Isabel Leicester
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Clotilda Jennings >> Isabel Leicester
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CHAPTER XIV.
Upon the morning after their return to Elm Grove, Isabel requested a few
moments conversation with Mrs. Arlington. Desiring Isabel to follow,
Mrs. Arlington led the way into the morning-room, and after expressing
her great satisfaction at the beneficial results of the sea air, she
said "that she hoped Miss Leicester's health was sufficiently restored
to enable the children to resume their studies upon the following
Monday." Isabel replied "that she was quite well, and was as anxious as
Mrs. Arlington could be, that they should lose no more time." Indeed for
some weeks past she had been teaching during the morning, but it was not
of them that I was about to speak," she continued, "it was of myself,
and I trust that you will not blame me for not doing so before I went
away, as indeed it was impossible. Dr. Heathelfid was right in thinking
that my illness was caused by mental suffering, it was indeed a severe
shock," she added, covering her face with her hands, for it was a trial
to Isabel, and it cost her a great deal this self imposed task.
"Defer this communication if it distresses you," said Mrs. Arlington
kindly.
"Oh no, I would rather tell you," but it was not without some difficulty
that Isabel continued, "sometime before my father's death, I was though,
unknown to him, engaged to a medical student, I always regretted
concealing our engagement from him in the first instance. I knew it was
very wrong, but Louis made me promise not to tell my father, or breathe
a word about our engagement to any living soul. I asked him why, but he
would give no reason except that he wished it. I promised, but had I
known that it was for more than a short period, I think that I should
not have done so. About six months afterwards, when his uncle was about
to send him to France to a relation who was a celebrated physician, he
wanted me to be married privately, this I positively refused, I said
that whilst my father lived I would never marry without his consent,
and urged him to let me acquaint my father of our engagement. This he
refused, I told him that I was sure my father would not object, but he
would not listen to me, it was absurd he said, to suppose that he would
let us marry if he knew of it, for he was entirely dependent upon his
uncle, and had positively nothing of his own as yet, but hoped soon to
rise in his profession; if we were once married he argued, my father
would storm a little at first, but would soon give in, and make some
arrangement that would prevent his going away, in vain I entreated to be
allowed to plead our cause with my father. Louis was inexorable upon
that point, he dare not he said, and used every argument to induce me to
accede to his wishes and agree to his propositions; but when I resisted
all entreaties he was mortally offended, and got into a terrible
passion, it seems he never forgave me for thwarting him, but I was not
aware of it, for after his anger had cooled down our parting was most
kind. During my father's illness, my secret became an intolerable
burden, oh, how bitterly I suffered for deceiving so indulgent a parent,
and yet my conscience would not allow me to break my promise. I wrote to
Louis imploring him to give the desired permission, and received a very
kind letter, assuring me that my altered circumstances would make no
difference to him, that in fact the only barrier between us was now
removed, but the longed for permission was withheld, Louis did not
notice that part of my letter in anyway. Shortly after this, my poor
father died--died without ever having heard of our engagement, his
greatest pain in parting from his darling child, being the grief he felt
at leaving her so unprotected, Imagine if you can my grief and misery,"
said Isabel shedding bitter tears of agony and remorse at the
remembrance of that dreadful time, and what it must have been to witness
his anguish, as over and over again he would say "oh my child, could I
but have left you to the tender care of a beloved husband, or even could
I know that you were the promised wife of one who truly loved you,
I could die in peace, even though he were not rich in this world's
goods, but to leave you thus my darling child, to make your own way in
this wicked world is almost more than I can bear." "What good" continued
Isabel "could I expect after such a return for all dear papa's fond
indulgence and unvaried kindness. After my father's death, I received a
letter from Louis full of love and sympathy, and approving of my plans,
as it would be some time before he would be in a position to marry. We
continued to correspond until the night of the ball, at which Dr. and
Mrs. Taschereau were among the guests, then I learned for the first time
that he was faithless and unworthy. You do not know what I suffered, nor
his cruel triumph, or you would not wonder that it should end as it did.
I have told you all this Mrs. Arlington because I thought it my duty,
and also, that should Dr. Taschereau again be your guest, you might
kindly spare me the pain of meeting him."
"Poor child you have suffered greatly," said Mrs. Arlington kindly. She
had listened very patiently and very attentively to all Isabel had to
say, but she had not said how that she already knew something of this
from her own delirious talk during her illness, but she thought that it
would make Isabel uncomfortable, therefore she remained silent upon that
point. "You may depend that I shall not abuse your confidence" she
continued, "I do not promise secrecy, but you may trust to my discretion
without fear. Whenever you need advice, do not scruple to come to me, as
I shall always be glad to give it," no doubt, but Isabel was the last
person to ask advice, though she had the highest opinion of Mrs.
