The children are on tiptoe of expectation, anxiously waiting the arrival of the Mornington's, and numerous other guest's. Now the wished for moment has come, what a delightful stir and confusion it has occasioned. Rose is in ecstasy, and Amy wild with glee, even the quiet Alice seemed to have caught the infection. It was to be a regular old fashioned Xmas. Eve. All sorts of games and odd things, snap dragon, charades (for which Harry and Lucy were famous) magic music, dancing, and even blindmans buff was proposed but was over-ruled by the quieter members of the party. 'Santa Claus' sent a bountiful supply of presents down the chimney that night, which caused great merriment next day. For ladies got smoking caps, and cigar-cases; while gentlemen received workboxes, thimbles, and tatting-needles. Peter got a jester's cap and bells, which he vowed was a dunce's cap intended for Rose, to that young lady's great indignation. Tom had a primer, and a present for a good boy, and May received a plain gold ring at which they all laughed very much, to May's excessive annoyance. After breakfast they all went to church, and then all who chose went to see the school children, who were enjoying themselves immensely over their Xmas. fare. Then the sleighs were had out for a glorious drive over the frozen snow, but Isabel refused to join the party, preferring to stay quietly at home. To practise anthem's with Everard, Grace said. Isabel had no such idea, but for all that they did sing some anthems with the children, as Everard, who had taken a very active part in the arrangements for the Sunday School feast, was not of course one of the sleighing party, and returned some time before them. The children sang very nicely, doing great credit to Isabel's teaching, for which she was highly complimented by Everard.
They ought to be much obliged to you, as they bid fair to surpass both Grace and Emily, he said.
Pray don't let Miss Arlington hear you say so, or she will never forgive me.
Oh never fear, she would not believe it, but I will be careful, as she is already dreadfully jealous of you.
Of me, how can she be, why should she.
She has cause enough, he replied warmly, "but she should be more magnanimous."
I don't think it possible, I cannot imagine she could be so silly.
It is plain enough to me, that she is.
I don't see it, I confess.
'Where ignorance is bliss,' he replied, with one of his usual penetrating glances. Yours must be a very happily constituted mind to be so unconscious of all things disagreeable."
Not quite so unconscious as you imagine, but I advise you not to fish into troubled waters.
Still waters run deep, you mean, he replied.
Unfathomable, she said, and followed the children to the dining-room, for they had gone there to see if the decorations were completed. A right merry party sat down to dinner, sixty in number, all relations or old friends. Here is Tom's description of the wedding nest day, which he sent his friend:
DEAR DICK,--We are having jolly times here--rare fun on Christmas-eve, I assure you. But the best of all was my brother's wedding; eight bridesmaids, all as beautiful as sunshine. (I was a best-man, of course.) The bride looked magnificent--(between you and I, Dick, he has made a very good choice)--the rain and sunshine style. I can't say I understand that kind of thing, but on such occasions it tells immensely. (I admire one of the bridesmaids amazingly, but mum's the word, mind.) But to speak of the wedding. Governor Arlington is a liberal old fellow. Champagne like water, and everything to match.
Your's truly, T. M.
Elm Grove was scarcely the same place to Isabel when Emily was gone. She toiled on diligently with the children, but she found teaching anything but pleasant. Often after a tedious day, when tired and weary, she would gladly have laid down to rest her aching head and throbbing temples. Mrs. Arlington would request that she would join them in the drawing-room. Isabel did not consider herself at liberty to refuse, besides she did not wish to encounter Mrs. Arlington's frowns next day; and even when they were out, and she congratulated herself upon being left in peace, Mr. Arlington (who seldom accompanied hem) would ask her to sing some songs, or play a game of chess, and of course she had to comply. This kind of life was very irksome to Isabel--so different to what she had been accustomed to. She strove bravely with her fate, but in spite of all her endeavors she often cried herself to sleep she felt so desolate and alone. She had no home: there was no hearth where she was missed, or her coming anxiously looked for. Then she would grieve bitterly over the bright home she had lost, and the happy days gone, it seemed, for ever; and then in the morning be angry with herself for her ingratitude, remembering the blessings she still enjoyed, and how much worse off she might be, and strive to be contented. A fresh cause for disquietude arose, Grace evidently was jealous of her. Grace was handsome, but she was aware that Isabel was more attractive. Grace sang well, but she also knew that Isabel sang better, her voice was richer, fuller, more melodious. She said that Isabel always wanted to show off, and would look very incredulous and neutral when Isabel's performances were praised. One gentleman in particular was very enthusiastic in his praises. "But professional people are different you know," returned Grace.
Oh indeed, I was not aware that Miss Leicester was a professional singer, he replied.
Not a professional singer, she teaches singing, said Grace thinking she was going a little too far.
Indeed, where did you make her acquaintance, may I ask, you seldom hear such a splendid voice.
Oh she is our governess, replied Grace.
Turning to Isabel he said "you have a very fine voice Miss Leicester, if you were to make your debut at one of our best operas, you would make your fortune."
I have no such idea, said Isabel, the indignant tears starting to her eyes, "that is the last thing I should thing of doing, she added with a reproachful look at Grace," but Grace seemed to be enjoying the whole thing amazingly.
I do not suppose that you have thought of it or you certainly would not be a governess, with such a career open to you; with very little training you might command almost any salary. Isabel was excessively annoyed. "I assure you my dear young lady that it is worth your consideration he continued.
You mean well, no doubt, Mr. Bandolf, and I thank you for your kind intentions; but the matter requires no consideration, I could not entertain the idea for a moment returned Isabel, and bowing coldly opened a book of prints.
You should not let pride prevent your worldly advancement, he added, which only made her more angry than ever. For all this I have to thank Miss Arlington she thought, and her feelings toward that young lady, at that moment, were not the most charitable.
"No I am sure it never answers at least not in most cases and in ours it would not I am convinced; but I had a pretty hard battle about it I assure you Ada."
I had no idea until now that they wished it returned Ada. "but I am very glad you did not agree to it."
