Isabel Leicester
C >>
Clotilda Jennings >> Isabel Leicester
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 | 5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14
CHAPTER IX.
The daylight was streaming in at the window when Emily awoke, and lay
thinking of the party, and rejoicing in her kind little heart that
Isabel had been so happy, and had enjoyed herself so much. Then she
sighed as she thought Harry was gone, but smiled again at the bright
prospect she had in view, for Harry had imparted to her the nice
arrangement that he had made with his father, and she did so love the
idea of travelling for a year. Then again she heaved a little sigh, and
hoped he would not overwork himself; but there was no cause for
uneasiness on that score, for Harry was too much accustomed to take
things easy, and too wise to work himself to death: and Emmy was content
to believe this.
But she was that sociable disposition, that she could not half enjoy
anything unless she could get some one to sympathise with her. She did
so long to tell her news. Late as was the hour when the party broke up,
she wanted to tell Isabel; but Isabel had refused their accustomed chat,
saying that it was too late, and that Mrs. Arlington would be vexed.
Then she wondered if Isabel was awake, she did so long to tell her about
the year's travelling. She thought she would go and see. So she got up
very quietly, partially dressed, and then threw on her dressing gown,
and ran up to Isabel's room; but finding the door locked, she rattled
the handle slightly, and called through the key-hole, "Isabel! Isabel!
are you awake? open the door." Then as she drew back, something
attracted her sight, and impelled her to apply her eye to the said
key-hole. She did so; and horrified beyond description at what she
beheld, she shrieked aloud with terror. Her frantic cries brought her
father, mother, Everard, and several of the servants, to the rescue.
"Open the door! oh, open the door!" was all that she could say, wringing
her hands in anguish, and pointing to it.
"Speak, child," said her father, "what is the matter?"
But she only cried more wildly, "open the door! open the door!" without
attempting to explain. But Everard, with his firm, quiet manner, and
reassuring tone, calmed her almost instantly.
Mrs. Arlington did as Emily had done before her. "There is something
wrong," she exclaimed, "we must get the door open."
The united efforts of Everard and his father forced the door, and a more
distressing sight can scarcely be imagined than that they beheld.
Stretched on the floor lay Isabel, in her ball dress, the blood pouring
from her mouth in a crimson stream. As soon as Everard saw this, he
waited for no more, but hastened to the stable, and was soon on the
road, dashing at a reckless pace, towards Dr. Heathfield's. Mrs.
Arlington quietly desired Norris to remove the children, who, alarmed by
Emily's cries, had crowded into the room, along with the servants. Emily
also was dismissed; and ordering two of the servants to remain, she told
the rest to retire, and to send Norris back again. She then turned her
attention to the suffering girl, whose face wore an expression of
ineffable agony; but she was at a loss how to proceed, not knowing what
ought to be done, and fearing that she might do harm by injudicious
treatment. In less time than could have been imagined, Everard returned
with the doctor, who had great difficulty in stopping the bleeding. She
had broken a blood vessel, he said, and was in a very dangerous state.
He ordered perfect quiet, as the least excitement would cause a return
of the bleeding, and then nothing could save her. He questioned very
sharply as to what had happened, and gave as his opinion that it had
been caused by some great shock, and violent emotion struggled with and
suppressed, by undue excitement.
Mrs. Arlington repudiated the notion, and protested against such an
assumption, saying "that Miss Leicester appeared quite well when she
retired to rest."
"These things do not happen without cause, madam," returned the doctor;
"therefore in all probability something has occurred of which you know
nothing."
"I am convinced that you are mistaken, Dr. Heathfield; but I will take
care that your orders are strictly attended to. No one but myself and
Norris shall be allowed in the room. You have no doubt of her ultimate
recovery, I trust," she added.
"I couldn't pretend to give an opinion at present; I can only tell you
that she is in a most precarious state," he replied gravely. "Everything
depends upon the prevention of the hemorrhage, a return of which would
be certain death. At the same time, that is not all that we have to
fear."
For a long time Isabel hovered between life and death, scarcely
conscious of what was passing around her. Day after day the children
would linger on the stairs, whenever the doctor came, to hear his
account of Miss Leicester. But he only shook his head, and said "he
could not have them there. Their governess was very ill, and they must
be very good children." Then they would return to the school-room, and
spend, as best they might, these joyless holidays.
