Isabel Leicester

C >> Clotilda Jennings >> Isabel Leicester

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"Tell us what he said, Everard," petitioned Emily.

"He spoke very strongly and warned me not to urge her," Everard replied
evidently unwilling to say more.

"I don't believe that it could harm me," said Isabel thoughtfully, "but
of course--."

"You are jolly glad to get off," chimed in Rose saucily, and received a
reproof from Everard.

"We cannot disregard what he says," continued Isabel finishing the
sentence.

"Certainly not," returned Everard, and so the anthem was omitted.

CHAPTER XVII.

Alone in tears sits Natalie, alas she has awakened from her dream of
bliss, to the sad reality that she is an unloved neglected wife, and
bitter very bitter is this dreadful truth to the poor little bird far
far from all who love her, for the wide ocean rolls between them, poor
little humming bird formed for sunshine and happiness, how cans't thou
bear this sad awakening. Ah cherished little one, with what bright hopes
of love and happiness dids't thou leave a sunny home, and are they gone
for ever, oh what depth of love in thy crushed and bleeding heart,
striving ever to hide beneath a sunny face thy aching heart, lest it
should grieve or vex the husband thou lovest so fondly, while he
heedlessly repelling the loving one whose happiness depends upon his
kindness, or impatiently receiving the fond caress, discerns not the
breaking heart nor the secret anguish this same indifference causes;
Ah Louis, Louis, should not one so bright and gentle, receive something
better than impatient gestures and harsh words, which send the stream of
love back with a thrilling pain to the heart, to consume it with silent
agony, and her hope has proved vain, her babe, her darling babe has not
accomplished what she fondly imagined, brought back her Louis's love,
if indeed she ever possessed it, and it is this thought which wrings her
gentle heart and causes those sobs of anguish, that make her fragile
form to quiver like an aspen, as the storm of grief will have its
course. If indeed he ever loved her, that he does not now is clear
enough; but did he ever, why should she doubt it, she has accidentally
heard the following remarks, and seen Louis pointed out as the object of
them:

He was engaged to a beautiful girl, but she was poor, so meeting with an
heiress, he was dazzled by the prospect of wealth and married her; but
the marriage had proved an unhappy one, that Mr. T---- had soon tired of
his gay little wife, and now treated her with the greatest indifference
and neglect, and that having married her solely for her money, he was as
much as ever attached to Miss ---- and bitterly repented his folly.
It may be true she sighed, for she knew in her heart that the part
regarding his treatment of herself was but alas too true; but could he
indeed love another, no, she would not believe it, she would dismiss the
thought, but still the words rung in her ears, having married her solely
for her money. Could Marie be right, but no, no, she would not, could
not believe it, O Louis, Louis, how have I loved you, how I love you
still, and is my love entirely unrequited? And now a new feeling springs
up in her heart, bitter hatred towards her unknown rival, with beating
heart and trembling lips she calls to mind the packet and Louis's
embarrassment, the beautiful miniature she had seen by accident, and his
evasive answers when questioned about the original, could she be the
Isabel he had named her darling after, in spite of all she could urge as
to her great dislike of the name. Oh that she could confide all her
troubles to him and tell him all her fears, and if possible have her
mind set at rest, but she dare not, for though she loved him so
devotedly, she feared him too, his fierce bursts of passion frightened
her. Oh I will win his love in spite of this hateful girl, I will be so
gentle, so careful to please him, so mindful of his comfort (as if poor
thing she had not always been so) that he shall forget her, and love his
own little wife, and wearied with conflicting emotions, she laid her
head upon the table and sobbed herself to sleep, and thus Louis found
her at two o'clock in the morning, when he returned from attending a
patient. "Good gracious! Natalie, what are you doing here," said he
raising her from her uncomfortable position, "why you are quite
chilled," he continued as a convulsive shudder shook her whole frame,
"what ever possessed you to sit up, and the fire out, how could you be
so foolish." She raised her large dark eyes to his with an expression
intensely sad and entreating, and whispered "O Louis, tell me do you
love me!" he could not bear the searching eagerness of that wistful
gaze, and turning from her answered "can you doubt it you silly little
thing, come, take the lamp and go to bed, while I get you something to
stop this shivering--he turned to go.

"Do not leave me, oh Louis, stay," she cried, and fell senseless on the
floor.

