Isabel Leicester
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Clotilda Jennings >> Isabel Leicester
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"You are angry," she was crying now, her face down on her hands.
"I am a brute," he said.
"Oh, no; but I am a naughty girl," and seating herself at the piano, she
asked what he would have. She had not thought of the seeming neglect,
she had not thought what he would feel at finding Alice the only one to
receive him. She could not help it she told herself, perhaps so, but she
had been selfish, very selfish; she was sorry, sorry that Everard should
take it so hardly; but even so, did it occur again, she could not act
differently. "What will you have," she asked.
"You know my favorites."
"Ah, that is right; I was just going to send for you," said Mr.
Arlington, who now entered. "I see you know what will please him most;
I don't know what we should do without you," he added warmly. "You don't
know how good she has been to me, Everard, she is a good substitute for
my gay party-going daughter, but for her I don't know what I should do
now Emily is away." She is not good to me, thought Everard, and then a
ray of hope sprung up, as he thought of her very kind manner, but no,
had he not been led into thinking so before, but whenever he had touched
ever so lightly on the old topic, he had been repelled.
Isabel felt sad to-night, and could only sing plaintive melodies, and
then felt annoyed to think that she had failed to accomplish the purpose
for which she came. But she was mistaken, these songs harmonized better
with his present mood than more gay ones would have done.
Everard did not seem to gain strength. Isabel did her best to relieve
the weariness of the long, long days: bringing the children into the
library in the afternoon in order that he might share their amusement as
she read aloud, and in various ways endeavored to lessen the monotony of
the time. She would, perhaps, have acted more wisely had she not done
so, for Isabel's was a very tender nature, and her gentle sympathy was
very pleasant to Everard, but it only served to keep up the conflict
between hope and fear, which was specially hurtful to him just now, when
he needed perfect repose. But she thought Grace and her mother
neglectful, and strove to make up for it. She often sent one of his
young sisters to sit with him, but Rose was not allowed this privilege
as often as the others, though on the whole she was best. Alice was too
quiet, and Amy too apt to dwell on the perfections of her dear Miss
Leicester, while Rose, her wild spirits subdued in the presence of her
sick brother, but only sufficiently so to prevent her being oppressive,
was just the cheerful companion that was good for him, her vigorous,
healthy, happy-in-the-present style had a good effect. She was never at
a loss for a topic for conversation, and her quick perception enabled
her to detect at once when he grew tired, and then she would immediately
employ herself in some quiet manner. She never sat contemplating him
thoughtfully with eyes so like his own, as Alice too often did, as if
she would read his very soul.
There did not appear to be much of "Mamma's good nursing" to which Rose
had alluded. True it was a very gay season, and Mrs. Arlington's duties
were very onerous. "You know, Everard," she said, "that Grace cannot go
out alone, so that my time is so much occupied, that I fear I must
appear very neglectful, but you understand it is not my wish to leave
you so much," and Everard assented. But when he had a relapse, then she
gave up society, and was all the attentive mother.
Louis was very skilful and had got him through a very severe illness,
how severe they had not known till now. Mrs. Arlington sent the children
into the country to be out of the way, and Isabel of course went with
them.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Baby is quite well and happy, in fact all trace of her illness has
passed away; but Natalie is worn and weary with tending her pet and
bearing with Louis's hasty temper; she is pale and wan, but ever sweet
tempered. "Hark, baby, there's papa." Izzie ran to meet him. He raised
her in his arms and caressed her, scarcely noticing his fond little
wife, who would have been made happy by a kiss or kind word. Tired and
weary, but with a heart ache which was harder to bear, Natalie lay on
the sofa, she was nothing to him, that was clear.
