Isabel Leicester

C >> Clotilda Jennings >> Isabel Leicester

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In the early morning a violent knocking at the hall door brought Thomson
from his gossip with the other servants.

"Is there not a lady--a widow lady, staying here?" inquired an old
gentleman in an agitated voice, while the cab driver beat his arms on
the pavement. "Is not this Mr. Ashton's?" he added, as Thomson
hesitated. Thomson answered in the affirmative, and the old gentleman
continued, "Is the lady here? Can I see your master? answer me quickly
don't be so stupid."

"A lady came last night but, but," stammered Thomson "she,"

"Is she here now, I say," he cried angrily.

"Yes sir, but--

"Say no more, just tell your master I want to see him immediately, stop,
take my card, here, now be quick."

Poor Thomas was quite bewildered by the old gentleman's manner. I'm
blest he murmured if I know what we're coming to next, Lord Barrington,
what does he want I should like to know.

"Why Ada, it is Lord Barrington," exclaimed Charles.

"How very fortunate," returned Ada "of course he will take charge of the
baby, I confess I was in a quandary for I do not relish the idea of
having the care of it, poor little thing."

"Nor I either, but I am not so sure that he will take it, it is much
more likely he has come to row me about the whole affair."

"You! Why, what had you to do with it?"

"No more than you had; but I must see him at once, I suppose."

"Shall I go, too?" asked Ada, timidly.

"Not at present: if there is to be a storm, I do not see why you should
be in it."

"He is such a dreadful old man, is he not?"

"Not usually; he was always very, very kind to Arthur."

"Not to his wife," she replied, vainly endeavoring to repress her tears.

"No, very cruel; but you must not grieve so much about it, dearest Ada."

"I cannot help it, it is so terribly shocking."

"But it is past, now: she is at rest, she is happy; even her lifeless
remains look calm--the weary, weary look exchanged for one of peace."

"True, but it is so dreadful; if we had only known before," she sobbed.

"I wish we had, with all my soul," returned Charles, "but you really
must not distress yourself so, or I shall have to keep the poor old gent
waiting."

"Go to him, Charley; I shall feel better presently."

He found his Lordship impatiently pacing the room. "I am seeking my
daughter-in-law; she is here, I believe," he said, after the first
salutations were over.

"She is here," Charles answered gravely, "at least her remains; she died
last night."

"Dead! dead!" repeated Lord Barrington, putting his hand to his head.
"Then I have nothing left."

"But the child," interposed Charles.

"The child--what child?"

"The babe born last night."

"He did not heed the answer, but seemed overpowered by the news of
Louisa's death. "Let me see Arthur's wife," he said, after a few minutes
had elapsed. Charles conducted him to the darkened apartment, where he
gazed in agony upon the worn, but calm features of poor Louisa. And as
he thought of his harshness, and Arthur's words, "make not her coming
alone harder by one word or look," his grief became so violent and
excessive that Charles was quite nonplussed, and went to consult Ada as
to what should be done. In accordance with their plan, Ada took the
frail little piece of humanity, and, approaching Lord Barrington, as he
bent in sorrow over the corpse, said softly, "You have lost Arthur, and
Arthur's wife, but you still have Arthur's child," and she laid the babe
in his arms.

His tears fell on its tiny face, but the sight of it, and its
helplessness, did him good. "Oh, Arthur! Arthur!" he moaned, why did you
doubt your old father? how would I have welcomed your wife if you had
brought her home at first! aye, as I now welcome this child--Arthur's
child," he added, looking at it fondly.

He had the corpse conveyed to Barrington, and placed in the family
vault, and erected a monument--very beautiful, indeed--beside the one he
had already placed there in memory of his son, inscribed:

To
LOUISA,
the beloved wife of Arthur,
only son of
LORD BARRINGTON OF BARRINGTON,
Aged 16 years.

He also placed another in the little burying-place at Z----:

In memory of
ARTHUR,
only son of LORD BARRINGTON, of Barrington Park, England,
aged 23 years,
who was suddenly attacked with a fatal fever,
in a foreign land,
when on his way home.

When Lady Ashton arrived, shortly afterwards, and heard what had taken
place, she was in a terrible fume. "Oh! my dear, what a misfortune. How
unlucky for her to come here: why did you let her stay, Charles?"

"Why did I let her stay? Say, rather, why did you send her away?"

"Yes, why did you let her stay?" she repeated, angrily. "Why did you not
let her go to the hospital?"

