The Project Gutenberg EBook of Isabel Leicester, by Clotilda Jennings

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Title: Isabel Leicester
       A Romance

Author: Clotilda Jennings

Release Date: February 6, 2007 [EBook #20525]

Language: English

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  [Transcriber's Note:
  The form of this e-text is predicated upon an assumption about the
  editorial practices that obtained in Canadian publishing around the
  year 1874. It is presumed that the authoress had the opportunity to
  review pre-publication galley proofs and make any changes or
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               ISABEL LEICESTER,

                   A ROMANCE,

                       by

                  MAUDE ALMA.




    "Twist ye, twine ye, even so,
    Mingled threads of joy and woe,
    Hope and fear, peace and strife,
    In the cord of human life."


  HAMILTON:
  SPECTATOR PRINTING HOUSE.
  1874.




ISABEL LEICESTER.




CHAPTER I.


In a spacious apartment superbly furnished, and surrounded by every
luxury that could please the most fastidious taste, sat Isabel
Leicester, attired in deep mourning, with her head resting upon her
hand, her face almost as white as the handkerchief she held. Isabel's
Father had failed in business, and the misfortune had so preyed upon his
mind, that he sank under it and died. The funeral had taken place that
day, and she was to leave the house on the day following--the house
where she was born and had always lived, except when at school. The
servants had all been discharged but two, who were to leave next day.
A friend had offered Isabel a home until she could procure a situation
as a governess, which that friend Mrs. Arnold was endeavouring to obtain
for her, in the family of a lady who had been one of Mrs. Arnold's
school-fellows. Mrs. Arnold was the widow of a clergyman, with a very
limited income, and Isabel was unwilling to trespass upon the kindness
of one whose means she knew to be so small. But she had no alternative
at the time and trusted that it would not be long before she would be
able to procure the situation she had in view, or some other. The tea
remained untasted on the table, for Isabel was absorbed by the
melancholy thoughts that filled her heart. She tried to feel resigned,
but her pride was wounded at the idea of becoming a 'governess.' She had
been the spoiled petted daughter of a wealthy merchant of the city of
New York, whose chief delight had been to indulge her in every way. But
still Mr. Leicester had been a truly good and christian man, and had
taught his daughter not to set her affections on earthly things, and to
remember that wealth was given to us for the benefit of others, as well
as for our own enjoyment. And he was rewarded as she grew up to find
that her chief aim was to do good to the many poor families whose
necessities came to her knowledge. Great also was his satisfaction to
find that after two seasons in New York, where she had been the Belle,
she was still the same loving, unassuming, pure-minded girl she had ever
been, tho' the admiration and attention her beauty and accomplishments
had excited, had she been less carefully trained, might have rendered
her haughty and vain.

During her Father's illness, when her time and thoughts were occupied
with attending upon him, and in anxiety for his recovery she had thought
and felt that the loss of property was an evil of little moment, and
tried to persuade her Father not to think so much about the reverse,
urging that he could get some employment, and they would still live very
happily together in a cottage.

But now that he was gone, and she had no one left to look too, her
lonely and self-dependant position was felt severely, and the tears she
could not restrain, fell unheeded. The fire sank low, and finally went
out, and still Isabel sat thinking of the miserable prospect the future
presented. At last she rose with a shudder, and rang for the tea-things
to be removed, then retiring to her own room, she threw herself upon the
bed in an agony of grief.

She had remained there some time, when she felt a kind hand laid upon
her shoulder, and turning her head she saw the old housekeeper, Mrs.
Stewart, with a cup of hot tea. "Come my dear young lady," said she,
while the tears streamed down her aged cheeks, "You must take this,
it will never do for you to go without your tea."

"I know you attach great virtue to a cup of tea" replied Isabel, "so to
please you I will take it."

"Oh dear, dear," muttered the old woman as she descended the stairs,
"how pale and ill she looks, and no wonder poor lamb, if she goes on
like this she will be laid up. Oh, how I wish Mrs. Mornington had not
gone to Europe. Poor child, poor child."

After Mrs. Stewart had left her, Isabel knelt down and prayed for
strength to do her duty, however trying she might find it, and for the
holy spirit to comfort her in affliction, after which she retired to
rest, and was soon in a calm sleep.

Next morning she arose much refreshed, and having sought divine aid and
protection, she commenced to arrange for her departure. Her Father's
creditors knowing him to be a man of strict integrity, and that his
failure was not attributable to any want of prudence on his part, had
kindly arranged that she should retain whatever she particularly wished.
This was a great gratification to Isabel, tho' she was too honorable to
take an undue advantage of this benevolent intention, indeed she was
almost too conscientious upon this point.

The task before her was a sad one, and although she strove very hard she
could not restrain her tears as she made her selections. She was soon
joined by Mrs. Arnold, who told her she had come to help her to pack,
and that she should not leave until Isabel accompanied her. "Come" she
said, kissing her affectionately, "the sooner this painful task is over
my love the better. I have good news for you. I have heard from Mrs.
Arlington, and she says that she shall be most happy to obtain the
services of any one recommended by me. The salary I find is only two
hundred dollars a year, it is indeed less than I expected, but you must
remember that this is your first engagement, no doubt if you remain
there a year or two, you will be able to obtain a much more remunerative
one."

This announcement of Mrs. Arnold's brought to Isabel's mind in full
force all the annoyances to which she would be subjected in her new
position, and clasping her hands, she gave way to uncontrollable
emotion.

"I do not wonder, dear, at your being disappointed, after what you have
been used to, two hundred dollars must seem a very paltry sum. I dare
say you gave nearly as much to your maid Harris, but my dear, as a
governess your requirements will be less, so with the wardrobe you now
possess, you will be able to manage very nicely."

"Oh, Mrs. Arnold, I was not thinking about the salary, I am sure I can
make that do very well," sobbed Isabel. "You are very kind indeed to
trouble yourself so much about me."

"You need not go to Elm Grove at present, my love, you are quite welcome
to stay with me until you get over your loss a little, and feel better
able to conform to circumstances," said Mrs. Arnold kindly.

Isabel made an effort to respond gratefully to her kind friend, and
expressed a hope that she would shortly be able to undertake the duties
of her new situation.

"I have no doubt you will be very comfortable at Elm Grove, it is a
lovely place. Of course it will seem strange at first, but people soon
get used to a place you know if they only try. I am very happy now, but
I am sure at one time, I thought I never should be again," continued
Mrs. Arnold, "but we will say no more on that subject now, we must get
on with our work." And she began to give advice about what Isabel should
take, and said that whatever she did not like to take with her to her
new home, she could leave at her house.

Fortunately the housekeeper then came to ask if she should pack.

"Certainly," exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, "the very person I wanted," and off
they went to Isabel's great relief.

Being left to herself, Isabel soon concluded her selection, and ordering
Mary to take them to be packed, she went into the library to get a
little rest, and time to think, tho' the latter she could scarcely do,
as her temples throbbed violently. Laying her head on the old familiar
couch, she endeavoured to calm the tumult of her feelings, the bright
sunshine, and the merry sound of the sleigh bells outside, only made her
feel her desolation more acutely.

"Luncheon is ready dear, and the packing all done," said Mrs. Arnold,
throwing herself in an easy chair.

"You have indeed been quick," replied Isabel, heartily wishing they had
been longer.

"It is all due to Mrs. Stewart, she is really the most clever person at
packing I ever saw, tho' poor soul she was nearly blinded with tears.
Come love, we must have luncheon now, and after that we will send for a
sleigh."

"Indeed, dear Mrs. Arnold, I cannot go until evening, I am sure Mr.
Macdermott will be here presently, for he knows that I am going to-day."

"Ah, I know, you want to be alone to muse of things in your dreamy way,
but my love, it is better not to do so, it only makes things harder to
bear. Try to banish disagreeable subjects as much as possible, that is
my maxim. But I cannot refuse you anything just now, so after luncheon I
will go home, and will come back for you in the evening."

Soon after Mrs. Arnold's departure, Mr. Macdermott the clergyman, called
as Isabel had expected, and his sympathy, and advice, tended greatly to
soothe the pain she felt at leaving the home she loved so well. He said
that Mrs. Macdermott was still too ill to visit her, but that if she
felt able she would try to see her at Mrs. Arnold's. He told her also
that he had that morning received a letter from Louis, in which he
desired to be kindly remembered. Mr. Macdermott remarked the rich
crimson that suffused her cheeks, at the mention of his nephew's name,
but the remotest idea of their engagement never entered his mind. He
remained with her about an hour, then after enquiring if he could be of
any service to her, he took his leave.

At last the dreaded hour arrived, and Mrs. Arnold with it. After bidding
the housekeeper and Mary a kind farewell, (they had both been with her a
great many years,) Isabel accompanied her friend to Rose Cottage.




CHAPTER II.


The setting sun shed its bright tints over the snow which lay thick upon
the ground, making it glisten like diamonds, the cold was intense, and a
bitter wind howled through the leafless trees, when the train arrived at
M----, and Isabel almost benumbed with cold, procured a conveyance from
the station to the Rock Hotel, where Mrs. Arlington had promised to send
for her.

On arriving at the hotel, she found the sleigh waiting punctual to the
time appointed. Isabel would gladly have partaken of some refreshment,
but Mrs. Arnold had informed her, that Mrs. Arlington was very
particular, and to have kept the horses standing, Isabel felt would have
offended her, which she was very anxious to avoid although she was
shivering with cold.

It was a long drive of twelve miles to Elm Grove, but the horses went at
a great speed, and in less than an hour they arrived at their
destination. As they drew up at the door, it was opened by a footman,
and a woman who seemed to be an upper servant met her in the hall, and
conducted her to her room.

"I suppose you would like some tea Miss," she said "I will order it
while you are taking off your things, and then I will show you the
school-room. Mrs. Arlington and the young ladies are dressing for a
ball, so they cannot see you to-night."

When Norris had left the room, Isabel sat down with a sigh, and looked
about to see what kind of accommodation she was to have. It was a nice
sized room, with a bay window having an eastern aspect, at which the
wind was now howling with great violence. It was neatly, but plainly
furnished, the fire had burnt low, and the room was cold. She took off
her things as quickly as possible, and sincerely hoped that the
school-room would be more comfortable.

Norris soon returned, and Isabel desiring her to have more fuel put upon
the fire descended to the school-room, which she found very bright and
pleasant looking, the large fire and lamp making it look quite
attractive.

The tea was on the table, and Norris after saying "if you want anything
Miss, please ring for Susan," left the room. Isabel was very glad to
have some refreshment after her cold drive, and when she rang to have
the things removed, the bell was answered by a neat, pleasant looking
girl, who had such a sunny face that it did one good to look at her, and
presently a sweet little girl of about seven years old came running into
the room, and going up to Isabel, said "you are our new governess are
you not. I think I shall like you very much, but I can't stay now, for
Eliza is waiting to put me to bed, but I did so want to see you
to-night. Good night!" and throwing her arms round Isabel's neck, she
gave her a hearty kiss, and disappeared as quickly as she came. When
Isabel returned to her room she had no cause to complain of the fire
which was piled to the top of the grate.

When she awoke next morning it seemed very strange to be where she had
not the least idea what any of the family were like. After dressing and
arranging some of her things, she sat down to contemplate her situation,
which she found anything but pleasant, so she determined to descend to
the school-room.

The door was open, and as she approached she overheard little Amy saying
"she is the prettiest lady I ever saw, only she looks so pale and sad."
Isabel found three little girls in the room, of whom Amy was the
youngest. Amy greeted her in the same cordial manner she had done on
the preceding evening, the other two rose saying "good morning Miss
Leicester," but when she stooped to kiss them, Alice sulkily put up her
face, and Rose laughed. "Fancy, Miss Manning kissing us" she whispered
to her sister. "Hush!" returned Alice, "she will hear."

Isabel spoke kindly to them, but Alice only returned unwilling, and Rose
pert answers, so the breakfast was a dull unpleasant affair, and Isabel
perceived they regarded the governess in the light of an enemy; even
little Amy became shy and uneasy.

After breakfast Rose informed her that they always had half an hour
before school for a run out of doors. As they were departing little Amy
ran back, and coming close up to Isabel whispered "don't cry Miss
Leicester, I love you, indeed I do," for Amy had noticed the tears that
would come in spite of her efforts to repress them. Isabel drew the
child to her, and kissing her pretty upturned face, told her to go with
the others.

Amy had scarcely gone, when Mrs. Arlington entered. She was tall and
stately, rather cold and haughty, and very dignified and patronizing in
her manner. She hoped Miss Leicester had been made comfortable, and was
sure that she would like the children. She then informed her that the
school hours were from nine until four, with an hour for dinner, then
she would have to take them for a walk, after that her time was her own.
She would take her meals with the children, but she would be happy to
have her come into the drawing-room occasionally in the evening. She
said that her own time was so much occupied with her elder daughters,
that she was forced to leave the children entirely to the governess,
but, that as Mrs. Arnold had so strongly recommended her she felt sure
she should be satisfied, then bidding Miss Leicester a polite good
morning, she swept majestically from the room.

Poor Isabel, she had not expected quite so much dignity, and was
excessively annoyed. "Take the children for walks," that was a thing she
had not thought of, and she did not relish the idea and as to going into
the drawing-room, she could very well dispense with that. She was not
aware that Mrs. Arlington intended her accomplished young governess to
help to amuse her guests. Excessively annoyed, Isabel repaired to her
own room to calm her ruffled feelings.