"Love papa, baby, love papa," he said. Little Izzie threw her arms round
his neck and kissed him, then struggled to get away, "What's the
matter," he asked. "Love mamma, Izzie want's to love mamma." She ran to
her mother and repeated the action. Natalie caught the child in her
arms, kissing her passionately. "Izzie, my darling Izzie," she murmured,
while large tears fell on the child's face. Taking up her pinefore Izzie
gravely wiped her own face, and then tenderly endeavored to dry her
mother's tears, whispering don't cry mamma, Izzie don't like to see
mamma cry," and she nestled to her mothers side, stroking her hair and
kissing her repeatedly. Nothing would have induced Izzie to leave her
mother then, even had Louis attempted it, but he did not, he stood by
the mantlepiece watching them, with an unpleasant sensation, that baby
had no power to dry those tears. He remained there a long time, his head
resting on his hand, while Natalie and baby fell asleep together. From
time to time a deep, deep sigh would escape from Natalie, which was not
pleasant for Louis to hear. Sarah came for baby, but he desired her to
leave her there. After a while, he thought it was not best that she
should be there, and went softly to the sofa and took her away. As he
did so, he remarked for the first time--aye, for the first time--the
worn unhappy expression of Natalie's sweet face, which did not leave it
even in sleep, and stooping over her gave the kiss and kind words to his
sleeping wife, which he had withheld when she might have been made happy
by them. He carried the child to its nurse, then went to his surgery,
busy among his drugs he could not but think of Natalie. How pale she
looked, how fragile she had become, how languid and listless she seemed
of late, he had noticed that, and with no pleasant feeling did he
remember, that he had done so, only to chide her for being lazy. How
blind he had been, he saw plainly enough that she needed change of air,
she should have it, she should pay his uncle Macdermott a visit, and
take Izzie with her, but what should he do without Izzie, he asked
himself, but with surprising magnanimity, he refused to consider that
question. He had been a little inattentive perhaps lately and owed her
some amends, so Izzie should go with her. He knew very well that Natalie
would never go without her, and, truth to tell, he had his misgivings as
to how Izzie would behave without her mother, so, as he really thought
it needful, it was as much necessity as kindness, that brought him to
this decision.
Natalie submitted passively to all their arrangements, but, on the
evening previous to their departure, when Louis was enjoying a cigar in
the library, after superintending all the preparations for the next
day's start, Natalie came fondly to his side, and laying her hand softly
upon his shoulder, said in a voice that trembled with emotion, "I cannot
go, do not ask me, Louis, I cannot, will not leave you," and her head
sank on her hand, as she again murmured "do not ask me."
"Pooh, Natie, what nonsense," he answered, laughing.
"No Louis, I cant, you promised that you would come for a week, so I
will wait until you can take the week, and then we will go together, but
not now alone, O, not alone," and she sobbed out on his shoulder the
pent up anguish of her heart. He drew her to him with more kindness than
he had shown for a long time.
"You will not send me away," she whispered.
"Now, Nattie dear, be reasonable, you know you are not strong, and I
want you to get your roses back, and a week would be too short a time to
benefit you much, so in four weeks time I will come for two, that will
do, won't it."
She shook her head, "I have a terrible dread of the journey, no Louis,
I will not go, I will wait till you can come with me."
Louis was not one to submit to opposition, his brow grew dark and the
fierce light was kindling in his eye. She should go, once for all he
would not brook this resistance. After he had decided to let Izzie go to
please her, and save all fuss, was this to be the end of it? no. "It is
too late to say that now," he said, "a few weeks will soon pass, and
this idle fear is childish."
"I should have spoken before, only I did so wish to please you if I
could."
"No, Natalie," he said, sternly, "you do not care whether I am pleased
or not, you think of nothing but your own foolish fancies."
"Don't be cross, Louis, it is because I love you so much that I want to
stay, don't send me away, O Louis, don't."
"Now, Natalie, you are enough to provoke a saint," he said, angrily,
"cross, indeed, no wonder if I am, don't let me hear another word about
it, you go to-morrow."
Natalie saw that any more opposition would inevitably cause one of those
fierce bursts of passion of which she ever stood in mortal dread; she
glanced at his darkened countenance and was silent, but her heart was
heavy.
"Come, we will take a turn on the lawn the moon is so bright," he said.
They walked in the moonlight, those two, husband and wife not three
years, but the happy brightness had faded out of her face, and the girl
not twenty walked by his side with a weary step, as if life were almost
a burden. She resolutely checked her tears, and silently paced the lawn,
while her thoughts wandered back to the beautiful home in the south of
France, where she first met the man who had proved so different a
partner to what, in her love and trust, she had fondly imagined, and
then she wished so fervently that she might even yet be to him all that
she had hoped. But he did not want her with him, he would be glad when
she was away, oh, he did not love her, or he would not thus cruelly
insist upon her going. She had it in her heart even yet to throw herself
into his arms and entreat him to let her stay, but she felt that it
would be useless, besides she dare not offer further resistance to his
will. She looked up into his face and knew she dare not.
