
