Isabel Leicester
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Clotilda Jennings >> Isabel Leicester
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"Isabel, Isabel! the carriage will be here in five minutes," interposed
Emily, "make haste and put your things on."
The fifth came in due course, and Mr. Elliott with it. "Let me introduce
to you a partner," said Emily, taking him up to Isabel.
"We have known each other too long to need an introduction, have we not,
Isabel?" he said pleasantly. Then turning to Emily he added, "Thanks,
Mrs. Mornington, for an unexpected pleasure."
Everard, who was near by, heard him call her by her Christian name, and
saw the warm welcome accorded him, and the evident pleasure the meeting
caused Isabel. He was furiously jealous, and walked away intensely
disgusted.
"You are a stranger here, are you not?" asked Emily.
"Oh, quite."
"Then I leave you in Isabel's hands."
"Could not be in better," he said, smiling, and Charley Elliott's smile
was a very pleasant one. Emily was enchanted, and went to sing his
praises to Everard, much to his annoyance.
"Upon my word, Emily, if I were Harry I should be positively jealous."
"Oh, jealousy is not Harry's _forte_; he leaves that to Mr. Everard
Arlington," she said saucily, with a low curtsey and a most provokingly
wise expression.
"Emily!"
"Don't be a goose, Evie."
"Where have you been this long, long time, Isabel?" asked Elliott,
"I have missed you so much."
"Have you, Charley? I'm glad to hear that some one has missed me. The
happy past seems almost like a dream, it seems so far away."
"It was too bright to last; don't you think so, Isabel?"
"Perhaps so."
"Ah, those were days to remember, the excursions I had with you and
Harley. But I, too, have had my troubles," he added, gravely.
"Who is exempt?" she returned. "But what of Harley, foolish Harley?
Whatever possessed him to go to India? But," she added, with a sigh, "it
would not have availed him much to have stayed, as it turned out."
"I don't know; I think he would have done more wisely to have remained."
"Why he went, I never could fathom."
"You never knew?"
"Never. He assured me that he had good and sufficient reason, and that
papa thought so, too."
"I didn't think them good, or sufficient either, but he wouldn't take my
advice. It was our only quarrel, and I believe I have scarcely forgiven
him yet for going. It would, I am convinced, have been better for all if
he had not done so," and the tears stood in the young lieutenant's eyes.
Though brave as a lion, Charley Elliott had a kind and loving heart.
There was a soft, warm light in the deep-blue eyes; no one could know
Charley Elliott without loving him. Everard had no mean rival, if
Charley was one. But he was not. He loved Isabel, it is true, with all
the warmth of his ardent nature, but he loved her as he might a
beautiful sister. He thought her worthy of Harley--his Harley--the pride
of his boyhood, who in his eyes could do no wrong, until one day when he
told him that he was going to India. Charley's grief was excessive, but
his indignation arose when he learned the cause.
Harley Elliott was ten years his brother's senior. He was the favorite
clerk in the firm of Leicester & Co. Had Isabel to be met anywhere,
and her father was unable to go, Harley was invariably sent; he was
constantly at the house for one thing or another. As Isabel grew up he
was frequently called upon to escort her and her young friends to places
of amusement. As might be supposed, he became deeply in love with her,
until at last life was almost a burden, for Harley was sensitive and
high-minded to a degree: as a poor clerk, he was too proud to woo the
rich merchant's daughter. He determined, therefore, to try to amass
wealth in another land, and, if successful, to return and endeavor to
win her; if not, to remain forever away.
But Charley, a boy of sixteen, could not appreciate this course. "Stay
and be brave-hearted, Harley," he said, "she will, she must, love you,
and the Governor will not refuse." But all he could obtain from Harley
was a promise that he would tell Mr. Leicester the true cause of his
going. Charley had great hopes as to the success of this course, but
Harley was not so sanguine, and Harley was right. Mr. Leicester quite
approved of his going, and offered him letters of introduction to
parties at Calcutta. True, he inquired if the attachment was mutual. But
when Harley confessed that he had not sought to know, considering
himself in honor bound not to do so in his present circumstances, he was
well satisfied that it was so. He took care, also, to find out if Isabel
really had a preference for Harley, lest by urging his departure he
might make her unhappy. And it must be admitted that he was glad to see
that she was heart whole as yet, for he wished her to make a more
brilliant match. So he wished Harley success, and did all in his power
to hasten his departure.
