“It is a hoax, I say,” raved Miss Carlyle. “What are you standing there for, like a gander on one leg?” she reiterated, venting her anger upon the unoffending man. “Is it a hoax or not?”
“I am overdone with amazement, Miss Corny. It is not a hoax; I have had a letter, too.”
“It can’t be true—it can’t be true. He had no more thought of being married when he left here, three days ago, than I have.”
“How can we tell that, Miss Corny? How are we to know he did not go to be married? I fancy he did.”
“Go to be married!” shrieked Miss Corny, in a passion. “He would not be such a fool. And to that fine lady-child! No—no.”
“He has sent this to be put in the county journals,” said Mr. Dill, holding forth a scrap of paper. “They are married, safe enough.”
Miss Carlyle took it and held it before her: her hand was cold as ice, and shook as if with palsy.
“MARRIED.—On the 1st inst., at Castle Marling, by the chaplain to the Earl of Mount Severn, Archibald Carlyle, Esquire, of East Lynne, to the Lady Isabel Mary Vane, only child of William, late Earl of Mount Severn.”
Miss Carlyle tore the paper to atoms and scattered it. Mr. Dill afterward made copies from memory, and sent them to the journal offices. But let that pass.
“I will never forgive him,” she deliberately uttered, “and I will never forgive or tolerate her.”