At last the longed for answer came--"She was certainly better," and they
were delighted beyond measure; but their joy was considerably damped,
when he told them that they could not be permitted to see her for some
time yet.
Isabel's recovery was very slow, though every care and attention was
bestowed upon her, and each vied with the other in showing kindness to
the orphan girl. Still Isabel felt her lonely, dependent condition,
acutely. Life seemed a dreary, cheerless existence; and she experienced
a shrinking from the future which seemed to be before her, which was at
times almost insupportable. She longed to be at rest. The prostration
and langour, both mental and bodily, that accompanied this depression,
was so great as to seriously retard her recovery, and almost baffled the
doctor's skill. She would lie for hours without speaking or moving,
apparently asleep, but only in a sort of waking dream. She took no
interest in anything, and appeared quite incapable of making any effort
to overcome this apathy. Emily tried her best to amuse her; but after
taking pains to relate everything that she thought of interest that had
occurred, Isabel would smile and thank her, in a way that proved she had
not been listening. Thus week after week of her convalescence passed,
while, to the doctor's surprise and disappointment, she made no further
progress. After visiting his patient one afternoon, he requested a few
moments' conversation with Mrs. Arlington. "My dear madam," he said,
when that lady had led the way into the morning-room, "has Miss
Leicester no friends, with whom she could spend a few weeks? for if she
is allowed to remain in this lethargic state, she will inevitably sink.
An entire change of air and scene is absolutely necessary. She requires
something to rouse her in a gentle way, without excitement."
"She has friends, I believe; but really, I know so little about them,
that any arrangement of that sort is out of the question. All those I do
know, are at present in Europe," returned Mrs. Arlington. "But we are
anxious to do everything in our power to promote her recovery. If you
can suggest anything, I shall be most happy to carry out your plans.
I proposed her going to the sea-side, but she wouldn't hear of it, and
said that she hoped she should not trouble us much longer.
I remonstrated, but to no purpose--she persisted that it was utterly
impossible."
"That was the very thing I was going to suggest," returned the doctor;
"but I trusted that the proposal would have met with a better reception.
But if you will allow me, I think I might persuade her to accompany the
children, as if on their account. Have I your permission to do so?"
"Full permission to make any arrangements that you think beneficial,
doctor," replied Mrs. Arlington.
Doctor Heathfield went back to his patient. He found her alone. "What do
you think of making a start to the sea-side? I think it would do you
good."
"Oh, indeed I could not," returned Isabel languidly. "Mrs. Arlington is
very kind, but it is quite impossible."
"Don't decide so hastily," replied Dr. Heathfield, taking a seat by her
side.
"A thing which is impossible, requires no consideration."
"But I am convinced that it is not impossible," he urged, "and by
obliging others, you will also benefit yourself; it is such a very small
thing that is required of you, just to accompany the children to D----
for a few weeks. Indeed I think that you can scarcely refuse after all
the kindness that you have received during your long illness."
"I am extremely sorry to have caused so much trouble, but I assure you
that I am not ungrateful."
"It don't seem like it when you won't do what little you might to
please," returned the doctor.
"Don't say will not," Dr. Heathfield.
"Ay but I must say will not, and excuse me when I add, that you greatly
mistake your duty to give way to this apathy, and thus retard your
recovery," he said kindly. "I do not seek to fathom your trouble, but I
do know that it was excessive mental anguish that caused you to break a
blood-vessel, and I would remind you that this is not the right way to
brood over and nurse your grief, refusing to make any effort to do your
duty.
"I know it is wrong faltered Isabel with quivering lips, but I cannot
take an interest in anything or find comfort, save in the thought of
early death."
"But that is from the morbid state of mind induced by weakness."
Isabel shook her head.
"And will pass off as you get stronger," he continued.
"I shall never be strong again," she said.
"Pooh, nonsense, I can't have you talk in that way, if you only make an
effort and go with the children to D----, I think you will soon alter
your opinion."
"Please don't say any more, my head aches dreadfully," pleaded Isabel.
