Isabel Leicester
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Clotilda Jennings >> Isabel Leicester
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However, the course he pursued had the effect of reconciling his mother
to the match, and it was well that it was so, or Isabel would have met
with a sorry reception on her arrival.
Very quickly after the letter we have mentioned, came another, such as
only Everard could write--written out of a full heart, telling of his
happiness, and also of his former despair, long probation, and weary
waiting; how his love for Isabel had dated from that Sunday evening when
he first saw her in the school-room with the children; and expressing
the hope that his mother would give Isabel a place in her heart equal to
that of her own children.
Tears of sympathy and love fell from the mother's eyes as she read, and
a happy smile played around her mouth as she refolded the letter which
would be read again and again. Henceforth she was won. So, then, when
Lady Ashton, who had now returned from England, came to condole with
dear Mrs. Arlington upon the ill luck that had befallen the family, she
found that lady quite satisfied, to her profound astonishment. However,
she gave a willing ear and ready sympathy to Grace, who was quite
disgusted at her mother's contentment, and returned with Lady Ashton to
the Park, saying, that she was far too angry to meet them at present;
and there she remained for weeks nursing her wrath against her only
brother, who would so shortly leave for a distant land, not heeding the
possibility, nay probability, that he might never return. Who could
foresee the dangers that might be in store for him? Read the dangers and
miseries to which the missionaries sent to foreign and heathen lands are
only too often subjected--dangers on sea and land, and fearful cruelties
at the hands of wild and savage creatures, more ferocious sometimes in
their implacable fury than the beasts of prey. But even overlooking
these more dreadful calamities, there is the climate, so trying to the
natives of cooler countries. Nor was she just to Isabel. She would only
see a beautiful, designing girl, who had succeeded in catching her
brother. She was angry with Isabel, with Everard, with her mother, and,
lastly, with herself, to think that she, too, had been for a short time
deluded like the rest. She felt now that she positively hated Isabel.
Lady Ashton did her best to fan the flame of resentment. What wonder,
then, that under that lady's able management it grew day by day, until
Grace really believed her silly anger to be just indignation at her
brother's blind infatuation. Ah, foolish Grace!
To Emily's great satisfaction, Everard preached his first sermon in
the church they usually attended, and was very calm and self-possessed
considering the eight eager faces in the family pew, his heightened
color being the only evidence that this was the first time he had
addressed a congregation from the pulpit. It happened, strangely enough,
that a collection for the Missionary Society was to be taken up on this
occasion, and the young deacon delivered an exceedingly eloquent
discourse advocating the cause of missions, with a warmth and
earnestness that carried his hearers along with him, and showed that
his heart was in the work. No one who heard him could doubt his future
success in the cause.
Then what a happy group waited for him after service, and what approving
smiles beamed upon him from loved faces when he came!
"Oh, Everard! I should never go to sleep at sermon time if you always
preached," cried little Amy. "It was so nice," added Rose, warmly; while
the proud father wrung his son's hand in silence more eloquent than
words.
Then Everard disappointed a crowd of admiring friends by disappearing
through a side gate and going home across the fields, even waving back
his young sisters, who would have followed him. "I could not stand it,"
he said, on reaching home half an hour after the others, though his way
had been much shorter, he having spent the interim in self-communion
beneath the shade of a friendly oak. Oh! that was a happy Sunday at Elm
Grove; but, like all earthly happiness, it had one cloud--Grace's
strange and unkind conduct.
CHAPTER XXXII.
"Please, Miss Leicester, a gentleman wishes to see you," said Susan,
putting her rosy face in at the school-room door, as Isabel was giving
the children their last lesson.
"To see _me_, Susan?" exclaimed Isabel.
"Yes, Miss, he asked for you, but he would not give his name."
"Very well, Susan. Who can it be?" she asked, turning to Alice.
"I'm sure _I_ don't know," answered Alice, laughing, "you had better go
and see."
On entering the drawing-room, Isabel saw to her astonishment that it was
Louis Taschereau. "This is indeed a surprise," she said, extending her
hand, for in her present happiness she could not be ungracious or
unkind.
Encouraged by her cordial greeting, Louis began: "I thought of writing,
but determined on seeking an interview, as a letter could but
inadequately convey what I wished to say. I have suffered much, as you
are aware, and my troubles have made me a very different man; but a
gleam of light seems once more to shine on my path, and I hope yet to
repair the error of my life. Can you--will you--overlook and forgive the
past, and be again to me all that you once were? I know that I do not
deserve it, but I will try to atone for the past if, dear Isabel, you
will be my wife."