(The matter under consideration was, if it were desirable that young couples should reside with the parents of either; but Charles Ashton knew his mother's disposition too well, to subject his wife to it, though he was a very good son and loved his mother. He had no wish, nor did he consider himself at liberty to place his wife in a position that he knew might make her very unhappy. Nor did he think that such an arrangement would promote domestic bliss. He was a particularly quiet easy going fellow, very averse to exertion of any kind and seldom troubled himself to oppose any arrangements, usually agreeing to any proposition for the sake of peace and quietness. But for all that he had a will of his own, and when he had once made up his mind, nothing on earth could move him. Before he married he gave the matter careful considertion, and came to the conclusion that it must never be--never Ada would be his wife, and no mortal should breathe a word against her in his hearing--therefore it must never be. Having come to this conclusion he waited until the subject should be broached by either of his parents, knowing very well that when that topic should be discussed, then would come the tug of war, and he was not at all anxious for it. It soon came however, his father proposed that he should bring his bride there, saying, "there is plenty of room for all." But Charles was not so sure of that, and feared that the house might possibly become too hot to hold them, but merely stated quietly that he had decided otherwise. Then arose a perfect storm, but he was firm. His mother asked with her handkerchief to her eyes, if she was to lose her boy altogether. While Lord Ashton requested to be informed what his plans might be.
To live in England he answered.
What might be his objection to Ashton Park.
He had nothing to say against Ashton Park, but he wished to reside in England.
Very well, they would go to England, and all live together, that would be charming Lady Ashton said.
He should like them to live in England, but as to living together, that was out of the question, Charles replied.
Whereupon Lady Ashton was highly offended and very angry. Charles was quiet, but firm, all they could urge was useless, he would not hear of it.) It might answer in Arthur's case" he returned, by the way Ada is it not strange we have never heard anything of them, poor Louisa, I suppose boarding school did not answer her expectations, as she left it so soon."
Can you wonder at it, situated as she was.
It was natural no doubt, and Arthur could be so winning, he always was a favourite with the ladies.
Oh well, he is a nice fellow you must admit.
I don't deny it, I always liked him very much, but still I think that sort of thing, is not right, but he always was impetuous, never considered anything, but just acted on the spur of the moment, and he is very soft hearted he added laughing. "I wonder if the old gentleman knows it."
Your mother was always ambitious for him, don't you remember how afraid she was about Isabel asked Ada.
Yes, and the daughter of his tutor does not come up to the mark.
I should think her own daughter's child might at all events.
But she never regards her in that light, never will I fear.
Somebody wishes to see you Sir, very particularly please, said Thomson.
Who is it? Thomson.
Don't know I'm sure Sir, she would not give any name, but is very anxious to see you, I said you were engaged, but she replied I that she must see you to-night, it was very important.
What sort of a person is she? asked Ada.
A lady madam, quite a lady I should say, only in trouble, she says she knew master in America.
I must see her, I suppose, where is she.
In the study, sir.
The stranger was standing by the fire-place, as he entered she made an impatient gesture for him to close the door, then threw herself at his feet passionately imploring him to help and protect her, and throwing aside her thick vail, disclosed the features of Louisa, but so altered that he was perfectly shocked and amazed. He could scarcely believe that the haggered emaciated being before him, was indeed the pretty, impulsive, fiery, Louisa, but such was the case, and anger, compassion and indignation filled his heart, as he listened to the recital of her misfortunes.
As the reader is already acquainted with a portion of Louisa's story, we will not repeat it here, but only record such circumstances as have not appeared in these pages. On arriving at her grandfather's she encountered a storm of angry abuse, and was driven from the door with a stern command never to return, as she had forfeited all claims upon him, and might die in a ditch for all he cared. She managed to get about a mile from the house, and then overcome with fatigue and misery she sank down exhausted.
How long she remained there she had no idea, when she recovered she was among strangers, who were very kind. She had had a brain fever, and was in the hospital When asked for the address of her friends, she replied that she had none. But afterward she remembered that her Uncle Charles had always been kind to her, and had occasionally procured her little indulgences from her stern, cold-hearted, grand-mother, and that it had been mainly through his interference that she had been sent to school. She therefore determined to seek his aid, and accept a small loan from the doctor, to enable her to do so, long and weary had the journey been, and she implored Charles not to send her away. She knew she said that it would not be for long, and entreated him to let her die in peace.
Charles assured her that she should want for nothing, and commended her for coming to him, and expressed in no measured terms his disapprobation of his father's cruel conduct, but was abruptly silenced by Louisa falling senseless on the floor. His violent ringing of the bell, brought not only the servants, but Ada also, to his assistance; medical aid was quickly procured. That night her child was born, and when morning dawned, Louisa lay still and cold in that last long sleep from which no mortal could awake her. Sleep in thy marble beauty, poor little Louisa, and perhaps that sad fate may soften the hearts of thy cruel grandparent. Oh not as it has been fulfilled did the dying Evangeline understand the promise made with regard to the little Louisa. Oh how often was the stillness of the night broken by the bitter sobs of the desolate little orphan whose aching heart sought for love in vain. Then can we wonder that when this lonely one, did find one to love, that she should willingly listen to his persuasions in hopes of a happy future, rather than endure any longer such a cheerless existence.
In the early morning a violent knocking at the hall door brought Thomson from his gossip with the other servants.
Is there not a lady--a widow lady, staying here? inquired an old gentleman in an agitated voice, while the cab driver beat his arms on the pavement. "Is not this Mr. Ashton's?" he added, as Thomson hesitated. Thomson answered in the affirmative, and the old gentleman continued, "Is the lady here? Can I see your master? answer me quickly don't be so stupid."
A lady came last night but, but, stammered Thomson "she,"
Is she here now, I say, he cried angrily.
"Yes sir, but-- Say no more, just tell your master I want to see him immediately, stop, take my card, here, now be quick.""
"Poor Thomas was quite bewildered by the old gentleman's manner. I'm blest he murmured if I know what we're coming to next, Lord Barrington, what does he want I should like to know.
Why Ada, it is Lord Barrington, exclaimed Charles.
How very fortunate, returned Ada "of course he will take charge of the baby, I confess I was in a quandary for I do not relish the idea of having the care of it, poor little thing."
Nor I either, but I am not so sure that he will take it, it is much more likely he has come to row me about the whole affair.
You! Why, what had you to do with it?
No more than you had; but I must see him at once, I suppose.
Shall I go, too? asked Ada, timidly.
Not at present: if there is to be a storm, I do not see why you should be in it.
He is such a dreadful old man, is he not?