At nine o'clock she went to the school-room and found her pupils there
already, also a very pretty girl of about seventeen, whom they were
coaxing to tell them about the ball. As Isabel entered the room, Amy
exclaimed, "Miss Leicester this is Emily!" Then Emily laughed merrily,
and held out her hand saying, "I hope we shall be good friends Miss
Leicester, I'm sorry we were out last night."

"Oh! Emily, I'm sure you wanted very much to go to the ball, and you
just now said that you enjoyed yourself exceedingly," said Alice
gravely.

"I didn't mean that you silly child, returned Emily, but I am intruding
upon school hours I fear, so if you will allow me Miss Leicester I will
come for a chat before dinner."

Isabel bowed assent and Emily retired, rather annoyed that her advances
had not met with a warmer reception. Shortly after Emily's departure,
a tall and very elegant looking girl of about twenty entered the room,
and bowing condescendingly to Isabel, said, "have the goodness to try
these songs Miss Leicester, I wish to know if there are any pretty ones
among them, I would not trouble you only I am so excessively tired" she
added, taking the most comfortable seat the room afforded; this was done
in the most easy manner possible, precluding of course the idea that it
was by design. Miss Arlington upon entering any room, immediately
perceived the nicest place, and having seen, at once took possession
with an easy indifference, as if totally unconscious that she was
monopolizing the best place. Isabel complied with her request, tho' not
best pleased with the interruption.

"You sing very nicely Miss Leicester," Miss Arlington said
patronizingly.

Isabel's lip curled contemptuously, she presumed so when the crowded
room had been hushed to perfect silence whenever she approached the
piano, and when she ceased singing, the murmured praise and applause on
all sides had sent the hot blood to her cheeks, and this not once or
twice, but scores of times--she needed not to be told that she sang
nicely.

"She sings much better than you do Grace," said Rose pertly.

"Don't be rude, Rose," replied Grace, haughtily, "Miss Leicester will
have some trouble with you I imagine," then thanking Isabel, she left
the room excessively annoyed with Rose.

The lessons proceeded, and Isabel thought that Alice and Rose must alter
their manners greatly before she could take any interest in teaching
them. It was evident that they had not been treated kindly by their last
governess. Alice sulked so much, and Rose was so pert, that Isabel found
it difficult to keep her temper, and when tea was over, her head ached
so severely, and she felt so tired and miserable, that she retired to
her room, and locking herself in gave way to irrepressible emotion,
while she thought that she should indeed be unhappy in her new position.

Presently some one knocked at the door, but vexed at the interruption,
and not wishing to be seen giving way to her feelings, Isabel took no
notice. As the knocking continued unanswered, a soft voice pleaded for
admittance. On opening the door, she found it was Emily, and not Amy,
as she expected.

"I hope you will excuse me," she said, "but not finding you in the
school-room I came after you, as I knew that I should not have any other
opportunity this evening."

Isabel was very much confused, but Emily sat down by her side, telling
her how very much she felt for her, and how she hoped she would consider
her a friend. "Mrs. Arnold wrote and told me all about you" she said,
"and dear Isabel I will do all in my power to make you happy."

But Isabel only sobbed, "I can never be happy again--never."

"You must not say that, you must not think so," exclaimed Emily. "You
must come into the drawing-room with us, and that will cheer you up a
bit. I know you will like papa. Elm Grove looks dreary now, but in
summer it is delightful. Then, I always get up early and go for a ramble
before breakfast, if I can only get any one to go with me, and I feel
sure you will go with me next summer. I think I shall breakfast with
you, I can't wait for mama's late breakfast, but I would sooner have
gone without altogether, than have taken it with Miss Manning. I only
left school you know a few weeks ago, and I like a little fun. I know I
make the children very outrageous sometimes, but then, you know I could
not behave at all like a fashionable young lady in the evening, if I did
not get rid of some of my wild spirits before hand. By-the-bye," she
cried, laughing, "I believe you will have to teach me manners, Miss
Massie pronounced me quite incorrigible, my sister is a perfect model
according to her idea, but I could never be like Grace, I think mamma
has given up all thought of it."

"I don't know about teaching you manners, but I must try what I can do
with Alice and Rose, they are sadly deficient even in politeness."

"Ah, you have found that out already have you," cried Emily laughing.

Isabel colored, and murmured something about forgetting who she was
speaking to. "O you needn't mind, I like people who say what they think"
said Emily, "besides that is just what papa says about them, but you
must own that Amy is a nice little thing, I don't think she could be
rude or unkind."

"Yes Amy is a sweet child."

"It will not be quite so dull here next week, for Everard is coming
home. I do wish so much for you to see him, he is my idea of perfection
as far as attainable in human nature. Oh! he's so handsome, and such a
dear nice fellow, I'm sure you will like him."

"Perhaps you are not an impartial judge, I may not be able to see his
perfections so clearly."

"You can't help seeing them, they are as clear as daylight," returned
Emily, warmly. "What do you think he asked me in his last letter--to
tell him what sort of a gorgon the new governess was, so as I wrote
to-day, I said she was beyond all description, and not to be compared
with Miss Manning, so if he does not imagine something awful its very
strange, (Isabel did not look well pleased) I hope you wont mind; it was
such a nice opportunity for a trick, but it is time I dressed for
dinner, dear me how tiresome, and away she bounded. What a funny girl,
thought Isabel, I wonder if I shall like her, at all events she means to
be kind.




CHAPTER III.


Isabel was not happy in her new home, it was no easy task to teach such
unruly girls as Alice and Rose, whose chief object was to get as much
fun as possible at the expense of their governess, but she trusted in
time to be able to bring them to better order by the exercise of
firmness and kindness combined. With Amy, however it was quite
different, she seemed never so happy as when with Isabel.

It was Sunday afternoon, the children did not seem to know how to employ
themselves, but sat sullenly each with a book, tho' it was very evident
that they were not reading. Indeed, Isabel had seen by their manners all
day, that they had not been accustomed to have Sunday made pleasant.

"Come here Amy dear," said Isabel, "would you like me to read to you."

"Yes please, for it makes my head ache to read all the afternoon."

So Isabel read a portion of scripture and several nice little hymns.
Very soon as she had expected, Alice and Rose, drew near. Then she read
them part of the 'chief's daughter,' and after that she played several
sacred pieces and sang a hymn to the tune tranquility. The children all
gathered round her asking her to teach them to sing it. She promised to
do so if they would learn the words, which they immediately commenced to
do.

After tea they had a most unexpected and very welcome visitor. "Oh!
Everard, when did you come home," they all exclaimed.

"While you were at church," he returned.

"What a shame you didn't come to see us before," said Alice
reproachfully.

"O then, I suppose it was you who shut the door when we were singing
this afternoon," interposed Rose, "why didn't you come in."

"I did not wish to disturb you" he answered, "but why don't some of you
have the politeness to introduce me to your new governess."

Isabel colored deeply as he used the distasteful appellation, and bent
lower over her book, and when Rose said, Mr. Everard Arlington, Miss
Leicester," her bow was more haughty and dignified than she was aware
of. He seated himself at the window with Amy on his knee, while the
others stood one on either side. Isabel heard a great deal being said
about Miss Leicester in an under tone, and was about to leave the room,
when Everard interposed, saying "I shall go, unless you stay Miss
Leicester, I'm not going to turn you out of the room."

"Indeed I would rather go," said Isabel.

"Indeed I would rather you stayed." returned Everard.

"I do not wish to be any restraint on the children, it would be better
for me to go."

"Well," said Everard putting his hand on the door, "I may as well have
it out with you at once, as I did with Miss Manning, I am very fond of
my little sisters, and often come to see them here."

"I have no objection, only let me go."

"But that is just what I don't want you to do, and I always have my own
way at Elm Grove. You must not run away whenever I come, or I shall
think you consider me an intruder."

"Never mind what I think," said Isabel looking up, about to insist upon
going, for she was very indignant at his behaviour, but the face she
beheld quite disarmed her wrath. Such a calm, kind, earnest expression
in the mild blue eyes, such a winning smile played round the handsome
mouth, a more prepossessing countenance Isabel had never seen, there was
something about it irresistibly attractive. "What is it you wish me to
do," she asked as her eyes met his.

"Stay where you are, and do just the same as if I was not here he said,
and not run off as if I was going to eat you."

"Then don't talk about me," she returned stiffly.

"I'm sure. I never said a word about you."

"But the children did," she replied coloring deeply as she returned to
her seat.

"Please Everard wont you read to us?" asked Amy.

When he had finished, Amy asked Isabel if she would play the hymn she
promised.

"Not to-night dear," replied Isabel.

"Oh please, Miss Leicester," coaxed Rose.

"If I am the cause of their disappointment I will go, but indeed I
should like to join," said Everard.

"As you please" said Isabel, ashamed of being so much out of temper.

"You know you promised, Miss Leicester," interposed Alice, gravely.

"So I did, dear," returned Isabel, going to the piano: and she was quite
repaid, as they all sang very sweetly, and quite correctly.

"Good night," said Everard, when the hymn was ended.

"Forgive me, Miss Leicester if I seemed rude, I did not intend to be."

Isabel was distressed to find how much the children had been neglected;
true they were tolerably proficient in their studies, but in all
religious instruction they were miserably deficient.

Left entirely to the care of Miss Manning, who was a very frivolous,
worldly minded woman, they were led, (tho' perhaps unintentionally) to
regard all religious subjects as dry and tedious, and to be avoided as
much as possible. Isabel determined to try and remedy this evil by the
exercise of patient gentleness, and by striving to make religious
instruction a pleasure and a privilege. No easy task did this appear
considering the dispositions she had to deal with, nor was it without a
struggle that she put aside her own wishes and devoted her Sunday
afternoons to this purpose. She certainly did not meet with much
encouragement at first; again and again did the question recur to her
mind, what good am I doing, why should I deprive myself of so many
pleasant hours for the benefit of these thankless children; but the
selfish thought was conquered, and she persevered. On week days also,
she had morning prayer and read a portion of scripture, then they sung a
hymn, always taking for the week the one they learnt on the Sunday
afternoon. Nor was her perseverance unavailing, for the children became
interested, and requested her to have evening service as they termed it,
which of course Isabel was only too glad to do. After a while their
morning numbers were increased, as Emily and her papa joined them, and
so on until at last without any special arrangement they all assembled
in the school-room every morning as a matter of course.

Isabel was very different from what Mrs. Arlington had expected, so
refined in her manners and tastes, so totally unfitted to combat with
all the mortifications of a governess's career. True, she had expected a
rather superior person, when Mrs. Arnold wrote that Miss Leicester was
the indulged daughter of a wealthy merchant, who on account of her
father's losses and subsequent death, was forced to gain her living by
teaching. Still, she was not prepared to find her new governess such a
lovely and sweet tempered girl, and Isabel had not been long at Elm
Grove, before Mrs. Arlington found that she was becoming quite attached
to her. And as Mr. Arlington found that her father was the same Mr.
Leicester from whom he had formerly experienced great kindness, they
decided Isabel should teach the children, and receive her salary, but
that in all other respects she should be as one of the family, and
Isabel was very glad of the change.




CHAPTER IV.


The winter was past, and it was now June--bright, sunny June--and Elm
Grove was decked in its richest hues. Down from the house sloped a
beautiful lawn, studded with shrubs, and adorned with flower-beds of
different sizes and shapes; while in the centre there was a pond and
fountain, with a weeping willow shading the sunny side, which gave an
appearance of coolness quite refreshing. Beyond was the shrubbery and
fruit garden; and to the left the meadow, bounded by a coppice.

The house was of the gothic order: on the right side of it was a
beautiful conservatory, filled with the choicest plants; on the left a
colonnade and terrace, shaded by a group of acacia trees. In front a
piazza and large portico, around which honeysuckle, clematis and roses,
shed their sweet perfume. The grounds were tastefully laid out, with due
regard to shade; and a grove of elm trees completely hid the house from
the avenue: so that in approaching it from the main road, the house
seemed still in the distance--even out of sight--until, on taking a half
turn round a thick clump of elms, one would unexpectedly come out right
in front of the house, almost at the door. It was, as Emily had said,
a delightful place.

The children had greatly improved under Isabel's care. Emily was quite
like a sister, and even Miss Arlington treated her as an equal. Isabel
knew that governesses were not usually so fortunate as to meet with such
nice people, and appreciated their kindness accordingly. The walks, too,
that she had so much dreaded, had become a pleasure,--not a disagreeable
duty. Emily usually joined them, and not unfrequently Everard also. He
performed almost impossibilities to get Isabel wild-flowers, of which,
Rose had informed him, she was exceedingly fond. These, to his great
annoyance, were always carefully deposited in a glass on the
dining-room table; for Isabel had remarked in his manner toward her
more than mere politeness, and endeavored as much as possible to check
his growing attentions. But all his acts of kindness were done with so
much tact and consideration, as to leave her no alternative, and oblige
her to receive them. Neither was there anything in his behaviour or
conversation that she could complain of, or that others would remark.
All this made it very difficult for her to know how to act, as she did
not wish to hurt his feelings by unnecessary particularity, or by the
assumption of unusual formality lead him to suspect the true cause; and
thus perhaps lay herself open to the possibility of being supposed to
have imagined him to be in love with her, without due cause. Isabel knew
that she was not deceived; she knew also that she must be very careful
to conceal that she was so well aware of the state of his feelings
towards her.