"Or die in the street," added Charles, scarcely able to keep his temper,
for he was angry and hurt to think how Louisa had been treated.

"Goodness knows what people will say: no doubt all kinds of strange
stories will be circulated. I feel for you, Ada, my dear; I do, indeed."

"Don't be alarmed, my dear mother, as to rumors and strange stories,"
said Charles, handing her a newspaper, and pointing out the following:

DIED.--At the residence of Charles Ashton, Esq. LOUISA, wife of
the late Hon. Arthur Barrington, and grand-daughter of Sir Edward
Ashton of Brierley.

"Charles, how dared you?" cried his mother, reddening with anger, "your
father will be excessively angry."

"I cannot help that: it is the truth, is it not?"

"True? of course you know it is; but, for all that, you need not have
published it in that absurd manner."

"I thought it best."

"And you are simple enough to think that that notice will prevent absurd
stories getting abroad."

"As to who she might be, yes; and, as to the circumstances that brought
her here, I presume you would prefer any, rather than the right ones,
should be assigned."

Lady Ashton was for once abashed, and her eye dropped beneath the
severity of her son's gaze; but, recovering quickly, she answered, "you,
at least, have nothing to do with that."

"I am thankful to say I have not," he returned, "I cannot forget it, it
makes me perfectly wretched; and, but that I know that Ada has her own
home to go to, if anything happened to me I don't know what I should do.
I shall insure my life this very day, that she may be independent. If a
daughter's child could be so treated, why not a son's wife."

For goodness' sake stop, Charles!" cried his mother, "don't talk so
dreadfully."

"I feel it bitterly, mother; indeed I do," he replied, and hastily left
the room. He would not have done so, however, had he known the storm he
had left Ada to be the unhappy recipient of. She was perfectly terrified
at the violence of Lady Ashton's wrath, and Lady Ashton was, too, when
she saw Ada lay back in her chair, pale as marble and panting for
breath. "What is the matter?--speak, child," she cried, shaking her
violently; but this only alarmed her the more, and she called loudly for
Charles, and then remained gazing at Lady Ashton in speechless terror.

"Ada! dearest Ada! what is the matter?" asked Charles, coming to the
rescue; but Ada had fainted.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"Well, old fellow, how are you?" said Louis, as he entered Everard's
room at the college. "I only just heard you were back." After they had
conversed awhile, Louis said, "Pretty girl that governess your sisters
have at Elm Grove; aye, only she is such a confounded flirt."

"I esteem Miss Leicester very highly," returned Everard, coldly.

"Take care, old fellow, for she is, without exception, the greatest
coquette I ever came across. She always had crowds of admirers, many of
whom she contrived to draw on until they came to 'the point,' and then
laughed at them. By Jove she will make a fool of you, Everard, if you
don't mind."

"I assure you, Louis, that you are quite mistaken. Miss Leicester is
quite a different person to what you imagine."

"Ha! ha! so you may think, but I knew her intimately, and I must say
that I was surprised that your mother should trust her young daughters
to her care."

"Be quiet, Louis; I think her as near perfection as possible."

"Well, they say that love is blind--stone blind, in this case, I should
say. She must have played her game well, to deceive you so thoroughly."

"I am not deceived, neither has she played any game," returned Everard,
with warmth. "She gives me no encouragement whatever--very far from it."

"Oh, that is her new dodge, is it? Beware of her; she is a most
accomplished actress."

"You are mistaken," replied Everard, indignantly, "you know some one
else of the same name."

"Not a bit of it, my dear fellow; I saw the young minx at Elm Grove, and
knew her directly. 'Beautiful, but dangerous.' I know her well."

Everard's cheek flushed with anger. "Louis," said he, "I will not hear
any one speak disrespectfully of Miss Leicester. I consider any insult
offered to her as a personal affront; therefore, if we are to remain
friends, you must say no more on that subject now or at any other time."

Louis saw by Everard's countenance that he was in earnest, so answered,
"as you will. I have satisfied my conscience by warning you; of course I
can do no more. Won't you dine with us to-day?"

"No, really, I cannot possibly; I have no time to go anywhere."

"Take care you don't work too hard, and have to give up altogether. You
look as if you were overdoing it. Too much of a good thing is good for
nothing, you know. Come when you can--if not to-day, I shall be always
glad to see you."

