Isabel Leicester

C >> Clotilda Jennings >> Isabel Leicester

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"That is not so easy" returned Lucy with a gulp, "you may think so, you
are so mild tempered; but with one, so impulsive, and high spirited as I
am, it is very hard, almost impossible; that's always the way with you
quiet, easy going people, you have no sympathy with us."

"Oh, Lucy, how apt we are to form wrong opinions, you think me quiet,
easy, gentle, I may be so, but I am also passionate, determined, and you
say selfish; be that as it may, I cannot give up without a very hard
struggle, not even then usually. I am unyielding. Persevering and firm,
Emily would say, self-willed and obstinate, Grace would call me."

"I can't believe you."

"It is true."

"But to resume our discussion; it is really too provoking to take Isabel
off to that outlandish place."

"It is settled, all the talking in the world can't make any difference,"
he said with the quiet smile, and languid manner, that made it so hard
to believe that he was indeed what he had described.

In the evening Susan brought a note to Isabel, as she and Everard were
walking on the terrace. Isabel turned deadly pale on observing the
handwriting, "it is from Dr. Tachereau" she exclaimed.

"Let me open it" said Everard seeing her agitation.

"A poisoned letter perhaps."

"Oh Everard, such things only happen in story books, but if you really
think so, it had better go at the back of the fire."

"The fire is the right place for it no doubt, but I have a curiosity to
see the inside first, some impertinence you may be sure."

"Perhaps to inform us, that he will bring his pistols to the church, if
we dare to venture there, said Isabel breaking the seal. She opened it,
but a sickening faintness overpowered her, and she was unable to read.
He had now succeeded in making her fear him, while his vindictiveness
had been solely against herself, she had defied him, but now, that
another was menaced she trembled for his safety.

"Let me see this madman's effusion" said Everard soothingly, "Why I
declare you are quite ill, take this seat and I will read for our mutual
edification."

Casting an anxious glance towards Isabel occasionally to ascertain if
she was recovering from her agitation, he read a follow's:

DEAR ISABEL,--(cool muttered Everard). What a fool I was the other
night, can you, will you, forgive me. Could you know the remorse
and misery I have suffered since, or the feeling of thankfulness
with which I heard that I had not seriously injured either of you;
I think you would. What a reward for your kindness to my poor
Natalie; what a return for your sympathy in my trouble. When had
you rejoiced at my misfortune, I could scarcely have been
surprised. But I loved myself, and my own way, and you thwarted me
twice; but enough of the past. I dare not contemplate it. Let me
however say a few words in extenuation of my folly. You can never
know what I endured that evening, to see the regard once bestowed
on me, transferred to another, to see that I was nothing,--that I
was entirely, unmistakeably forgotten,--perhaps detested; for you
treated me with unnecessary coldness. All this so worked upon my
unhappy temperament until nearly mad with anger and jealousy,
I did that, for which I now beseech you to forgive me. I shall
never see you again, as the thought of your marrying another is so
hateful to me that I dare not trust myself in your presence after
the dark glimpse I have had of my evil nature. I did not think I
could be so wicked. Farewell, I still remain your loving, though
now unloved--LOUIS.

Everard deliberately tore the note into fragments, with the same
expression that Dr. Heathfield had remarked, while an angry flush
suffused his countenance. But there was more of pity, than of anger, in
Isabel's mind, and she did not notice his displeasure. And as Rose at
this moment came to call them in, to see Mrs. Arnold, of course no
comment was passed on the letter; though Everard's unusual gloominess
that evening, proved that he had not forgotten it.

Mrs. Arnold was very fussy as usual, and told many amusing anecdotes
regarding her journey, and also gave an immense amount of good advice to
both Everard and Isabel, for which of course they were duly grateful.

"Really my dear Mabel" said Mrs. Arnold, "I never was more glad in my
life, than when I heard of this match, I was positively delighted. But
you must not suppose for a moment, that I had any such idea; when I got
her the situation."

Isabel looked annoyed, "naughty girl" said Mrs. Arlington, and then it
came out, how foolishly sensitive, (as Mrs. Arlington termed it,) Isabel
had always been, regarding her position. "Never mind, dear," said Mrs.
Arnold kindly, "It is all over now, but still I should have thought that
you had been a governess long enough to get used to it."

"Please don't pleaded Isabel, resolutely forcing back the tears which
invariably came, at any allusion to the distasteful subject. And
Everard, who until now had been unaware of her extreme dislike of being
a governess admired her the more, that while hating her position so
much, she had so determinately refused him, as long as she felt, that
she did not return his affection.

"How is it my dear" inquired Mrs. Arnold, who seemed destined to-night
to hit upon the wrong topic, "that you have never been to visit any of
your old friends, Mrs. Price, Mrs. Vernon, Miss Carding, and hosts of
others, told me repeatedly, that time after time, they have sent you the
most pressing invitations, all to no purpose."

