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.