"Isabel, you said something about going home this week; now I have
settled that for you. I wrote to mamma, saying that you were going to
stay until after the ordination, and then we would all return together."
"I declare those children will get quite unmanageable with such long
holidays. When will the ordination be?"
"The beginning of next month."
"Dreadful! I do not think that Mrs. Arlington will consent."
"Oh, yes, she will. What a state Everard is getting into about that
ordination!" she continued, "and I am nearly as bad. I suppose we shall
all go to see it."
"I shall not," said Isabel.
"Why not?" asked Emily.
"I had rather not."
"What a strange girl you are! I wouldn't miss it for the world. He will
be so vexed, too."
"Why should he?"
"Of course he will."
Isabel protested that she would not go; but for all that, when the time
came, she could not resist the desire to be present, even at the risk of
being thought changeable. She went, after the rest, and from her corner
saw the whole. From where she sat she had a full view of his
face--grave, earnest, calm, evidently feeling how much was implied in
the ordination vows. As she returned before the others, they were quite
unaware that she had been there, and she, little hypocrite, listened
gravely to all Emily's descriptions.
In the evening Isabel walked on the lawn in the pale moon's silvery
beams, musing of all that had taken place that day, and thinking how
very happy Everard must feel to-night. Suddenly that gentleman accosted
her: "Why did you refuse to be present at the ordination to-day?" he
asked. Isabel was silent. "How is it," he continued, "that while others
were so anxious, you manifested no interest at all? It is, to say the
least, unkind."
"You may be sure that I wish you all prosperity in your new vocation,"
she said. "I would have said so before, had I thought you wished or
expected it."
"I did not expect," he said, almost angrily, "such a calm expression of
a cold regard; I wished and expected kindly sympathy, if nothing more."
"As you think I should say more, accept my sincere wishes for your
happiness; and believe me when I say that the lot which you have chosen
is, in my estimation, the highest to which man can aspire, and may your
labors be blessed with abundant success."
"Your kind wishes, though so reluctantly expressed, are not least
valued," he returned, warmly. "But, Isabel, you say that you wish my
happiness. My happiness, as I told you long ago, rests with you. Here I
can refer to the old subject without breaking my promise, and I cannot
leave for my distant mission without making one more appeal. Listen to
me patiently for a few minutes. You seemed to adhere so strictly to what
you said, that I considered it my duty to give you up; but it was a duty
that, with all my endeavors, I was unable to perform. I sought relief in
study--hard, excessive study--almost night and day. You know how that
ended. My mother left me much to you, and your kindness only made
matters worse. Afterwards, when you were away, I determined on the
course I am now pursuing, and I persuaded myself that my heart was in
the work, and so it is, but it is not yours the less. What I endure is
almost insupportable--it is too hard. Often I have been obliged to
appear cold and variable to conceal my real feelings, and you have
despised me for it. I have seen it, Isabel. To-night I determined to
seek you, and plead my cause once more; and though you have received me
with indifference, even coldly, I still hope that beneath this reserve
there may be some warmer feeling. "Tell me dearest," he continued, "will
you not love me? Oh, Isabel, must I go alone?" She was silent. Then for
an instant her eyes met his, and the love and happiness in that one
glance fully satisfied him, and he clasped her passionately in his arms.
"You loved me all the time, Isabel," he whispered, "only from a mistaken
sense of your duty you refused me when I first spoke of my love."
"Oh, no, I did not love you then; I esteemed you very much, but I was
engaged to another." Then she told what is already known to the reader.
"And his name?" he asked.
"Louis Taschereau."
"Tell me: did the thought that I loved you tend to soften the blow, when
you found how unworthy he was?"
Isabel was very truthful; she could not deceive him, even though those
beautiful eyes were fixed upon her in earnest expectation. As we have
said, she was very truthful, so answered, "I cannot flatter you so much,
Everard; it afforded me no comfort whatever. Indeed I never thought of
it, except when some kind attention on your part reminded me of the
fact, and then the thought only caused me pain."
