“I have not slept, and I am very cold,” she answered. “I did not close my eyes all night, I was so terrified.”
“Terrified at what?” he asked.
“At those men,” she whispered. “It is strange that Mr. Vane has not come.”
“Is the post in?”
“I don’t know,” she apathetically replied. “I have received nothing.”
She had scarcely spoke when the butler entered with his salver full of letters, most of them bearing condolence with Lady Isabel. She singled out one and hastened to open it, for it bore the Castle Marling post-mark. “It is Mrs. Vane’s handwriting,” she remarked to Mr. Carlyle.
CASTLE MARLING, Saturday.
“MY DEAR ISABEL—I am dreadfully grieved and shocked at the news conveyed in Mr. Carlyle’s letter to my husband, for he has gone cruising in his yacht, and I opened it. Goodness knows where he may be, round the coast somewhere, but he said he should be home for Sunday, and as he is pretty punctual in keeping his word, I expect him. Be assured he will not lose a moment in hastening to East Lynne.
“I cannot express what I feel for you, and am too bouleversee to write more. Try and keep up your spirits, and believe me, dear Isabel, with sincere sympathy and regret, faithfully yours,
“EMMA MOUNT SEVERN.”