Arlington.
"I think you would do well Isabel, to re-consider the offer I made you
to visit with my daughters."
"You are very kind; but, indeed, I would rather not."
"As you please, Miss Leicester; but I think you are wrong to refuse. You
may be sure that the offer is disinterested on my part." (Disinterested
it certainly was, as neither of the Arlington girls could compare
favorably with Isabel as to beauty or accomplishments.)
"I fully appreciate your kindness, Mrs. Arlington, but indeed it would
be extremely unpleasant to do so," returned Isabel.
"I cannot let this opportunity pass without expressing my gratitude for
your great kindness during my illness, for I can never, never repay you.
But I will use my best endeavors to make your children all that you can
wish."
"And that will quite repay me," replied Mrs. Arlington, kindly.
CHAPTER XV.
Upon a beautiful moonlight night, under the trees in the garden of
Madame Bourges' boarding-school, near Versailles, quite secure from
observation stood Arthur Barrington and Louisa Aubray, engaged in
earnest conversation.
"Are you happy here, dearest Louisa?" he inquired, in accents of deepest
tenderness.
"Happy! Ah, no, Louisa is never happy," she answered, "but lonely and
unhappy--so unhappy and miserable!"
"But you are not lonely now that I am here, dear Louisa."
"No; but, when you are gone, it is so dreary--oh, so dreary!"
"You used to think that you would be so happy at school."
"Ah, yes! but I'm not. Madame is harsh, the teachers cruel, and the
girls so strange: they do not love me," she cried, in a burst of
passionate weeping; "nobody loves Louisa!"
"Oh, Louisa, dearest Louisa, do not say so!" he exclaimed passionately;
"do not say that nobody loves you, when I have come so far expressly to
see if you are happy. I love you, Louisa, with all the warmth of my
ardent nature, with undying affection. I want you to be mine--MINE! that
I may guard you from every ill but such as I can share."
"Oh! can you--will you--do this, Arthur? Will you, indeed, share all my
troubles and sorrows, nor deem them, when the first full joy of love is
past, unworthy of your attention--your cares, too great to admit of such
trifles, claiming your consideration? If you will, and also let me share
all your joys and griefs in perfect sympathy and love, then--then my
dream of happiness will be fulfilled; but if, in years to come," she
continued, with suppressed emotion, "you should change, and a harshness
or indifference take the place of sympathy and love, Oh I would wish to
die before that day!"
"Dearest Louisa, can you doubt me?"
"I will trust you, Arthur, but I have seen that which makes me almost
doubt the existence of love and happiness. I can picture to myself the
home of love and peace that I would have. Is it an impossibility; is it
but an ideal dream?"
"May it be a blessed reality, my darling Louisa!" he exclaimed, with
ardor, as he clasped her passionately in his arms. She made no
resistance, but, with her head resting upon his breast, she said, in a
tone of deep earnestness:
"If you loved me always, and were always kind, oh Arthur, I I could do
anything--suffer anything--for your sake, and care for naught beyond our
home. But, my nature is not one" she continued impetuously, "that can be
slighted, crushed, and treated with unkindness or indifference, and
endure it patiently. No!" she added, with suppressed passion, "a fierce
flame of resentment, bitterness, perchance even hatred, would spring up
and sweep all kindly feelings far away!"
"Oh, Louisa, Louisa!" interrupted Arthur in a tone of tender
remonstrance, "why do you speak in this dreadful manner--why do you
doubt my love and constancy?"
The impetuous mood was gone, and a trusting confidence succeeded it.
She fixed her eyes upon his face with an expression of unutterable
tenderness, as she answered, in a sweet, soft voice, "I love you,
Arthur; I cannot doubt you; you are all the world to me."
"Then you will leave here as soon as I can make arrangements for our
marriage."
"How gladly, how joyfully, I cannot tell!" she replied, smiling sweetly
through her tears. "Tell me again that you love me; I do so want some
one to love me! Is it true that you do, indeed, or is it only a
beautiful dream? I have lived so desolate and alone that I can scarcely
believe my happiness."
"You may believe it, Louisa, it is no dream; my love for you is no
passing fancy--it is true and sincere, and will last till life shall
end," he said, kissing her tenderly.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Lucy Mornington, as she came full upon the lovers,
"Now I have found you out, Miss Aubray; I wondered what was up. Oh,
if Madame could only see you, what a scene there would be!" she cried,
dancing about and laughing immoderately."
