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."
"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."
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.
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.
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.
"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.
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.
You must find her, John, and bring her back. Go, you have your orders; you must find her. Arthur is dead, and he has sent his wife to me, and I must take care of her--that is all I can do for him now.
Ah, that's the way with them secret marriages, soliloquized old John. "What in the world made Mr. Arthur act so, I wonder, and his governor so indulgent?"
Yes we will find her, and she shall have the green room, not Arthur's--no, not Arthur's. Love her for his sake, he says; aye that I will, murmured his lordship, as he paced the room. "Too late, old man, too late, too late."
"I declare it's a shame," cried Emily throwing a letter on the table. "I can't think what Everard means, it's positively unkind, I shall write and tell him so," she continued endeavoring in vain to repress the tears of vexation that would not be restrained. "I would not have believed it of him, indeed I would not--what will Harry think, I should like to know."
What is the matter, asked Grace and Isabel at the same time.
Read this and you will see, she replied--Grace read--
DEAR EMILY,--You will, I know, be sorry to hear that I cannot be home for the Xmas. festivities, nor for the wedding; I am as sorry as you can possibly be, dear Emmy, but circumstances, over which I have no control, make it imperitive that I should remain away, therefore, pray forgive my absence, nor think it unkind.
It is outrageous said Grace folding the letter carefully. "Mamma will not allow it I am certain, and I cannot imagine any reason that could prevent him coming if he chose. You had better get mamma or papa to write, people will think it so strange."
I don't care what people think, it's Harry and ourselves replied Emily hotly, "I will write and tell him that I won't be married this Xmas. if he don't come--'there.'
How absurd returned Grace contemptuously.
Do you mean it inquired Isabel gravely.
Oh that is another thing replied Emily coloring, but I shall say so, and try the effect."
It cannot be his wish to stay away said Isabel thoughtfully.
It is the strangest thing I ever knew, replied Grace.
"Isabel felt very uncomfortable, for somehow she could not help thinking that she might be the cause, (as, once, Everard had been very near the forbidden subject, saying that it was quite a punishment to be under the same roof, unless there was some change in their position, toward each other. She was sorry that he had not said so before Isabel had replied, and that very day, told Mrs. Arlington that she wished to leave, as soon as she could meet with another governess. Mrs. Arlington asked her reasons. But Miss Leicester would give none. Then Mrs. Arlington requested that Miss Leicester would reconsider the matter, but Miss Leicester refused to do so. Then Mrs. Arlington insisted, saying that she would except her resignation, if at the end of the week she still wished it, though they would all be sorry to part with her.
"Everard of course heard what had taken place, and immediately made it his business to alter that young lady's determination, protesting that he had said nothing to make her pursue such a course. He forced her to admit that it was solely on his account that she was leaving, and then talked her into consenting to withdraw her resignation at the end of the week, promising to be more careful not to offend in future.) She wished very much that she could spend this Xmas. with Mrs. Arnold, but this was impossible, as she had promised Emily to be bridesmaid.
Then you don't think it would do to say that, Emily said inquiringly.
It would seem childish returned Isabel.
And have no effect, added Grace.
Coaxing would be better you think.
Decidedly, said Isabel laughing.
The begging and praying style, might answer returned Grace scornfully, "he always likes to be made a fuss with, and all that nonsense, if the children do but kiss him, and call him a dear kind brother and such like rubbish, he will do almost anything."
Now Grace don't say the children, when you mean me, interposed Emily, I will not hear a word against Evvie, so don't be cross. I know you always were a little jealous of his partiality for me."
I am not cross, nor did I say anything against Everard, retorted Grace haughtily "and as for partiality, where is the favouritism now."
Oh well, I shall write such a letter that he can't but come.
I wish you success with all my heart, returned Grace more good naturedly, while Isabel gazed silently out of the window.
* * * * * * * *
No answer to my letter yet, is it not strange said Emily as she joined Isabel in her favourite retreat, the conservatory, what do you think about it, it makes me positively unhappy."
Shall I tell you what I think asked Isabel passing her arm round Emily and continuing her walk.
Do please, for you can't think how disagreeable it is, when Harry asks, when Everard is coming, to have to give the same stupid answer, I expect to hear every day.
I don't think you will.
Oh Isabel.
No, I do not think he will write, but just quietly walk in one of these days!
Do you really think so, asked Emily, her face radiant.
Isabel gave an affirmative nod.
What makes you think so, Isabel?
I don't know, but I feel sure he will, she replied, turning away her face.
Isabel.
Well, dear, said Isabel, with heightening color, still keeping her face turned away, "tell me, was it because of you that Everard would not come home."
I don't know.
Then you think, perhaps, it may be.
It is very foolish to think so.
Then you do think so, said Emily, archly.
Oh, miss, I have found you out at last. What a sly one you are. I have been watching you a long time, and thought you all unconscious how it was with a certain party who shall be nameless. Oh I'm so glad.
Glad that your brother is so unhappy? Oh, Emily!
No; glad that he need be so no longer.
