"O Isabel, it is nearly time for the train to pass, do let us go and
watch for it," said Rose, and they went accordingly. "Here it comes,
here it comes," she shouted, and the iron horse came on snorting and
panting; nearer, nearer it approaches the bridge. 'Tis on the bridge.
Crash--and in an instant, it is gone; the train with its living freight
is a mass of broken ruins. The screams are appalling; the sight fearful
in the extreme. The children ran back to the house trembling and awed,
and huddled together in a frightened group. Among the first to be taken
from the _debris_ was a lady, and a little girl about two years old.
Isabel offered her own room for the use of the sufferers, and some men
carried them to the cottage, where kind nurse Bruce did all in her power
until the doctor should arrive. Isabel took the beautiful child, who a
few moments before was all life and animation, and laid it upon Bruce's
bed; the poor little thing must have been killed instantly as there was
no sign of suffering upon its face, but a large bruise on its temple.
The doctor feared that the lady had received fatal injuries; all through
the night she continued insensible, and the morning brought no change.
Who she was they could not tell, but as Isabel sat watching her through
the long night, she felt that she had seen her before, but where she
could not recall. Late in the afternoon consciousness returned, and with
a feeble moan she opened her eyes. "Where am I," she asked, "Oh, where
is my little Izzie?" Isabel's only answer was a kiss. "Don't say it,"
she cried, grasping Isabel's hand convulsively, "O, not that, not that!
but I see it is so--I see it in your face without you saying so." "O, my
baby, my baby, my little Izzie!" she moaned, covering her face with her
hands; and then she lay quite still, her lips moving as if in prayer.
The doctor, who came in shortly after, called Isabel from the room.
"Miss Leicester," he said, "she will not live many hours, we had better
find out who she is and summon her friends by telegraph. We can do so by
sending to W----; I tell you candidly that she is past all human aid.
Poor thing, she need not grieve for her child, she will be with her
soon." They returned to the room to gain the desired information. "Send
for Dr. Taschereau, at H----," she replied to the doctor's question. Now
Isabel knew where and when she had seen her. But it grieved her to see
what a change there was in the bright sunny girl who had cast such a
cloud over her path at the ball at Elm Grove.
"Am I dying?" Natalie asked anxiously.
"I dare not give you false hope," the doctor replied.
She covered her face with her hands for a few moments. "Do you think I
can live till Louis comes--Dr. Taschereau you know."
"I hope so," he answered, evasively.
"Make the telegram very strong; O, very strong. Say that I am dying, but
be sure you don't say that baby is--you know--I can't say it," she said
in a choking voice. "He will come, O, surely he will come," she murmured
to herself. The doctor left promising to send immediately. "You are
Isabel Leicester," Natalie said as soon as they were alone. "I am sure
you are, for I have seen your picture."
"That is my name," replied Isabel, smiling, while she wondered how much
Natalie knew about her.
"You loved Louis once?" she asked.
"Yes."
"You love him still?"
"No; that is past."
A smile of satisfaction illumined Natalie's countenance for a moment,
but quickly left it. "I was always sorry for you, Natalie," Isabel said
kindly.
"Sorry for me, why should you be sorry for me?" she asked quickly, then
pausing a moment she added, sadly, "I see you know how it is."
"Ah, I know too well, I hoped, I prayed it might be otherwise."
"He does not mean to be unkind," she said, "but it is a cruel thing to
know that your husband does not love you When I first found out that he
did not, it almost killed me. He insisted on calling our little girl
Isabel, in spite of all I could say as to my dislike to the name; so I
thought it was his mother's name, though he would not say. But when I
found out that it was yours, I was very angry; O, you must forgive me,
for I have had very hard thoughts towards you, and now I know that you
did not deserve them. O, Isabel, you are too good; I could not nurse you
so kindly, had I been in your place. Let me see my little Izzie," she
pleaded. Isabel brought the child to its mother; it looked sweetly calm
in its marble beauty. "Bury us both together in one coffin," she said,
while her tears fell fast upon its icy face. Natalie complained of great
pain, nothing that the doctor could do seemed to give her any relief,
and she lay moaning through the night. About six o'clock in the morning
there was a quick step on the stairs which did not escape the ear of the
sufferer. "Oh, Louis, Louis come to me," she cried. In a moment he was
at her side, and her arms clasped round his neck. "I knew you would
come," she said, fondly, "I could not have died happily unless you had."
He pressed her closely to him, while the hot tears fell upon her face,
for he was now suffering bitterly for all his neglect and unkindness to
his gentle little wife.
"O Louis, I have always loved you so much, so very much!" she said,
clinging more closely to him, and gazing into his face with an intensity
painful to witness, then smiling sweetly, she closed her eyes and all
was over. The others retired from the room, and Louis was left alone
with his dead wife, and had yet to learn the fate of his child.