"Stay, Dr. Taschereau!" interposed Isabel, "I am just about to marry a
clergyman who is going abroad."
Had a cannon-ball fallen at his feet, Louis could scarcely have been
more dumbfounded than he was at this intelligence. He became deadly
pale, and she thought he would faint.
"You are ill, Dr. Taschereau. Let me ring for some wine."
"Don't ring, I don't want any. Is this true?" he continued, "are you
really going to marry another?"
"I am, and I do not see why you should be surprised."
"Why do you make me love you so? Why must your image intrude itself into
every plan, and all be done as you would approve, if, after all, you are
to marry another? You would not wonder at the effect of what you have
told me, if you knew how the hope that you would forgive me and yet be
mine, has been my only comfort a long, dreary time."
"You have no right to speak in this way, Dr. Taschereau; it was I who
had cause of complaint, not you. But I am very sorry that you should
feel so; very sorry that you should have suffered yourself to imagine
for a moment that we could ever be again to each other what we once
were. And do not think that my present engagement is the cause of my
saying this; for never, never, under any circumstances, could I have
been your wife after what has passed. I say not this in anger or
ill-will for the past, I do not regret it--I feel it was best."
"Will you not tell me the name of the fortunate clergyman?" he asked.
"Certainly, if you wish it; it is no secret. It is Everard Arlington."
"Everard Arlington!" he exclaimed in unfeigned astonishment. "It was the
knowledge of his hopeless attachment that made me hope--almost make
sure--that you had not entirely ceased to love me, and might yet be
mine; the more despairing he became, the higher my hopes rose."
"How could you, how dared you, indulge such thoughts after what I said
in the woods at D----?" exclaimed Isabel, indignantly. "If Everard had
so long to believe that his attachment was unavailing, it was because
Isabel Leicester would not give her hand unless her heart went with it;
because I respected his affection too much to trifle with it, and not at
all on your account. Believe me, that from the time I first learned that
you were married, every thought of you was rigidly repelled, and it was
arrant presumption in you to suppose anything else," she continued,
proudly, the angry tears suffusing her eyes.
The conference was here ended, to Isabel's great relief, by the entrance
of Everard, who looked inquiringly at each.
"How are you, old fellow?" he said (for Isabel's proud anger fled at his
approach), "what brought you here so unexpectedly?"
"Oh, a little private affair," he replied, looking rather uncomfortable;
but there was that in Louis's eye, as he said this, that made Isabel
distrust him; something that made her determined to put it out of his
power to misrepresent and make mischief. True, he had said how changed
he was, and spoken of the reformation his trials had made. Certainly he
had been more calm under disappointment than had been his wont. But
still she doubted him. She had seen that look before, and knew that it
was the same false Louis, not so changed as he imagined. The dark side
was only lying dormant; she could read his malicious enjoyment in that
cruel smile, and knew its meaning well. Meeting his glance with one of
proud defiance and quiet determination, which said, as plainly as words,
"I will thwart your fine plans, Mr. Louis," she said:
"You are aware that I was formerly engaged to Dr. Taschereau. His
business here to-day was to endeavor to renew that engagement. I need
not say how very strange and absurd this appears, as you are acquainted
with the circumstances under which the former engagement terminated."
"Yes, that was the 'little private affair,' but I find that you have
already won the prize; allow me to congratulate you."
Louis said this in a frank, pleasant manner, appearing to take his own
disappointment with so much good nature, at the same time blending a
certain degree of sadness in his tone as quite to deceive Everard and
win his sympathy. But the thundering black look which he cast at Isabel
fully convinced her that she was right.
"You will dine with us, of course," said Everard, cordially.
"I shall do so with pleasure," returned Louis.
Isabel bit her lip. "Just to see how much he can annoy me," she thought.
But if this was his object he must have been disappointed, so totally
unconscious of his presence did Isabel appear, and when he addressed her
personally her manner was colder than even Everard thought necessary.
The heat of the rooms became very oppressive during the evening, and
Isabel stepped out on the lawn to enjoy the refreshing breeze, but was
soon surprized to find that Louis had followed her.
"Let us at least be friends," he said. "You will remember that it was
not in anger we last parted."
But Isabel was silent.
"You doubt me," he continued. "I do not blame you, but you are harsh,
Miss Leicester."