"What object can he have in speaking thus of Isabel?" Everard asked
himself when Louis was gone--his beautiful and beloved Isabel, the charm
of his existence, yet the torture of his life--(for was it not torture
to be forever dwelling on her perfections, only to come back to the same
undeniable fact that she had refused him--that she either could not, or
would not, be his)--and now to hear _her_, the personification of his
own ideal, spoken of as an accomplished actress and deceitful coquette,
was almost more than he could endure. Then he asked himself what he had
gained by his constant and excessive study: had it caused him to forget
her? no, he could not forget she seemed ever with him in all her beauty,
gentleness, and truth. He would win her yet, he told himself, and then
owned he was a fool to indulge such thoughts, and determined to study
harder still than ever, to prevent the possibility of his thoughts
recurring so often to Isabel. Nevertheless, he would believe nothing
against her--nothing.

CHAPTER XXV.

"Louis, I wish you would look at baby before you go; I do not think she
is well to-night."

"What is the matter now? You are always thinking she is ill: she seemed
well enough this morning."

"I don't know. She is restless and uneasy; I wish you would come."

"Of course I will, but I am in a great hurry just now; Mrs. Headley has
sent for me, and old Mr. Growl has another attack. I must go to the
people in the office now, but I will come up to baby before I start."

"Had you not better see baby first? Perhaps you might forget, with so
many people to attend to."

"Forget? Not I. Why, Natalie, how do you think I should ever get on if I
had no better memory than that?"

But he did forget, and was gone when Natalie again sought him.
"I thought it would be so," she sighed. Baby became more and more
uneasy, and moaned and fretted in her sleep. Natalie knelt beside the
bed, and tried to soothe her darling, thinking sadly of the long hours
that would elapse before Louis's return, but all her efforts were in
vain. Izzie did not wake or cry, but this only alarmed Natalie the more.
The deadly palor of her countenance was the only sign of the anguish she
suffered; outwardly, she was very calm. If she could only have done
anything for her pet! but to wait, and watch, not knowing what to do,
this was unendurable; and she was just debating in her own mind if she
ought not to send for another doctor, as Louis might be detained all
night, when she heard him come in. She pressed her cold hands upon her
brow, and ordered Sarah to bring him immediately; while she rose from
her knees, and breathlessly waited for his coming.

"What's the matter with popsy?" he asked, cheerfully, as he entered the
room, but his countenance became grave as his eye rested on the sick
child. "What is this?," he inquired, "why was I not told before? Tut,
tut, what have you been thinking about, Natalie," he added, as he felt
the child's pulse.

"I asked you to come and see her before you went out," Natalie answered,
in an almost inaudible voice.

"Yes, but you did not say that there was anything particularly the
matter." He stooped over the child and examined her more carefully. "She
is seriously ill," he said.

And the words sent a thrill of pain to Natalie's aching heart.

"Why do you treat me in this shameful manner?" he continued bitterly.
"Why let the child go on until it is almost past recovery, and then send
for me in the greatest haste?--just the same way when she had the croup.
I am surprised at you Natalie; it is really quite childish." He ordered
the bath to be brought immediately.

Impatiently waving Natalie aside, he took the child in his arms and put
her into the bath; while Natalie stood by, in speechless agony, Louis
refusing to allow her to assist in any way. How cruel! To have done
anything for her darling would have been an unspeakable relief. As it
was, she could only stand by while he murmured, in a tone which greatly
distressed her "poor little popsy," "Did they neglect papa's darling?"
He would suffer no one to touch her but himself, and what assistance he
did accept was from Sarah, it being into her arms he put baby while he
went for the medicine she required. Poor Natalie, how this grieved her;
for though she took the child from Sarah, the slight was the same. "Oh,
baby, baby!" she murmured, as the burning tears fell on little Isabel's
face, "what should I have left if you were taken from me?"

When Louis returned, he took the child, administered the medicine, and
was about to lay her in the bed.

"Let me take her," whispered Natalie, in a tone of tremulous earnestness
and passionate entreaty.

"No, she is better here," he replied.

"Oh, please, Louis!" she pleaded, but he was firm.

She stood, with clasped hands, silently gazing on the babe with a
strange sensation of awe and dread, and a yearning wish to do something
for her.