Poor Charley had missed his brother sadly. He would have accompanied him
but for his mother, who was not strong, and certainly could not have
borne the climate.
"But your troubles, Charley; you have not told me of them," said Isabel.
"Is not Harley doing well?"
"Yes, now; but it was some time first. I am going to see him soon. But
it was my mother's death to which I alluded just now."
"Oh, have you lost your mother? Poor Charley!"
"Don't talk of her, Isabel, I can't bear it," and Charley brushed away a
tear.
Dance succeeded dance, and Isabel was still Charley's partner. "There
are half-a-dozen gentlemen dying to be introduced to Miss Leicester, and
you give them no chance, Mr. Elliott," said Emily.
"Very well, but remember, Isabel, that we are engaged for the
after-supper galop."
"I'll not forget," she returned.
Now it so chanced that Everard had so often been Isabel's partner for
that dance, that he began to consider it a matter of course, and was
highly offended when, after keeping away all the evening, he approached
her, saying, "This is our dance, is it not, Miss Leicester?" and she
replied, "You are too late, Mr. Arlington," and whirled off with Charley
Elliott.
"Why did you do that?" he asked, when Isabel was again seated.
"Was I to refuse a partner in case Mr. Arlington, after keeping away all
the evening, should condescend to ask me? I think you expect too much."
"You knew I should come."
"How could I know?"
"I always do."
"And do you always keep away all the evening?"
He bit his lip. "Will you dance this?"
"I am engaged."
"The next."
"Impossible, my card is quite filled up."
"Never mind, you can strike out one of the names."
"Why should I do so? You had the best chance; you were here from the
first, but from some whim determined not to put down your name, and
looked glum whenever I passed you, and now you think that I will treat
one of these young men so unhandsomely. No, Mr. Arlington, I will not."
"You chide me for not coming sooner. I thought you so well amused that I
was not needed."
"Needed, no; but still you have not been commonly civil to-night."
"You are very unforgiving."
"No, but I will not encourage your whims; you chose to sulk, it was no
fault of mine."
"As you will."
"I think this dancing awfully stupid," he said to Emily, as Isabel went
off with her partner, "I shall be glad when it is over."
"Of course," she replied, with a most provoking laugh.
"Parsons don't usually care for dancing," added Harry, in a tone equally
irritating.
But for Charley Elliott the evening would have been dull enough to
Isabel. She would far rather have had Everard for a partner than any of
those whose names were on her programme, but she believed that he had
purposely avoided her all the earlier part of the evening: besides,
Everard's manner towards her of late had become quite an enigma--now
cold, almost haughty, then again soft, even tender, then
indifferent--and Isabel resented its variableness. She was the more
annoyed, as she knew that Emily was not quite in the dark.
"I think Mr. Elliott is a very nice young man, don't you, Isabel?" said
Emily at breakfast next morning.
"Very," replied Isabel, coloring warmly as she caught Everard's
penetrating glance.
"A done thing, I see," laughed Harry.
"How can you be so absurd, Harry?"
Are you fond of sea voyages?" he continued.
"I think them delightful."
"Capital. Did you know that he was going to India?"
"Yes."
"You did? Well, really."
"Oh, Harry, be quiet."
"I thought you two seemed awfully good friends. Did you know him before
last night?"
"Certainly."
"I am sure you don't agree with Everard that the party was a dreadfully
slow affair?"
"Oh, no; it was very pleasant."
"I was very sure that Miss Leicester did not find it dull," said Everard
coldly, almost scornfully.
"Goosey, goosey!" said Emily, later in the day, as she came upon Everard
in the music-room.
"Why do you go on in this provoking way, Emily?" he said, angrily.
"Because I have no patience with this stupid jealousy. If you care for
her, why not try to win her in a straightforward manner; if not, why be
vexed that another should?"
"Why do you strive to undo that which has cost me so much? She is
nothing to me; I have determined that she shall be nothing."
"Then why so jealous?"
"I cannot help it; you know that I cannot."
"But why force yourself to give her up?"
"Why, indeed," he echoed, "is it not worse than useless to cherish an
attachment for one who is so perfectly indifferent?"
"I do not believe that she is as indifferent and inaccessible as you
imagine."
"Why do you tempt me, Emily?" he returned, almost fiercely. "Let me be;
the ordination will be very shortly, and I am sure of an appointment
directly after."
"Ah, goosey, goosey! 'Faint heart,' you know," she said, and left
him--more angry with his favorite sister than he had ever been before.