"Not harsh, but just," returned Isabel. "Friends we can never be;
enemies I trust we never were."
"You draw fine distinctions. May I ask what place in your estimation I
am permitted to occupy?" said Louis, sarcastically.
"No place whatever, Dr. Taschereau; I must ever regard you with
indifference," returned Isabel, coldly.
"Be it so," he replied, angrily. "You have obstinately refused all
offers of reconciliation, and must therefore take the consequences."
"The consequences? You speak strangely, Dr. Taschereau."
I repeat: the consequences. I determined long since that you should
never marry another, and my sentiments on that subject have not changed.
No; I vow you shall not!" he added, with the old vindictive expression.
"How dare you hold such language to me, sir?" cried Isabel, indignantly.
Without answering, he drew a pistol from his pocket and would have shot
her, but, changing his purpose, he turned upon Everard, who was
approaching. With a cry of horror, Isabel threw herself between them,
and prevented Louis from taking as good an aim as he might otherwise
have done; for though the ball, in passing, grazed her shoulder, it
passed Everard harmlessly and lodged in the acacia tree. With parted
lips, but without the power of speech, she clung to Everard in an agony
of terror for a moment, and then lay motionless in his arms. In terrible
apprehension he carried the senseless girl into the house, fearing that
she was seriously hurt, as the blood had saturated a large portion of
her dress, which was of very thin texture. Of course the consternation
into which the family was thrown by the shot, followed by the entrance
of Everard with Isabel in this alarming condition, was tremendous. But
happily Isabel was more terrified than hurt, Dr. Heathfield pronouncing
the wound of no consequence (to Everard's intense disgust), telling her
to take a glass of wine and go to bed, and she would be none the worse
for her fright in the morning--in fact treated the whole thing quite
lightly, and laughed at Isabel for her pale cheeks, saying that such an
alabaster complexion was not at all becoming. He promised to send her
something to prevent the wine making her sleep too soundly, meaning a
composing draught to enable her to sleep, as he saw very little chance
of her doing so without. Everard volunteered to go with him for it. On
their way, Dr. Heathfield remarked that he was afraid Everard thought
him very rude and unfeeling. Everard, who had been very silent, replied
that he did.
"Then do not think so any longer," said the Doctor, laying his hand on
his companion's shoulder. "I saw how scared she was, and treated the
case accordingly. You are both great favorites of mine, so I hope you
will not be offended. Do you know what became of the scoundrel?"
"He made for parts unknown immediately after he fired," replied Everard,
sternly, while the heavy breathing showed how much it cost him to speak
calmly. "It is quite a Providence that one of us is not dead at this
moment, as he is a splendid marksman. I don't know which of the two the
shot was intended for; if for me, she must have thrown herself between
us."
"She is just the girl to do it," cried the Doctor, grasping him warmly
by the hand. "I have always had a very high opinion of her."
"I should think so," said Everard, with a quiet smile of satisfaction.
Fortunately Isabel had no idea that Everard had gone with the Doctor,
or she would have been terribly anxious, for fear Louis should still be
near. But guilt makes cowards of all, so Louis was now in a fearful
state of mind: for he was passionate, hasty, violent and selfish, but
not really bad-hearted, and jealous anger and hatred had so gained the
mastery over him that he had been impelled to do that at which, in
cooler moments, he would have shuddered. So now he was enduring agony,
fearing lest his mad attempt at murder had been successful, yet not
daring to inquire. Ah, Louis! you are now, as ever, your own worst
enemy."
CHAPTER XXXIII.
"What makes you look so sad Everard; Isabel was not much hurt; not hurt
at all I may say."
"I was not thinking of her just now Emmy," he answered smiling, but the
smile passed away, and left his face very sad indeed.
"What is it Evvie," she asked in the old coaxing way, seating herself
beside him on the seat round the old Elm tree.
"I was thinking of Grace," he replied "you can't think how her keeping
away pains me."
"I wouldn't think of it, if I were you, it is very mean and ill-natured
of her, but she will get over her huff after a while."
"That would be all very well, if I were going to remain here, but you
know how soon I go and----"
"Oh Everard," (Emmy could not contemplate this event with composure) "Oh
Everard, I can't bear you to go, and she threw her arms round his neck,
weeping passionately.
His sisters were not much given to tears, this one in particular, the
brightest of them all, so that this genuine bust of grief was the more
perplexing.