"The Morningtons are coming to stay at Ashton Park: are you not glad,
Emmy?" said Everard, as he joined Isabel, Emily, and the children, in
their ramble, one bright day in the midsummer holidays. "Glad, I should
think so!" returned Emily; "but when do they come?"

"Very soon, I believe; and I expect we shall have jolly times. Harry's
so full of life, and that merry little Lucy is the spirit of fun. May
will be here shortly. And the Harringtons have friends with them, so we
shall be able to get up some nice picnics."

"But is not Ada coming?" asked Emily.

"Why, of course she is," returned Everard; "but if you have not heard
the 'latest,' I shall not enlighten you sister mine."

"O Everard! I'm all curiosity," cried Emily, opening her blue eyes very
wide.

"You mean that Ada is engaged to Mr. Ashton," said Isabel.

"Yes; but how on earth did you know it?" he returned.

"Do you know the Morningtons?" asked Emily. "Have you known them long?"

"Longer than you have, I fancy," replied Isabel. "I have known them as
long as I can remember. Ada and I had the same room at school. She is my
dearest and most intimate friend."

"I suppose you know Harry and the rest very well?"

"O yes, we were quite like brothers and sisters,"

"When are they expected?" asked Emily.

"They may be there already, for all I know. It was last Sunday Sir John
told papa they were coming."

At this moment Charles Ashton, with Ada and Lucy Mornington, emerged
from a bridle path through the woods that separated Elm Grove from
Ashton Park. Greetings were warmly exchanged, and then amid a cross-fire
of questions and small talk, they proceeded to the house, where they
found Mrs. Mornington and Lady Ashton. The latter insisted upon the
young ladies and Everard returning with them to spend a few days at the
Park.

Isabel declined to accompany them. At which, Lucy fairly shed tears, and
every one seemed so much annoyed, that she finally consented.

Her position of friend and governess combined, when alone, was pleasant
enough; but with strangers, of course, she was still only Mrs.
Arlington's governess, and was treated accordingly. That is, when it was
known; as people at first did not usually suppose that the beautiful and
attractive Miss Leicester was only the governess. And Isabel was
sometimes amused, as well as annoyed, to find people who had been very
friendly, cool off perceptibly. This she attributed to the circumstance
that she was 'only the governess.' Lady Ashton, especially, had been
very anxious to be introduced to that "charming Miss Leicester;" and
Isabel had afterwards heard her saying to a friend: "Well! you surprise
me! So she is 'only the governess,' and yet has the air of a princess.
I'm sure I thought she was 'somebody.' But then, you know, there are
persons who don't seem to know their proper place." All this had made
Isabel cold and reserved in company; for her high spirit could ill brook
the slights and patronising airs of those who in other days would have
been glad of her acquaintance.

Thus Isabel was deemed haughty and cold; few, if any, perceiving that
this cold reserve was assumed to hide how deeply these things wounded
her too sensitive feelings. So it was with more pain than pleasure that
she made one of the party to Ashton Park, having a presentiment that
vexation and annoyance would be the result; as she was quite sure that
it was only to please Ada, that Lady Ashton had included her in the
invitation.

Nor did it tend to disperse these gloomy apprehensions, when Isabel
found that the room assigned her was at the extreme end of the corridor,
scantily, even meanly furnished, and had apparently been long
unoccupied, as, although it was now June, there was something damp,
chilly, and uncomfortable about it. During the whole of this visit, she
was destined to suffer from annoyances of one kind or another. If there
was a spooney, or country cousin, among the guests, Lady Ashton would be
sure to bring him to Miss Leicester, and whisper her to amuse him if
possible, and she would greatly oblige. So that Isabel scarcely ever
enjoyed herself. Or just as some expedition was being arranged, Lady
Ashton would, by employing Isabel about her flowers, or some other
trivial thing, contrive to keep her from making one of the party.
Isabel, though intensely disgusted, was too proud to remonstrate. And
even when Charles, once or twice, interfered to prevent her being kept
at home, she felt almost inclined to refuse, so annoyed and angry did
Lady Ashton appear.

True, she might have had some enjoyment from the society of Harry and
Everard. But so surely as Lady Ashton observed either of them in
conversation with her, she invariably wanted to introduce them to some
'charming young ladies.' And she took good care that Isabel should not
join any of the riding parties. Once Arthur Barrington had particularly
requested her to do so, and even offered his own horse (as Lady Ashton
had assured them that every horse that could carry a lady had already
been appropriated), but his aunt interposed: "O my dear Arthur, if you
would only be so good as to lend it to poor little Mary Cleavers! Of
course I would not have ventured to suggest your giving up your horse;
but as you are willing to do so, I must put in a claim for poor little
Mary, who is almost breaking her heart at the idea of staying at home.
And Miss Leicester is so good-natured, that I am sure she will not
object."

"Excuse me, aunt, but"--began Arthur.

"Here! Mary, dear," cried Lady Ashton; and before Arthur could finish
the sentence, his aunt had informed Mary that he had kindly promised his
horse. Mary turned, and overwhelmed the astonished Arthur with her
profuse thanks.

"Confound it," muttered Arthur (who was too much a gentleman to
contradict his aunt and make a scene); then bowing politely to Miss
Cleaver, he turned to Isabel, saying, "Will you come for a row on the
lake, Miss Leicester, as our riding to-day is now out of the question,
as my aunt has monopolized 'Archer' so unceremoniously. I feel assured
that Miss Lucy will join us, as she is not one of the riding party."

Isabel assented, and Arthur went in search of Lucy.

Lady Ashton followed him, and remonstrated: "You know you were to be one
of the riding party, Arthur."

"Impossible, my dear aunt. After what has passed, I can't do less than
devote my time this morning to the service of Miss Leicester."

"Nonsense; she is 'only a governess.'"

"So much the more would she feel any slight."

"You talk absurdly," she returned with a sneer. "You can't take her
alone, Arthur. I will not allow it."

"My dear aunt, I am much too prudent for that. Lucy Mornington goes with
us."

"But who will ride with Mary?"

"Oh, you must get her a cavalier, as you did a horse, I suppose," he
returned carelessly. At all events, I am not at her service, even though
no other be found;" and he passed on toward Lucy, regardless of his
aunt's displeasure. And he carried the day in spite of her, for she put
in practice several little schemes to prevent Isabel going. But Lady
Ashton was defeated; and Isabel remembered this morning as the only
really pleasant time during her stay at the Park.

Lady Ashton was greatly perplexed as to how to procure a beau for Mary,
and, as a last resource, pressed Sir John into service; but as he was a
very quiet, stately old gentleman, the ride, to poor Mary's great
chagrin, was a very formal affair.

On the last evening of her stay at Ashton Park, Isabel was admiring the
beautiful sunset from her window, and as she stood lost in reverie,
someone entered hastily and fastened the door. Turning to see who the
intruder might be, she beheld a very beautiful girl, apparently about
fourteen years of age, her large eyes flashing with anger, while her
short, quick breathing, told of excitement and disquietude. "I have had
such a dance to get here without observation," she panted forth. "Please
let me stay a little while." And before Isabel could recover from her
momentary surprise, Louisa had thrown herself into her arms, exclaiming,
"I knew that you were kind and good, or I would not have come, and I
felt sure that you would pity me." All anger was now gone from the
eager, earnest face, raised imploringly, and Isabel's sympathy was
aroused by the weary, sad expression of her countenance.

"Who are you; what makes you unhappy; and why do you seek my sympathy?"
asked Isabel.

"I am Lady Ashton's grand-daughter, Louisa Aubray," she replied. "You
don't know what a life I lead, boxed up with old Grumps, and strictly
forbidden all other parts of the house. I have been here two years, and
during all that time I have not had any pleasure or liberty, except once
or twice when I took French leave, when I was sure of not being found
out. Ah, you don't know how miserable I am! no one cares for poor
Louisa;" and burying her face in her hands, she cried bitterly.
"I sometimes watch the company going to dinner, and that was how I came
to see you; and I liked you the best of them all, and I wished so much
to speak to you. So I managed to find out which was your room; but it
was only to-day that I could get here, unknown to Miss Crosse. Won't you
please tell me which of those young ladies Uncle Charles is going to
marry. I want so much to know; because Uncle Charles is nice, and I like
him. He is the only one here that ever was the least bit kind to me. As
for grandpapa and grandmamma, I know they hate me; and Eliza says, that
the reason grandpapa can't bear the sight of me, is because I am like
papa. Oh, I know that dear mamma would not have been so glad when they
promised to take care of me, if she had known how unkind they would be."

"But how can I help you, dear?" inquired Isabel.

"Why, I thought if I told you, you would be sorry for me, and persuade
grandmamma to send me to school; for then, at least, I should have
someone to speak to. I don't mind study,--only old Miss Crosse is so
unkind. I think perhaps she might, if you were to coax her very much--do
please," said Louisa, warmly.

Isabel smiled at the idea that she should be thought to have any
influence with Lady Ashton. "You err greatly, dear child, in thinking
that I have any power to help you. I can only advise you to try and bear
your present trials, and wait patiently for better times," she said.

"Ah, it's all very well for you to tell me this. You have all you can
wish, and everything nice, so it is easy to give advice; but you
wouldn't like it, I can tell you."

"I don't expect you to like it, Louisa. I only want you to make the best
of what can't be helped."

"Oh, but it might be helped, if you would only try," urged Louisa.

"It is getting late," returned Isabel, "and I must now dress for dinner;
but if you like you may remain here while I do so, and I will tell you
about a young lady that I know, and then perhaps you will not be so
annoyed with me for giving you the advice I have."

"Thanks," returned Louisa, "I should like it very much."

"This young lady's parents were very rich, and indulged her in every
way. Her mother died when she was only eight years old. Her father had
her taught every accomplishment, and instructed in almost every branch
of learning. And she lived in a beautiful house, surrounded by every
luxury, until the age of nineteen, when her father died; and as he lost
all his property shortly before, she was forced to gain her living as a
governess. Think what she must have suffered, who never in her life had
had a harsh or unkind word, and scarcely ever had a wish ungratified;
but had been spoilt and petted at home, and courted and flattered
abroad. Think what it must have been to go alone and friendless among
strangers; to earn, by the irksome task of teaching, no more a year than
she had been accustomed to receive in a birthday present or Xmas gift.
She was fortunate enough to meet with very kind people, who made her as
comfortable as it was possible for her to be under the circumstances.
But still she found her position a very trying one, and was often placed
in very unpleasant circumstances, and sometimes met with great
mortifications. And that young lady, Louisa,--is myself."

"Oh! I'm sorry, so sorry," exclaimed Louisa. "And I thought you so
happy, and so much to be envied. And I'm sorry also for what I said
about it being so easy to give advice. But why don't you marry some rich
gentleman? and then, you know, you needn't be a governess any more.
I would."

"I didn't say that I was unhappy, Louisa, and I try not to let these
things trouble me so much, for I know it is wrong to care so much about
them, but I can't help it. I have not told you this to excite your pity;
but that you may know that others have their daily trials as well as
yourself. Do not think, dear child, that I do not compassionate your sad
lot; only try to remember the comforts which you do enjoy,
notwithstanding the ills you are called upon to endure. Think how much
worse your fate might have been, if your grandparents had refused to
provide for you; and be sure if you have patience, and do what is right,
in due time you will have your reward."

Louisa was now weeping violently. "Ah, you don't, you can't know, what
it is to live as I do. And I felt so sure that--you--could help me; but
you can't, I know now, for grandmamma wouldn't listen to 'a governess.'
She is so bitter against anyone that teaches, because of papa. But I
can't, and won't, stand this miserable life much longer--I will not!"
she continued passionately, as with compressed lips and clenched hands
she started to her feet, while the angry flashing eyes and determined
countenance told of strong will and firm resolution. "If I was a boy,"
she said, "I would run away and go to sea; but I am only a girl, and
there is so little that a girl can do. But I will find some way to
escape before long, if things continue like this--that I will!" and she
stamped her foot impatiently upon the ground. Isabel could scarcely
believe that the passionate girl before her was indeed the same child
who had sat at her side so meekly not a moment before. She no longer
paid any attention to Louisa's complaints. Her thoughts were far away
with the only one in whom she had ever seen this sudden transition from
persuasive gentleness to stormy anger; for the proud, passionate girl
brought him vividly to her mind, though the wide ocean rolled between
them. She saw again the proud curling lip, and the dark expressive eyes,
which one moment would beam on her in love, and the next flash with
angry light and stern displeasure; the haughty mien and proud defiance,
blended with a strange fascinating gentleness, that had won her heart.
The time was present to her imagination, when with passionate entreaty
he had urged upon her the necessity for a secret marriage, and in
fondest accents implored her not to refuse, as he was positive that her
father would never consent to their union; and his fearful burst of
passion when she most entirely, though tearfully, refused to accede to
his request. Even now she trembled as she recalled the angry terms in
which he reproached her, and the indignant manner in which he had
expressed his conviction that she did not love him; and that all
henceforth was at an end between them. How he left her in great wrath;
but soon after returned, and in the most humble manner deplored his
cruelty and hateful temper, and in gentlest strains implored her
forgiveness. But her musings were rather abruptly terminated by Louisa
exclaiming: "Oh! tell me what is the matter. Your hand is quite cold,
and you are trembling all over. What have I done? what shall I do?" she
continued, wringing her hands in despair.

"I cannot talk to you any more now, Louisa dear," replied Isabel, "but I
will tell Ada about you, and perhaps she may be able to help you; but
you really must not get into such dreadful passions. I can't have you
stay any longer, as I wish to be alone."