Isabel reddened painfully, Emily and Lucy laughed.

"That is another of Isabel's 'weaknesses'." Everard looked annoyed.
"Sing some of your comic songs, Harry," he said, wishing to change the
subject. And Harry sung, to the great amusement of the party generally,
and of Mrs. Arnold in particular.

Before they separated, a moonlight excursion to the romantic dell, the
scene of the memorable picnic four years ago, was arranged for the next
evening, and met with universal approbation. All agreeing that the
water-fall could only be seen to perfection by moonlight.

CHAPTER XXXV.

It had been a dull day, this last day, so that all were glad that the
evening was not spent quietly at home, giving time for sad thoughts of
to-morrow's parting. Thanks to Harry and Lucy, the excursion passed off
more cheerfully than might have been expected, all appearing to enjoy
themselves. On their return, Isabel did not join the others in the
drawing-room, but went out and lingered by the fountain, in the
moonlight, musing on all that had happened since she first came there,
now nearly five years ago, and wondering how long it might be, and what
might happen, ere she would again be there--or if, indeed, she would be
there again. Ah! seek not to look into futurity, Isabel. It is well for
you that you know not all that shall be ere you again sit there. Enjoy
your happiness while you may, and leave the future to unfold itself. She
remained there a long time thinking of many things, and was still lost
in meditation when Everard joined her.

"A penny for your thoughts," he said.

"Oh, Everard, I want you to do something," she returned, laying her hand
on his arm.

"What is it, dearest?" he inquired.

"I feel so unhappy about Louis. I wish so much that you would write and
say that we forgive him."

Everard was silent, and his face became very stern.

"If you would, I should be so glad."

"You ask too much," he said.

"Only what is right."

"Right perhaps, but hard--very hard."

"Oh, do," she pleaded, raising her blue eyes to his so earnestly.
"Oh, Everard, it is not the way for us to be happy, to be unforgiving.
I should be so miserable: day by day watching the blue waters, knowing
that I had left any one in anger or ill-feeling. Oh, Everard, you will
forgive him!"

She looked so lovely there in the moonlight, pleading for one who so
little deserved it of her, that Everard found it hard to refuse her.

"I cannot write a lie, Isabel, even to please you," he replied, in a
harsh, unnatural voice.

"Oh, no, not that; but I want you really to forgive him."

"I do not, I cannot," and his voice was hard and cold.

Isabel shuddered. Was this the Everard usually so kind and gentle?

"Oh, Everard, and you a clergyman!"

"Perhaps I am not fit to be one," he answered. "I have thought so
sometimes lately, but I wished so much to be one that, in seeking to
fulfil the wish, I may have overlooked the meetness."

"If you are not, I do not know who is," she said, "but this is not
like yourself; I should be less surprised if I was unforgiving and you
forgave."

"I hope that I do not often feel as I do now towards him. But you forget
how nearly he took you from me; he whom I trusted and regarded with the
warmest friendship."

"It is not for his sake I ask it Everard; forgive as you would be
forgiven."

They walked on in silence until they reached the house. Then Everard
said, "From my heart I wish I could, Isabel," and abruptly left her.
Then, alone in his own room, after all had retired to rest, far into the
night he fought the battle of good and evil. What was he about to
do--preach and teach meekness, self-denial, and forgiveness of injuries,
while he was still angry and unforgiving? What mockery! Ought he not to
practice what he taught? Was theory--mere words--sufficient? No; he
must, by example, give force to his teaching, or how could he hope to
succeed? All this he saw clearly enough, but the difficulty still
remained. He strove hard to conquer, but evil prevailed. "Forgive as you
would be forgiven" rang continually in his ears, but he did not, could
not, forgive. He laid down, but not to sleep, and the pale moon shone
calmly and peacefully in upon him, as if mocking his disquietude. At
length he threw the painful subject from him, and sank into an uneasy
slumber.

He awoke, next morning, with the sun beaming brightly in at the window.
But dark clouds gathered round him; gloomy doubts as to his fitness for
the office he had taken, and sorrow at the impossibility of his
forgiving Louis. "Forgive as you would be forgiven," and again the last
night's struggle was renewed, and even when they started for the church
he had not conquered.

Isabel saw how it was, and this was the bitter drop in her cup of
happiness. Alas! in this world when is it unalloyed?

A burst of music filled the church as the bridal party entered, and very
lovely looked the bride, surrounded by her three little bridesmaids,
while in the background stood a fourth, the merry Lucy. Bob and three
youthful Arlington cousins were groomsmen, and Everard, to use Lucy's
own words, was the very _beau ideal_ of what a bridegroom should be, in
fact "perfect."

The sun shone with almost dazzling splendor on the group, which Emily
pronounced "a good omen," and again the organ pealed forth its joyous
strains as they left the church, and gaily rang the marriage bells.