Not usually; he was always very, very kind to Arthur.
Not to his wife, she replied, vainly endeavoring to repress her tears.
No, very cruel; but you must not grieve so much about it, dearest Ada.
I cannot help it, it is so terribly shocking.
But it is past, now: she is at rest, she is happy; even her lifeless remains look calm--the weary, weary look exchanged for one of peace.
True, but it is so dreadful; if we had only known before, she sobbed.
I wish we had, with all my soul, returned Charles, "but you really must not distress yourself so, or I shall have to keep the poor old gent waiting."
Go to him, Charley; I shall feel better presently.
He found his Lordship impatiently pacing the room. "I am seeking my daughter-in-law; she is here, I believe," he said, after the first salutations were over.
She is here, Charles answered gravely, "at least her remains; she died last night."
Dead! dead! repeated Lord Barrington, putting his hand to his head. "Then I have nothing left."
But the child, interposed Charles.
The child--what child?
The babe born last night.
He did not heed the answer, but seemed overpowered by the news of Louisa's death. Let me see Arthur's wife," he said, after a few minutes had elapsed. Charles conducted him to the darkened apartment, where he gazed in agony upon the worn, but calm features of poor Louisa. And as he thought of his harshness, and Arthur's words, "make not her coming alone harder by one word or look," his grief became so violent and excessive that Charles was quite nonplussed, and went to consult Ada as to what should be done. In accordance with their plan, Ada took the frail little piece of humanity, and, approaching Lord Barrington, as he bent in sorrow over the corpse, said softly, "You have lost Arthur, and Arthur's wife, but you still have Arthur's child," and she laid the babe in his arms.
His tears fell on its tiny face, but the sight of it, and its helplessness, did him good. "Oh, Arthur! Arthur!" he moaned, why did you doubt your old father? how would I have welcomed your wife if you had brought her home at first! aye, as I now welcome this child--Arthur's child," he added, looking at it fondly.
He had the corpse conveyed to Barrington, and placed in the family vault, and erected a monument--very beautiful, indeed--beside the one he had already placed there in memory of his son, inscribed:
To
LOUISA,
the beloved wife of Arthur,
only son of
LORD BARRINGTON OF BARRINGTON,
Aged 16 years.
He also placed another in the little burying-place at Z----:
In memory of
ARTHUR,
only son of LORD BARRINGTON, of Barrington Park, England,
aged 23 years,
who was suddenly attacked with a fatal fever,
in a foreign land,
when on his way home.
When Lady Ashton arrived, shortly afterwards, and heard what had taken place, she was in a terrible fume. "Oh! my dear, what a misfortune. How unlucky for her to come here: why did you let her stay, Charles?"
Why did I let her stay? Say, rather, why did you send her away?
Yes, why did you let her stay? she repeated, angrily. "Why did you not let her go to the hospital?"
Or die in the street, added Charles, scarcely able to keep his temper, for he was angry and hurt to think how Louisa had been treated.
Goodness knows what people will say: no doubt all kinds of strange stories will be circulated. I feel for you, Ada, my dear; I do, indeed.
Don't be alarmed, my dear mother, as to rumors and strange stories, said Charles, handing her a newspaper, and pointing out the following:
DIED.--At the residence of Charles Ashton, Esq. LOUISA, wife of the late Hon. Arthur Barrington, and grand-daughter of Sir Edward Ashton of Brierley.
Charles, how dared you? cried his mother, reddening with anger, "your father will be excessively angry."
I cannot help that: it is the truth, is it not?
True? of course you know it is; but, for all that, you need not have published it in that absurd manner.
I thought it best.
And you are simple enough to think that that notice will prevent absurd stories getting abroad.
As to who she might be, yes; and, as to the circumstances that brought her here, I presume you would prefer any, rather than the right ones, should be assigned.
Lady Ashton was for once abashed, and her eye dropped beneath the severity of her son's gaze; but, recovering quickly, she answered, "you, at least, have nothing to do with that."
I am thankful to say I have not, he returned, "I cannot forget it, it makes me perfectly wretched; and, but that I know that Ada has her own home to go to, if anything happened to me I don't know what I should do. I shall insure my life this very day, that she may be independent. If a daughter's child could be so treated, why not a son's wife."
For goodness' sake stop, Charles!" cried his mother, "don't talk so dreadfully."
I feel it bitterly, mother; indeed I do, he replied, and hastily left the room. He would not have done so, however, had he known the storm he had left Ada to be the unhappy recipient of. She was perfectly terrified at the violence of Lady Ashton's wrath, and Lady Ashton was, too, when she saw Ada lay back in her chair, pale as marble and panting for breath. "What is the matter?--speak, child," she cried, shaking her violently; but this only alarmed her the more, and she called loudly for Charles, and then remained gazing at Lady Ashton in speechless terror.
Ada! dearest Ada! what is the matter? asked Charles, coming to the rescue; but Ada had fainted.
"Well, old fellow, how are you?" said Louis, as he entered Everard's room at the college. "I only just heard you were back." After they had conversed awhile, Louis said, "Pretty girl that governess your sisters have at Elm Grove; aye, only she is such a confounded flirt."
I esteem Miss Leicester very highly, returned Everard, coldly.
Take care, old fellow, for she is, without exception, the greatest coquette I ever came across. She always had crowds of admirers, many of whom she contrived to draw on until they came to 'the point,' and then laughed at them. By Jove she will make a fool of you, Everard, if you don't mind.
I assure you, Louis, that you are quite mistaken. Miss Leicester is quite a different person to what you imagine.
Ha! ha! so you may think, but I knew her intimately, and I must say that I was surprised that your mother should trust her young daughters to her care.
Be quiet, Louis; I think her as near perfection as possible.
Well, they say that love is blind--stone blind, in this case, I should say. She must have played her game well, to deceive you so thoroughly.
I am not deceived, neither has she played any game, returned Everard, with warmth. "She gives me no encouragement whatever--very far from it."
Oh, that is her new dodge, is it? Beware of her; she is a most accomplished actress.
You are mistaken, replied Everard, indignantly, "you know some one else of the same name."
Not a bit of it, my dear fellow; I saw the young minx at Elm Grove, and knew her directly. 'Beautiful, but dangerous.' I know her well.