"But why do you tremble and look so pale?" asked Louisa, mournfully. "Is
it so dreadful to be a governess?"

"I was not thinking of that dear," answered Isabel, kissing her
"good-night. Mind you try to be a good girl."

So Louisa was dismissed, fully persuaded in her own mind that she had
nearly frightened Isabel to death by her passionate behaviour.

After waiting a moderate time to recover herself, Isabel joined the
others in the drawing-room. Fortunately, they went to dinner almost
immediately, as she felt anything but inclined to make herself
agreeable; and as Lady Ashton, as usual, was kind enough to furnish her
with a companion who appeared to be a quiet, inoffensive individual, she
treated him with polite indifference. She was deceived, however, in her
opinion regarding Mr. Lascelles. The man was an 'ass,' and a 'magpie,'
and appeared to like nothing better than to hear his own voice. However,
this suited Isabel tolerably on this occasion, as an 'indeed,' or
'really,' was all that was needed by way of reply; and he was forced
sometimes to stop to enable him to eat, and this kept him from being
oppressive. But as he found her so good a listener, there was no getting
rid of him; for when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the
drawing-room, he devoted himself entirely to Miss Leicester--to Lucy's
intense amusement. At last Ada grew compassionate, and got Charles to
ask Isabel to sing, and to introduce Mr. Lascelles to Miss Cleaver. It
was a tedious evening, and Isabel was heartily glad that they were to
return to Elm Grove. Life there was at all events endurable, which the
life she had spent for the last week was certainly not. She was sick and
tired of hearing the oft-repeated question and answer, "Who is that
young lady?"--"Oh, the governess at Elm Grove;" and most emphatically
determined that she would never stay at the Park again, let who might be
offended.

Neither could she help drawing comparisons between this and her former
life, nor deny that she felt it severely. But the warm welcome she
received from the children on her return to the Grove, went far towards
dispersing these gloomy thoughts.




CHAPTER V.


A pic-nic was decided upon for Emily's birthday--the fourth of August.
It was a lovely day, and every thing seemed propitious. And a merrier
party seldom started on a pleasure excursion, than the one which now was
assembled under the trees at Elm Grove. The guests were Sir John and
Lady Ashton, Charles, and the Morningtons, Lilly and Peter Rosecrain,
May Arlington (a cousin), the Harringtons and the Hon. Arthur
Barrington, the latter had not arrived, but had promised to meet them at
their destination. Emily was in ecstasy, and the children quite wild
with delight. All Isabel's endeavors to keep them in order were useless,
and Lucy announced, that every one must be allowed to do just as he or
she pleased, or there would be no fun. Lucy volunteered to go with the
children if they could procure a driver. "Any one would do, excepting
Mr. Everard Arlington, as of course the children would be too much in
awe of him, as he could be awefully grave."

Peter immediately offered his services, unless he was too stern and
sedate. This caused a laugh, as Peter was renowned for fun.

The place chosen for the pic-nic was a delightful spot, (quite romantic
Emily declared) situated at the bottom of a beautiful ravine, within a
short distance of a splendid water fall yclept the "old roar," the
dashing spray of its gurgling waters making quite refreshing music.

"Now Emily, you are queen to-day, and all that you say is law," cried
the laughing Lucy, when they arrived at their destination. "Now master
Bob, be on your P's and Q's, and find a nice place to spread the royal
feast."

"I think that you are making yourself queen on this occasion and no
mistake," returned the saucy Bob.

"Well, I am prime minister you know, so make haste and obey my
commands."

"Self constituted I fancy," returned Bob with a shrug.

"May I ask what important office is to be assigned me on this festive
occasion," asked Peter.

"That of queen's jester, of course," replied Lucy gravely.

"You do me too much honor Miss Lucy," he said, bowing with mock
humility.

"I'm quite aware of that," answered Lucy demurely.

A desirable place was soon found in a shady nook, and the repast was
spread, to which it is almost needless to add they all did ample
justice.

Just as they sat down, Arthur made his appearance, bringing Louisa
Aubray with him. If a look could have done it Lady Ashton would have
annihilated him, so fearfully angry was she at his daring to bring her
grand daughter in this manner, upon his own responsibility.

"I found Louisa very disconsolate and unhappy, and I thought a little
recreation would be good for her, Aunty. I feel sure that Mrs. Arlington
will excuse the liberty I have taken," he added with a smile and bow.

"Pray don't mention it, replied Mrs. Arlington thus appealed to, I am
only too happy to have Miss Aubray join us. Alice my dear, make room for
Miss Aubray."

Louisa sat with her large mournful eyes cast down, tho' occasionally she
threw furtive glances at her grandmother's darkened countenance, and
seemed to be doing anything but enjoying herself. And no wonder poor
child, for she was sure of a terrible scolding sooner or later. Arthur
paid attention to the ladies generally, with whom he was a great
favorite.

Louisa ate her dinner almost in silence, tho' Alice did her best to draw
her out. But poor girl, she was calculating the chances of being left
alone with her angry grandmother when they dispersed after dinner, and
almost wished she had not yielded to Arthur's persuasions, as he had
apparently deserted her. But he was much too considerate and kind
hearted for that, he had brought her there to enjoy herself, and it
would not be his fault if she didn't. They began dispersing by twos and
threes to explore the beauties of the place, and Louisa's heart sank
within her, as she saw their numbers diminishing fast, and that Arthur
too had disappeared.

The children asked Isabel to come and see Rose's bower, and after a
short consultation, Alice invited Louisa to join them, but Lady Ashton
interposed.

"I had much rather you remained with me my dear," she said curtly. And
Louisa reseated herself with a great sigh as the others started on their
ramble. For the children had much too great an awe of Lady Ashton, to
attempt to intercede on Louisa's behalf, and if the truth must be told,
they didn't much care for her company. So Louisa was left alone with the
elders, who were not in such haste to move after their repast as the
young people.

"Come Louisa, let us follow the example of the rest," said Arthur
reappearing.

"I have ordered Louisa to remain here, interposed Lady Ashton sternly."

"Oh! Aunt," remonstrated Arthur.

"I don't approve of her coming at all, but as she is here she--"

"May as well enjoy herself," put in Arthur.

"Arthur," ejaculated Lady Ashton, in her most freezing tone.

"But Aunt," you see that she is the only young lady left, and you
wouldn't be so cruel as to condemn me to wander alone through these
picturesque ravines."

"You can stay here, and amuse us old people," returned Lady Ashton
grimly.

Arthur shrugged his shoulders and elevated his eye-brows, by way of
reply.

"Oh! that is too much to expect," interposed Mrs. Arlington kindly,
"I think you should relent Josephine."

"But you know that I refused to let her go with Miss Leicester and the
children."

"Oh! did you," interrupted Arthur, "that was too bad."

"Come Louisa, we will try and find them," and off he marched her from
under Lady Ashton's very nose, as Louisa felt bold with Arthur to back
her, and she knew that she could not increase the weight of censure
already incured--she also longed to get out of her grandmother's
presence on any terms.

Rose's bower (so called from Rose having been the first to discover it)
was some distance up the winding path. It was a nice little nook,
thickly shaded on all sides, having a small aperture in the west, and
was completely covered with wild flowers of every description. The
ascent was very difficult, for they had quite to force their way through
the underwood. They arrived at last, tired and breathless, but the wild
secluded beauty of the spot quite repaid them for their trouble. Isabel
was in raptures, and expressed her admiration in no measured terms to
the delighted children.

"Oh! Everard, how did you find us," exclaimed Alice, as that gentleman
made his appearance, "I thought no one knew of this place but
ourselves."

"Oh I followed just to see to what unheard of spot you were taking Miss
Leicester," replied Everard good-naturedly.

"Then you might have joined us, and not have crept after us in that mean
way." said Rose angrily.

"Rose, my dear Rose, you must not speak in that way." interposed Isabel
authoritatively.

"Oh Rose, don't you like Everard to come," asked Amy reproachfully.

"I don't like him to come in that way." returned Rose.

"Wouldn't you like to gather some of those black berries," asked
Everard, after they had rested a while.

"O yes," they all exclaimed, "what beauties," and off they scampered.
Isabel was about to follow, but Everard interposed, "Stay, Miss
Leicester, I have long sought an opportunity to address you, and can no
longer delay--I must speak--"

Isabel would have made her escape, but that Everard stood between her
and the only available opening. She knew that he was about to propose,
and would gladly have prevented it if possible, but as it was, there was
no reprieve--he would do it.

How signally had she failed, notwithstanding all her efforts, for she
could not but feel, that she had not succeeded in making clear to him,
her own ideas on the subject, or this would not have been. How sorry she
was now, that she had allowed the fear of being unnecessarily cool to
influence her conduct,--yet at the same time, she could not accuse
herself of having given him any encouragement. Yet, how far was he from
anticipating a refusal, and how unprepared to receive it. She saw it,
there was no doubt manifested in the eager expressive eyes, in the warm
impulsive manner blended with a gentle earnestness that might have won
the heart of a girl whose affections were disengaged. He looked so
handsome, so loveable, that Isabel felt she might indeed have been
content to take him, had not her affections been given to another, and
she grieved to think of the pain she must inflict.

It might have been easier if he had not looked so bright and hopeful
about it, or if she could have told him of her engagement, but that was
out of the question, he seemed so certain of success, so utterly
unconscious of the fate that awaited him, that she could have wept, but
resolutely repressing her tears, she waited with heightening color to
hear the words that were to be so kindly, yet so vainly spoken.

"Dearest Isabel," he said in accents soft and winning. "I have loved you
ever since I first saw you on that Sunday afternoon, and all that I have
seen of you since, has only increased my esteem. But of late you have
been more retiring than formerly, and I have even thought that you
avoided me sometimes, thinking I fear, that my attentions (to use a
common phrase) meant nothing, but that is not the case, I am not one of
those, who merely to gratify their own vanity, would endeavor to win
affection, which they do not,--cannot return. No dearest, I love you
truly, unalterably,--will you then accept my love, and give me the right
and the inexpressibly pleasure to share all your joys and sorrows. Tell
me dear Isabel, will you be my wife."

She was trembling--almost gasping, and he would have aided her with his
supporting arm, but she sank away from him sobbing "It can never, never
be."

"Why do you say that Isabel," he asked reproachfully, while the
expression of his countenance became that of unmitigated sorrow.

"Even could I return your affection," she answered more calmly, "It
would not be right to accept you under the circumstances. Your parents
would consider, that as their governess, I ought to know my duty
better."

"What difference could your being the governess make," he asked.

"Every difference in their opinion."

"But as I am the only son, of course they would raise no objection."

"That makes it the more certain that they would do so," she replied.

"Oh! Isabel" he exclaimed passionately, "do not reason in this cool way,
when my whole life will be happy or miserable as you make it. I am not
changeable, I shall not cease to love you while I live."

"Oh! do not say that I have so much influence upon your happiness Mr.
Arlington," returned Isabel much affected. "You must not think of me
otherwise than as a friend, a kind friend--a dear friend if you will,
but I can never be anything more."

"Oh! Isabel, dear Isabel, do not refuse me thus, you do not know, indeed
you do not, how true a heart you are crushing, what fervent love you are
rejecting. Only let me hope that time may change your feelings."

"Do not think that I undervalue the love you offer, but it is
impossible--quite impossible that we can ever be more to each other than
at present. I would not raise false hopes or allow you to indulge them.
I do not, cannot return your affections, I can never be your wife, it is
utterly impossible."

"You love another Isabel, else why impossible. Perhaps, even now you are
the promised bride of another, tell me if this is the case," he said
tho' his voice faltered.

"You are presuming Mr. Arlington, you have no right to ask this
question," she replied with glowing cheeks.

"Pardon me if I have offended," he said.

"I think that this interview has lasted long enough--too long in fact.
I will now join the children if you please."

"One moment more, say that we do not part in anger."

"In anger, no, we are good friends I trust," she answered, smiling very
sweetly.

"My dream of happiness is over," he said sadly, almost tearfully as he
took her offered hand.

Isabel had some difficulty in finding the children on such a wild place.
When she did so, she found Arthur and Louisa with them. Louisa was
looking bright and animated, very different to what she had done during
dinner, and was laughing and joining in the general conversation.

"We are taking Mr. Barrington and Louisa to the bower," cried Rose as
they drew near.

"I'm afraid we shall be rather late," answered Isabel.

"But you surely wouldn't have us return without seeing this wonderful
bower, after undergoing all this fatigue," inquired Arthur.

"Certainly not, but I would rather be excused climbing up there again
to-day. I will wait here until you come back." returned Isabel.

"Where is Everard." asked Alice.

"I left him at the bower,"

"I think I will wait with Miss Leicester," said Amy, "I'm so very
tired."

"Yes do," cried Rose, "for then we shall not be half so long gone."