Through that night and for many long days and nights, Natalie lay in a
burning fever, and in the delirium caused by it she would beseech him to
love her, and again and again in the most pathetic manner entreat him
not to leave her, and say, it was very wicked of him not to love her,
why was it, what had she done to displease him, then murmur incoherent
words about a hateful girl, beautiful but poor that he loved, but not
his poor little Natalie, and then starting up with outstretched arms she
would implore him to be kind to her and love her.

Whether Louis felt any remorse at dooming a being so bright and fair to
such a miserable existence, or whether there was not more anger than
sorrow in that impenetrable calm none could tell; he was very attentive,
and tried to sooth with gentle words, but woe to any of the attendants
who dared to make any remark upon her in his hearing; all she said was
treated indifferently as the natural result of the disease, and the
nurse was commanded to be silent, when she presumed to say poor dear;
whatever passed amongst themselves, in his presence they maintained a
discreet silence. When Natalie recovered she was sweet and gentle as
ever, but a passive lasting melancholy took the place of her former
charming vivacity, henceforth life had lost its charm; with patient love
she bore with Louis's variable temper, and was never known to speak a
harsh word to little Isabel.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Swiftly passed the happy days in the beautiful villa home to which
Arthur Barrington had taken his bride. But at length remorseful thoughts
of his father's loneliness would intrude themselves upon Arthur's
happiest hours, until he could bear it no longer; so he told Louisa the
unkind way in which he had left his father, and how unhappy he was on
that account, proposing that they should proceed to Barrington Park
without delay. To this she readily agreed, but unfortunately their route
lay through a district where a malignant fever was very prevalent, and
while traversing a lone and dreary portion of this district, Arthur was
attacked with this terrible disease. He strove bravely against it, and
endeavored to push on to the nearest town, but that was yet forty miles
distant, when Arthur became so alarmingly ill that they were forced to
stop at a little hamlet and put up with the best accommodation its
miserable inn afforded, which was poor indeed. There was no doctor to be
had nearer than Z----, but the driver promised to procure one from there
if possible. With this they were obliged to be content; but day after
day passed and none came, while Arthur hourly became worse, and Louisa
grew half wild with grief and fear.

"If we could only get a doctor, I believe he would soon be well; but,
ah! it is so dreadful to see him die for want of proper advice,"
murmured Louisa, glancing toward the bed where Arthur lay tossing in the
terrible malaria fever, so fatal to temperaments such as his; "but he
will not die, O no I cannot believe that my happiness will be of such
short duration that I shall again be left in such icy desolation. Oh!
Arthur, Arthur, do not leave me she sobbed, covering her face with her
hands, but Arthur does not heed her, racked with burning fever he cannot
even recognize her, as with patient gentleness she endeavors to
alleviate his sufferings with cooling drinks, or bathes his burning
brow. In vain were all the remedies that the simple people of the inn
could suggest, or that Louisa's love could devise. Day by day his life
ebbed away consumed by the disease, the prostration and langour
following the fever being too much for his strength, thus Louisa saw
that he who alone in the wide world loved or cared for her, was fast
passing away; still though she could not but see it was so, she would
not believe the terrible truth, but clung to the hope that a doctor
might yet arrive before it was too late, and so her great bereavement
came upon her with overwhelming force, when after a day of more than
usual langour, during her midnight vigil, he ceased to breathe. Louisa
had not known why he had clasped her hand so tightly all that night as
she sat beside his couch, he was dead, and with a cry of anguish Louisa
fell insensible beside the lifeless body of her husband.

The moonbeams fell alike upon the inanimate forms of the living and the
dead, and the morning sun rose brightly and she still lay there, none
heard the midnight cry of anguish, or if heard it was unheeded, and the
noisy lamentations of the girl who brought in the morning meal, greeted
her as consciousness returned. The master of the inn said the funeral
must take place at sunset, and Louisa shed bitter tears in the little
room which was given her, while the corpse was being prepared for
interment, for these precipitate funeral arrangements added greatly to
Louisa's grief. Composed but deadly pale she followed Arthur's remains
to the grave--his only mourner; there was no minister to be had, but
Louisa could not see him buried thus, so read herself a portion of the
beautiful burial service of the Episcopal Church, then amid tears and
sobs she watched them pile and smooth the earth above him, and when they
had finished, with a wail of agony she threw herself in a burst of
passionate grief upon the damp earth, and there she lay until darkness
enveloped all around, heedless of danger, of time, of everything but her
deep deep grief, her misery, and her irreparable loss. And there she
would have remained but for Francesca, the girl who had waited on them;
Francesca had some pity for the poor lady, and with a great effort
stifled her superstitious fears, and went down to the grave and led her
away, whispering you will get the fever here. So Louisa returned
desolate indeed to the miserable inn, not for a moment because of the
fear of fever, only dreamily, scarcely knowing where she was going.