Everard's cheek flushed with anger. "Louis," said he, "I will not hear any one speak disrespectfully of Miss Leicester. I consider any insult offered to her as a personal affront; therefore, if we are to remain friends, you must say no more on that subject now or at any other time."
Louis saw by Everard's countenance that he was in earnest, so answered, "as you will. I have satisfied my conscience by warning you; of course I can do no more. Won't you dine with us to-day?"
No, really, I cannot possibly; I have no time to go anywhere.
Take care you don't work too hard, and have to give up altogether. You look as if you were overdoing it. Too much of a good thing is good for nothing, you know. Come when you can--if not to-day, I shall be always glad to see you.
What object can he have in speaking thus of Isabel? Everard asked himself when Louis was gone--his beautiful and beloved Isabel, the charm of his existence, yet the torture of his life--(for was it not torture to be forever dwelling on her perfections, only to come back to the same undeniable fact that she had refused him--that she either could not, or would not, be his)--and now to hear her, the personification of his own ideal, spoken of as an accomplished actress and deceitful coquette, was almost more than he could endure. Then he asked himself what he had gained by his constant and excessive study: had it caused him to forget her? no, he could not forget she seemed ever with him in all her beauty, gentleness, and truth. He would win her yet, he told himself, and then owned he was a fool to indulge such thoughts, and determined to study harder still than ever, to prevent the possibility of his thoughts recurring so often to Isabel. Nevertheless, he would believe nothing against her--nothing.
"Louis, I wish you would look at baby before you go; I do not think she is well to-night."
What is the matter now? You are always thinking she is ill: she seemed well enough this morning.
I don't know. She is restless and uneasy; I wish you would come.
Of course I will, but I am in a great hurry just now; Mrs. Headley has sent for me, and old Mr. Growl has another attack. I must go to the people in the office now, but I will come up to baby before I start.
Had you not better see baby first? Perhaps you might forget, with so many people to attend to.
Forget? Not I. Why, Natalie, how do you think I should ever get on if I had no better memory than that?
But he did forget, and was gone when Natalie again sought him. "I thought it would be so," she sighed. Baby became more and more uneasy, and moaned and fretted in her sleep. Natalie knelt beside the bed, and tried to soothe her darling, thinking sadly of the long hours that would elapse before Louis's return, but all her efforts were in vain. Izzie did not wake or cry, but this only alarmed Natalie the more. The deadly palor of her countenance was the only sign of the anguish she suffered; outwardly, she was very calm. If she could only have done anything for her pet! but to wait, and watch, not knowing what to do, this was unendurable; and she was just debating in her own mind if she ought not to send for another doctor, as Louis might be detained all night, when she heard him come in. She pressed her cold hands upon her brow, and ordered Sarah to bring him immediately; while she rose from her knees, and breathlessly waited for his coming.
What's the matter with popsy? he asked, cheerfully, as he entered the room, but his countenance became grave as his eye rested on the sick child. "What is this?," he inquired, "why was I not told before? Tut, tut, what have you been thinking about, Natalie," he added, as he felt the child's pulse.
I asked you to come and see her before you went out, Natalie answered, in an almost inaudible voice.
Yes, but you did not say that there was anything particularly the matter. He stooped over the child and examined her more carefully. "She is seriously ill," he said.
And the words sent a thrill of pain to Natalie's aching heart.
Why do you treat me in this shameful manner? he continued bitterly. "Why let the child go on until it is almost past recovery, and then send for me in the greatest haste?--just the same way when she had the croup. I am surprised at you Natalie; it is really quite childish." He ordered the bath to be brought immediately.
Impatiently waving Natalie aside, he took the child in his arms and put her into the bath; while Natalie stood by, in speechless agony, Louis refusing to allow her to assist in any way. How cruel! To have done anything for her darling would have been an unspeakable relief. As it was, she could only stand by while he murmured, in a tone which greatly distressed her "poor little popsy," "Did they neglect papa's darling?" He would suffer no one to touch her but himself, and what assistance he did accept was from Sarah, it being into her arms he put baby while he went for the medicine she required. Poor Natalie, how this grieved her; for though she took the child from Sarah, the slight was the same. "Oh, baby, baby!" she murmured, as the burning tears fell on little Isabel's face, "what should I have left if you were taken from me?"
When Louis returned, he took the child, administered the medicine, and was about to lay her in the bed.
Let me take her, whispered Natalie, in a tone of tremulous earnestness and passionate entreaty.
No, she is better here, he replied.
Oh, please, Louis! she pleaded, but he was firm.
She stood, with clasped hands, silently gazing on the babe with a strange sensation of awe and dread, and a yearning wish to do something for her.
You are not required, Natalie, Louis said, "you had better go to bed." With a gulp she restrained the rising sob, and stooped to kiss her darling. "You will only disturb her," he said, putting out his arm to prevent her doing so. Then Natalie could only steal away to her dressing-room, and there, alone in the darkness, she crept to the sofa and hid her face in the cushion, to hush the tumultuous sobs, while she breathed fervent prayers for baby's recovery. But a horrible dread surrounded her: she could not endure to be absent from her pet, and noiselessly she stole back to the nursery. She was glad that Louis did not observe her entrance, and retreated to the dimmest corner of the room, and there, in the old arm-chair, listened to baby's uneasy breathing, which caused her an agony of grief and pain. Yet she could do nothing but sit and suffer--suffer, oh, how deeply! Thus the night wore away, and Louis was not aware of her presence until, as the day dawned, he beheld the wan, wretched face of his poor little wife. Going to her side, he said, "this is wrong, Natalie; go and rest." She shook her head. "You must, indeed: you know I have to leave her to you the greater part of the day, and this is no preparation for the watchful care she will need."
She cannot need more care than I will gladly give, returned Natalie, with trembling lip. Her face wore an expression, so sad--so suffering--that Louis must, indeed, have been adamant if he had not been softened. Stroking her hair caressingly, he was about to lead her from the room with gentle force, when, grasping his hand convulsively, she said, in an almost inaudible voice, "I cannot, cannot go; have pity, Louis," she added, raising her tearful eyes to his.
For an hour or two, and then you shall take care of baby.
If--if--you would let me kiss her, I will lie down here, but I cannot leave her, she answered, almost choking.