He looked disappointed. "No," she added, "it was not until long after,
that your worth and uniform kindness won my heart."
They lingered on the lawn until the chill night air warned them not to
remain there any longer. Entering the music-room by the window, they
found Emily waiting for them. "Oh, here you are at last; Harry had to go
out, and I've been all alone this half hour." Then, starting up, she
seized a hand of each, exclaiming "You need not tell me, I see how it
is; I am so glad, so very glad."
"I saw you at the ordination this morning," said Charley Elliott, who
came in during the evening, addressing Isabel, "only you were in such a
fearful hurry to get away that I did not get a chance to speak."
"Then you must have very good eyes, Mr. Elliott, as Isabel was not
there," cried Emily, laughing.
"I beg your pardon," he returned.
"I was there," said Isabel quietly, though she colored hotly.
"You were?" exclaimed Everard, evidently well satisfied.
"I declare you--are--a queer girl," said Emily, opening her blue eyes
very wide, "I'm afraid you have not the bump of firmness."
"I knew you would think me changeable, but after you had all gone I
began to think I should like to see it, so I followed. But I certainly
did not see you, Charley."
"On, no, I was very sure that you saw no one but the candidates,"
returned Charley, laughing. "Indeed you looked so solemn and earnest,
one would almost suppose that you were one of them."
"Is it true," asked Harry, on his return, "that you have agreed to start
for Madagascar next month?"
"Quite true," returned Everard, coolly.
"I protest against it," said Harry. "And so do I," added Emily; while
Charley shrugged his shoulders, and Isabel laughed.
Emily was terribly anxious for Charley to depart, as she longed to tell
Harry the news; which news, when Emily told it, Harry received with
unmistakable satisfaction, saying he couldn't see why Everard should not
settle down comfortably near home, instead of going to such an
out-of-the-way place.
The following week they all started for Elm Grove, and when, on their
arrival Mrs. Arlington took both her hands and kissed her
affectionately, Isabel knew that the news of their engagement had
preceded them. They had a delightful evening, Mrs. Arlington being in a
most gracious humor. Mr. Arlington shook Isabel so heartily by the hand
that it ached for hours afterward. Emily was in the most exuberant
spirits; Everard's happiness, from its very depth, was of a more quiet
nature; while Harry was as merry and joyous as his wife; and Isabel, in
her own sweet way, had a kind look and word for all.
On entering the school-room, next morning, Isabel found little Amy
sitting upon the floor, her head buried in the sofa cushion, sobbing as
if her heart would break, her little form quivering with the violence of
her emotion.
"What is the matter, Amy dear?" asked Isabel, taking the trembling child
in her arms. But Amy could not speak; she only clung to Isabel, and
sobbed more bitterly than before. Isabel sat down with Amy on her knee,
stroking the shining hair until the child should be more composed. After
a time, when the violence of her grief had a little abated, Isabel
kissed her and inquired the cause of her tears.
"Rose says that you are going to Madagascar with Everard, and perhaps I
shall never see you any more," she managed to blurt out amid her sobs.
"You ought not to go, for I am sure I love you more than he does. I told
him so this morning, but he only laughed and said I didn't; but I do,
and I think it is very unkind of him to take you away. We know lots of
young ladies; I'm sure he might marry some one else, and not take my
darling Isabel to nasty Madagascar. Oh, Isabel, you must not go. Oh,
please! please!" she said, coaxingly. "Oh, won't you please tell him
that you have changed your mind, and would rather stay with us?"
"Oh, but you know I promised, Amy."
"But you shan't go; tell him you won't; there's a dear, kind pet," and
she threw her arms round Isabel's neck.
"But don't you think that it is very selfish of little Amy to wish that
her brother should go alone to that far country, when she will have
papa, mamma, and sisters?"
"Oh! I wish you didn't love him one bit, and then you would stay with
us."
"Hush! Amy dear, you mustn't talk so."