Those long hours with the dead had but too surely done their work,
Louisa was attacked with the same fever of which her husband died, but
carelessly tended and neglected as she was, she did not die.

When she was able to go out again, she would sit pensively for hours by
Arthur's grave, or in passionate grief throw herself upon it and wish
that she too might die. It was after one of these paroxysms of despair
that Louisa remembered her promise to Arthur, that she would take his
letter to his father at Barrington Park. Faithful to her word she
reluctantly prepared to depart, when to her dismay she found that a
cheque for a large amount had been abstracted from Arthur's desk, and
further search discovered that nearly every article of value had been
perloined during her illness. Their charges were so exorbitant, that it
took nearly all the money she had to satisfy their demands, and when she
mentioned the cheque, &c., they held up their hands in horror at the
idea, that after all their kindness she should suspect them of such
villiany.

Weary and broken-hearted, Louisa set out on her lonely journey, and at
length arrived sad and dejected at Barrington Park, having had to part
with nearly all she possessed in order to prosecute her journey. After
some difficulty she succeeded in gaining Lord Barrington's presence.

"Well, what is it you want?" asked his lordship impatiently, but Louisa
could not speak, she could only hold out Arthur's letter with a mute
gesture of entreaty.

"I don't want to read any of that nonsense; just tell me what you want,
and be quick, as I am busy."

Tell him what she wanted!--tell him that she wanted him to love and
receive her as a daughter--tell him that the love he bore his son was
henceforth to be transferred to the unhappy being before him--how could
she tell him this? how could she tell him what she wanted?

"Speak, girl, I say!" he cried, angrily.

"Read this," she faltered, "it will tell you all."

"I will not," he answered; "tell me, or begone!"

Falling on her knees before him, she held out the letter, crying: "I am
Arthur's wife. He is dead, and this is his letter, and I am here
according to his wish--to his dying injuction. Take it--read it--it will
tell you all."

"Good gracious, the girl is mad!" he exclaimed, "mad as a March hare.
Come, come! get up and go about your business, or I shall have you put
in the asylum."

Louisa felt choking, she could not speak; she could only stretch out her
arms imploringly, still holding the letter.

"There is some great mistake; my son is not dead, nor is he married, so
do not think to impose upon me."

"There is no mistake; Arthur is dead, and you see his widow before you,"
she managed to articulate.

"No, no, Arthur is not dead, poor crazy girl; get up and go away," and
he threw her half a sovereign, saying, as he did so, "now go away
quickly, or I shall have you turned out; and mind, don't go about with
your tale about being my son's wife, or I shall send the police after
you. Now go."

Crushed and humbled as she was by sorrow and suffering, this was more
than Louisa's fiery nature could endure passively. Springing to her
feet, her lips quivering with anger, while her large eyes flashed with
passion, she cried, as she threw the proffered alms upon the table, in
proud defiance, "Keep your alms for the first beggar you see, but do not
insult me. I ask but what is right--that, as your son's wife, I should
receive a home and the necessaries of life from you, his father, as he
promised me. This you refuse me; but, were I to starve, I would not take
your alms, thrown to me as a crazy beggar--never, never!"

"Go, go!" he cried, she by her burst of passionate indignation still
more confirming the idea that she was mad.

"I will go," she answered, "and will never again trouble you; but know
that I am no impostor--no insane person."

John, who answered his master's summons, stood wonderingly at the door,
and, as Louisa passed out, he opened the hall door, looking terribly
mystified. "Take this," she said to him, "and if you loved your young
master, give this to his father when he will receive it." Then with a
full heart Louisa hastened from the park.