You may do that, he said, with a disagreeable sense of the fact that he had been unkind, to use no harsher term. And he lifted a weight from Natalie's heart, as he placed a shawl over her, saying, "try to sleep, dear; you know how much depends upon you," in sweet, modulated tones of thrilling tenderness, such as Louis knew well how to use--none better, when it suited him to do so.
It mattered not to little Izzie who tended her for many days; not so, however, when she began to mend, for now she would suffer none but mamma to touch her. She would scarcely bear to be put out of her arms. If Natalie attempted to lay her in the cradle, thinking she slept, instantly the tiny arms would be clasped round mamma's neck, and she would take her up again. No more could papa usurp mamma's rights; no coaxing or persuasion would induce her to allow him to take her. Only from mamma's hand would she take her medicine. On more than one occasion Natalie had to be aroused from the little sleep she allowed herself, to administer it. All this annoyed Louis beyond measure, but he did not again give way to his temper before the child, except on one occasion. He had, in the strongest terms, urged upon Natalie the importance of giving the medicine with regularity. The bottle was empty, and Natalie sent it down to be filled, but by some means it got mixed with the other medicines to be sent out, and was not returned to her. She suffered tortures for the want of it during his absence. When he returned, coming straight to baby as usual, he learned how it was, and found her worse for want of it, his indignation was extreme, and he heaped upon Natalie unjust and unmerited reproach, in harsh and bitter terms. His cruel words cut her to the heart, but her only answer was a gentle request that he would get it at once. Truly Isabel had not much to regret.
"What do you think?" cried Rose, bursting into the school-room. "Everard is coming home."
Oh, is he? I'm so glad, returned Alice.
Yes; mamma had a letter to-day. He is better, and is coming home for change of air and mamma's good nursing. It was not Everard who wrote the letter, but the doctor, who is coming with him as far as Markham, and papa is to meet them there.
When? inquired Alice.
To-morrow.
And papa is away.
Oh, he will be back to-night. Why, there is a carriage; I wonder who it is, she exclaimed, running to the window.
How can you be so silly, Rose, interposed Isabel.
Oh, it is Everard, she shouted, without heeding Isabel's remonstrance, "and that must be the Doctor. Oh, I'm so glad Everard has come," and she danced about the room with glee.
Rose, what a noisy child you are! exclaimed Isabel, going to the window with the rest; but when she saw the Doctor, she became deadly pale, and had to lean against the window frame for support, but she had ample time to recover herself, as they were all too much occupied to observe her.
How terribly ill he looks, said Rose.
And how dreadfully weak, returned Alice. "I'm sure that gentleman was at Grace's party, only I forget his name."
Oh, mamma and Grace are both out; who is to do the honors, won't you, Miss Leicester?
Oh, no.
Do, there's a good creature, pleaded Rose. But Isabel was firm. "It will seem so queer," urged Rose.
Alice, dear, you must go.
Oh no, indeed, I can't; please excuse me, Miss Leicester."
Oh let me go, pleaded Rose, "I shall manage far better than Alice."
You! exclaimed Isabel, "nonsense! Alice has more thought, besides she has the advantage of two or three inches in height, at all events."
Alice remonstrated.
Not another word, Alice, you have to go, said Isabel; and Alice thought she had never seen Miss Leicester so peremptory.
Isabel was not afraid to trust Alice. Once fairly installed as hostess she would do very well, though shy at first.
But he seems so very ill, and I shall not know what to do, said Alice.
You must tell them they were not expected until to-morrow, to explain your mamma's absence; and I will order up some refreshments, and tell Norris to have your brother's room ready for him.
Poor Alice looked quite scared at the ordeal that was before her.
Mind you manage nicely, Allie dear, and make your brother comfortable, said Isabel, kissing her. And Alice, with a great sigh, left the room.
Isabel would have been content to have done "the honors," as Rose termed it, had the Doctor been any other than Louis, but under the circumstances she was determined not to do so. Though firmly resolved to abide by this decision, she did not feel very comfortable, as she thought it not improbable that Everard would send for her. Indeed, he did tell Alice to bring her, but Alice, with her usual blunt manner, answered that Miss Leicester had refused to come, and had sent her. As Isabel had foreseen, Everard soon retired to rest after his journey, and she would have been nicely in for a long tete-a-tete with Louis, which she did not choose. As it was, she sent Rose to help her sister to entertain the Doctor until her mamma came home; and, taking Amy with her, Isabel retired to her own apartment, to prevent the possibility of meeting him.
The absentees returned early, and Mrs. Arlington came herself to request that Miss Leicester would endeavor to make the evening pass pleasantly to the gentlemen, as she and Grace had an engagement that evening, and as it was to be the ball of the season Grace did not wish to give it up.
Pray, excuse me, Mrs. Arlington, Isabel began.
Stay, Isabel, I know what you would say. The Doctor goes with us. Everard and his father will be alone, and I think you can find a song, a book, or something to amuse them.
I will try, said Isabel, well content now that Louis was not to be of the party.
One word more, Miss Leicester, said Mrs. Arlington, dismissing Amy. "I disapprove very much of the children being sent to entertain visitors, and I hope it will not occur again."
Isabel felt hurt, but merely replied, "under the circumstances it might be excused."
No, Isabel, no; I cannot see any justifiable reason. It is more than two years since Dr. Taschereau was married, and if you have not got over that affair you ought to have done so, that is all I can say.
I have, I have, exclaimed Isabel, warmly, "but still you could not expect me to meet him."
I don't see why you should not; it would have been better to have done so than, by acting as you have, lead him to suppose that you have not overcome your former attachment.
It is utterly impossible, for him to think that, returned Isabel hotly, "I told him differently long ago; no," she added indignantly, "I have not the slightest shadow of affection for him; but I cannot, will not, subject myself to his insufferable insolence. You don't know him, or you would not expect me to do so," and the hot tears welled up into her eyes.
I cannot hear my son's friend aspersed, Miss Leicester, especially when he is my guest, said Mrs. Arlington, stiffly, "at the same time I don't, of course, mean to justify his former conduct towards you; and with regard to the children, do not let it occur again. You may make yourself happy about the doctor, as he returns by the early train in the morning, for he is anxious about his little girl, who is only now recovering from a serious illness."
On entering the drawing-room, Isabel found Everard on the sofa looking very pale and rather sad. "I am sorry to see you so ill," she said, "I came to give you a little music, but I'm afraid you will not be able to bear it."