Isabel sat down on the lovely green sward, and the tired child reclined
beside her. Amy was so thoroughly worn out that she lay perfectly quiet,
and Isabel was left to her own reflections, and these were by no means
pleasant. Her conversation with Everard had cast a gloom over her
spirits, she no longer took pleasure in the ramble or in the beautiful
scenery around her, all the brightness of the day was gone, and why, he
was not the first rejected suitor, but she had never felt like this with
regard to the others. But then she had been the rich Miss Leicester, and
it was so easy to imagine that she was courted for her wealth, but in
the present instance it was different. Nothing but true disinterested
love could have prompted him, and she felt hurt and grieved to think
that she was the object of such warm affection to one who she esteemed
so highly, when her affections were already engaged. She had seen how
deeply her answer pained him, yet had not dared to answer his question.
Could she tell him what she had not dared to reveal to her dying father?
No; tho' could she have done so, it might have made it easier for
Everard to forget her. When they reached the place of rendezvous, they
found the rest of the party including Everard, already assembled, and
Peter was declaring that it was utterly impossible to return without
having some refreshments, after the immense fatigue they had all
undergone in exploring the beauties of the surrounding country. Most of
the party were of the same opinion, so forthwith he and Bob Mornington
proceeded to ransack the hampers, and distributed the contents in the
most primitive manner imaginable, to the amusement of the company
generally, and to the extreme disgust of Grace Arlington in particular.
And then there was a general move to the carriages. After they arrived
at Elm Grove, Lady Ashton insisted upon Louisa returning to the park at
once. Several voices were raised in her behalf, but in vain, Lady Ashton
was inexorable, and telling Louisa to say good bye to Mrs. Arlington,
she hurried her away, and desired Sunmers the coachman to drive Miss
Aubray home and return for her at twelve.

Arthur followed and remonstrated.

"Arthur, say no more," returned Lady Ashton decisively. "I consider you
took a great liberty in bringing her, and I will not allow her to
remain."

"Since you are quite sure that it is best for her to go, I will drive
her home, she need not go alone in the great carriage, like a naughty
child sent home in disgrace," he answered laughing.

"Nonsense, Arthur, don't be so absurd," said Lady Ashton tartly.

"Indeed my dear Aunt, as I persuaded her to come I positively could not
have her treated so unceremoniously," he replied. "Here Thomson," he
called to the man who was about to take Archer to the stable, and the
next moment he had handed the mistified Louisa into the chaise, leaving
the astonished Lady Ashton crimson with rage.

"Adieu Aunty" he cried, gathering up the ribbons, "I must trust to you
to make my apologies to Mrs. Arlington, and off he drove. Lady Ashton
re-entered the house, inwardly vowing vengeance against the unlucky
Louisa, tho' she met Mrs. Arlington with a smile, saying, "that Arthur
had begged her to apologize, as he had thought it incumbent upon him to
drive his cousin home, as it was entirely his fault that she had come,
and you know," she added with a little laugh, "how scrupulously polite
he is to every one--."

To Lady Ashton's great chagrin, this was the last that was seen of
Arthur at Elm Grove that night, and she would have been still more
annoyed had she known how thoroughly he and Louisa were enjoying
themselves over their game of chess, notwithstanding Miss Crosse's
exemplary vigilance.

The evening was spent in various amusements, and the company dispersed
at a late hour, all highly satisfied, and voting the pic-nic a complete
success.

After the guests had departed, Isabel had occasion to go into the
school-room for a book, and as the beautiful harvest moon was shining so
brightly, she stood a moment at the open window to enjoy the lovely
prospect. Hearing some one enter the room, she turned and encountered
Everard. She would have retreated, but Everard gently detained her,
"promise me Miss Leicester," he said, "that what passed between us this
afternoon shall make no difference to your arrangements, you will not
think of leaving, for I should never forgive myself for having deprived
my sisters of the benefit of your society if you do."

"I could scarcely do so if I wished," she replied with a sigh.

"Only say that you do not wish it," returned Everard earnestly.

"I do not, you have all been so kind, so very kind to me, that I should
be very sorry to leave, nor could I do so very easily as I have no
home."

"Dear Isabel, why not accept the home I offer you?"

"Stay Mr. Arlington, say no more. You must promise not to recur to that
subject again, or however unpleasant it may be to do so, I shall have no
alternative, but must seek another situation."

"I will make it a forbidden subject while you remain at Elm Grove if you
wish it," he said doubtfully.

"It must be so Mr. Arlington; good night."

When Isabel entered her own room she found Emily there.

"Dear Isabel," she said, after seating herself on a low stool at
Isabel's feet, "what a delightful day this has been, O I'm so happy,"
and she hid her face in Isabel's lap. "I cannot go to Grace, so I come
to you," she continued, "You are more sympathetic and seem to understand
me better. Not but what Grace has always been kind enough, but I always
am rather in awe of her, and you have just been the friend I always
wanted. Oh! Isabel, you don't know how much good you have done me. You
have taught me to think more of right and wrong, and to consider duty as
well as pleasure, and to think of others as well as myself. I know now,
that Miss Massie was right when she said that I was wilful and selfish,
and had no consideration for others, tho' at the time she said it I
thought her severe and unjust. Before you came here, I made up my mind
to be kind to you, and to try to like you, (tho' I own that I thought it
very improbable that I should do so in reality) but you know, my
Godmother Mrs. Arnold had written me, that I must be kind to you and
love you, under pain of her displeasure, but when I saw how pretty you
were, I thought it would not be a difficult task. Now I have learned to
love you for yourself, because you are good as well as beautiful."

"Oh! stop, you little flatterer, you will make me vain," said Isabel
kissing her. "If I have done you any good, I am very glad indeed," she
added in a more serious tone, "I have endeavored to do my duty, but I am
afraid that I have not succeeded very well."

"O yes, indeed you have, but what do you think that I came here to tell
you dear."

Isabel confessed that it was useless to attempt to guess as the day had
been such an eventful one, and offered so large a scope for the
imagination.

"Well if you won't guess I must tell you deary, I'm engaged to Harry
Mornington."

"May you be very, very happy dear Emily," said Isabel returning her
embrace. Then, unable any longer to sustain the composure she had forced
herself to assume, she laid her head upon Emily's shoulder and wept
passionately.

"What can make this affect you thus," asked the amazed and astonished
Emily, greatly distressed, "Oh! Isabel is it possible that you love him,
how unfortunate that I should have chosen you for my confidant, but I
didn't know, I never thought, or believe me I would not have pained you
thus. You said that he had always been like a brother to you, how could
I know that you ever thought he would be anything more. Indeed, she
added as if to vindicate Harry, "I never saw anything in his manner to
lead you to suppose so."

"You are quite mistaken dear Emily," interposed Isabel, as soon as she
could control her sobs sufficiently to give utterance to the words "I
never thought or wished that Harry should ever be more to me than the
dear friend he has ever been. But I have many sources of trouble that
you are not aware of dear Emily, and to-day, while others laughed,
I could have wept, and would gladly have exchanged that gay scene, for
the quiet of my own room. But this could not be, and I was forced to
assume a serenity of feeling I was far from experiencing. Had you not
been here, I should have given vent to my grief in solitude, and none
would have been the wiser. As it is I must entreat that you will forgive
me for (tho' unintentionally) making you suppose I do not sympathize in
your happiness, but I do indeed, for I know that Harry is all that is
good, and is worthy of your best affections."

"Dear Isabel, will you not tell me your troubles," inquired Emily, "for
ills lose half their weight by being shared with another."

"I cannot tell you dear, but for the present I will forget my uneasiness
in sharing your happiness."

Then after a long and pleasant conversation they parted, both amazed at
the late, or rather early hour which at that moment struck.

"By-the-bye," said Emily, coming back after a few minutes "papa gave me
this letter for you two days ago, but I quite forgot it until I saw it
just now."

"O you naughty, naughty girl," cried Isabel, looking very bright as she
beheld the familiar epistle.

"No more tears to-night I fancy, eh Isabel," said Emily saucily. "Don't
sit up to read it to-night, it is so very late," she added wickedly, her
eyes sparkling with mischief.

All else was soon forgotten as Isabel eagerly perused the welcome letter
from her own Louis, whose silence had been one source of her
disquietude. But Louis accounted for his silence to her entire
satisfaction, and promised to send an extra one at an early date.




CHAPTER VI.


Isabel was to spend this Xmas with the Morningtons, who with with the
exception of Harry, were to return to Europe in February. It was very
rough weather, and Isabel had much such a journey as that to Elm Grove,
and was in a very similar condition to what she had been on that
occasion. On her arrival at Eastwood, Ada embracing her exclaimed "Oh!
here you are at last my own darling Isabel, I have been watching for you
all day, papa was sadly afraid of accidents this stormy weather, and Bob
kept bringing such dreadful accounts of trains being snowed up, that he
nearly frightened me to death. Papa has been to the depot three times,
and Harry twice, and missed you after all. But do come and warm yourself
dearest, for you seem half frozen," she continued as she hurried Isabel
into the cosy little breakfast-room, where the bright fire was indeed a
pleasant sight on such a bitterly cold day.

"We met with several disagreeable stoppages, but nothing worse" replied
Isabel, her teeth chattering with cold. "I am sadly chilled with this
piercing wind, Oh! this is nice" she added going to the fire, "and it is
so very pleasant to be at 'Eastwood' once more."

"Why here is Isabel I declare," cried the impulsive Lucy, as she bounded
into the room, "how delightful, you will help me to arrange the
gim-cracks on the Xmas tree, won't you my pet," said the merry girl as
she threw her arms round her friend, and hugged her unmercifully.

"To be sure I will, when I recover the use of my fingers," returned
Isabel laughing.

"Well, I don't want you to come now, for if I am a little madcap as papa
says, I'm not quite so unreasonable as that," Lucy answered, seating
herself upon an ottoman. "Here I am your humble servant to command what
orders for your slave, most noble Isabel of Leicester. You have but to
speak and I obey."

"Do be sensible Lucy and let mamma know that Isabel has come," said Ada
reprovingly.

"I go," answered Lucy with mock gravity, "to usher my illustrious mother
to the presence of the noble Isabel of Leicester."

"Oh! Lucy, just the same nonsensical," laughed Isabel.

"Alas, I fear that it will be the same to the end of the chapter,"
sighed the incorrigible Lucy as she left the room. She soon returned
bringing the other members of the family with her, and Isabel received a
very warm welcome. She could not help shedding tears of happiness and
gratitude, when Mrs. Mornington embracing her said, "ever look upon this
as your home dear child, whenever you like to come you will always find
us glad to see you," and Mr. Mornington added in his kindly tone "yes,
yes, always remember Isabel my dear, that while I have a roof over my
head, you have still a home, and kind friends to welcome you."

On being conducted to her room, she found the best was given her as of
old; it was evident that her altered circumstances made no difference at
Eastwood.

Happy days were these which Isabel spent with her dearest friends. Bob's
party went off with great _eclat_, and the perfect success of the Xmas
trees was owing to Isabel's tasteful arrangement.

The Ashtons arrived on New Year's Eve, for Ada was to be married on
twelfth day. Lady Ashton was very much surprised to find how very
partial the Morningtons were to Isabel, they consulted her on all
occasions, and her advice was almost invariably taken. This annoyed Lady
Ashton extremely, and she often succeeded in vexing her, and making her
feel very uncomfortable. But Lady Ashton's disagreeable behaviour did
not annoy Isabel so much as at Ashton Park. Here among her best friends,
she could even think of herself as a governess without experiencing the
same degree of mortification as formerly, but she was still very
sensitive upon that point.

Lady Ashton had noticed that her nephew, The Honorable Arthur Barrington
was very attentive to Miss Leicester, this raised her ire, and she was
determined to prevent it--she resolved to put a stop to it, so seeing
him seated next Isabel at dinner, she asked her across the table how her
little pupils were when she left them, and if Mrs. Arlington had granted
extra holidays, as she could scarcely get back by the end of the usual
Xmas vacation."

Isabel grew scarlet as she replied "that they were quite well when she
left them, and that she did not return until the first of February."

Lady Ashton was gratified to see that she was successful so far. Isabel
was no longer the same attentive listener to all Arthur's stories of
marvellous adventures, (for she was both hurt and angry, as the question
was evidently intended to annoy--for as Emily had come to Eastwood with
the Ashtons, Lady Ashton had later intelligence from Elm Grove than she
could possibly give) and Arthur finding her pre-occupied, transferred
his attention to Mabel Ainsley, so that Isabel was left to the mercy of
a queer old gentleman who sat next her on the other side, who was
exceedingly deaf, and stuttered dreadfully. Nor did Lady Ashton's
evident satisfaction tend to make her feel more at ease, so that she was
heartily glad when this to her most tedious dinner was over. But she had
a worse attack to endure, for when the ladies reached the drawing-room,
Lady Ashton said in the most annoying tone, "I should not have mentioned
your pupils if I had had any idea that you would have been so painfully
affected by my doing so, at the same time rest assured my dear Miss
Leicester----."

"Pray don't mention it Lady Ashton," replied Isabel coldly, "any apology
is quite unnecessary."

"You mistake my meaning Miss Leicester," replied Lady Ashton stiffly,
"I am not aware of having anything to apologize for," she added with a
contemptuous little laugh, "I was about to say" she continued, "that the
sooner you overcome this feeling the better. You ought not to be ashamed
of earning an honest living----."

"Nor am I ashamed of it," replied Isabel with dignity, "at least I hope
not."

"I am glad that you qualify your denial, as your crimson cheeks both now
and during dinner are ample proof that I am right. But (as I was about
to say, when you interrupted me so rudely) from my observations,
I thought it high time that Mr. Barrington should be reminded of your
position, as I know that his father would never allow him to marry a
governess, of course it is no disgrace to be a governess, still, it is
not from that class of persons that Arthur should choose a wife."

"I'm afraid that you have taken unnecessary trouble, Lady Ashton,"
returned Isabel, "I am convinced that my position is of no consequence
to Mr. Barrington, any more than his is to me. I assure you that you
have made a great mistake."