CHAPTER XXX.
"Isabel, you said something about going home this week; now I have
settled that for you. I wrote to mamma, saying that you were going to
stay until after the ordination, and then we would all return together."
"I declare those children will get quite unmanageable with such long
holidays. When will the ordination be?"
"The beginning of next month."
"Dreadful! I do not think that Mrs. Arlington will consent."
"Oh, yes, she will. What a state Everard is getting into about that
ordination!" she continued, "and I am nearly as bad. I suppose we shall
all go to see it."
"I shall not," said Isabel.
"Why not?" asked Emily.
"I had rather not."
"What a strange girl you are! I wouldn't miss it for the world. He will
be so vexed, too."
"Why should he?"
"Of course he will."
Isabel protested that she would not go; but for all that, when the time
came, she could not resist the desire to be present, even at the risk of
being thought changeable. She went, after the rest, and from her corner
saw the whole. From where she sat she had a full view of his
face--grave, earnest, calm, evidently feeling how much was implied in
the ordination vows. As she returned before the others, they were quite
unaware that she had been there, and she, little hypocrite, listened
gravely to all Emily's descriptions.
In the evening Isabel walked on the lawn in the pale moon's silvery
beams, musing of all that had taken place that day, and thinking how
very happy Everard must feel to-night. Suddenly that gentleman accosted
her: "Why did you refuse to be present at the ordination to-day?" he
asked. Isabel was silent. "How is it," he continued, "that while others
were so anxious, you manifested no interest at all? It is, to say the
least, unkind."
"You may be sure that I wish you all prosperity in your new vocation,"
she said. "I would have said so before, had I thought you wished or
expected it."
"I did not expect," he said, almost angrily, "such a calm expression of
a cold regard; I wished and expected kindly sympathy, if nothing more."
"As you think I should say more, accept my sincere wishes for your
happiness; and believe me when I say that the lot which you have chosen
is, in my estimation, the highest to which man can aspire, and may your
labors be blessed with abundant success."
"Your kind wishes, though so reluctantly expressed, are not least
valued," he returned, warmly. "But, Isabel, you say that you wish my
happiness. My happiness, as I told you long ago, rests with you. Here I
can refer to the old subject without breaking my promise, and I cannot
leave for my distant mission without making one more appeal. Listen to
me patiently for a few minutes. You seemed to adhere so strictly to what
you said, that I considered it my duty to give you up; but it was a duty
that, with all my endeavors, I was unable to perform. I sought relief in
study--hard, excessive study--almost night and day. You know how that
ended. My mother left me much to you, and your kindness only made
matters worse. Afterwards, when you were away, I determined on the
course I am now pursuing, and I persuaded myself that my heart was in
the work, and so it is, but it is not yours the less. What I endure is
almost insupportable--it is too hard. Often I have been obliged to
appear cold and variable to conceal my real feelings, and you have
despised me for it. I have seen it, Isabel. To-night I determined to
seek you, and plead my cause once more; and though you have received me
with indifference, even coldly, I still hope that beneath this reserve
there may be some warmer feeling. "Tell me dearest," he continued, "will
you not love me? Oh, Isabel, must I go alone?" She was silent. Then for
an instant her eyes met his, and the love and happiness in that one
glance fully satisfied him, and he clasped her passionately in his arms.
"You loved me all the time, Isabel," he whispered, "only from a mistaken
sense of your duty you refused me when I first spoke of my love."
"Oh, no, I did not love you then; I esteemed you very much, but I was
engaged to another." Then she told what is already known to the reader.
"And his name?" he asked.
"Louis Taschereau."
"Tell me: did the thought that I loved you tend to soften the blow, when
you found how unworthy he was?"
Isabel was very truthful; she could not deceive him, even though those
beautiful eyes were fixed upon her in earnest expectation. As we have
said, she was very truthful, so answered, "I cannot flatter you so much,
Everard; it afforded me no comfort whatever. Indeed I never thought of
it, except when some kind attention on your part reminded me of the
fact, and then the thought only caused me pain."
He looked disappointed. "No," she added, "it was not until long after,
that your worth and uniform kindness won my heart."
They lingered on the lawn until the chill night air warned them not to
remain there any longer. Entering the music-room by the window, they
found Emily waiting for them. "Oh, here you are at last; Harry had to go
out, and I've been all alone this half hour." Then, starting up, she
seized a hand of each, exclaiming "You need not tell me, I see how it
is; I am so glad, so very glad."