On the contrary I think it would do me good; but why would you not come this afternoon?
I am here now.
But why not before? Was it not unkind?
It was not so intended.
"Will you not give me the reason? You must not ask me; believe that I had sufficient cause."" The words were not such as he would have, but the manner was so winning that he could not choose but be satisfied. ""I am here now, solely on your account, to amuse you as you like best. You must have been very ill,"" she said, regarding him kindly.
"Yes, I am awfully weak, he returned, "it seems so strange to me, I have usually been so strong."
You will soon get strong here, replied Isabel, cheerfully.
Not if you plague me as you did this afternoon, he said reproachfully.
Don't be angry, she pleaded.
Not angry, but hurt, he said.
I couldn't help it, she answered, almost with a sob.
"It did seem a chilling reception, a strange coming home, so cold, so utterly without welcome, and I had longed so much to come. It was not my fault they were all out.""
"Yes, they were all out, and you wouldn't come.
You are angry, she was crying now, her face down on her hands.
I am a brute, he said.
Oh, no; but I am a naughty girl, and seating herself at the piano, she asked what he would have. She had not thought of the seeming neglect, she had not thought what he would feel at finding Alice the only one to receive him. She could not help it she told herself, perhaps so, but she had been selfish, very selfish; she was sorry, sorry that Everard should take it so hardly; but even so, did it occur again, she could not act differently. "What will you have," she asked.
You know my favorites.
Ah, that is right; I was just going to send for you, said Mr. Arlington, who now entered. "I see you know what will please him most; I don't know what we should do without you," he added warmly. "You don't know how good she has been to me, Everard, she is a good substitute for my gay party-going daughter, but for her I don't know what I should do now Emily is away." She is not good to me, thought Everard, and then a ray of hope sprung up, as he thought of her very kind manner, but no, had he not been led into thinking so before, but whenever he had touched ever so lightly on the old topic, he had been repelled.
Isabel felt sad to-night, and could only sing plaintive melodies, and then felt annoyed to think that she had failed to accomplish the purpose for which she came. But she was mistaken, these songs harmonized better with his present mood than more gay ones would have done.
Everard did not seem to gain strength. Isabel did her best to relieve the weariness of the long, long days: bringing the children into the library in the afternoon in order that he might share their amusement as she read aloud, and in various ways endeavored to lessen the monotony of the time. She would, perhaps, have acted more wisely had she not done so, for Isabel's was a very tender nature, and her gentle sympathy was very pleasant to Everard, but it only served to keep up the conflict between hope and fear, which was specially hurtful to him just now, when he needed perfect repose. But she thought Grace and her mother neglectful, and strove to make up for it. She often sent one of his young sisters to sit with him, but Rose was not allowed this privilege as often as the others, though on the whole she was best. Alice was too quiet, and Amy too apt to dwell on the perfections of her dear Miss Leicester, while Rose, her wild spirits subdued in the presence of her sick brother, but only sufficiently so to prevent her being oppressive, was just the cheerful companion that was good for him, her vigorous, healthy, happy-in-the-present style had a good effect. She was never at a loss for a topic for conversation, and her quick perception enabled her to detect at once when he grew tired, and then she would immediately employ herself in some quiet manner. She never sat contemplating him thoughtfully with eyes so like his own, as Alice too often did, as if she would read his very soul.
There did not appear to be much of "Mamma's good nursing" to which Rose had alluded. True it was a very gay season, and Mrs. Arlington's duties were very onerous. "You know, Everard," she said, "that Grace cannot go out alone, so that my time is so much occupied, that I fear I must appear very neglectful, but you understand it is not my wish to leave you so much," and Everard assented. But when he had a relapse, then she gave up society, and was all the attentive mother.
Louis was very skilful and had got him through a very severe illness, how severe they had not known till now. Mrs. Arlington sent the children into the country to be out of the way, and Isabel of course went with them.
Baby is quite well and happy, in fact all trace of her illness has passed away; but Natalie is worn and weary with tending her pet and bearing with Louis's hasty temper; she is pale and wan, but ever sweet tempered. "Hark, baby, there's papa." Izzie ran to meet him. He raised her in his arms and caressed her, scarcely noticing his fond little wife, who would have been made happy by a kiss or kind word. Tired and weary, but with a heart ache which was harder to bear, Natalie lay on the sofa, she was nothing to him, that was clear.
Love papa, baby, love papa, he said. Little Izzie threw her arms round his neck and kissed him, then struggled to get away, "What's the matter," he asked. "Love mamma, Izzie want's to love mamma." She ran to her mother and repeated the action. Natalie caught the child in her arms, kissing her passionately. "Izzie, my darling Izzie," she murmured, while large tears fell on the child's face. Taking up her pinefore Izzie gravely wiped her own face, and then tenderly endeavored to dry her mother's tears, whispering don't cry mamma, Izzie don't like to see mamma cry," and she nestled to her mothers side, stroking her hair and kissing her repeatedly. Nothing would have induced Izzie to leave her mother then, even had Louis attempted it, but he did not, he stood by the mantlepiece watching them, with an unpleasant sensation, that baby had no power to dry those tears. He remained there a long time, his head resting on his hand, while Natalie and baby fell asleep together. From time to time a deep, deep sigh would escape from Natalie, which was not pleasant for Louis to hear. Sarah came for baby, but he desired her to leave her there. After a while, he thought it was not best that she should be there, and went softly to the sofa and took her away. As he did so, he remarked for the first time--aye, for the first time--the worn unhappy expression of Natalie's sweet face, which did not leave it even in sleep, and stooping over her gave the kiss and kind words to his sleeping wife, which he had withheld when she might have been made happy by them. He carried the child to its nurse, then went to his surgery, busy among his drugs he could not but think of Natalie. How pale she looked, how fragile she had become, how languid and listless she seemed of late, he had noticed that, and with no pleasant feeling did he remember, that he had done so, only to chide her for being lazy. How blind he had been, he saw plainly enough that she needed change of air, she should have it, she should pay his uncle Macdermott a visit, and take Izzie with her, but what should he do without Izzie, he asked himself, but with surprising magnanimity, he refused to consider that question. He had been a little inattentive perhaps lately and owed her some amends, so Izzie should go with her. He knew very well that Natalie would never go without her, and, truth to tell, he had his misgivings as to how Izzie would behave without her mother, so, as he really thought it needful, it was as much necessity as kindness, that brought him to this decision.