"You are not required, Natalie," Louis said, "you had better go to bed."
With a gulp she restrained the rising sob, and stooped to kiss her
darling. "You will only disturb her," he said, putting out his arm to
prevent her doing so. Then Natalie could only steal away to her
dressing-room, and there, alone in the darkness, she crept to the sofa
and hid her face in the cushion, to hush the tumultuous sobs, while she
breathed fervent prayers for baby's recovery. But a horrible dread
surrounded her: she could not endure to be absent from her pet, and
noiselessly she stole back to the nursery. She was glad that Louis did
not observe her entrance, and retreated to the dimmest corner of the
room, and there, in the old arm-chair, listened to baby's uneasy
breathing, which caused her an agony of grief and pain. Yet she could do
nothing but sit and suffer--suffer, oh, how deeply! Thus the night wore
away, and Louis was not aware of her presence until, as the day dawned,
he beheld the wan, wretched face of his poor little wife. Going to her
side, he said, "this is wrong, Natalie; go and rest." She shook her
head. "You must, indeed: you know I have to leave her to you the greater
part of the day, and this is no preparation for the watchful care she
will need."

"She cannot need more care than I will gladly give," returned Natalie,
with trembling lip. Her face wore an expression, so sad--so
suffering--that Louis must, indeed, have been adamant if he had not been
softened. Stroking her hair caressingly, he was about to lead her from
the room with gentle force, when, grasping his hand convulsively, she
said, in an almost inaudible voice, "I cannot, cannot go; have pity,
Louis," she added, raising her tearful eyes to his.

"For an hour or two, and then you shall take care of baby."

"If--if--you would let me kiss her, I will lie down here, but I cannot
leave her," she answered, almost choking.

"You may do that," he said, with a disagreeable sense of the fact that
he had been unkind, to use no harsher term. And he lifted a weight from
Natalie's heart, as he placed a shawl over her, saying, "try to sleep,
dear; you know how much depends upon you," in sweet, modulated tones of
thrilling tenderness, such as Louis knew well how to use--none better,
when it suited him to do so.

It mattered not to little Izzie who tended her for many days; not so,
however, when she began to mend, for now she would suffer none but mamma
to touch her. She would scarcely bear to be put out of her arms. If
Natalie attempted to lay her in the cradle, thinking she slept,
instantly the tiny arms would be clasped round mamma's neck, and she
would take her up again. No more could papa usurp mamma's rights; no
coaxing or persuasion would induce her to allow him to take her. Only
from mamma's hand would she take her medicine. On more than one occasion
Natalie had to be aroused from the little sleep she allowed herself, to
administer it. All this annoyed Louis beyond measure, but he did not
again give way to his temper before the child, except on one occasion.
He had, in the strongest terms, urged upon Natalie the importance of
giving the medicine with regularity. The bottle was empty, and Natalie
sent it down to be filled, but by some means it got mixed with the other
medicines to be sent out, and was not returned to her. She suffered
tortures for the want of it during his absence. When he returned, coming
straight to baby as usual, he learned how it was, and found her worse
for want of it, his indignation was extreme, and he heaped upon Natalie
unjust and unmerited reproach, in harsh and bitter terms. His cruel
words cut her to the heart, but her only answer was a gentle request
that he would get it at once. Truly Isabel had not much to regret.

CHAPTER XXVI.

"What do you think?" cried Rose, bursting into the school-room. "Everard
is coming home."

"Oh, is he? I'm so glad," returned Alice.

"Yes; mamma had a letter to-day. He is better, and is coming home for
change of air and mamma's good nursing. It was not Everard who wrote the
letter, but the doctor, who is coming with him as far as Markham, and
papa is to meet them there."

"When?" inquired Alice.

"To-morrow."

"And papa is away."

"Oh, he will be back to-night. Why, there is a carriage; I wonder who it
is," she exclaimed, running to the window.

"How can you be so silly, Rose," interposed Isabel.

"Oh, it is Everard," she shouted, without heeding Isabel's remonstrance,
"and that must be the Doctor. Oh, I'm so glad Everard has come," and she
danced about the room with glee.

"Rose, what a noisy child you are!" exclaimed Isabel, going to the
window with the rest; but when she saw the Doctor, she became deadly
pale, and had to lean against the window frame for support, but she had
ample time to recover herself, as they were all too much occupied to
observe her.

"How terribly ill he looks," said Rose.

"And how dreadfully weak," returned Alice. "I'm sure that gentleman was
at Grace's party, only I forget his name."

"Oh, mamma and Grace are both out; who is to do the honors, won't you,
Miss Leicester?"

"Oh, no."

"Do, there's a good creature," pleaded Rose. But Isabel was firm. "It
will seem so queer," urged Rose.

"Alice, dear, _you_ must go."

Oh no, indeed, I can't; please excuse me, Miss Leicester."

"Oh let _me_ go," pleaded Rose, "I shall manage far better than Alice."

"You!" exclaimed Isabel, "nonsense! Alice has more thought, besides she
has the advantage of two or three inches in height, at all events."