"It is nonsense for a girl in your circumstances to pretend such
indifference, I am not deceived, I know that you would be only too glad
to make such a match, and he is just foolish enough to take a fancy to a
pretty face. But I warn you not to encourage him, as it will only end in
misery to you both, as Lord Barrington would never consent."

"Really, Lady Ashton, I do not know what right you have to insult me in
this manner, I cannot permit it," said Isabel, and then with dignified
composure she crossed the room to Ada, who was scarcely less annoyed
than herself, at Lady Ashton's unprovoked attack.

This little scene had afforded no little amusement to the party
generally, tho' all agreed that it was too bad of Lady Ashton, and very
ill-natured.

Lady Ashton, however, had miscalculated the effect of the course she had
pursued, for Arthur Barrington was annoyed at her interference, and
being really good-natured he was even more than ever attentive to
Isabel, and endeavored as much as possible to atone for his aunt's
disagreeable behaviour, while Isabel (being convinced that Lady Ashton
had nothing to warrant her conjecture, but her own surmises,) made no
alteration in her manners. She found him a very agreeable companion, and
imagined that he too found her society pleasant, as indeed he did,
beautiful, accomplished, and good-natured, how could she be otherwise
than attractive. But Lady Ashton's chagrin knew no bounds, and she told
Isabel that she should certainly let Mrs. Arlington know how very unfit
a person she was to have the care of her daughters. She had always been
surprised at her having such a very young person, but she had heard that
it was out of charity, but there was such a thing as carrying that much
abused virtue too far.

Stooping lower over her tatting, Isabel only smiled at the harmless
threat, for whatever her failings might be, Mrs. Arlington was not over
ready to believe evil of any one, and seldom did so without due cause.
Moreover, she was not easily influenced by others, and her decisions
were usually just. But the hot blood suffused her cheeks as Lady Ashton
concluded. Fortunately Lucy entered the room, and then her ladyship was
or appeared to be deeply engaged with her book, as having before been
worsted in a combat of sharp speeches with that young lady, she by no
means wished for a renewal of hostilities.

Isabel was invariably made low spirited by one of Lady Ashton's
ill-natured attacks, especially so to-day, as the insults she had
received were particularly painful, being both unfeeling and uncalled
for. However, upon retiring to her own room at night, she found upon the
dressing table a letter, the contents of which soon dispersed all gloomy
thoughts, and Lady Ashton's rudeness was quite forgotten.

Louis, her own dear Louis, wrote that he would return in the early
spring. My uncle he said, has or is about to purchase for me a practice
in H----, so that I trust dearest, the period of your teaching will not
be of long duration, as there will then be no cause to delay our union.
I already in perspective, seem to see you my own dearest, presiding over
my bright fireside in H----, the joy of my heart, and the good angel of
my home.

I trust that you have made no arrangement with Mrs. Arlington but such
as can easily terminate upon a short notice. I would not advise your
taking any steps at present, as my uncle does not say positively that
the purchase is absolutely made. But at all events you may depend upon
seeing me in the early spring, as I have his orders to return.

The darkest hour is just before dawn. She had been so truly wretched an
hour ago, and now how radiantly happy she was. Ah, with what sweet
visions of a bright unclouded future did she fall asleep, to dream of
her loved one far away, soon to be distant no longer.

When Isabel descended to the breakfast-room next morning, she looked so
bright and happy, that Lady Ashton could account for it in no other way
than that Arthur had proposed, and that she had accepted him, so she
taxed him with it accordingly. Arthur was excessively amused, and so
archly evaded giving a direct answer, that she became the more convinced
of the truth of her own surmises, and grew so wrathy that Arthur fearing
that in her anger she might annoy Miss Leicester, at length assured her
that she need be under no apprehension, as nothing was farther from his
thoughts.




CHAPTER VII.


"Oh, Isabel, mama says I may stay until the first, and then we can
return together, won't that be charming," said Emily, as she came into
Isabel's room on the following day, holding an open letter in her hand.
"You can't think how glad I am to escape the escort of that tiresome
Lady Ashton."

"I certainly should not imagine that she would make a very pleasant
travelling companion," returned Isabel, laughing. "Don't mention it
pray," exclaimed Emily, "you have no idea what I endured coming down.
Poor Charles, he must have been almost worried to death, she is such a
horrid tease, and the old gentleman too, is an awful fidget. I think
Arthur Barrington knew what he was about, when he refused to be of our
party, and went on by express. Talking of Lady Ashton, how abominably
she behaves to you. I was saying so to Harry the other day, and he
really seemed quite hurt about it. He said that he saw what she was at
the other day at dinner, and was very much annoyed. Then I told him that
was nothing to what took place afterwards, and related what she said to
you in the drawing room."

"Oh, Emily, how could you," exclaimed Isabel.

"Ah now don't be cross with me, Isabel, darling. I really couldn't
resist, it was so supremely absurd. Do you know, that that little goose,
Ada, cried her eyes out about it that night, and then in again next
morning." "I know that Ada was very much hurt at Lady Ashton's
rudeness," replied Isabel.

"I'm sure that I was as angry and annoyed as any of them, but for the
life of me I can't help laughing whenever I think of it. But confess
now, Isabel, are you not desperately in love with Arthur
Barrington--come tell the truth."

"Well, the truth is, no, most decidedly not," Isabel answered, laughing.

"Ah, now, I'm quite disappointed, for I had made up my mind to that
match, if only to aggravate Lady Ashton. She has no influence in that
quarter, as anyone may see; and he is so decidedly 'smitten."'

"What nonsense you talk, Emily."

"It is not nonsense. I assure you that I mean what I say. Ah, my dear,
you had better consider the matter. Second thoughts, you know, are
sometimes best. He is a very nice fellow, and his father is immensely
rich. You can have him if you choose: I am sharp enough to see that."

"But then you see I don't choose," returned Isabel, much amused.
"Besides, I think that you are quite mistaken."

"Oh, you silly Isabel, how can you be so provokingly stupid? By the bye,
what a little namby-pamby thing that Mabel Ainsley is. What Lucy can see
in her to like, passes my comprehension."

"I presume it must be because Lucy is so different, and then Mabel is so
pliant, which no doubt suits, as Lucy is fond of taking the lead."

"They say that likes go by contraries; but as far as my observations go,
it is seldom the case," observed Emily.

"A similarity of tastes and ideas is usually more attractive; but then,
'novelty's charming,' you know," responded Isabel.

"I do wish that we could get up a fancy ball--a private masquerade, you
know. I was speaking to Ada and Lucy about it last night. I said that I
would be night, and Lucy thought you ought to be morning."

"I hope they will give up the idea, as I really could not take part in
it," interrupted Isabel.

"Why not--what harm could there be? What makes you so fastidious,
Isabel?"

"It is not that, dear Emily;" but I have very painful associations
connected with a private masquerade, the only one that I ever went to.
That night poor papa received the sad news of his failure; and in the
midst of that gay scene, I received a summons to return, as my papa was
alarmingly ill, and scarcely expected to live through the night. He
never recovered, though he lingered for some weeks afterwards. Can you
wonder then, dear Emily, that even the idea of such a thing is painful
in the extreme?"

"I'm very sorry that I proposed it," returned Emily, much concerned.
"I will tell Ada what you say, and we will get up some other amusement:
so don't think any more about it, dear;" and giving Isabel a hasty kiss,
she left her.

The sixth was a bright, cloudless day--the dazzling whiteness of the
frozen snow, and the deep blue of the sky, forming a beautiful contrast.
The weather was cold, not intensely so, and the trees looked splendid,
as their ice-covered boughs glistened and sparkled in the sunlight; and
the merry jingle of the sleigh-bells was quite enlivening. The wedding
was quite a grand affair, and passed off with great _eclat_.

Charles and Ada were to travel for three weeks, and then join the
Ashtons and Morningtons at Boston, and proceed to the old country
together.

The Ashtons left Eastwood shortly after the wedding, to prepare for a
long absence from the Park; and from the time of Lady Ashton's
departure, Isabel's visit was one of uninterrupted enjoyment. She became
so cheerful and animated, that Emily declared they positively wouldn't
know her again at Elm Grove.

Harry was to remain at W----, to read up for the examination. He had
tried very hard to prevail upon his father to let him enter Mr.
Arlington's office, as in that way he could get on much better, he said,
as he would see a great deal of law business, and he could easily read
up in the evenings.

But his father only laughed. "Love-making would play the dickens with
the studies. You would be poring over your book, without knowing that it
was upside down. No, no. After you have 'passed,' you shall travel for a
year; and then I believe that I shall be able to get you a partnership
in H---- with my old school-fellow, Harding, who is a very clever
lawyer, and stands very high in his profession."

"But will you allow me sufficient to enable me to marry and take my wife
with me?" asked Harry.

"Upon my word! that is a modest request," replied his father.

Harry laughed.

"When I was young, young men expected to make their way in the world a
little before they talked of marrying," continued Mr. Mornington; but
you ask me as coolly as possible to give you enough to enable you and
your wife to travel, before you go into business at all, which I think
is pretty brassy. I wonder what my father would have thought if I had
made such a request. I honestly believe he would have thrashed me. But
as I said, things are different now-a-days." Harry grew very red during
this harangue, but wisely kept silent.

"Now, I'll tell you what my father did. He called me into his study one
morning. 'How old are you?' he asked. 'Fifteen, sir,' I replied proudly.
'Old enough to be better,' he retorted. 'Well, sir, as you are fifteen,
I consider that you are old enough to earn your own living. I have
procured you a situation in a wholesale grocery, where you will get a
hundred dollars a year. Now, as you will be away from home (for the firm
is in Washington), I will pay your board for the first year. After that,
you will get a rise in your salary; and from that time, you will have to
depend upon your own exertions, as I shall not help you any more. If you
are honest and steady, you get on. But if you will get into scrapes,
don't expect me to help you out." "Yes, sir," resumed Mr. Mornington,
"that was the way I began the world; and by the time I was twenty-three
(your age, Harry), I had acquired a good position in the firm, and a
promise of a future partnership. What do you think of that?"

"I think that if you had started me in the same manner, when I was
fifteen, that I should have done the same," replied Harry, with spirit.

"Then you think that you can't be blamed justly?"

"No, sir," returned Harry, respectfully.

"Well, I suppose that it has been all my own doing," resumed Mr.
Mornington. "But seriously, Harry, do you wish to give up law and become
one of the firm? Speak out, boy, there is no good in taking up a thing
if you have no heart for it."

"You mistake me altogether," interposed Harry, hastily. "I have not the
least wish to give up the law."

"So let it be then. And I agree to your request--provided that you
'pass' within a year."

"All right--thanks," returned Harry, thinking that he had made a capital
arrangement.

"I suppose," added his father, "that you will have to take the girls to
Elm Grove."

"Unless it interferes with the bargain," Harry began--

"Ha, ha!" laughed Mr. Mornington. "You will make a good lawyer yet,
I believe."

"I hope so," responded Harry, lighting his cigar.

On the first of February, they all set out for Boston, according to the
previous arrangement. On their arrival in that city, they found that
Charles and Ada had been there some days. Charles had received a
telegram, saying that the elder Ashtons would only get there an hour or
so before the steamer left.

The girls were delighted at this intelligence, as now there was nothing
to mar the happiness of the party during the few days that they would
spend together. Ada and Isabel were inseparable, and it was astonishing
how much Lucy and Emily had to say. Charles and Harry discussed their
future plans. Mr. Mornington had a great many people to see, and a great
deal of business to attend to, so that he was closely occupied, and had
scarcely a word for any one during meals, which was the only time he was
with them. And Mrs. Mornington's happiness seemed to consist in seeing
the young people enjoy themselves.

After the arrival of Sir John and Lady Ashton, with Miss Crosse and
Louisa, they all went on board the steamer; and when they had seen them
comfortably settled, Emily, Harry and Isabel, returned to the hotel, and
the next morning continued their journey to Elm Grove, where Mr.
Mornington had stipulated that Harry should stay no more than three
weeks--or it would interfere with the bargain.




CHAPTER VIII.


The Arlingtons had a grand ball in honor of Miss Arlington's
twenty-first birthday, which Rose said wasn't fair, as Everard didn't
have one on his. Mrs. Arlington, always celebrated for the taste and
elegance displayed at her parties, has almost surpassed all former
occasions in the magnificent arrangement of everything.

Isabel wore a plain white dress, and jet ornaments. A single flower
adorned her hair; and the usual, rather sad expression of her
countenance, was exchanged for one of greater animation. The excitement
of the occasion had given an unwonted glow to her cheeks. She did,
indeed, look lovely, as she stood engaged in lively conversation with
Emily, while they were waiting in the drawing-room to receive the
guests; and so Everard thought, who stood talking with his father, while
his eyes rested admiringly upon Isabel's sweet face.