Natalie submitted passively to all their arrangements, but, on the evening previous to their departure, when Louis was enjoying a cigar in the library, after superintending all the preparations for the next day's start, Natalie came fondly to his side, and laying her hand softly upon his shoulder, said in a voice that trembled with emotion, "I cannot go, do not ask me, Louis, I cannot, will not leave you," and her head sank on her hand, as she again murmured "do not ask me."
Pooh, Natie, what nonsense, he answered, laughing.
No Louis, I cant, you promised that you would come for a week, so I will wait until you can take the week, and then we will go together, but not now alone, O, not alone, and she sobbed out on his shoulder the pent up anguish of her heart. He drew her to him with more kindness than he had shown for a long time.
You will not send me away, she whispered.
Now, Nattie dear, be reasonable, you know you are not strong, and I want you to get your roses back, and a week would be too short a time to benefit you much, so in four weeks time I will come for two, that will do, won't it.
She shook her head, "I have a terrible dread of the journey, no Louis, I will not go, I will wait till you can come with me."
Louis was not one to submit to opposition, his brow grew dark and the fierce light was kindling in his eye. She should go, once for all he would not brook this resistance. After he had decided to let Izzie go to please her, and save all fuss, was this to be the end of it? no. "It is too late to say that now," he said, "a few weeks will soon pass, and this idle fear is childish."
I should have spoken before, only I did so wish to please you if I could.
No, Natalie, he said, sternly, "you do not care whether I am pleased or not, you think of nothing but your own foolish fancies."
Don't be cross, Louis, it is because I love you so much that I want to stay, don't send me away, O Louis, don't.
Now, Natalie, you are enough to provoke a saint, he said, angrily, "cross, indeed, no wonder if I am, don't let me hear another word about it, you go to-morrow."
Natalie saw that any more opposition would inevitably cause one of those fierce bursts of passion of which she ever stood in mortal dread; she glanced at his darkened countenance and was silent, but her heart was heavy.
Come, we will take a turn on the lawn the moon is so bright, he said. They walked in the moonlight, those two, husband and wife not three years, but the happy brightness had faded out of her face, and the girl not twenty walked by his side with a weary step, as if life were almost a burden. She resolutely checked her tears, and silently paced the lawn, while her thoughts wandered back to the beautiful home in the south of France, where she first met the man who had proved so different a partner to what, in her love and trust, she had fondly imagined, and then she wished so fervently that she might even yet be to him all that she had hoped. But he did not want her with him, he would be glad when she was away, oh, he did not love her, or he would not thus cruelly insist upon her going. She had it in her heart even yet to throw herself into his arms and entreat him to let her stay, but she felt that it would be useless, besides she dare not offer further resistance to his will. She looked up into his face and knew she dare not.
His eyes were fixed upon her, "why Natalie," he said, laughing, "anyone would think I was an ogre to see your countenance." But it was not a pleasant laugh. Then the hardest thought that she ever had towards him, came to her mind, and she thought that he was acting very like one. Louis paused as they were about to enter the house saying, "You will not worry me any more, if you do it will be useless and only make me harsh," his manner was stern, determined and chilling in the extreme. Natalie shivered, "I will go," she replied in a choking voice, then flew up the stairs and alone in the dark gave vent to the grief that was breaking her heart. "Little fool," murmured Louis between his firmly closed teeth, "what a plague she is."
"O Isabel, it is nearly time for the train to pass, do let us go and watch for it," said Rose, and they went accordingly. "Here it comes, here it comes," she shouted, and the iron horse came on snorting and panting; nearer, nearer it approaches the bridge. 'Tis on the bridge. Crash--and in an instant, it is gone; the train with its living freight is a mass of broken ruins. The screams are appalling; the sight fearful in the extreme. The children ran back to the house trembling and awed, and huddled together in a frightened group. Among the first to be taken from the debris was a lady, and a little girl about two years old. Isabel offered her own room for the use of the sufferers, and some men carried them to the cottage, where kind nurse Bruce did all in her power until the doctor should arrive. Isabel took the beautiful child, who a few moments before was all life and animation, and laid it upon Bruce's bed; the poor little thing must have been killed instantly as there was no sign of suffering upon its face, but a large bruise on its temple. The doctor feared that the lady had received fatal injuries; all through the night she continued insensible, and the morning brought no change. Who she was they could not tell, but as Isabel sat watching her through the long night, she felt that she had seen her before, but where she could not recall. Late in the afternoon consciousness returned, and with a feeble moan she opened her eyes. "Where am I," she asked, "Oh, where is my little Izzie?" Isabel's only answer was a kiss. "Don't say it," she cried, grasping Isabel's hand convulsively, "O, not that, not that! but I see it is so--I see it in your face without you saying so." "O, my baby, my baby, my little Izzie!" she moaned, covering her face with her hands; and then she lay quite still, her lips moving as if in prayer. The doctor, who came in shortly after, called Isabel from the room. "Miss Leicester," he said, "she will not live many hours, we had better find out who she is and summon her friends by telegraph. We can do so by sending to W----; I tell you candidly that she is past all human aid. Poor thing, she need not grieve for her child, she will be with her soon." They returned to the room to gain the desired information. "Send for Dr. Taschereau, at H----," she replied to the doctor's question. Now Isabel knew where and when she had seen her. But it grieved her to see what a change there was in the bright sunny girl who had cast such a cloud over her path at the ball at Elm Grove.
Am I dying? Natalie asked anxiously.
I dare not give you false hope, the doctor replied.
She covered her face with her hands for a few moments. "Do you think I can live till Louis comes--Dr. Taschereau you know."
I hope so, he answered, evasively.
Make the telegram very strong; O, very strong. Say that I am dying, but be sure you don't say that baby is--you know--I can't say it, she said in a choking voice. "He will come, O, surely he will come," she murmured to herself. The doctor left promising to send immediately. "You are Isabel Leicester," Natalie said as soon as they were alone. "I am sure you are, for I have seen your picture."
That is my name, replied Isabel, smiling, while she wondered how much Natalie knew about her.
