CHAPTER V.
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.
sabel 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.
h, 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.