"I saw you at the ordination this morning," said Charley Elliott, who
came in during the evening, addressing Isabel, "only you were in such a
fearful hurry to get away that I did not get a chance to speak."
"Then you must have very good eyes, Mr. Elliott, as Isabel was not
there," cried Emily, laughing.
"I beg your pardon," he returned.
"I was there," said Isabel quietly, though she colored hotly.
"You were?" exclaimed Everard, evidently well satisfied.
"I declare you--are--a queer girl," said Emily, opening her blue eyes
very wide, "I'm afraid you have not the bump of firmness."
"I knew you would think me changeable, but after you had all gone I
began to think I should like to see it, so I followed. But I certainly
did not see you, Charley."
"On, no, I was very sure that you saw no one but the candidates,"
returned Charley, laughing. "Indeed you looked so solemn and earnest,
one would almost suppose that you were one of them."
"Is it true," asked Harry, on his return, "that you have agreed to start
for Madagascar next month?"
"Quite true," returned Everard, coolly.
"I protest against it," said Harry. "And so do I," added Emily; while
Charley shrugged his shoulders, and Isabel laughed.
Emily was terribly anxious for Charley to depart, as she longed to tell
Harry the news; which news, when Emily told it, Harry received with
unmistakable satisfaction, saying he couldn't see why Everard should not
settle down comfortably near home, instead of going to such an
out-of-the-way place.
The following week they all started for Elm Grove, and when, on their
arrival Mrs. Arlington took both her hands and kissed her
affectionately, Isabel knew that the news of their engagement had
preceded them. They had a delightful evening, Mrs. Arlington being in a
most gracious humor. Mr. Arlington shook Isabel so heartily by the hand
that it ached for hours afterward. Emily was in the most exuberant
spirits; Everard's happiness, from its very depth, was of a more quiet
nature; while Harry was as merry and joyous as his wife; and Isabel, in
her own sweet way, had a kind look and word for all.
On entering the school-room, next morning, Isabel found little Amy
sitting upon the floor, her head buried in the sofa cushion, sobbing as
if her heart would break, her little form quivering with the violence of
her emotion.
"What is the matter, Amy dear?" asked Isabel, taking the trembling child
in her arms. But Amy could not speak; she only clung to Isabel, and
sobbed more bitterly than before. Isabel sat down with Amy on her knee,
stroking the shining hair until the child should be more composed. After
a time, when the violence of her grief had a little abated, Isabel
kissed her and inquired the cause of her tears.
"Rose says that you are going to Madagascar with Everard, and perhaps I
shall never see you any more," she managed to blurt out amid her sobs.
"You ought not to go, for I am sure I love you more than he does. I told
him so this morning, but he only laughed and said I didn't; but I do,
and I think it is very unkind of him to take you away. We know lots of
young ladies; I'm sure he might marry some one else, and not take my
darling Isabel to nasty Madagascar. Oh, Isabel, you must not go. Oh,
please! please!" she said, coaxingly. "Oh, won't you please tell him
that you have changed your mind, and would rather stay with us?"
"Oh, but you know I promised, Amy."
"But you shan't go; tell him you won't; there's a dear, kind pet," and
she threw her arms round Isabel's neck.
"But don't you think that it is very selfish of little Amy to wish that
her brother should go alone to that far country, when she will have
papa, mamma, and sisters?"
"Oh! I wish you didn't love him one bit, and then you would stay with
us."
"Hush! Amy dear, you mustn't talk so."
"But I can't help wishing it, and I told Everard so, and that I hoped
you would change your mind. Then he said that it was very wicked of me
to wish that; and he put me off his knee so quick, and walked out of the
room looking so angry--no, not angry, exactly, but as if he thought,
perhaps, you might."
"But, Amy, if you loved any one very much, would you like it if that
person didn't love you one bit?"
"No," said Amy, thoughtfully.
"Then is it doing as you would be done by to wish such unkind and
selfish things?"
"I did not think of that," replied Amy, resting her head on Isabel's
shoulder, "but it seems as if you did not love me, to go away to
Madagascar," she added, sadly.
"Oh, Amy dear, I love you very much," said Isabel, the tears gathering
in her eyes, "and it grieves me to part from you."
"And then we shall have another horrid governess, like Miss Manning, and
the days will all be long and miserable, like the long, long, weary day
that Emily used to sing about. And what will become of all our nice
Sundays?"