He was endeavouring in vain to soothe her, when little Emmy came upon
the scene, and seeing her mamma in trouble, she set up a terrific
howling, and running at Everard, she seized his coat to steady herself
and commenced to kick him with all the force she could muster,
exclaiming "naughty, naughty, to make my mamma cry."
This warlike attack upon her brother set Emily laughing, while he
feigned to be desperately hurt by the tiny feet at which the round blue
eyes grew wonderfully well satisfied. Isabel now joined them alarmed by
the cries of her little playmate. Emmy looking very brave scrambled upon
mamma's knee, from whence she darted very defiant glances at her uncle.
"I think I will go to Ashton Park" said Everard.
"Do you think that it will do any good" asked Emily.
"I hope so, Grace is not bad hearted, only vexed, besides, I should wish
to leave on good terms with the old lady."
"I have no doubt that she pities you immensely." Everard laughed "I will
go now" he said, "and we hope you may be successful" returned both
warmly.
"Good evening Lady Ashton" said Everard when he arrived at the Park;
entering the drawing-room from the lawn.
"Oh is that you, you poor unfortunate boy," returned her ladyship
compassionately.
"Pray spare your pity, for some more deserving individual," answered
Everard laughing, "I think myself the most fortunate of mortals."
"Don't come to me with your nonsense, you are very silly, and have
behaved in a most dishonorable manner towards your family."
"Will you be kind enough to state in what way," replied Everard
colouring, "I confess I can't see it."
"Why, in offering to that governess girl."
"You are severe."
"Oh I haven't patience with you; my sympathy is all with poor Grace, who
feels quite disgraced by it."
"She cannot think so, seriously, or if she does, she ought to be
ashamed.
"Hoighty, toighty, how we are coming the parson to-night."
"Pshaw," exclaimed Everard impatiently.
"I think she is justly angry and aggrieved. Of course in receiving so
young and pretty a girl, as governess for your sisters, (for I allow
that she is pretty.) "Oh you do," said Everard sarcastically. "Your
mother" continued Lady Ashton "relied upon your honorable feelings, and
good sense, but you have abused her confidence in a most cruel manner."
The swelling veins, and heavy breathing showed how annoyed he was, and
he answered warmly, "I deny having done anything wrong or dishonorable,
I presume that I have a perfect right to choose for myself."
"To a certain extent I grant, but you owe something to the feelings of
your family."
"They have no cause of complaint, Isabel is quite their equal if not
superior."
"In your estimation," said Lady Ashton contemptuously.
"I don't care to discuss the subject" returned Everard haughtily.
"Reverse the matter, how would you like it, if Grace was going to marry
a tutor."
"If he was a worthy person, and Grace was satisfied, I certainly should
not object."
"I doubt it," cried Lady Ashton angrily. Then she commenced aspersing
Isabel in every way, and Everard hotly defended her. "Nasty, artful,
designing girl, you will live to repent your folly yet," she said. Then
Everard got in a terrible passion newly ordained though he was. But Lady
Ashton was a woman, and Everard Arlington never forgot when he was in
the presence of ladies, so though they most decidedly quarrelled,
Everard saying some pretty severe things, he managed to keep the cooler
of the two, Lady Ashton being as spiteful as only Lady Ashton could be.
So instead of conciliating Grace he had only made matters worse; as he
supposed; but Lady Ashton really loved her god-son, and in her heart
admired him for his spirit.
Everard's anger once roused was not easily appeased, so that after he
left Ashton Park, he took a ten mile walk in the moonlight before he was
sufficiently calm to venture home. "What is the matter" asked his mother
when he did.
"I have been in a tremendous passion, and am not quite cooled down yet"
he answered, "good night."
The upshot of all this was, that on coming home one afternoon, Everard
found Lady Ashton, and Grace waiting for him. "Let bygones, be bygones,"
said the former taking his hand, while Grace offered hers with a
dignified condescension that was truly amusing, Everard was only too
glad to have a cessation of hostilities, and responded cordially to the
overtures of peace.
Then Lady Ashton insisted upon giving them a farewell party, she would
take no denial, saying that if Everard did not come, that she would not
believe that he forgave her."
Grace and Emily were delighted, saying, it was the very thing, and Alice
was half wild with glee at being included in the invitation, and also
allowed to go.
So Isabel had a new white dress for the occasion, and now that she was
no longer the governess, she arrayed herself with some of the beautiful
and costly jewels, which her fathers creditors had refused to take,
(though they were offered them by Isabel,) which had not seen the light
since she came to Elm Grove.
