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.