"Poor little Amy!" said Isabel, parting back the shining curls from the
sorrowful little face, and looking into the violet eyes that were fixed
upon her so earnestly. "You must not think that I would leave you
without first trying to fill my place with one who would love you and
try to make you happy. Now, if you will stop crying, I will tell you
about the young lady who, I hope, will be your governess. She is a very
dear friend of mine, and I trust you will all be very kind to her, and
love her very much. Her name is Gertrude Hartley." Alice and Rose now
entered the school-room, and gave a very warm welcome to Isabel. "Please
go on about Gertrude Hartley," pleaded Amy. Then Isabel told them how
Gertrude had gone as a governess to a family who lived far back in the
country, miles away from any church, and how, by her endeavors, a small
but pretty one had been erected, where service was held once a month.
But Gertrude had grown tired of the country, and was anxious to obtain
another situation. "She will come to see you next week, and I am sure
you will like her. And you know you can often talk about me, for she
knows me very well. I shall write you nice long letters about that
strange country, and I shall often think of my dear little sisters, for
you will be my sisters then, you know."
"I did not think of that," said Amy, smiling.
"Oh, Isabel, I'm so sorry that you are going away. Don't you think you
could persuade Everard to give up being a missionary? I'm certain he
could have Attwood Church if he liked, because Dr. Herbert once asked
him if he would like it. Please do, because it would be so nice."
"What! and leave those heathen people still in ignorance of God? My
little Rose does not think what she is wishing that Everard would give
up. No, I could not wish him to do so, much less persuade him."
"But he might get some one else to go," replied Rose.
"No, Rose, we must each perform our own duties."
"You mean that it would be like putting your hand to the plow and
looking back?"
"Exactly so," replied Isabel.
"I did not think of it in that way, so you must not be angry with me."
"I was not angry, dear, only I wanted to show you that your wish was a
wrong one. What does Alice think about it?"
"I think," replied Alice, "that he ought to go, and I am very glad that
you are going with him, for you are so nice and so good that I am sure
the little heathen children will listen to what you say, because you
have such a nice way of telling things. Of course I am very sorry to
lose you, but I mean to think of the good your going will be for other
people, and how nice it is for Everard, and then I shall not care about
it so much."
"It gives me great pleasure to hear you say this, and I think that Alie
can no longer be called selfish. Believe me, dear children, that the
surest way to forget our own troubles is to find pleasure in the benefit
and happiness of others."
Everard Arlington was about to enter by the window, but paused a moment
to contemplate the group before him. On a large ottoman sat Isabel, with
Amy on her knee, one arm encircling Alice, who was standing thoughtfully
by her side, her head resting on Isabel's shoulder, while behind was
Rose, half smiles, half tears.
"Oh, Everard!" cried Amy, "I won't say again that I hope Isabel will not
go with you. But she says that it is not naughty to be sorry. You are
not angry with me now?" she inquired, looking wistfully into his face.
"No, my little Amy," he replied, smoothing the glossy curls, as he
stooped as if to kiss her, but he didn't kiss Amy.
CHAPTER XXXI.
Mrs. Arlington was not one to do things by halves, so that when she
welcomed Isabel, on her return, it was no longer as "the governess," but
as her future daughter-in-law--as the bride-elect of her darling
son--indeed as one of them, the Arlingtons. She was glad, as he was so
determined upon being a missionary, that he was to marry before he went,
but she would rather--far rather--that he should have chosen any other
than "the governess," though she had nothing against Isabel--nothing.
Still it was a trial to the haughty mother that her only son--the hope
and pride of the family--should marry a governess. She knew that many
would say she had been imprudent in having so young and pretty a
governess, knowing how fond Everard was of the society of his young
sisters. And, indeed, she did feel she had been wrong when she got
Everard's letter announcing the engagement, and it was some little time
before she could be at all satisfied with the matter. Grace was
excessively annoyed, and, by her anger, tended greatly to stimulate her
mother's displeasure, saying that it was quite a disgrace to the family,
and that she would never receive Isabel as a sister. Fortunately her
consent was never likely to be asked, as her easy-going brother, the pet
of the house, had a pretty determined will, and her opinion would
certainly not influence him in the matter. Indeed, now that he had
Isabel's consent, he would have married her even though opposed by any
number of relations; and it was with no thought of obtaining their ideas
on the subject that he had written, but simply to inform them of the
fact, little suspecting the commotion it would cause at Elm Grove.
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