"Oh Isabel, now you look like yourself" said Lucy, who had arrived just
in time to be of the party.
"How sly of you Isabel, not to let us see them before" cried Emily
examining them "what beauties," and Mrs. Arlington looked very
approvingly at her future daughter-in-law. "I think that you are the
proudest girl I ever saw, Isabel," she said reproachfully.
"Oh mamma, not proud, only sensitive," interposed Alice warmly.
"I think you were wrong my dear" continued Mrs. Arlington without
heeding Alice.
"Please don't', pleaded Isabel the tears gathering in her eyes "I could
not help feeling so, indeed I could not."
"Don't blame her mamma, it does not matter now," put in Emily.
"She was a stupid little goose to care so much about it; and I always
said so," chimed in Lucy.
"Pray who is a stupid little goose," asked Everard joining the group in
the drawing-room.
"Ask no questions----you know the rest" returned Lucy saucily.
"Dear me, how late we shall be" cried Emily "what can make papa and
Harry so long."
"On arriving at the Park, an unexpected pleasure caused a great deal of
excitement. On entering the dressing-room they met Ada. "Oh, when did
you come." I'm so glad." "How delightful." Burst from them
simultaneously, as Ada was hugged in a manner that bid fair to ruin the
effect of her careful toilet.
"Didn't Lucy tell you," asked Ada amazed.
"Not I," cried Lucy triumphantly.
"Oh Lucy."
Then a thundering rap at the door from Harry, who was impatient to see
his sister; made them hasten down, all in high spirits at the unlooked
for meeting.
Lady Ashton hardly seemed herself she was so pleasant, and even Grace
did the agreeable to perfection.
Lucy, lectured Everard, and condemned severely his taking Isabel to be
eaten up by savages; as she persisted would be the case if he carried
out his preposterous intentions. But Everard only laughed. "I cannot see
how you can reconcile it to your conscience, to doom such a girl as
that, to so wretched an existence, look at her, is she fit for such a
hum-drum-knock-about life."
"Everard cast a very admiring glance at his bride elect, but his only
answer was a rather sad smile.
"Oh I see I am right," she cried, "I know you think that she is more
fitted for civilized society, confess now, confess, I used to think you
so considerate, but now I see you are very selfish.
"Perhaps I am," and he walked out on the lawn, leaving Lucy much
astonished and very indignant.
"Be merciful Lucy," said Charles offering his arm.
"Not I," returned Lucy, "I think it awfully cool."
"Then it must be very refreshing this hot evening" said Charles
laughing.
"Don't be provoking." I'm awfully angry."
"Lucy!"
"Charles!"
CHAPTER XXXIV.
"Oh, here you are," said Lucy when shortly after breakfast next morning
she found Everard enjoying a cigar in the piazza. "You needn't think to
escape by going off in that unceremonious manner last night, so you may
as well listen now, for I intend to express my sentiments some time or
other."
"I am all attention Miss Lucy, only I hope you don't object to my
cigar."
"Not at all, it will make you more patient perhaps."
"Shouldn't wonder, as I'm afraid from your preamble it is nothing I care
to hear."
"Everard!" then with a shrug. "Of course you don't."
Everard laughed. "You stupid fellow, won't you be quiet and hear what I
have to say."
"Oh certainly."
"I wish to remind you, that you need not go goodness knows how many
hundred miles to find people to convert, as there are plenty nearer
home."
"No doubt, and also, others near home anxious to convert them."
"And do you think, that no one but yourself would go to that outlandish
place."
"Very few, comparatively; of course there are some."
"Mighty few I expect."
"Then you see an additional reason, why I should."
"I have not seen any yet, so of course cant't see additional ones" she
answered saucily. "I tell you what you had better do, stay and convert
me, and that will take you a precious long time I promise you."
"Lucy!"
"Oh, how grave you are, I wish you could see your face."
"You forget what you are talking about, Lucy, or you would not speak so"
he said gravely, "I cannot believe that you are in earnest."
"Of course I don't mean half I say, I never do, I did not think you
would take it so seriously."
"It is a bad way to get into, Lucy."
"Don't be alarmed" cried Lucy laughing, "I'm not so awfully wicked as
you imagine. I know, that I am very wild, and thoughtless, and that that
school did not do me any good, but for all that, I'm not quite a
heathen."
"Be merry and wise," he said kindly but gravely."
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