You loved Louis once? she asked.
Yes.
You love him still?
No; that is past.
A smile of satisfaction illumined Natalie's countenance for a moment, but quickly left it. "I was always sorry for you, Natalie," Isabel said kindly.
Sorry for me, why should you be sorry for me? she asked quickly, then pausing a moment she added, sadly, "I see you know how it is."
Ah, I know too well, I hoped, I prayed it might be otherwise.
He does not mean to be unkind, she said, "but it is a cruel thing to know that your husband does not love you When I first found out that he did not, it almost killed me. He insisted on calling our little girl Isabel, in spite of all I could say as to my dislike to the name; so I thought it was his mother's name, though he would not say. But when I found out that it was yours, I was very angry; O, you must forgive me, for I have had very hard thoughts towards you, and now I know that you did not deserve them. O, Isabel, you are too good; I could not nurse you so kindly, had I been in your place. Let me see my little Izzie," she pleaded. Isabel brought the child to its mother; it looked sweetly calm in its marble beauty. "Bury us both together in one coffin," she said, while her tears fell fast upon its icy face. Natalie complained of great pain, nothing that the doctor could do seemed to give her any relief, and she lay moaning through the night. About six o'clock in the morning there was a quick step on the stairs which did not escape the ear of the sufferer. "Oh, Louis, Louis come to me," she cried. In a moment he was at her side, and her arms clasped round his neck. "I knew you would come," she said, fondly, "I could not have died happily unless you had."
He pressed her closely to him, while the hot tears fell upon her face, for he was now suffering bitterly for all his neglect and unkindness to his gentle little wife.
O Louis, I have always loved you so much, so very much! she said, clinging more closely to him, and gazing into his face with an intensity painful to witness, then smiling sweetly, she closed her eyes and all was over. The others retired from the room, and Louis was left alone with his dead wife, and had yet to learn the fate of his child.
During the time that elapsed before the funeral, Isabel carefully avoided meeting him, and hoped that he had not noticed her on the morning of his arrival. But just as he was about to leave, after that had taken place, and she was congratulating herself for having managed so nicely, a message was brought her that Dr. Taschereau wished to see her before he went. Though annoyed, Isabel did not see how she could very well refuse, so complied with the best grace she could. She found him in the sitting room, looking very pale. "I could not leave, Miss Leicester," he said, "without thanking you for your kindness to my wife. I had no right to expect it."
I merely did my duty, and do not require any thanks.
I would ask one question, he continued, with a strong effort to be calm. "Was my little girl dead when first taken up?"
Quite dead, she answered.
It is a bitter trial, he resumed, "I loved my child unutterably; the blow seems to have crushed me, I have no longer any interest in anything, I have nothing left, nothing!"
Isabel was silent, she was thinking of the time when she had nothing left but him, and he had deserted her. And now it was the child he grieved for and not his dear little wife. His treatment of her, had always appeared to Isabel as his greatest fault, and her indignation was aroused as she saw, or thought she saw, that he did not feel her loss as he ought to have done. "I cannot but think," she said, "that the blow was sent in mercy to her, in whose future there could only be pain, weariness and silent suffering, and had she alone been taken, I can see that you would soon have got over it."
You have no idea of the agony and remorse I have endured or you would not be so severe; you think because you know that I did not love my wife as I should, that I do not feel her loss, but you are mistaken, her angel gentleness and patience seem forever to upbraid me for my neglect and unkindness. And unable any longer to control his feelings, he laid his head on the table, while heavy sobs convulsed his frame. His passions were strong, and it was something fearful to witness the violence of his anguish. Isabel could not see his deep grief unmoved, yet dared not attempt to comfort him. Oh how she had wronged him; how keenly he felt his loss. She would not leave him, and yet she did not wish to stay, and turned away to hide her emotion. When he grew more composed, he advanced towards her saying, "It is getting late, Miss Leicester, once more I thank you for all your kindness."
Do not think any more of my cruel words. said Isabel, the tears streaming from her eyes.
Then you do not withhold your sympathy, even from me, he returned, offering his hand.
How can I, she replied, taking, though reluctantly, the offered hand. "I am very sorry for you."
Good news, Isabel, good news! cried Alice coming in shortly after with an open letter in her hand. "Everard is out of danger, and is recovering rapidly, so we can soon come home, Mamma says."
That is indeed good news, replied Isabel, who was really anxious to get the children home, as the late events had cast a gloom over all. Little Amy had more than once asked if Everard would die like the poor lady, and all three had cried very bitterly about the pretty little girl that was killed.
In three weeks more they were back at Elm Grove.
Everard was on the terrace to welcome them. He seemed very glad to see them again, but his manner towards Isabel was changed, he was cordial and kind, but still there was a difference. There was something inexplicable, and shall we say that it pained her. Why did she on retiring to her own room, shed bitter, bitter tears? She could scarcely have told, had you asked her, but so it was.
Now that Everard had resolved to turn his thoughts from Isabel more resolutely than ever, as it was useless any longer to indulge the hope of one day possessing her, and had determined upon becoming a divinity student, and as soon as possible be ordained and go as a missionary to some distant land, and there amid new scenes and duties forget his dream of happiness. Isabel found that she was not indifferent regarding Everard, and often drew comparisons between her old love and the would-be missionary, much to the disparagement of the former, and thought that he was unnecessarily strict with regard to the forbidden subject. Confess now, Isabel, do you not fancy since your return, that he has discovered the alteration in your feelings and is paying you in your own coin? Believing this, and thinking also, that he has ceased to care for you, is there not a coolness gradually springing up between you? Oh, Isabel, why did you on the night before he returned to college, throw his favorite song into the fire, saying that you were tired of that old thing, and did not think that you would ever sing it again? Were you not watching him when he took one step forward as if to save it, then turned away, the color mounting to his cheek and the veins of his forehead swelling? Oh, Isabel would you not gladly, gladly have sung it all the time if he had only asked you in the old way? Ah, it will be a long, long time before he will ask you again. You did more than you intended when you burnt that song. When at his father's request you sang, did he not instantly leave the room? Yes; and confess, Isabel, that you could with difficulty conceal your vexation. Did you not long to sing it with all your heart, and bring him back again? Oh, what a farce to burn that music; and yet, when he did return, did you not show him more coolness than you had ever done before?