After the greater part of the guests had arrived, and the dancing fairly
commenced, Isabel, who had been waltzing, returned to the drawing-room.
She was scarcely seated, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Louis
Taschereau enter. Oh, how her heart throbbed at the unexpected meeting!
Here was Louis, her own Louis, actually in the room. It was annoying,
that after being parted so long, they should first meet in a crowded
ball-room.--Never mind; she was only too glad to have him there. He
looked so well, so bright and happy, as he made his way through the
crowd, with the proud bearing and haughty mien in which she delighted.
How long would it be before he reached her?--Oh, that the room were
smaller, or that she had been nearer the door. It seemed an age while he
was shaking hands with Mrs. Arlington. But who is that pretty girl on
his arm? Could it be his cousin Marie? He has taken her to a seat, and
is moving down the room. The hot blood rushed to her cheeks. Someone
asked her to dance. "Oh, not yet," she replied, scarcely heeding who it
was that asked her. Louis sees her, and is coming towards her. How her
heart bounded, her joy and happiness was so great. She hid her glowing
face behind her fan, to conceal her confusion. Another moment and he was
by her side, greeting her cordially. "Oh, Louis," and she smiled upon
him, O so sweetly. "You did not expect to see me to-night," he said,
looking very contented and triumphant. But there was something in the
expression of his face which she did not like--something that seemed to
freeze up all the warmth of her feelings in an instant. Was it that he
thought she was too ready to show what she felt, with so many present
who might observe any unusual degree of pleasure on her part. Oh, surely
not, for she had been so careful--as careful as it was in human nature
to be.

"Was that your cousin," she asked, "that you brought with you?"

"No! that--is--my wife--" he said, with a look of triumph.

"Your wife! Why, what do you mean?" she inquired, thinking he was
jesting.

"Just what I say," he replied. Then, with insufferable insolence, he
hissed in her ear, "Louis Taschereau never forgives."

"Indeed," she answered, assuming an air of indifference that surprised
even herself; for she had felt the hot, indignant blood, coursing
through her veins.

"Really," he said, with cool effrontery, "that assumption of
indifference is sublime. But I am not deceived," he continued, with a
scornful laugh; "my revenge is most complete, my plans have been
entirely successful," and making her a low bow, he retired. And Isabel
was left to her own thoughts. But this would not do; she must not--dare
not--think; she must have excitement until she could be quite alone.
Fortunately, Harry now claimed her as his partner. "Oh, Harry," she
said, "I am so tired of sitting here."

"Why, I asked you for the last dance, and you wouldn't come," answered
Harry, laughing.

"I didn't think it would have lasted so long," she returned.

"Do you know that Louis is here?" he inquired.

"Yes."

"Don't you think his wife pretty?"

"Very."

Harry knew that Louis had always been a favorite with Isabel, but the
remotest idea of the real state of the case never for a moment occured
to him.

When the dance was over, they went out on the glass extension room.
Presently Harry said abruptly:

"Isabel, I really thought that you would have been Mrs. Taschereau."

"Harry!"

"I did, indeed."

"Harry, don't," she said imploringly.

Just then Everard and Emily came in, and at the next dance they
exchanged partners. As they passed under the hall lamp, Everard remarked
the extreme palor of her countenance. "You are ill, Miss Leicester," he
said. You should not have remained so long in that cold place. Let me
get you a glass of wine."

"Oh no, thanks. I shall soon get warm with dancing."

"I don't think that you should attempt this galop. You look too ill;
indeed you do."

"I intend to dance it, Mr. Arlington; but if you do not wish too, I can
have another partner." Everard looked so sad and reproachful as she said
this, that she felt sorry for the hasty words. She knew they had been
harsh, and he had said nothing but what was kind--nothing to deserve
anything so severe. But then she dare not sit during a single dance; she
could not, would not, rest a moment. She was making a great effort to
'keep up,' and it was only by a continual struggle that she could
succeed. However, Everard had no more cause for uneasiness on account of
her looking ill, as they had scarcely entered the ball-room before her
brilliant color had returned. Isabel was decidedly the belle of the
evening; and for this, Grace Arlington never forgave her. Everard saw
that Isabel's gaiety was assumed, and he would have given much to know
the cause. Harry was not so keen an observer, and only thought how much
she was enjoying herself, and how much he had been mistaken in thinking
that she cared anything about Louis.

Oh the weary, weary length of that dreadful evening. Isabel thought that
it would never end. But she kept up splendidly. Once she unexpectedly
found Louis her _vis a vis_--then came the master-piece of the evening.
She looked superb, as with graceful dignity she glided through the
quadrille. She avoided touching his hand, except when it was inevitable;
but she did it so naturally, that to others it did not appear
premeditated. He spoke to her, but she passed on as though she did not
hear. Once again, before the dance was ended, he ventured to address
her; but she replied with grave dignity, "We must meet as strangers:
henceforth I shall not know you, Dr. Taschereau."

Louis foamed with rage at the cool contempt conveyed in these words.
He ground his teeth, and swore to be revenged. At last the guests all
departed, and Harry too had taken leave (for as this was his last day at
Elm Grove, he was going by the three o'clock train to keep his promise,
for Harry was very strict, and would not have remained another day on
any pretext). Then Isabel had to listen to the praises bestowed on her
by all the Arlington family, who complimented her upon the sensation
she had made, and to force herself to join in an animated conversation
regarding the events of the evening; so that she was truly glad when Mr.
Arlington dismissed the 'conclave,' saying that they could discuss the
party next day.

When Isabel gained her own room, and sat down to think of her trouble,
she began to realize the full extent of her misery. She had scarcely
known 'till now, how much his love had supported her through all her
trials; or how the thought of one day being his, had softened the ills
she had been called upon to endure since her father's death. Now she
must think of him no more--he was hers no longer. But worse than this,
was the pain and grief of knowing that he was unworthy of the love and
admiration that she had bestowed upon him. She knew that he was proud,
passionate and exacting, yet she loved him; for these very
characteristics, mingled as they were with more endearing qualities, had
a peculiar charm for her. How happy she had been to feel that he loved
her; and oh! the pain, the agony, of knowing that he did so no longer.
Why, why had he written that letter? Oh it was cruel, cruel. And then
to think that it had all been planned, premeditated, with the express
design of making her suffer more acutely, was bitter in the extreme. To
lose his love was misery; but to know that he was deceitful, cruel and
revengeful, was agony beyond endurance. She did not weep: her grief was
too stony for tears. "Oh, Louis, Louis," she moaned in her agony, "what
have I done, to deserve such cruel treatment?" She leaned her head upon
her arm, and pressed her hand upon her throbbing temples, for the tumult
of her thoughts became intolerable. She pictured to herself Louis, as
she loved to see him; old scenes recurred to her mind, and the days when
she had been so happy in his love--nor had a wish beyond. Even this very
night, how inexpressibly happy had it made her to see him in the room.
And oh, to have all her dreams of happiness crushed in a moment. Again
she thought how different it might have been had he been faithful and
true; but he was false--he did not love her, and what had she to live
for now? A sense of oppression, which almost amounted to suffocation,
distressed her, until at length a fearful sensation of choking forced
her to rise to get some water; but ere she could do so, a crimson stream
flowed from her mouth, down her white dress, and she fell upon the
floor.




CHAPTER IX.


The daylight was streaming in at the window when Emily awoke, and lay
thinking of the party, and rejoicing in her kind little heart that
Isabel had been so happy, and had enjoyed herself so much. Then she
sighed as she thought Harry was gone, but smiled again at the bright
prospect she had in view, for Harry had imparted to her the nice
arrangement that he had made with his father, and she did so love the
idea of travelling for a year. Then again she heaved a little sigh, and
hoped he would not overwork himself; but there was no cause for
uneasiness on that score, for Harry was too much accustomed to take
things easy, and too wise to work himself to death: and Emmy was content
to believe this.

But she was that sociable disposition, that she could not half enjoy
anything unless she could get some one to sympathise with her. She did
so long to tell her news. Late as was the hour when the party broke up,
she wanted to tell Isabel; but Isabel had refused their accustomed chat,
saying that it was too late, and that Mrs. Arlington would be vexed.

Then she wondered if Isabel was awake, she did so long to tell her about
the year's travelling. She thought she would go and see. So she got up
very quietly, partially dressed, and then threw on her dressing gown,
and ran up to Isabel's room; but finding the door locked, she rattled
the handle slightly, and called through the key-hole, "Isabel! Isabel!
are you awake? open the door." Then as she drew back, something
attracted her sight, and impelled her to apply her eye to the said
key-hole. She did so; and horrified beyond description at what she
beheld, she shrieked aloud with terror. Her frantic cries brought her
father, mother, Everard, and several of the servants, to the rescue.

"Open the door! oh, open the door!" was all that she could say, wringing
her hands in anguish, and pointing to it.

"Speak, child," said her father, "what is the matter?"

But she only cried more wildly, "open the door! open the door!" without
attempting to explain. But Everard, with his firm, quiet manner, and
reassuring tone, calmed her almost instantly.

Mrs. Arlington did as Emily had done before her. "There is something
wrong," she exclaimed, "we must get the door open."

The united efforts of Everard and his father forced the door, and a more
distressing sight can scarcely be imagined than that they beheld.
Stretched on the floor lay Isabel, in her ball dress, the blood pouring
from her mouth in a crimson stream. As soon as Everard saw this, he
waited for no more, but hastened to the stable, and was soon on the
road, dashing at a reckless pace, towards Dr. Heathfield's. Mrs.
Arlington quietly desired Norris to remove the children, who, alarmed by
Emily's cries, had crowded into the room, along with the servants. Emily
also was dismissed; and ordering two of the servants to remain, she told
the rest to retire, and to send Norris back again. She then turned her
attention to the suffering girl, whose face wore an expression of
ineffable agony; but she was at a loss how to proceed, not knowing what
ought to be done, and fearing that she might do harm by injudicious
treatment. In less time than could have been imagined, Everard returned
with the doctor, who had great difficulty in stopping the bleeding. She
had broken a blood vessel, he said, and was in a very dangerous state.
He ordered perfect quiet, as the least excitement would cause a return
of the bleeding, and then nothing could save her. He questioned very
sharply as to what had happened, and gave as his opinion that it had
been caused by some great shock, and violent emotion struggled with and
suppressed, by undue excitement.

Mrs. Arlington repudiated the notion, and protested against such an
assumption, saying "that Miss Leicester appeared quite well when she
retired to rest."

"These things do not happen without cause, madam," returned the doctor;
"therefore in all probability something has occurred of which you know
nothing."

"I am convinced that you are mistaken, Dr. Heathfield; but I will take
care that your orders are strictly attended to. No one but myself and
Norris shall be allowed in the room. You have no doubt of her ultimate
recovery, I trust," she added.

"I couldn't pretend to give an opinion at present; I can only tell you
that she is in a most precarious state," he replied gravely. "Everything
depends upon the prevention of the hemorrhage, a return of which would
be certain death. At the same time, that is not all that we have to
fear."

For a long time Isabel hovered between life and death, scarcely
conscious of what was passing around her. Day after day the children
would linger on the stairs, whenever the doctor came, to hear his
account of Miss Leicester. But he only shook his head, and said "he
could not have them there. Their governess was very ill, and they must
be very good children." Then they would return to the school-room, and
spend, as best they might, these joyless holidays.

At last the longed for answer came--"She was certainly better," and they
were delighted beyond measure; but their joy was considerably damped,
when he told them that they could not be permitted to see her for some
time yet.

Isabel's recovery was very slow, though every care and attention was
bestowed upon her, and each vied with the other in showing kindness to
the orphan girl. Still Isabel felt her lonely, dependent condition,
acutely. Life seemed a dreary, cheerless existence; and she experienced
a shrinking from the future which seemed to be before her, which was at
times almost insupportable. She longed to be at rest. The prostration
and langour, both mental and bodily, that accompanied this depression,
was so great as to seriously retard her recovery, and almost baffled the
doctor's skill. She would lie for hours without speaking or moving,
apparently asleep, but only in a sort of waking dream. She took no
interest in anything, and appeared quite incapable of making any effort
to overcome this apathy. Emily tried her best to amuse her; but after
taking pains to relate everything that she thought of interest that had
occurred, Isabel would smile and thank her, in a way that proved she had
not been listening. Thus week after week of her convalescence passed,
while, to the doctor's surprise and disappointment, she made no further
progress. After visiting his patient one afternoon, he requested a few
moments' conversation with Mrs. Arlington. "My dear madam," he said,
when that lady had led the way into the morning-room, "has Miss
Leicester no friends, with whom she could spend a few weeks? for if she
is allowed to remain in this lethargic state, she will inevitably sink.
An entire change of air and scene is absolutely necessary. She requires
something to rouse her in a gentle way, without excitement."

"She has friends, I believe; but really, I know so little about them,
that any arrangement of that sort is out of the question. All those I do
know, are at present in Europe," returned Mrs. Arlington. "But we are
anxious to do everything in our power to promote her recovery. If you
can suggest anything, I shall be most happy to carry out your plans.
I proposed her going to the sea-side, but she wouldn't hear of it, and
said that she hoped she should not trouble us much longer.
I remonstrated, but to no purpose--she persisted that it was utterly
impossible."

"That was the very thing I was going to suggest," returned the doctor;
"but I trusted that the proposal would have met with a better reception.
But if you will allow me, I think I might persuade her to accompany the
children, as if on their account. Have I your permission to do so?"

"Full permission to make any arrangements that you think beneficial,
doctor," replied Mrs. Arlington.

Doctor Heathfield went back to his patient. He found her alone. "What do
you think of making a start to the sea-side? I think it would do you
good."

"Oh, indeed I could not," returned Isabel languidly. "Mrs. Arlington is
very kind, but it is quite impossible."

"Don't decide so hastily," replied Dr. Heathfield, taking a seat by her
side.

"A thing which is impossible, requires no consideration."