Alice remonstrated.

"Not another word, Alice, you have to go," said Isabel; and Alice
thought she had never seen Miss Leicester so peremptory.

Isabel was not afraid to trust Alice. Once fairly installed as hostess
she would do very well, though shy at first.

"But he seems so very ill, and I shall not know what to do," said Alice.

"You must tell them they were not expected until to-morrow, to explain
your mamma's absence; and I will order up some refreshments, and tell
Norris to have your brother's room ready for him."

Poor Alice looked quite scared at the ordeal that was before her.

"Mind you manage nicely, Allie dear, and make your brother comfortable,"
said Isabel, kissing her. And Alice, with a great sigh, left the room.

Isabel would have been content to have done "the honors," as Rose termed
it, had the Doctor been any other than Louis, but under the
circumstances she was determined not to do so. Though firmly resolved to
abide by this decision, she did not feel very comfortable, as she
thought it not improbable that Everard would send for her. Indeed, he
did tell Alice to bring her, but Alice, with her usual blunt manner,
answered that Miss Leicester had refused to come, and had sent her. As
Isabel had foreseen, Everard soon retired to rest after his journey, and
she would have been nicely in for a long _tete-a-tete_ with Louis, which
she did not choose. As it was, she sent Rose to help her sister to
entertain the Doctor until her mamma came home; and, taking Amy with
her, Isabel retired to her own apartment, to prevent the possibility of
meeting him.

The absentees returned early, and Mrs. Arlington came herself to request
that Miss Leicester would endeavor to make the evening pass pleasantly
to the gentlemen, as she and Grace had an engagement that evening, and
as it was to be the ball of the season Grace did not wish to give it up.

"Pray, excuse me, Mrs. Arlington," Isabel began.

"Stay, Isabel, I know what you would say. The Doctor goes with us.
Everard and his father will be alone, and I think you can find a song,
a book, or something to amuse them."

"I will try," said Isabel, well content now that Louis was not to be of
the party.

"One word more, Miss Leicester," said Mrs. Arlington, dismissing Amy.
"I disapprove very much of the children being sent to entertain
visitors, and I hope it will not occur again."

Isabel felt hurt, but merely replied, "under the circumstances it might
be excused."

"No, Isabel, no; I cannot see any justifiable reason. It is more than
two years since Dr. Taschereau was married, and if you have not got over
that affair you ought to have done so, that is all I can say."

"I have, I have," exclaimed Isabel, warmly, "but still you could not
expect me to meet him."

"I don't see why you should not; it would have been better to have done
so than, by acting as you have, lead him to suppose that you have not
overcome your former attachment."

"It is utterly impossible, for him to think that," returned Isabel
hotly, "I told him differently long ago; no," she added indignantly,
"I have not the slightest shadow of affection for him; but I cannot,
will not, subject myself to his insufferable insolence. You don't know
him, or you would not expect me to do so," and the hot tears welled up
into her eyes.

"I cannot hear my son's friend aspersed, Miss Leicester, especially when
he is my guest," said Mrs. Arlington, stiffly, "at the same time I
don't, of course, mean to justify his former conduct towards you; and
with regard to the children, do not let it occur again. You may make
yourself happy about the doctor, as he returns by the early train in the
morning, for he is anxious about his little girl, who is only now
recovering from a serious illness."

On entering the drawing-room, Isabel found Everard on the sofa looking
very pale and rather sad. "I am sorry to see you so ill," she said,
"I came to give you a little music, but I'm afraid you will not be able
to bear it."

"On the contrary I think it would do me good; but why would you not come
this afternoon?"

"I am here now."

"But why not before? Was it not unkind?"

"It was not so intended."

"Will you not give me the reason?

"You must not ask me; believe that I had sufficient cause." The words
were not such as he would have, but the manner was so winning that he
could not choose but be satisfied. "I am here now, solely on your
account, to amuse you as you like best. You must have been very ill,"
she said, regarding him kindly.

"Yes, I am awfully weak," he returned, "it seems so strange to me,
I have usually been so strong."

"You will soon get strong here," replied Isabel, cheerfully.

"Not if you plague me as you did this afternoon," he said reproachfully.

"Don't be angry," she pleaded.

"Not angry, but hurt," he said.

"I couldn't help it," she answered, almost with a sob.

"It did seem a chilling reception, a strange coming home, so cold, so
utterly without welcome, and I had longed so much to come.

"It was not my fault they were all out."

"Yes, they were all out, and you wouldn't come."

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