"How dare you come here?" exclaimed Louisa, her large eyes flashing
angrily, while her whole frame trembled with passion. "How dare you
follow and watch me, how dare you?" she repeated.
"Hush, Louisa!" said Arthur, soothingly, "Lucy is never ill-natured. You
have nothing to fear, for I am sure she would not be unkind; and we must
not mind her laughing, as I'm afraid that either of us would have done
the same if placed in the same unexpected position."
Louisa now clung to Lucy, weeping violently, and imploring her in the
most winning manner not to betray them to Madame.
"Don't be afraid, Louisa; Lucy and I were always good friends, and, now
I come to think of it, she will be a most valuable assistant. I am sure
we may trust her," and he looked inquiringly at Lucy.
"That, you may," answered Lucy; "but there is no earthly use in trying
to keep a secret from me, as that is utterly impossible; but whatever
you may have to say, you must defer to a more auspicious moment, for
Mademoiselle Mondelet has missed Louisa, and she is hunting everywhere
for her. So make yourself scarce, Mr. Arthur; we will enter the chapel
by a secret door that I discovered in some of my marauding expeditions,
and they will never imagine that we came from the garden. Come along,
Louisa."
"Adieu! Lucy, and many thanks for your warning, for I certainly don't
want Mademoiselle to find me here. Farewell, dearest Louisa; I will be
here at this time to-morrow evening," said Arthur, and then he quickly
disappeared.
Lucy and Louisa went into the chapel, and the former commenced playing
the organ, which she often did. So that when Mademoiselle came into the
chapel, by-and-bye, fuming about Louisa, Lucy replied, with the greatest
coolness, "Oh, we have been here ever so long."
Shortly after this, Isabel received the following epistle from Lucy:
DEAREST ISABEL,--I am at school again, instead of being in London
enjoying myself as I expected. I am cooped up in this abominable
place. I suppose Mamma thinks me too wild. Heigho! But, never
mind; Ada and Charles are going to remain three years in London,
so you see I still have a chance. Ah, me! I think I should die of
_ennui_ in this dismal place (which was once an abbey, or a
convent, or something of the sort, I believe,) but, fortunately
for me, an event has occurred which has just put new life in my
drooping spirits. We have // who in the name of wonder do you think
the parties were? Arthur Barrington and Louisa Aubray. Oh, what a
rage Lady Ashton will be in! Don't be shocked, my pet, when I tell
you that I went into the affair with all my heart and soul, and
was bridesmaid at the interesting ceremony. Oh, Isabel, Arthur is
so thoroughly nice that I almost envied Louisa her husband. We
managed everything so beautifully that they were married and off
upon their travels before Madame found out that there was anything
in the wind. And the best of the fun was that Arthur brought a
clergyman friend with him, and they were married in the school
chapel at four o'clock in the morning. Of course this sweet little
piece of fun is not known, and is never likely to be. I enjoyed
the whole thing immensely. Of course they don't know that I had
anything to do with the affair. Woe betide me if they did! If
Louisa had had a father and mother, I would not have had anything
to do with it; but, under present circumstances, I thought it was
the best thing she could do. So I helped them all I could--in fact
I contrived it all for them--when I once found out what they were
up to.
Yours, at present, in the most exuberant spirits,
LUCY MORNINGTON.
P.S.--The happy pair have gone to Switzerland or Italy.
"Here, Emily," said Isabel, when Emily came in, "I think this will amuse
you."
"I think Arthur and Louisa did very wrong," she resumed, when Emily had
finished reading.
"Ah, well, I have not much fancy for secret marriages, but in this case
it was unavoidable, if they were to marry at all," said Emily, laughing.
"But I thought that second cousins couldn't marry."
"They can't, I believe; but then Arthur and Louisa are no relation--for
though he always calls Lady Ashton 'Aunt,' she is not his aunt in
reality. Don't you know Lord Barrington's first wife was Lady Ashton's
sister, and Arthur's mother was the second wife; so you see they are no
relations," replied Emily. "Oh, what a rage Lady Ashton will be in!" she
resumed. Don't you know that Louisa's father was Arthur's tutor. There
was a dreadful quarrel between the two families about that marriage;
they wouldn't speak for years, and the old folks are barely civil to
each other when they meet even now. But she likes Arthur. What a good
thing it is that she is going to stay away so long. But I'm sorry about
Lucy; we shall miss her at Christmas."