"Everard," said Isabel, when they were in the library awaiting the
arrival of the others, "write that letter now; I know you can, for you
would not look so happy if you felt as you did last night."

"I can write it truthfully now," he replied, smiling at her earnestness.
And then, with his bride bending over his shoulder, Everard wrote such a
note as only _he_ could write, expressing their entire forgiveness, and
made Isabel take the pen and write "Isabel Arlington" under his
signature.

The others, coming in, insisted upon knowing the subject of their very
important correspondence, but Everard pocketed the letter and refused to
satisfy their curiosity.

The breakfast was but a dull affair, notwithstanding the exuberant
spirits of the young groomsmen. The parents knew that they were parting
with their only son, and that it would be years before they would see
him again; and the son, amid his happiness, remembered that he was
leaving father, mother, sisters, perhaps never to return. Isabel, also,
felt it hard to part so soon with her new sisters, who hung about her
with every demonstration of affection and regret.

Then such a scene in the dressing-room (from which Mrs. Arlington had
mercifully contrived to keep Mrs. Arnold.) Emily, with her head buried
in a sofa cushion, weeping passionately at the thought of parting with
her brother, while the children all clung around Isabel in such a manner
as to make it utterly impossible for her to don her travelling dress;
Lucy trying to comfort Emily, and Grace scolding the children. Ada,
taking pity on Isabel, reminded them that Everard was going as well as
Isabel, suggesting that they should go down to him. To this they readily
agreed.

"I ought to go, too, only I'm afraid Everard will be vexed to see me in
such a state," sobbed Emily.

"I like to have you here, Emily dear," replied Isabel, "but you had
better go down; you will be sorry afterwards if you don't. He feels it
dreadfully, I know, poor fellow."

"He looked fearfully pale during breakfast," added Ada, feelingly.

"I will go," returned Emily, vainly endeavoring to check her emotion.
And Grace went with her, leaving Isabel with Ada and Lucy.

Isabel, who had managed to keep up tolerably well so far, now gave way
to uncontrollable emotion. This second scene with the children had been
quite too much for her.

"Isabel! Isabel! you will never be dressed to-day," cried Ada, in
despair.

"Oh, let her be," returned Lucy; "they will miss the train, and have to
wait for the next steamer. What a glorious stew Everard would be in! for
then, of course, they would be too late for that precious Indian ship.
Oh, I declare, I hope they will!"

"Oh, Lucy!" and Isabel made quick work with her dressing, to Lucy's
intense amusement.

Everard, meanwhile, had been undergoing a terrible ordeal down stairs,
and was truly glad when Isabel made her appearance. She was met now with
a worse storm of grief than any previously encountered; as for Amy, she
flew into the carriage after her.

So they drove off, amid thundering cheers from the young groomsmen. Papa
inquired if Amy intended to go to Madagascar, and on Everard's answering
in the affirmative she was wild to get out, protesting that she would
not. "But you can't get out until we reach the gate," said Everard.
"Promise me, Isabel, dear Isabel, that you will let me out at the gate,"
she cried, in an agony; "pray don't let me go to nasty Madagascar; oh,
please don't." So Everard, seeing that the child was really terrified,
stopped the carriage, and Amy instantly jumped out in the greatest
haste, without waiting for any more leave-taking, getting several thumps
from the old shoes which were sent in a continued shower after the
carriage until it had passed through the gate, when a deafening "tiger"
made the welkin ring.

* * * * * * * *

Here we must bid adieu to those whose fortunes we have followed so far,
hoping at some future time to hear more about them. But as we do not
care to inquire particularly after Louis Taschereau, we may as well
mention here that he, some time after, married a fine high-spirited
girl, who was completely his match, the domineering being all on the
wife's side. No tears were shed by her during his absence, and a
scornful smile was the utmost that his anger or ill-temper ever
elicited. So they managed to get on tolerably well, the inquiring look
of the cold grey eye often checking a fit of passion. As Louis's
mercenary propensities have already shown themselves, it is almost
needless to add that she had what he valued more than anything
else--money--which, by the way, she took good care to have settled on
herself. But this he did not object to (albeit she would have done so
all the same if he had), provided there was plenty of it.

* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *

[Errata Noted by Transcriber:

Since a full list of errors would be almost as long as the novel
itself, most are given in tabular form only. Some counts may be
incomplete. Inquisitive readers may like to look at the source code
of the html version of the text, where most errors are noted in
form.

Missing quotation mark 58
Extra quotation mark 23
Misplaced quotation mark 7
Single/double quote error 2
all quotation-mark errors 90

Missing question mark 32
Missing or incorrect period or comma 11
Missing apostrophe 8
Extra apostrophe 7
Extra parenthesis 1
punctuation errors 59

Typographical error or misspelling 36

Printing Error:

drooping spirits. We have // who in the name of wonder do you think
_the marking // represents a mechanical error; the text skips from
the middle of one line to the middle of the next_ ]

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