How do you mean?
How do I mean! Why how obtuse you are, Isabel.
You run on too fast.
Oh, not much. I found out how it was on his part long ago, and I shall not be long before I tell him the result of my observations elsewhere.
Tell him what? asked Isabel, aghast,
To go in and win, replied Emily, saucily.
Emily, Emily! what are you saying--what do you mean?
Mean? replied Emily, with a saucy nod, "to help on my pet scheme a little, that's all."
You never mean to say that you intend to--
Oh, but I do, though.
Emily, if you dare! cried Isabel, indignantly.
Ah, but I shall.
You shall not, said Isabel, grasping her arm, "you do not know what you are about."
Yes I do, perfectly well, and you will both thank me hereafter.
Stop a moment; what is it you intend to tell him?
Only what I have found out--that all is as he wishes, so he need not be afraid.
You have not found out any such thing.
Oh, have I not though?
Decidedly not. All you have discovered is, that I had some foolish idea that it might possibly be on my account that he was not coming home. That is all you could honestly tell him, and you will do more harm than good if you do; depend upon it, you will only make matters worse by interfering.
Well, if it is to do no good, I would rather that he did not know I had found out his secret, but keep it as I have done.
Since when? asked Isabel.
Last spring, when we had to leave you on the rock, but of course I did not let him see it.
Then do not enlighten him now, you will only make him uncomfortable.
You are right, but come tell me since when did you know.
I have known a long time.
But does he think you know.
Isabel was silent.
Come, miss, how did you find out?
Don't, Emily, said Isabel, entreatingly.
How did you know--did he tell you?
Is this generous? asked Isabel, with burning cheeks."
You don't mean to say that you refused him? said Emily, turning her blue eyes full upon Isabel, "that would be too cruel."
Be quiet, Emily, implored Isabel.
I see how it is now. Oh, Isabel, how could you?
Remember, Emily, I have told you nothing; you have found out my secret; keep it better than you did your brother's.
Oh, Isabel, I am sure I kept that well enough.
Not so well as you must keep this. I am very, very sorry, for I feel that I have not been sufficiently watchful, or you would I not have suspected it. And he would be justly angry if he knew.
Well, under the circumstances it would make no difference to you if he was.
Isabel bit her lip and was silent, then said, "Emily, dear Emily, promise me that you will try to forget this conversation, and never mention it to any one."
But Isabel when was it.
I will answer no questions on that subject more than enough has been said already.
What a rage Grace would be in, if she knew, well, well, I have my own ideas.
Have you indeed, and pray what would Grace be in a rage about if she knew, asked a well known voice close to them.
Both young ladies started and crimsoned. "You see Emmy I could not resist that letter, so here I am for a few days."
Isabel was right cried Emily triumphantly, "she said you would come quietly in, one of these days."
What made you think so, he asked.
I felt sure of it, I cannot tell why, but I had a presentiment that you would.
May I hope that the wish was the origin of the thought, he said in a low tone, as Emily turned to caress his dog, Hector.
Certainly she answered laughing. "I would not have Emily disappointed on any account."
Such a true prophet ought to be rewarded, don't you think so Emily, said Everard presenting Isabel with the first and only flower of a rare foreign plant.
I cannot accept it, replied Isabel, "the reward is more than the prediction was worth."
Oh no, it is not, I am sure you earned it, cried Emily clapping her hands, and running off with Hector for a romp.
Surely you will not refuse a flower said Everard.
But why that flower.
Because it is the best.
For that very reason, I cannot accept it.
You are over scrupulous Miss Leicester.
No, only prudent.
He looked hurt, "you will not refuse" he urged.
I dare not accept it.
Why.
What would they think.
If the truth,----, that the flower I valued most, I gave to the one I loved best.
Are you not venturing on forbidden grounds asked Isabel with glowing cheeks.
Isabel you are cruel.
I do not wish to pain you.
Then accept my flower.
No, were I to do so, I could only take it to your mother saying that you wished it preserved.
Would you do so Isabel, he exclaimed reproachfully.
I should be obliged to do so, if I took it.
Is it only this one you refuse.
Or any other equally valuable and scarce.
Gathering a choice little bouquet he said "you will not refuse this Isabel."
Miss Leicester if you please sir, she replied as she took the flowers, and hastened to the schoolroom. While Everard stood for a moment lost in thought, then went to pay his respects to his mother, and present the rejected flower, to the bride elect.
This was the last evening they would be alone, to-morrow the guests were to arrive. Isabel did not always join them at dinner, and this evening she intended to spend in the schoolroom to finish the reports, which Mr. Arlington always liked to have when the holidays began, giving the children leave to go in the drawing-room. But the best plans cannot always be carried out. Isabel received a message from Mrs. Arlington requesting her to join them at dinner, accompanied by a threat from Harry, that if she did not they would all adjourn to the schoolroom, of course she had to comply. However the evening passed off very pleasantly, Everard was so much occupied with his mother and sisters, that with the exception of making her sing all his favourite songs, he paid even less than usual attention to Isabel.