"One moment and I have done," he said, "I fear that you forget your
position here, the family have behaved to you with the greatest
generosity, but still you must be aware that they would not continue to
keep an invalid governess, and as I understand that you are entirely
dependant upon your own exertions, you must see the necessity of trying
the benefit of sea air, when you have the opportunity, do not take it
unkindly that I have used such freedom in pressing this matter, think
over it quietly, and to-morrow let me know what answer I am to give Mrs.
Arlington." Then he took his leave, and his kind heart smote him, for he
heard the smothered sobs of his fair patient.
CHAPTER X.
Mrs. Arlington never for a moment suspected the way in which Dr.
Heathfield would induce Isabel to accede to his plans. In justice to her
it must be said, that had she known it, she would if possible have
prevented it. But in the end perhaps it was better for Isabel that she
did not, though the reflections to which his remarks gave rise, were
extremely painful. It needed not these cruel hints to remind her of that
which had scarcely ever been absent from her thoughts since her father's
death, and she shed very bitter tears, even after she retired to rest
she could but weep over her unhappy lot far into the night, until at
length the bright moonlight streaming in at the window, reminded her of
one above, who doeth all things well, and she resolved to try and do her
duty according to His appointment, however trying she might find it,
trusting that as her need was, so would strength be given.
She saw now why she had not been allowed to die according to her wish,
even because her work was not yet accomplished. How willingly and with
what pleasure had the children received what she had taught them
regarding religion; how eagerly had they listened when she had explained
the scriptures; with what different feelings did they now regard the
sabbath as a day of holy rest, and prayer, and praise, instead of a day
of weariness, dreaded and hated. Did she not remember how shocked she
had been, when Amy said, that she liked all the days except sundays, and
the others had expressed the same. And oh, how glad and thankful she
felt when Amy not long since, one sunday afternoon had clasped her arms
round her neck, and exclaimed that she liked Miss Leicester's sundays
very much. All this she had been able to do through divine blessing upon
her endeavors to benefit the children, and would she leave them when her
work had only just begun? No, no, how wrong and selfish had she been, if
all joy and happiness had fled, she still had her work before her--her
duty to perform. With such thoughts as these, her tears became less
bitter. Soft tear of quiet resignation followed the bitter rebellious
ones she had shed so abundantly, and she resolved by steady abnegation
of self, to forget the past (as much as might be) in the business and
duties of the present. Then with a prayer for strength to keep this
resolution, and patience to wait, and work until such time as rest
should be vouchsafed her, she fell asleep.
With a severe headache, and extremely weak from the trying night she had
past, Isabel waited for the doctor next day, though she had determined
to give him a favorable answer, she wondered much how she could go, when
she felt almost unable to raise her hand to her head. She was feverish
and restless, very anxious for his arrival, yet dreading it, for it
seemed as though she were about by her own act, to put an end to these
quiet days of rest, and dreamy reverie, which she fain would prolong.
However, when Dr. Heathfield came, she managed to return his greeting
with some degree of cheerfulness.
"I trust you feel better to-day," he said.
"No, rather worse, the dose you administered was anti-narcotic I assure
you, but I have decided to accede to Mrs. Arlington's wishes. I will do
my utmost for the children, but I fear that will be very little," and
she smiled faintly from her pillow.
"Pooh, nonsense, you are not to teach at present, we all know you can't
do that," returned the doctor cheerfully, "what good would the poor
children get if they were cooped up in a school-room all day, time
enough for that when they come home again." Dr. Heathfield began to fear
that the dose had been too strong, when he felt the feverish pulse. "You
must be very quiet to-day, promise me that you will not worry yourself,"
he said, "I shall tell Mrs. Arlington not to let the girls tease you."
"They never tease me." replied Isabel hastily.
"Oh they don't, well that is fortunate," he answered, preparing some
mysterious compound that he had taken from his pocket, "now if you take
this" he continued, presenting the mixture, "and then take a nice little
sleep, you will feel much better by the afternoon, and then if Miss
Emily would read to you, it would be better than talking."
"I'm afraid your patient is not so well to-day doctor," said Mrs.
Arlington coming in, "she seems feverish this morning."
"Oh, she has been tormenting herself, thinking that she had to teach
while at D----, but I think if you keep her quiet, this feverishness
will soon subside, and she is going with the children to D---- like a
good sensible girl," replied the doctor.