"But I am convinced that it is not impossible," he urged, "and by
obliging others, you will also benefit yourself; it is such a very small
thing that is required of you, just to accompany the children to D----
for a few weeks. Indeed I think that you can scarcely refuse after all
the kindness that you have received during your long illness."

"I am extremely sorry to have caused so much trouble, but I assure you
that I am not ungrateful."

"It don't seem like it when you won't do what little you might to
please," returned the doctor.

"Don't say will not," Dr. Heathfield.

"Ay but I must say will not, and excuse me when I add, that you greatly
mistake your duty to give way to this apathy, and thus retard your
recovery," he said kindly. "I do not seek to fathom your trouble, but I
do know that it was excessive mental anguish that caused you to break a
blood-vessel, and I would remind you that this is not the right way to
brood over and nurse your grief, refusing to make any effort to do your
duty.

"I know it is wrong faltered Isabel with quivering lips, but I cannot
take an interest in anything or find comfort, save in the thought of
early death."

"But that is from the morbid state of mind induced by weakness."

Isabel shook her head.

"And will pass off as you get stronger," he continued.

"I shall never be strong again," she said.

"Pooh, nonsense, I can't have you talk in that way, if you only make an
effort and go with the children to D----, I think you will soon alter
your opinion."

"Please don't say any more, my head aches dreadfully," pleaded Isabel.

"One moment and I have done," he said, "I fear that you forget your
position here, the family have behaved to you with the greatest
generosity, but still you must be aware that they would not continue to
keep an invalid governess, and as I understand that you are entirely
dependant upon your own exertions, you must see the necessity of trying
the benefit of sea air, when you have the opportunity, do not take it
unkindly that I have used such freedom in pressing this matter, think
over it quietly, and to-morrow let me know what answer I am to give Mrs.
Arlington." Then he took his leave, and his kind heart smote him, for he
heard the smothered sobs of his fair patient.




CHAPTER X.


Mrs. Arlington never for a moment suspected the way in which Dr.
Heathfield would induce Isabel to accede to his plans. In justice to her
it must be said, that had she known it, she would if possible have
prevented it. But in the end perhaps it was better for Isabel that she
did not, though the reflections to which his remarks gave rise, were
extremely painful. It needed not these cruel hints to remind her of that
which had scarcely ever been absent from her thoughts since her father's
death, and she shed very bitter tears, even after she retired to rest
she could but weep over her unhappy lot far into the night, until at
length the bright moonlight streaming in at the window, reminded her of
one above, who doeth all things well, and she resolved to try and do her
duty according to His appointment, however trying she might find it,
trusting that as her need was, so would strength be given.

She saw now why she had not been allowed to die according to her wish,
even because her work was not yet accomplished. How willingly and with
what pleasure had the children received what she had taught them
regarding religion; how eagerly had they listened when she had explained
the scriptures; with what different feelings did they now regard the
sabbath as a day of holy rest, and prayer, and praise, instead of a day
of weariness, dreaded and hated. Did she not remember how shocked she
had been, when Amy said, that she liked all the days except sundays, and
the others had expressed the same. And oh, how glad and thankful she
felt when Amy not long since, one sunday afternoon had clasped her arms
round her neck, and exclaimed that she liked Miss Leicester's sundays
very much. All this she had been able to do through divine blessing upon
her endeavors to benefit the children, and would she leave them when her
work had only just begun? No, no, how wrong and selfish had she been, if
all joy and happiness had fled, she still had her work before her--her
duty to perform. With such thoughts as these, her tears became less
bitter. Soft tear of quiet resignation followed the bitter rebellious
ones she had shed so abundantly, and she resolved by steady abnegation
of self, to forget the past (as much as might be) in the business and
duties of the present. Then with a prayer for strength to keep this
resolution, and patience to wait, and work until such time as rest
should be vouchsafed her, she fell asleep.

With a severe headache, and extremely weak from the trying night she had
past, Isabel waited for the doctor next day, though she had determined
to give him a favorable answer, she wondered much how she could go, when
she felt almost unable to raise her hand to her head. She was feverish
and restless, very anxious for his arrival, yet dreading it, for it
seemed as though she were about by her own act, to put an end to these
quiet days of rest, and dreamy reverie, which she fain would prolong.

However, when Dr. Heathfield came, she managed to return his greeting
with some degree of cheerfulness.

"I trust you feel better to-day," he said.

"No, rather worse, the dose you administered was anti-narcotic I assure
you, but I have decided to accede to Mrs. Arlington's wishes. I will do
my utmost for the children, but I fear that will be very little," and
she smiled faintly from her pillow.

"Pooh, nonsense, you are not to teach at present, we all know you can't
do that," returned the doctor cheerfully, "what good would the poor
children get if they were cooped up in a school-room all day, time
enough for that when they come home again." Dr. Heathfield began to fear
that the dose had been too strong, when he felt the feverish pulse. "You
must be very quiet to-day, promise me that you will not worry yourself,"
he said, "I shall tell Mrs. Arlington not to let the girls tease you."

"They never tease me." replied Isabel hastily.

"Oh they don't, well that is fortunate," he answered, preparing some
mysterious compound that he had taken from his pocket, "now if you take
this" he continued, presenting the mixture, "and then take a nice little
sleep, you will feel much better by the afternoon, and then if Miss
Emily would read to you, it would be better than talking."

"I'm afraid your patient is not so well to-day doctor," said Mrs.
Arlington coming in, "she seems feverish this morning."

"Oh, she has been tormenting herself, thinking that she had to teach
while at D----, but I think if you keep her quiet, this feverishness
will soon subside, and she is going with the children to D---- like a
good sensible girl," replied the doctor.

"I am very glad that you have come to that decision Isabel, as I should
not think of sending the children without you," (no more she would) said
Mrs. Arlington, keeping up the farce that she was the obliged party.
"Emily and Norris go with you, so that you have no cause for anxiety,
dear," she added, laying her cool hand upon Isabel's hot forehead.

"Is your head very bad," inquired the doctor, pulling down the blind.
Then as Isabel assented, he went on, "if you were to send the quiet one,
(Alice I think you call her) to bathe her temples with a little lotion
it would be as well."

"I think it should be Norris, I don't like to trust the children," Mrs.
Arlington began.

"You may trust Alice," interrupted Isabel.

"Very well," returned Mrs. Arlington smiling, "then Alice it shall be."

Within a week, everything was arranged for their departure, Everard was
to escort them to D---- and see them comfortably settled, and then
proceed to H---- College. The morning they were to start, Isabel joined
them at the early school-room breakfast. This was the first time that
Everard had seen her since her illness, and he was inexpressibly shocked
at her appearance, and remonstrated with his mother, saying, that Miss
Leicester was not in a fit state to travel.

"My dear Everard, I am acting entirely under the the doctor's orders."

"Nevertheless it is cruel," he replied gravely.

"My dear son what can I do, Dr. Heathfield says that it is absolutely
necessary."

"It will kill her, that is my opinion of the matter." he answered "why
she can scarcely stand, I had no idea she was so awfully weak."

"But what can I do," persisted Mrs. Arlington.

"Wait until she gets a little stronger," urged Everard.

"But the doctor assures me, that she will inevitable sink, if allowed to
remain in the same low spirited state."

"Why did you not have her among the rest, and then probably she might
not have got so low. It is dreadful to see any one so fearfully weak,"
he added in a tone of grave commiseration.

"I don't wonder at your being shocked at her altered appearance, but
you should not blame those who have had the care of her, without due
consideration. I assure you that she has had every attention," said Mrs.
Arlington reproachfully.

"I don't wish to blame any one," returned Everard coloring, "surely not
you dear mother."

"I am glad to hear it," she answered, in a somewhat injured tone. "I was
sure that it only required a moment's thought to convince you, that
however painful a state Miss Leicester may be in, it has been brought
about by circumstances over which we have no control."

Everard looked perseveringly out of the window. And his mother continued
"it was at her own request that she remained so secluded. But it must
not be, we have listened to her entreaties too long already, now others
must act for her in the way they think best."

"Then it is not her wish to go," observed Everard.

"Certainly not, but the doctor almost insists upon it."

"Kill or cure as I take it," he returned.

"I fear that is too near the truth, unfortunately," replied his mother."

"Everard remained silent, and Mrs. Arlington saying that the carriage
would be round shortly, quitted the room. Then he returned to the
school-room, to find Isabel fainting upon the sofa and Emily bending
over her in helpless despair, Amy crying, and Alice emptying the
contents of a scent bottle over Isabel, and Rose spilling the smelling
salts almost into her mouth, in her anxiety to cram it to her nose. This
quaint mode of treatment had the desired effect, for Isabel with a great
sigh opened her eyes, and asked what was the matter. Dr. Heathfield
arrived soon after this, and ordered Miss Leicester back to her room for
a few hours rest, so that they were forced to wait for the next train.

"She ought not to have come down to breakfast," he said, "let her have
lunch in her own room, and remain there until everything is quite ready,
then let her go straight to the carriage after the rest are seated, it
must be managed quietly or it cannot be done." Then he called Everard
aside, and cautioned him, "it is a hazardous thing to move her at all,
and requires very nice management," he said.

"It should not be attempted," returned Everard coldly, "she is only fit
to be in bed."

"The doctor smiled incredulously, keep her there and you would soon
finish her, and she would be only too content to do it."

"You are severe Dr. Heathfield," said Everard stiffly.

"Come, Come, Everard don't get angry, you think me a brute no doubt. But
if she remains here she will die, if she goes away she may recover. Now
you have my honest opinion."

"It seems to me little short of murder, to start her off in this state,"
returned Everard."

"Upon my word, who is severe now Mr. Everard," retorted the doctor.
I don't attempt to deny that moving her may be fatal, if not judiciously
managed But if carefully and properly done, I am very sanguine as to the
result.

"That is a nice way of getting out of a scrape, I must say," "Oh a very
nice way indeed," said Dr. Heathfield laughing. "I will come in again
about one," he added addressing Mrs. Arlington, "and if I have time,
I will go down to the station and see them off."

"Oh, if you could doctor, it would be such a satisfaction to know that
you were with them," Mrs. Arlington answered.

Everard could not bring himself to see it in the same light as the
doctor, but as her going seemed inevitable, he was glad that he was to
have the charge of her. A little before one the doctor returned, but
only to see that all was right. "He was so very busy," he said, "but had
no doubt that Mr. Everard would manage very well. He could not possibly
go down to the station, he had to set a man's leg two miles off in quite
another direction. Everard's face was a picture, as the doctor so kindly
expressed the belief that he would manage very well. Emily was so
convulsed with laughter at the sight, that she was forced to stuff her
handkerchief into her mouth to conceal her mirth. Everard managed
everything so nicely during the journey, that Isabel never knew that he
made special alteration on her account, and he assisted her on all
occasions in a nice kindly matter of course manner, quite like an elder
brother, that prevented any embarrassment on her part. He was also very
successful in concealing the anxiety he felt on her behalf. Isabel
appeared quite worn out the night they arrived at D----, Norris insisted
upon perfect rest and quiet next day, saying that she should join them
at tea if she seemed sufficiently rested, but Everard rebelled, and made
Emily amuse her during the morning. Norris submitted without much fuss,
as he was a great favorite.

"I know as well as you Master Everard, that she needs to be kept more
cheerful than she has been, but after all the worry and fatigue of the
journey, a little quietness is good for her," said Norris, endeavoring
to justify herself.

"I don't deny that Norris, I only object to her being quite alone."

"And you know sir, that you always get your own way," replied Norris
laughing.

"Usually," returned Everard, "but Norris, understand that I wish her
kept quiet."

"As if anyone could be quiet where Miss Emily is," said Norris
reproachfully.

"I'll trust Emmy," he answered laughing.

"That is more nor I would Mr. Everard," she returned with the
familiarity that old domestics who have been a long time in a family
often acquire. For Norris had been with Mrs. Arlington ever since she
was married, now some twenty-six years.

After dinner, Everard, Emily and the children, went out for a ramble.
On their return, Everard left them near the town, as he had to make some
inquiries as to the time the train left, as he was to leave next
morning, for they had been so much longer on the way than had been
anticipated, consequently his stay at D---- had to be curtailed.

When he returned to the cottage, he found Isabel in the old arm chair in
the sitting-room, the others had not yet arrived. Isabel was looking
wretchedly ill, but pronounced herself much rested. Everard gave her an
animated account of their ramble, and an excellent description of the
place, but she appeared to take little interest in either.

"Perhaps you would rather I didn't talk, he said, as she leaned her head
wearily upon her hand.

"O, I don't mind," she replied in a tone of such utter indifference that
Everard took a book. He did not read however, but sat shading his face
with his hand, so as to enable him to contemplate the poor worn face and
fragile form of her whom he loved better than life. He pictured her, as
she appeared when waiting the arrival of the guests on Grace's birthday,
and the contrast was painful in the extreme, neither could he account
for the utter hopelessness depicted on her countenance.

"Are you aware that I leave in the morning," he said, after some time
had elapsed.

"So soon," she inquired in surprise.

"Yes, by the early train," he replied.

Then I must not miss this opportunity of thanking you, for all the
trouble you have taken, and for all the kindness you have shown me.
Indeed I am very much obliged to you."

"I am only too glad to have been of any service to you," he returned
with something of the old manner. "Will you not write when you are able,
if only a line, just a line, I shall be so anxious to hear."

"Emily will write," she answered quietly.

Everard bit his lip, he was silenced but not satisfied,--an awkward
pause ensued, then the others came in full of glee to find Is