"So we shall, but May and Peter will be here, and they are a host in
themselves."
"But May can't be compared to Lucy; I will have her come; I will tell
Harry so. She can come out with her papa and mamma, and go back in the
spring. And now, my dear, guess what I came to tell you."
"Rose told me your brother was to come to-day."
"What a sieve Rose is," exclaimed Emily. "But I have more than that to
tell. I have a letter from Harry; he is coming soon, and has passed his
examination already. What do you think of that?" and she looked so
triumphant and delighted.
"Why, Emily, how ever could you read my letter, and discuss the news it
contained, when you came on purpose to tell me? I declare, wonders never
will cease."
"The fact is that I was so astonished to hear about the elopement, that
I almost forgot about my own letter for the time."
"I suppose Harry will make a long stay now? that will be very nice."
"No, he says he can only stay a week, or perhaps a fortnight. He has
promised a friend to go to the Blue Mountains," pouted Emily; "I wish
his friend was at Jericho."
Isabel laughed. "Suppose in that case Harry had gone with him."
"Don't be provoking, Isabel. But, to turn the table, how is it you never
get any of those 'nice letters' now-a-days."
"Don't be provoking, Emily!" said Isabel, growing very hot.
"Ah, you see I always get the best of it," returned Emily, laughing.
"I must go and dress, for I have to make some calls with Mamma and
Grace."
CHAPTER XVI.
"I do not know what on earth they will do," cried Emily, tossing her hat
and gloves on the sofa. "Everard is in a terrible stew about the anthem;
Mary Cleaver is laid up with a bad cold and sore throat, so that there
is no chance of her being able to sing to-morrow, and there is not
another in the choir that could make anything of the solo--at least not
anything worth listening to. Is it not provoking?--just at the last
minute. Grace, now won't you take Miss Cleaver's place just for once?
Do, please."
"Thanks! But the idea is too absurd. Fancy my singing at a 'missionary
meeting.'"
"Perhaps Isabel would," interposed Rose.
"The idea is too absurd," returned Emily, affectedly.
"Don't be impertinent, Emily," said Grace, haughtily. "It is useless to
talk of Isabel, she added, addressing Rose, "she refused before, and
Everard would not be so absurd as to ask her again; he was quite
pressing enough--far too much so for my taste."
"I'm not so sure he won't; he will not easily give up his 'pet anthem,'"
replied Emily.
"Well, Isabel will not do it, you will see," answered Grace.
"I'm not so sure of that, either; he usually gets his own way somehow or
other."
"Then how was it he did not succeed at first?" said Grace, tartly.
"Oh, because Isabel made him believe that it would not be fair to Miss
Cleaver."
"Oh, Emily, that was not why Isabel would not, and she never said it
was," exclaimed Alice; "she told Everard she had several reasons for not
singing, and, she added, it would not be fair to Miss Cleaver after
being in the choir so long."
"And pray what might these weighty reasons be?" asked Grace.
"I don't know," returned Alice.
"Nor Isabel, either, I imagine," Grace answered.
"What are you so perturbed about, Emily?" asked Isabel, who now joined
them."
"The choir are in trouble about the anthem."
"How is that?" inquired Isabel.
"Mary Cleaver is sick," returned Emily, "and Everard is awfully put out
about it."
Everard entered with a roll of music in his hand.
"Where is Miss Leicester?" he asked.
"She is here," Grace answered, languidly.
"You will not now refuse to take the soprano in the anthem to-morrow, he
said, when I tell you that it is utterly impossible for Miss Cleaver to
do so, and that the anthem must be omitted unless you will sing."
"I am sorry that the anthem should be a failure, but I really cannot,"
replied Isabel, evidently annoyed.
"Oh, yes you can--just this once," he pleaded.
But Isabel only shook her head.
"Do you mean, Miss Leicester, that you positively will not?" he asked.
"Seriously, Mr. Arlington, I do not intend to sing in the choir
to-morrow."
"That is your final decision?"
"Yes."
He sat beating his foot impatiently on the ground.
"Is there no one else? Everard" asked Rose.
"No one!" he answered, in a very decided tone.
He tossed the music idly in his hand, though his brow contracted, and
the veins in his forehead swelled like cords. They were very quiet;
no one spoke. Emily enjoyed this little scene immensely, but Grace was
highly disgusted that her brother should deign to urge a request which
had already been denied, and that, too, by the governess; while Isabel
sat, thinking how very kind Everard had always been, and how ill-natured
it seemed to refuse--how much she wished to oblige--but the thing was so
distasteful that she felt very averse to comply. She remembered, too,
the beautiful flowers with which Alice had kept her vases constantly
supplied when she was recovering from her illness; she knew full well to
whom she was indebted for them, as but one person in the house dare cull
the choicest flowers with such a lavish hand,
"What are you waiting for, Everard?" Emily inquired, at length.