His eyes were fixed upon her, "why Natalie," he said, laughing, "anyone
would think I was an ogre to see your countenance." But it was not a
pleasant laugh. Then the hardest thought that she ever had towards him,
came to her mind, and she thought that he was acting very like one.
Louis paused as they were about to enter the house saying, "You will not
worry me any more, if you do it will be useless and only make me harsh,"
his manner was stern, determined and chilling in the extreme. Natalie
shivered, "I will go," she replied in a choking voice, then flew up the
stairs and alone in the dark gave vent to the grief that was breaking
her heart. "Little fool," murmured Louis between his firmly closed
teeth, "what a plague she is."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
"O Isabel, it is nearly time for the train to pass, do let us go and
watch for it," said Rose, and they went accordingly. "Here it comes,
here it comes," she shouted, and the iron horse came on snorting and
panting; nearer, nearer it approaches the bridge. 'Tis on the bridge.
Crash--and in an instant, it is gone; the train with its living freight
is a mass of broken ruins. The screams are appalling; the sight fearful
in the extreme. The children ran back to the house trembling and awed,
and huddled together in a frightened group. Among the first to be taken
from the _debris_ was a lady, and a little girl about two years old.
Isabel offered her own room for the use of the sufferers, and some men
carried them to the cottage, where kind nurse Bruce did all in her power
until the doctor should arrive. Isabel took the beautiful child, who a
few moments before was all life and animation, and laid it upon Bruce's
bed; the poor little thing must have been killed instantly as there was
no sign of suffering upon its face, but a large bruise on its temple.
The doctor feared that the lady had received fatal injuries; all through
the night she continued insensible, and the morning brought no change.
Who she was they could not tell, but as Isabel sat watching her through
the long night, she felt that she had seen her before, but where she
could not recall. Late in the afternoon consciousness returned, and with
a feeble moan she opened her eyes. "Where am I," she asked, "Oh, where
is my little Izzie?" Isabel's only answer was a kiss. "Don't say it,"
she cried, grasping Isabel's hand convulsively, "O, not that, not that!
but I see it is so--I see it in your face without you saying so." "O, my
baby, my baby, my little Izzie!" she moaned, covering her face with her
hands; and then she lay quite still, her lips moving as if in prayer.
The doctor, who came in shortly after, called Isabel from the room.
"Miss Leicester," he said, "she will not live many hours, we had better
find out who she is and summon her friends by telegraph. We can do so by
sending to W----; I tell you candidly that she is past all human aid.
Poor thing, she need not grieve for her child, she will be with her
soon." They returned to the room to gain the desired information. "Send
for Dr. Taschereau, at H----," she replied to the doctor's question. Now
Isabel knew where and when she had seen her. But it grieved her to see
what a change there was in the bright sunny girl who had cast such a
cloud over her path at the ball at Elm Grove.
"Am I dying?" Natalie asked anxiously.
"I dare not give you false hope," the doctor replied.
She covered her face with her hands for a few moments. "Do you think I
can live till Louis comes--Dr. Taschereau you know."
"I hope so," he answered, evasively.
"Make the telegram very strong; O, very strong. Say that I am dying, but
be sure you don't say that baby is--you know--I can't say it," she said
in a choking voice. "He will come, O, surely he will come," she murmured
to herself. The doctor left promising to send immediately. "You are
Isabel Leicester," Natalie said as soon as they were alone. "I am sure
you are, for I have seen your picture."
"That is my name," replied Isabel, smiling, while she wondered how much
Natalie knew about her.
"You loved Louis once?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You love him still?"
"No; that is past."
A smile of satisfaction illumined Natalie's countenance for a moment,
but quickly left it. "I was always sorry for you, Natalie," Isabel said
kindly.
"Sorry for me, why should you be sorry for me?" she asked quickly, then
pausing a moment she added, sadly, "I see you know how it is."
"Ah, I know too well, I hoped, I prayed it might be otherwise."