During the time that elapsed before the funeral, Isabel carefully
avoided meeting him, and hoped that he had not noticed her on the
morning of his arrival. But just as he was about to leave, after that
had taken place, and she was congratulating herself for having managed
so nicely, a message was brought her that Dr. Taschereau wished to see
her before he went. Though annoyed, Isabel did not see how she could
very well refuse, so complied with the best grace she could. She found
him in the sitting room, looking very pale. "I could not leave, Miss
Leicester," he said, "without thanking you for your kindness to my wife.
I had no right to expect it."
"I merely did my duty, and do not require any thanks."
"I would ask one question," he continued, with a strong effort to be
calm. "Was my little girl dead when first taken up?"
"Quite dead," she answered.
"It is a bitter trial," he resumed, "I loved my child unutterably; the
blow seems to have crushed me, I have no longer any interest in
anything, I have nothing left, nothing!"
Isabel was silent, she was thinking of the time when she had nothing
left but him, and he had deserted her. And now it was the child he
grieved for and not his dear little wife. His treatment of her, had
always appeared to Isabel as his greatest fault, and her indignation was
aroused as she saw, or thought she saw, that he did not feel her loss as
he ought to have done. "I cannot but think," she said, "that the blow
was sent in mercy to her, in whose future there could only be pain,
weariness and silent suffering, and had she alone been taken, I can see
that you would soon have got over it."
"You have no idea of the agony and remorse I have endured or you would
not be so severe; you think because you know that I did not love my wife
as I should, that I do not feel her loss, but you are mistaken, her
angel gentleness and patience seem forever to upbraid me for my neglect
and unkindness." And unable any longer to control his feelings, he laid
his head on the table, while heavy sobs convulsed his frame. His
passions were strong, and it was something fearful to witness the
violence of his anguish. Isabel could not see his deep grief unmoved,
yet dared not attempt to comfort him. Oh how she had wronged him; how
keenly he felt his loss. She would not leave him, and yet she did not
wish to stay, and turned away to hide her emotion. When he grew more
composed, he advanced towards her saying, "It is getting late, Miss
Leicester, once more I thank you for all your kindness."
"Do not think any more of my cruel words." said Isabel, the tears
streaming from her eyes.
"Then you do not withhold your sympathy, even from me," he returned,
offering his hand.
"How can I," she replied, taking, though reluctantly, the offered hand.
"I am very sorry for you."
"Good news, Isabel, good news!" cried Alice coming in shortly after with
an open letter in her hand. "Everard is out of danger, and is recovering
rapidly, so we can soon come home, Mamma says."
"That is indeed good news," replied Isabel, who was really anxious to
get the children home, as the late events had cast a gloom over all.
Little Amy had more than once asked if Everard would die like the poor
lady, and all three had cried very bitterly about the pretty little girl
that was killed.
In three weeks more they were back at Elm Grove.
Everard was on the terrace to welcome them. He seemed very glad to see
them again, but his manner towards Isabel was changed, he was cordial
and kind, but still there was a difference. There was something
inexplicable, and shall we say that it pained her. Why did she on
retiring to her own room, shed bitter, bitter tears? She could scarcely
have told, had you asked her, but so it was.
Now that Everard had resolved to turn his thoughts from Isabel more
resolutely than ever, as it was useless any longer to indulge the hope
of one day possessing her, and had determined upon becoming a divinity
student, and as soon as possible be ordained and go as a missionary to
some distant land, and there amid new scenes and duties forget his dream
of happiness. Isabel found that she was not indifferent regarding
Everard, and often drew comparisons between her old love and the
would-be missionary, much to the disparagement of the former, and
thought that he was unnecessarily strict with regard to the forbidden
subject. Confess now, Isabel, do you not fancy since your return, that
he has discovered the alteration in your feelings and is paying you in
your own coin? Believing this, and thinking also, that he has ceased to
care for you, is there not a coolness gradually springing up between
you? Oh, Isabel, why did you on the night before he returned to college,
throw his favorite song into the fire, saying that you were tired of
that old thing, and did not think that you would ever sing it again?
Were you not watching him when he took one step forward as if to save
it, then turned away, the color mounting to his cheek and the veins of
his forehead swelling? Oh, Isabel would you not gladly, gladly have sung
it all the time if he had only asked you in the old way? Ah, it will be
a long, long time before he will ask you again. You did more than you
intended when you burnt that song. When at his father's request you
sang, did he not instantly leave the room? Yes; and confess, Isabel,
that you could with difficulty conceal your vexation. Did you not long
to sing it with all your heart, and bring him back again? Oh, what a
farce to burn that music; and yet, when he did return, did you not show
him more coolness than you had ever done before?