“I should recommend a complete change of scene altogether, Mr. Carlyle. Say some place on the French or Belgian coast. Sea bathing might do wonders.”

“Should you think it well for her to go so far from home?”

“I should. In these cases of protracted weakness, where you can do nothing but try to coax the strength back again, change of air and scene are of immense benefit.”

“I will propose it to her,” said Mr. Carlyle.

“I have just done so,” replied Dr. Martin, who was the other speaker. “She met it with objection, which I expected, for invalids naturally feel a disinclination to move from home. But it is necessary that she should go.”

The object of their conversation was Lady Isabel. Years had gone on, and there were three children now at East Lynne—Isabel, William, and Archibald—the latter twelve months old. Lady Isabel had, a month or two back, been attacked with illness; she recovered from the disorder; but it had left her in an alarming state of weakness; she seemed to get worse instead of better, and Dr. Martin was summoned from Lynneborough. The best thing he could recommend—as you save seen—was change of air.

Lady Isabel was unwilling to take the advice; more especially to go so far as the “French coast.” And but for a circumstance that seemed to have happened purposely to induce her to decide, would probably never have gone. Mrs. Ducie—the reader may not have forgotten her name—had, in conjunction with her husband, the honorable Augustus, somewhat run out at the elbows, and found it convenient to enter for a time on the less expensive life of the Continent. For eighteen months she had been staying in Paris, the education of her younger daughters being the plea put forth, and a very convenient plea it is, and serves hundreds. Isabel had two or three letters from her during her absence, and she now received another, saying they were going to spend a month or two at Boulogne-sur-Mer. Mr. Carlyle, Mr. Wainwright, and Dr. Martin—in short, everybody—declared this must remove all Lady Isabel’s unwillingness to go from home, for Mrs. Ducie’s society would do away with the loneliness she had anticipated, which had been the ostensible score of her objection.

“Boulogne-sur-Mer, of all places, in the world!” remonstrated Lady Isabel. “It is spoken of as being crowded and vulgar.”

“The more amusing for you, my lady,” cried Dr. Martin, while Mr. Carlyle laughed at her. And finding she had no chance against them all, she consented to go, and plans were hastily decided upon.

“Joyce,” said Lady Isabel to her waiting maid, “I shall leave you at home; I must take Wilson instead.”

“Oh, my lady! What have I done?”

“You have done all that you ought, Joyce, but you must stay with the children. If I may not take them, the next best thing will be to leave them in your charge, not Miss Carlyle’s,” she said, shaking her voice; “if it were Wilson who remained, I could not do that.”

“My lady, I must do whatever you think best. I wish I could attend you and stay with them, but of course I cannot do both.”

“I am sent away to get health and strength, but it may be that I shall die, Joyce. If I never come back, will you promise to remain with my children?”

Joyce felt a creeping sensation in her veins, the sobs rose in her throat, but she swallowed them down and constrained her voice to calmness. “My lady, I hope you will come back to us as well as you used to be. I trust you will hope so too, my lady, and not give way to low spirits.”

“I sincerely hope and trust I shall,” answered Lady Isabel, fervently. “Still, there’s no telling, for I am very ill. Joyce, give me your promise. In case of the worst, you will remain with the children.”

“I will, my lady—as long as I am permitted.”

“And be kind to them and love them, and shield them from—from—any unkindness that may be put upon them,” she added, her head full of Miss Carlyle, “and talk to them sometimes of their poor mother, who is gone?”

“I will, I will—oh my lady, I will!” And Joyce sat down in the rocking-chair as Lady Isabel quitted her, and burst into tears.

Mr. Carlyle and Lady Isabel, with Wilson and Peter in attendance, arrived at Boulogne, and proceeded to the Hotel des Bains. It may be as well to mention that Peter had been transferred from Miss Carlyle’s service to theirs, when the establishment was first formed at East Lynne. Upon entering the hotel they inquired for Mrs. Ducie, and then a disappointment awaited them. A letter was handed them which had arrived that morning from Mrs. Ducie, expressing her regret that certain family arrangements prevented her visiting Boulogne; she was proceeding to some of the baths in Germany instead.

“I might almost have known it,” remarked Isabel. “She was always the most changeable of women.”

Mr. Carlyle went out in search of lodgings, Isabel objecting to remain in the bustling hotel. He succeeded in finding some very desirable ones, situated in the Rue de l’Ecu, near the port, and they moved into them. He thought the journey had done her good, for she looked better, and said she already felt stronger. Mr. Carlyle remained with her three days; he had promised only one, but he was pleased with everything around him, pleased with Isabel’s returning glimpses of health, and amused with the scenes of the busy town.

The tide served at eight o’clock the following morning, and Mr. Carlyle left by the Folkestone boat. Wilson made his breakfast, and after swallowing it in haste, he returned to his wife’s room to say farewell.

“Good-bye, my love,” he said, stooping to kiss her, “take care of yourself.”