"He does not mean to be unkind," she said, "but it is a cruel thing to
know that your husband does not love you When I first found out that he
did not, it almost killed me. He insisted on calling our little girl
Isabel, in spite of all I could say as to my dislike to the name; so I
thought it was his mother's name, though he would not say. But when I
found out that it was yours, I was very angry; O, you must forgive me,
for I have had very hard thoughts towards you, and now I know that you
did not deserve them. O, Isabel, you are too good; I could not nurse you
so kindly, had I been in your place. Let me see my little Izzie," she
pleaded. Isabel brought the child to its mother; it looked sweetly calm
in its marble beauty. "Bury us both together in one coffin," she said,
while her tears fell fast upon its icy face. Natalie complained of great
pain, nothing that the doctor could do seemed to give her any relief,
and she lay moaning through the night. About six o'clock in the morning
there was a quick step on the stairs which did not escape the ear of the
sufferer. "Oh, Louis, Louis come to me," she cried. In a moment he was
at her side, and her arms clasped round his neck. "I knew you would
come," she said, fondly, "I could not have died happily unless you had."
He pressed her closely to him, while the hot tears fell upon her face,
for he was now suffering bitterly for all his neglect and unkindness to
his gentle little wife.
"O Louis, I have always loved you so much, so very much!" she said,
clinging more closely to him, and gazing into his face with an intensity
painful to witness, then smiling sweetly, she closed her eyes and all
was over. The others retired from the room, and Louis was left alone
with his dead wife, and had yet to learn the fate of his child.
During the time that elapsed before the funeral, Isabel carefully
avoided meeting him, and hoped that he had not noticed her on the
morning of his arrival. But just as he was about to leave, after that
had taken place, and she was congratulating herself for having managed
so nicely, a message was brought her that Dr. Taschereau wished to see
her before he went. Though annoyed, Isabel did not see how she could
very well refuse, so complied with the best grace she could. She found
him in the sitting room, looking very pale. "I could not leave, Miss
Leicester," he said, "without thanking you for your kindness to my wife.
I had no right to expect it."
"I merely did my duty, and do not require any thanks."
"I would ask one question," he continued, with a strong effort to be
calm. "Was my little girl dead when first taken up?"
"Quite dead," she answered.
"It is a bitter trial," he resumed, "I loved my child unutterably; the
blow seems to have crushed me, I have no longer any interest in
anything, I have nothing left, nothing!"
Isabel was silent, she was thinking of the time when she had nothing
left but him, and he had deserted her. And now it was the child he
grieved for and not his dear little wife. His treatment of her, had
always appeared to Isabel as his greatest fault, and her indignation was
aroused as she saw, or thought she saw, that he did not feel her loss as
he ought to have done. "I cannot but think," she said, "that the blow
was sent in mercy to her, in whose future there could only be pain,
weariness and silent suffering, and had she alone been taken, I can see
that you would soon have got over it."
"You have no idea of the agony and remorse I have endured or you would
not be so severe; you think because you know that I did not love my wife
as I should, that I do not feel her loss, but you are mistaken, her
angel gentleness and patience seem forever to upbraid me for my neglect
and unkindness." And unable any longer to control his feelings, he laid
his head on the table, while heavy sobs convulsed his frame. His
passions were strong, and it was something fearful to witness the
violence of his anguish. Isabel could not see his deep grief unmoved,
yet dared not attempt to comfort him. Oh how she had wronged him; how
keenly he felt his loss. She would not leave him, and yet she did not
wish to stay, and turned away to hide her emotion. When he grew more
composed, he advanced towards her saying, "It is getting late, Miss
Leicester, once more I thank you for all your kindness."
"Do not think any more of my cruel words." said Isabel, the tears
streaming from her eyes.
"Then you do not withhold your sympathy, even from me," he returned,
offering his hand.
"How can I," she replied, taking, though reluctantly, the offered hand.
"I am very sorry for you."
"Good news, Isabel, good news!" cried Alice coming in shortly after with
an open letter in her hand. "Everard is out of danger, and is recovering
rapidly, so we can soon come home, Mamma says."
"That is indeed good news," replied Isabel, who was really anxious to
get the children home, as the late events had cast a gloom over all.
Little Amy had more than once asked if Everard would die like the poor
lady, and all three had cried very bitterly about the pretty little girl
that was killed.
In three weeks more they were back at Elm Grove.