"But I can't help wishing it, and I told Everard so, and that I hoped
you would change your mind. Then he said that it was very wicked of me
to wish that; and he put me off his knee so quick, and walked out of the
room looking so angry--no, not angry, exactly, but as if he thought,
perhaps, you might."
"But, Amy, if you loved any one very much, would you like it if that
person didn't love you one bit?"
"No," said Amy, thoughtfully.
"Then is it doing as you would be done by to wish such unkind and
selfish things?"
"I did not think of that," replied Amy, resting her head on Isabel's
shoulder, "but it seems as if you did not love me, to go away to
Madagascar," she added, sadly.
"Oh, Amy dear, I love you very much," said Isabel, the tears gathering
in her eyes, "and it grieves me to part from you."
"And then we shall have another horrid governess, like Miss Manning, and
the days will all be long and miserable, like the long, long, weary day
that Emily used to sing about. And what will become of all our nice
Sundays?"
"Poor little Amy!" said Isabel, parting back the shining curls from the
sorrowful little face, and looking into the violet eyes that were fixed
upon her so earnestly. "You must not think that I would leave you
without first trying to fill my place with one who would love you and
try to make you happy. Now, if you will stop crying, I will tell you
about the young lady who, I hope, will be your governess. She is a very
dear friend of mine, and I trust you will all be very kind to her, and
love her very much. Her name is Gertrude Hartley." Alice and Rose now
entered the school-room, and gave a very warm welcome to Isabel. "Please
go on about Gertrude Hartley," pleaded Amy. Then Isabel told them how
Gertrude had gone as a governess to a family who lived far back in the
country, miles away from any church, and how, by her endeavors, a small
but pretty one had been erected, where service was held once a month.
But Gertrude had grown tired of the country, and was anxious to obtain
another situation. "She will come to see you next week, and I am sure
you will like her. And you know you can often talk about me, for she
knows me very well. I shall write you nice long letters about that
strange country, and I shall often think of my dear little sisters, for
you will be my sisters then, you know."
"I did not think of that," said Amy, smiling.
"Oh, Isabel, I'm so sorry that you are going away. Don't you think you
could persuade Everard to give up being a missionary? I'm certain he
could have Attwood Church if he liked, because Dr. Herbert once asked
him if he would like it. Please do, because it would be so nice."
"What! and leave those heathen people still in ignorance of God? My
little Rose does not think what she is wishing that Everard would give
up. No, I could not wish him to do so, much less persuade him."
"But he might get some one else to go," replied Rose.
"No, Rose, we must each perform our own duties."
"You mean that it would be like putting your hand to the plow and
looking back?"
"Exactly so," replied Isabel.
"I did not think of it in that way, so you must not be angry with me."
"I was not angry, dear, only I wanted to show you that your wish was a
wrong one. What does Alice think about it?"
"I think," replied Alice, "that he ought to go, and I am very glad that
you are going with him, for you are so nice and so good that I am sure
the little heathen children will listen to what you say, because you
have such a nice way of telling things. Of course I am very sorry to
lose you, but I mean to think of the good your going will be for other
people, and how nice it is for Everard, and then I shall not care about
it so much."
"It gives me great pleasure to hear you say this, and I think that Alie
can no longer be called selfish. Believe me, dear children, that the
surest way to forget our own troubles is to find pleasure in the benefit
and happiness of others."
Everard Arlington was about to enter by the window, but paused a moment
to contemplate the group before him. On a large ottoman sat Isabel, with
Amy on her knee, one arm encircling Alice, who was standing thoughtfully
by her side, her head resting on Isabel's shoulder, while behind was
Rose, half smiles, half tears.
"Oh, Everard!" cried Amy, "I won't say again that I hope Isabel will not
go with you. But she says that it is not naughty to be sorry. You are
not angry with me now?" she inquired, looking wistfully into his face.
"No, my little Amy," he replied, smoothing the glossy curls, as he
stooped as if to kiss her, but he didn't kiss Amy.