“Give my dear love to the darlings, Archibald. And—and——”

“And what?” he asked. “I have not a moment to lose.”

“Do not get making love to Barbara Hare while I am away.”

She spoke in a tone half jest, half serious—could he but have seen how her heart was breaking! Mr. Carlyle took it wholly as a jest, and went away laughing. Had he believed she was serious, he could have been little more surprised had she charged him not to go about the country on a dromedary.

Isabel rose later, and lingered over her breakfast, listless enough. She was wondering how she would make the next few weeks pass; what she should do with her time. She had taken two sea baths since her arrival, but they had appeared not to agree with her, leaving her low and shivering afterwards, so it was not deemed advisable that she should attempt more. It was a lovely morning, and she determined to venture on to the pier, to where they had sat on the previous evening. She had not Mr. Carlyle’s arm, but it was not far, and she could take a good rest at the end of it.

She went, attended by Peter, took her seat, and told him to come for her in an hour. She watched the strollers on the pier as they had done the previous evening; not in crowds now, but stragglers, coming on at intervals. There came a gouty man, in a list shoe, there came three young ladies and their governess, there came two fast puppies in shooting jackets and eye-glasses, which they turned with a broad stare on Lady Isabel; but there was something about her which caused them to drop their glasses and their ill manners together. After an interval, there appeared another, a tall, handsome, gentlemanly man. Her eyes fell upon him; and—what was it that caused every nerve in her frame to vibrate, every pulse to quicken? Whose form was it that was thus advancing and changing the monotony of her mind into tumult? It was that of one whom she was soon to find had never been entirely forgotten.

Captain Levison came slowly on, approaching the pier where she sat. He glanced at her; not with the hardihood displayed by the two young men, but with quite sufficiently evident admiration.

“What a lovely girl!” thought he to himself. “Who can she be, sitting there alone?”

All at once a recollection flashed into his mind; he raised his hat and extended his hand, his fascinating smile in full play.

“I certainly cannot be mistaken. Have I the honor of once more meeting Lady Isabel Vane?”

She rose from the seat, and allowed him to take her hand, answering a few words at random, for her wits seemed wool-gathering.

“I beg your pardon—I should have said Lady Isabel Carlyle. Time has elapsed since we parted, and in the pleasure of seeing you again so unexpectedly, I thought of you as you were then.”

She sat down again, the brilliant flush of emotion dying away upon her cheeks. It was the loveliest face Francis Levison had seen since he saw hers, and he thought so as he gazed at it.

“What can have brought you to this place?” he inquired, taking a seat beside her.

“I have been ill,” she explained, “and am ordered to the sea-side. We should not have come here but for Mrs. Ducie; we expected to meet her. Mr. Carlyle only left me this morning.”

“Mrs. Ducie is off to Ems. I see them occasionally. They have been fixtures in Paris for some time. You do indeed look ill,” he abruptly added, in a tone of sympathy, “alarmingly ill. Is there anything I can do for you?”

She was aware that she looked unusually ill at that moment, for the agitation and surprise of meeting him were fading away, leaving her face an ashy whiteness. Exceedingly vexed and angry with herself did she feel that the meeting should have power to call forth emotion. Until that moment she was unconscious that she retained any sort of feeling for Captain Levison.

“Perhaps I have ventured out too early,” she said, in a tone that would seem to apologize for her looks: “I think I will return. I shall meet my servant, no doubt. Good-morning, Captain Levison.”

“But indeed you do not appear fit to walk alone,” he remonstrated. “You must allow me to see you safely home.”

Drawing her hand within his own quite as a matter of course, as he had done many a time in days gone by, he proceeded to assist her down the pier. Lady Isabel, conscious of her own feelings, felt that it was not quite the thing to walk thus familiarly with him, but he was a sort of relation of the family—a connection, at any rate—and she could find no ready excuse for declining.

“Have you seen Lady Mount Severn lately?” he inquired.

“I saw her when I was in London this spring with Mr. Carlyle. The first time we have met since my marriage; and we do not correspond. Lord Mount Severn had paid us two or three visits at East Lynne. They are in town yet, I believe.”

“For all I know; I have not seen them, or England either, for ten months. I have been staying in Paris, and got here yesterday.”

“A long leave of absence,” she observed.

“Oh, I have left the army. I sold out. The truth is, Lady Isabel—for I don’t mind telling you—things are rather down with me at present. My old uncle has behaved shamefully; he has married again.”

“I heard that Sir Peter had married.”

“He is seventy-three—the old simpleton! Of course this materially alters my prospects, for it is just possible he may have a son of his own now; and my creditors all came down upon me. They allowed me to run into debt with complacency when I was heir to the title and estates, but as soon as Sir Peter’s marriage appeared in the papers, myself and my consequence dropped a hundred per cent; credit was stopped, and I dunned for payment. So I thought I’d cut it altogether, and I sold out and came abroad.”

“Leaving your creditors?”

“What else could I do? My uncle would not pay them, or increase............