Everard was on the terrace to welcome them. He seemed very glad to see
them again, but his manner towards Isabel was changed, he was cordial
and kind, but still there was a difference. There was something
inexplicable, and shall we say that it pained her. Why did she on
retiring to her own room, shed bitter, bitter tears? She could scarcely
have told, had you asked her, but so it was.
Now that Everard had resolved to turn his thoughts from Isabel more
resolutely than ever, as it was useless any longer to indulge the hope
of one day possessing her, and had determined upon becoming a divinity
student, and as soon as possible be ordained and go as a missionary to
some distant land, and there amid new scenes and duties forget his dream
of happiness. Isabel found that she was not indifferent regarding
Everard, and often drew comparisons between her old love and the
would-be missionary, much to the disparagement of the former, and
thought that he was unnecessarily strict with regard to the forbidden
subject. Confess now, Isabel, do you not fancy since your return, that
he has discovered the alteration in your feelings and is paying you in
your own coin? Believing this, and thinking also, that he has ceased to
care for you, is there not a coolness gradually springing up between
you? Oh, Isabel, why did you on the night before he returned to college,
throw his favorite song into the fire, saying that you were tired of
that old thing, and did not think that you would ever sing it again?
Were you not watching him when he took one step forward as if to save
it, then turned away, the color mounting to his cheek and the veins of
his forehead swelling? Oh, Isabel would you not gladly, gladly have sung
it all the time if he had only asked you in the old way? Ah, it will be
a long, long time before he will ask you again. You did more than you
intended when you burnt that song. When at his father's request you
sang, did he not instantly leave the room? Yes; and confess, Isabel,
that you could with difficulty conceal your vexation. Did you not long
to sing it with all your heart, and bring him back again? Oh, what a
farce to burn that music; and yet, when he did return, did you not show
him more coolness than you had ever done before?
CHAPTER XXIX.
A year has passed since the events recorded in the last chapter; things
have gone on much the same, Everard trying to appear indifferent, while
in reality he was not so, but succeeding so well that Isabel felt almost
ashamed of her preference for him, and was, also, only too successful in
concealing her true feelings. She is now paying Emily a visit, though it
was seldom that she could be persuaded to accept any invitation. But in
justice to her old friends, it must be said that they often endeavored
to do so. Ever since she came to Elm Grove she had always received
abundant invitations for the holidays; but, with the exception of the
Morningtons, Isabel had never been able to overcome her pride
sufficiently to visit, in her present position, those she had known when
in such different circumstances.
Harry and Emily, after travelling about for some time, had settled in
H----, not far from the college, and had insisted upon Everard spending
a great deal of his time with them, as they had fitted up a nice little
study for his especial use.
Emily was very anxious for the ordination, and had announced her
intentions to hear him preach his first sermon, let it be when and where
it might, in spite of his saying that he would go where he was quite
unknown.
"Now, Everard, I'm going to have a party on the fifth," said Emily, "and
I want you to bring some of the students, and I should like very much to
have tall, handsome ones, and none of your little 'ugly mugs.' I want
particularly that nice Mr. Elliott you introduced to me the other day."
"I do not choose my friends merely for their appearance, and Elliott is
not one of the students," returned Everard.
"Never mind who he is, I want him to come."
"I will ask him if he is in town; but I can't come, I am altogether too
busy."
"Nonsense, Everard, you only say that to vex me. I mean you to come,
that's pos'. Isn't he provoking, Isabel?"
"Perhaps his business is as important as it was that Christmas," said
Isabel, quietly.
Everard looked up quickly from his book, but Isabel was fully employed
with her tatting.
"What do you know about my engagements at that time?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing; only, perhaps, you can as easily put aside your work as
you did then."
"How do you know that it was so easy?" he inquired.
"Only from appearances."
"Appearances are often deceitful."
"Very."
Again the rapid glance of inquiry, but he could make nothing of her
placid countenance; and the single word "very," it must have been his
own imagination that gave significance to the very decided manner in
which she had uttered it, or did she, indeed, see through his assumed
indifference?
"You speak as though you had some experience," he said.
Isabel crimsoned, for she felt very guilty.
"Do you try to appear different to what you are in reality?" he
inquired.
"Do you?"
"Why do you ask?" he said.
"Why do you?" she retorted.
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