A short distance from the gate was a small copse wood, which Louisa
entered, and, throwing herself down on the grassy bank beside a stream,
gave way to a storm of passionate grief. "Oh, Arthur, Arthur!" she
sobbed, "how desolate is Louisa in this cold, cruel world." The storm of
grief would have its way, nor did she strive to check it, but continued
sobbing convulsively, and shivered with cold, though it was a balmy
autumn day; the icy chill at her heart seemed to affect her body also.
When at length she became more calm, she began to consider what course
she should next pursue. She turned out her scanty store of
money--fifteen and sixpence was the whole amount. She determined to
return to the inn, where she had left the small bag (the sole remnant of
the numerous trunks, etc., with which they had left ----), and remain
there that night, and start next day for Brierley, the present abode of
her grandfather, and try her luck in that quarter, but with small hope
of success. Not for herself would she have done this, for she trembled
at the thought of meeting him, but circumstances made it imperative.

CHAPTER XIX.

"Please maam, is baby to go for her walk this morning," asked the nurse
as Louis and Natalie sat at breakfast, "Oh no Sarah," returned Natalie.

"Why not, I should like to know," interposed Louis, "it is a beautiful
day and will do her good, I can't see how it is that you always set your
face against her going out."

"Oh but Louis, you know she has a bad cold."

"Well it will do her cold good, I can't think where you got the idea,
that going out is bad for a cold. Take her out Sarah."

"But Louis I'm afraid it will rain."

"Rain, nonsense, what are you dreaming of this bright morning, take her
out by all means Sarah, it will do her good."

Natalie gazed uneasily at the dark storm cloud in the horizon and was
anything but satisfied.

"Why Natie you look as sober as a judge" said Louis as he rose to go on
his morning calls, "looking out for rain eh, don't be alarmed baby is
not sugar nor salt."

The careless gaiety of his tone jarred unpleasantly with her anxious
fears for her darling, and she sighed as she looked pensively out upon
the bright landscape, with another sigh she left the window and went
about her various duties, about an hour after this, Natalie was startled
by a vivid flash of lightning, and deafening peal of thunder; down came
the rain in torrents, oh where is baby? how anxiously she watched,
peering down the street from the front door, but no sign of Izzie, and
how cold the air has turned. She orders a fire to be made in the
nursery, and waits impatiently for baby's return. She comes at last, "oh
my baby!" Natalie exclaims as she takes in her arms the dripping child,
wet to the skin, and white as a sheet, every bit of clothing soaked,
saturated. Natalie can not restrain her tears as she removes them, and
warms the child before the bright fire, "oh my baby, my baby, my poor
little Izzie," she murmured passionately, as she soothed and caressed
her pet. Baby was happy now in her fresh clothes, and nestled cosily to
her mother. After the thunder shower the weather cleared and all seemed
bright and joyous without, but Natalie's heart was heavy, she was still
very uneasy about the child, Louis was detained from home the entire
day. At night baby became so oppressed in her breathing that Natalie was
quite alarmed, oh how anxiously did she listen for Louis return, as she
knelt by the child's cot in agony watching her intently.

"Oh if he would but come, why, why, did he send her out. Oh the agony,
waiting, watching, yes that is his step at last, she sends message after
message, but he comes not, he will come when he has had his dinner she
is told. It wrings her heart to leave her darling, even for a moment,
but it must be done. Softly she glides to where he sits, and laying her
trembling hand upon his arm, says in a husky voice "Louis come now, do
not wait a moment longer--baby has the croup" in an instant he was at
baby's side.

Natalie's ashy face and the word croup, acted like a talisman.

It was croup, and a very bad attack too, he speedily did what was
needful, but not without almost breaking his poor little wife's heart,
by his cruel remarks, "you should be more careful of her," he said
angrily "ten minutes more, and I could have done nothing for her."

"Oh Louis," (he had been home now nearly a quarter of an hour.)

"There must have been some gross mismanagement and fearful neglect, to
bring on such an attack as this, to a child that has never been subject
to croup, how she ever got into this state passes my understanding, you
have been trying some of you foolish schemes I suppose."

"Oh Louis, you know she was out in all that rain to-day" interposed
Natalie meekly.