"I am very glad that you have come to that decision Isabel, as I should
not think of sending the children without you," (no more she would) said
Mrs. Arlington, keeping up the farce that she was the obliged party.
"Emily and Norris go with you, so that you have no cause for anxiety,
dear," she added, laying her cool hand upon Isabel's hot forehead.
"Is your head very bad," inquired the doctor, pulling down the blind.
Then as Isabel assented, he went on, "if you were to send the quiet one,
(Alice I think you call her) to bathe her temples with a little lotion
it would be as well."
"I think it should be Norris, I don't like to trust the children," Mrs.
Arlington began.
"You may trust Alice," interrupted Isabel.
"Very well," returned Mrs. Arlington smiling, "then Alice it shall be."
Within a week, everything was arranged for their departure, Everard was
to escort them to D---- and see them comfortably settled, and then
proceed to H---- College. The morning they were to start, Isabel joined
them at the early school-room breakfast. This was the first time that
Everard had seen her since her illness, and he was inexpressibly shocked
at her appearance, and remonstrated with his mother, saying, that Miss
Leicester was not in a fit state to travel.
"My dear Everard, I am acting entirely under the the doctor's orders."
"Nevertheless it is cruel," he replied gravely.
"My dear son what can I do, Dr. Heathfield says that it is absolutely
necessary."
"It will kill her, that is my opinion of the matter." he answered "why
she can scarcely stand, I had no idea she was so awfully weak."
"But what can I do," persisted Mrs. Arlington.
"Wait until she gets a little stronger," urged Everard.
"But the doctor assures me, that she will inevitable sink, if allowed to
remain in the same low spirited state."
"Why did you not have her among the rest, and then probably she might
not have got so low. It is dreadful to see any one so fearfully weak,"
he added in a tone of grave commiseration.
"I don't wonder at your being shocked at her altered appearance, but
you should not blame those who have had the care of her, without due
consideration. I assure you that she has had every attention," said Mrs.
Arlington reproachfully.
"I don't wish to blame any one," returned Everard coloring, "surely not
you dear mother."
"I am glad to hear it," she answered, in a somewhat injured tone. "I was
sure that it only required a moment's thought to convince you, that
however painful a state Miss Leicester may be in, it has been brought
about by circumstances over which we have no control."
Everard looked perseveringly out of the window. And his mother continued
"it was at her own request that she remained so secluded. But it must
not be, we have listened to her entreaties too long already, now others
must act for her in the way they think best."
"Then it is not her wish to go," observed Everard.
"Certainly not, but the doctor almost insists upon it."
"Kill or cure as I take it," he returned.
"I fear that is too near the truth, unfortunately," replied his mother."
"Everard remained silent, and Mrs. Arlington saying that the carriage
would be round shortly, quitted the room. Then he returned to the
school-room, to find Isabel fainting upon the sofa and Emily bending
over her in helpless despair, Amy crying, and Alice emptying the
contents of a scent bottle over Isabel, and Rose spilling the smelling
salts almost into her mouth, in her anxiety to cram it to her nose. This
quaint mode of treatment had the desired effect, for Isabel with a great
sigh opened her eyes, and asked what was the matter. Dr. Heathfield
arrived soon after this, and ordered Miss Leicester back to her room for
a few hours rest, so that they were forced to wait for the next train.
"She ought not to have come down to breakfast," he said, "let her have
lunch in her own room, and remain there until everything is quite ready,
then let her go straight to the carriage after the rest are seated, it
must be managed quietly or it cannot be done." Then he called Everard
aside, and cautioned him, "it is a hazardous thing to move her at all,
and requires very nice management," he said.
"It should not be attempted," returned Everard coldly, "she is only fit
to be in bed."
"The doctor smiled incredulously, keep her there and you would soon
finish her, and she would be only too content to do it."
"You are severe Dr. Heathfield," said Everard stiffly.
"Come, Come, Everard don't get angry, you think me a brute no doubt. But
if she remains here she will die, if she goes away she may recover. Now
you have my honest opinion."
"It seems to me little short of murder, to start her off in this state,"
returned Everard."
"Upon my word, who is severe now Mr. Everard," retorted the doctor.
I don't attempt to deny that moving her may be fatal, if not judiciously
managed But if carefully and properly done, I am very sanguine as to the
result.