"For Isabel to relent," said Grace, contemptuously.
Everard rose, and stood for a moment irresolute; then, going to the
piano, set up the music, and, turning to Isabel, said in a tone of deep
earnestness: "Will you oblige me by just trying this, Miss Leicester?"
Grace's lip curled scornfully, and Isabel reluctantly seated herself at
the piano. Having once commenced, she thought of nothing but the beauty
of the anthem, and sung with her whole soul--her full, rich voice
filling the room with melody. Never had Isabel sung like this since she
had left her happy home. When she ceased they all crowded round her,
entreating her to take Miss Cleaver's place just this once.
"She will--she must!" exclaimed Everard, eagerly. "You will--will you
not, Isa-- Miss Leicester?" he asked persuasively.
Isabel was silent.
"A nice example of obliging manners you are setting your pupils," said
Emily, mischievously, at the same time hugging her affectionately. "What
makes my pet so naughty to-day?"
"I suppose I must," said Isabel, in a tone of annoyance; "I see that I
shall have no peace if I don't."
"Thanks, Miss Leicester," said Everard, warmly; "I can't tell you how
much--how very much--obliged I am."
"I should not imagine that such a very ungracious compliance called for
such excessive thanks," said Grace, sarcastically.
"Don't be ill-natured, Gracie," returned her brother, laughing; "you
don't know how glad I am."
"But it is so very absurd, Everard, the way you rave about Isabel's
singing, any one would suppose that you had never heard good singing."
"Nor have I, before, ever heard such singing as Miss Leicester's," he
returned.
"Oh, indeed, how very complimentary we are to-day!" retorted Grace.
"Such singing as Miss Leicester's!" echoed Isabel, with a gesture of
contempt which set Emily laughing excessively, while Everard beat a
hasty retreat.
In the evening Emily and Isabel had their things on, and were chatting
and laughing with the children in the school-room, before going down to
the church for the practising, when Mrs. Arlington came in, saying,
"I am afraid that you will all be disappointed, but Dr. Heathfield
strictly prohibits Miss Leicester taking any part in the singing
to-morrow."
"Oh, Mamma!" exclaimed Emily.
"He says that it would be highly dangerous, and that she must not
attempt it."
"But, Mamma, we cannot have the anthem without her."
"I am very sorry, my dear, but it cannot be helped," replied her mother,
and having given them the unpleasant tidings to digest as best they
might, Mrs. Arlington returned to the drawing-room.
"Now is not that too bad? Who in the world told Dr. Heathfield anything
about it, I should like to know?" cried Emily, indignantly. "What
possessed him to come here to-night, I wonder--tiresome old fellow?"
"But if it would really do Isabel harm, I think it was very fortunate he
came," said Alice, gravely.
"Oh be quiet, Alice! you only provoke me," returned Emily.
"Are you young ladies ready?" asked Everard.
"Oh, Miss Leicester is not going to sing," cried Rose, saucily. "What
will you do now?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, looking inquiringly from one to another.
"Why," said Emily, "Dr. Heathfield has forbidden anything of the kind,
and was quite peppery about it."
"Confound Dr. Heathfield!" he exclaimed angrily. "Is this true?" he
asked, turning to Isabel.
"Yes."
"It is all nonsense! I shall speak to Heathfield about it."
"That will do no good, Everard," interposed Emily; "He told mamma that
Isabel ought not to think of doing so at present."
"You did not think it would hurt you Miss Leicester," he asked.
"Never for a moment."
"I dare say he thinks you are going to join the choir altogether,
I shall tell him that it is only the anthem to-morrow, that you intend
taking part in, surely he cannot object to that." What passed between
them did not transpire, but when Everard returned he said to Isabel in a
tone of deep earnestness, "I should not have asked you to sing, had I
known the harm it might possibly do you, indeed I would not, and though
annoyed beyond measure at having to give up the anthem, I am very glad
that Dr. Heathfield's opportune visit prevented you running such a risk,
for had any serious consequences ensued, I alone should have been to
blame."
"No one would have been to blame, all being unaware of any danger,"
returned Isabel warmly, "but I am convinced that Dr. Heathfield is
considering possibilities, though not probabilities" she added coloring,
not well satisfied to be thought so badly of."
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