"What was that for, I should like to know," he asked indignantly "are
you tired of her already that you don't take better care of her than
that?--Oh Natalie!" Natalie's pale cheek flushed at his injustice, but
she made no answer, she only watched little Izzie in fear and trembling,
and oh how glad and thankful she was when baby presently was sleeping
quietly. But how often afterwards did she dwell upon these cruel words,
and shed many bitter tears beside her sleeping darling's cot, oh baby,
she would murmur, what more care could I take of you than I always do.

CHAPTER XX.

In his superbly furnished library sat Lord Barrington. He had just
finished reading a letter that he had taken from his desk. "Strange," he
murmured, "very strange, that Arthur has not come yet, nor any letter
from him; I can't understand it," and he replaced the letter with a
heavy sigh. He then turned to the letters on the table, which he had
before cast aside, finding the wished-for one was not among them. "Ha,
one from George; perhaps he may have seen him." He reads for a while,
then starting from his seat exclaimed "Good Heavens! what is this?" Then
reads again:

Judge my amazement when I came across a rude apology for a
tombstone, in a little out-of-the-way grave yard: "To the memory
of Arthur, only son of Lord Barrington of Barrington, who died
August 8th, 1864." As I had not the remotest idea that he was
dead, but was almost daily expecting to find him. I most heartily
sympathize with you----

"What can he mean?" he said, putting down the letter. "But what is
this?" he cried, as his eye caught one he had overlooked before. 'Tis
Arthur's hand!" With trembling hands he broke the seal (taking no note,
in his agitation, of the fact that it had not been through the post),
and read the almost unintelligible scrawl:

DEAR FATHER:--I have charged Louisa to bring this and give it into
your own hand. She will not believe that I am dying, and still
clings to the hope that I will recover. But it can not be;
I feel--I know--that I shall die. Oh, how I wish that I could see
you again once more and ask your forgiveness, but it may not be!
With my dying breath I beseech you to forgive your erring boy; it
was the first, it is the last deception I ever practiced toward
you. To you I ever confided my hopes and plans, and you always
strove to gratify every wish. I feel now how much I wronged your
generous nature, when I feared to tell you of my intended
marriage. The tune seems ever before me when you asked me, even
with tears, why I wished to leave you again, after I returned from
America, and I answered, evasively, that I wanted to see the
world. And when, in the fullness of your love, you replied "Then I
will go with you," I answered angrily, "In that case I do not care
to go," and pleaded for just one year. And you granted my request,
and sent me forth with blessings. Oh, why did I not tell you all?
I feel sure that you would have replied, "Bring your wife home,
Arthur, and I will love her as a daughter, only do not leave me."
Oh, father, forgive your boy! Thoughts of your loneliness would
intrude at all times and mar my happiness, until I determined to
return and bring my wife, trusting to your love, and was on my way
home when I was attacked with this dreadful fever. Oh, how I
repent that I did not mention my wife in my last letter to you! It
is but a few short months since I left you, but O how long those
lonely months must have been to you! Then let your sad hours be
cheered by Louisa, since the sight of your boy may never gladden
your heart in this world. Bestow upon her the same love and
kindness you have ever shown to me. Nothing can alleviate my pain
in leaving her, but the certainty I feel that you will love and
cherish her for my sake. Oh make not her coming alone harder by
one word or action. But as you love me, so deal with my wife.
Farewell, dear father!--a last farewell! Before you receive this,
I shall be sleeping in my distant grave. And oh when my poor
Louisa presents it, treat her not harshly, as you hope that we
shall meet again.

Your affectionate and repentant son,
ARTHUR.

As the old man ceased reading, his head fell upon the table, and bitter
tears coursed down his cheeks. "Oh, Arthur! Arthur! my boy! my only
child! why, why did you leave me? How gladly would I have received your
wife! But now how harshly have I treated her--how cruelly sent her forth
into this heartless world, friendless and alone! But I will find her and
bring her home--yes, yes, I will love her for his sake. Oh if I had only
taken this when she brought it! But I will lose no time now. Oh, Arthur!
Arthur!" he murmured, and he rang the bell violently. "John! John!" he
said to the faithful old man who answered his summons, "stay, John, till
I can speak," he cried, gasping for breath and trembling from head to
foot. "My boy, my Arthur is dead!" he wailed, at length, and that
person--that lady--was his widow, John. It was all true that she said,
and I treated her so badly, too."

"Yes," old John replied, meekly, "I thought it wor true; she didn't look
like an himpostor, she didn't," and he shook his head gravely.

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