"That is a nice way of getting out of a scrape, I must say," "Oh a very
nice way indeed," said Dr. Heathfield laughing. "I will come in again
about one," he added addressing Mrs. Arlington, "and if I have time,
I will go down to the station and see them off."
"Oh, if you could doctor, it would be such a satisfaction to know that
you were with them," Mrs. Arlington answered.
Everard could not bring himself to see it in the same light as the
doctor, but as her going seemed inevitable, he was glad that he was to
have the charge of her. A little before one the doctor returned, but
only to see that all was right. "He was so very busy," he said, "but had
no doubt that Mr. Everard would manage very well. He could not possibly
go down to the station, he had to set a man's leg two miles off in quite
another direction. Everard's face was a picture, as the doctor so kindly
expressed the belief that he would manage very well. Emily was so
convulsed with laughter at the sight, that she was forced to stuff her
handkerchief into her mouth to conceal her mirth. Everard managed
everything so nicely during the journey, that Isabel never knew that he
made special alteration on her account, and he assisted her on all
occasions in a nice kindly matter of course manner, quite like an elder
brother, that prevented any embarrassment on her part. He was also very
successful in concealing the anxiety he felt on her behalf. Isabel
appeared quite worn out the night they arrived at D----, Norris insisted
upon perfect rest and quiet next day, saying that she should join them
at tea if she seemed sufficiently rested, but Everard rebelled, and made
Emily amuse her during the morning. Norris submitted without much fuss,
as he was a great favorite.
"I know as well as you Master Everard, that she needs to be kept more
cheerful than she has been, but after all the worry and fatigue of the
journey, a little quietness is good for her," said Norris, endeavoring
to justify herself.
"I don't deny that Norris, I only object to her being quite alone."
"And you know sir, that you always get your own way," replied Norris
laughing.
"Usually," returned Everard, "but Norris, understand that I wish her
kept quiet."
"As if anyone could be quiet where Miss Emily is," said Norris
reproachfully.
"I'll trust Emmy," he answered laughing.
"That is more nor I would Mr. Everard," she returned with the
familiarity that old domestics who have been a long time in a family
often acquire. For Norris had been with Mrs. Arlington ever since she
was married, now some twenty-six years.
After dinner, Everard, Emily and the children, went out for a ramble.
On their return, Everard left them near the town, as he had to make some
inquiries as to the time the train left, as he was to leave next
morning, for they had been so much longer on the way than had been
anticipated, consequently his stay at D---- had to be curtailed.
When he returned to the cottage, he found Isabel in the old arm chair in
the sitting-room, the others had not yet arrived. Isabel was looking
wretchedly ill, but pronounced herself much rested. Everard gave her an
animated account of their ramble, and an excellent description of the
place, but she appeared to take little interest in either.
"Perhaps you would rather I didn't talk, he said, as she leaned her head
wearily upon her hand.
"O, I don't mind," she replied in a tone of such utter indifference that
Everard took a book. He did not read however, but sat shading his face
with his hand, so as to enable him to contemplate the poor worn face and
fragile form of her whom he loved better than life. He pictured her, as
she appeared when waiting the arrival of the guests on Grace's birthday,
and the contrast was painful in the extreme, neither could he account
for the utter hopelessness depicted on her countenance.
"Are you aware that I leave in the morning," he said, after some time
had elapsed.
"So soon," she inquired in surprise.
"Yes, by the early train," he replied.
Then I must not miss this opportunity of thanking you, for all the
trouble you have taken, and for all the kindness you have shown me.
Indeed I am very much obliged to you."
"I am only too glad to have been of any service to you," he returned
with something of the old manner. "Will you not write when you are able,
if only a line, just a line, I shall be so anxious to hear."
"Emily will write," she answered quietly.
Everard bit his lip, he was silenced but not satisfied,--an awkward
pause ensued, then the others came in full of glee to find Isabel down.
The tea was a very cheerful one, and Isabel strove to appear interested,
and to join in the general conversation, but the effort was too much for
her, for when she rose to retire for the night, she all but fainted and
alarmed them very much.
When Everard came into the sitting-room next morning, he found a
cheerful fire burning (for the morning was raw and misty) and breakfast
on the table, although it was only half-past five o'clock, and shortly
after Emily came in.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 | 5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14