"You, Isabel dear!" cried Laura one day, as the visitor whom she had
looked upon as a sister was shown into the room.
"Yes, dear, I felt obliged to come. Don't, pray don't be ashamed of me
and think me weak," pleaded the poor girl, as they embraced and then sat
down together upon the couch.
"How can you say such things!" cried Laura, warmly, as she passed her
arm about her friend's waist.
"Because I feel that I deserve it, dear. I know how weak and foolish I
am. I have been watching for an hour till I saw him go out."
"You have been watching, Bel?"
"Yes, dear; from a brougham with the blinds partly drawn down. We are
in town now. Papa says I must have a change, and we are staying here
for a few days before they take me over to Paris. Laura dear, I was
obliged to come. Don't betray me, please, to anyone. They would be so
angry if they knew, and say that I was shameless. I suppose I am, dear,
but I hope you can sympathise with me a little."
"Not a little, Bel dear," cried Laura, warmly, and Isabel flung her arms
about her friend's neck, buried her face in her breast and sobbed
violently for a few minutes before she raised her thin white face and
said quite calmly, with a piteous smile on her lip--
"There, I told you how weak I was. I feel so much better now. I would
have given anything for days and days to cry like that, but I could not.
My head has been hot, and my brain seemed dry and burnt up. Now I can
talk. But tell me, is--is he likely to come back?"
"No," said Laura, shaking her head. "He will not be back till night,
and even if he did return he would not come here, but go straight to his
room and shut himself in."
"Has--has he told you anything?"
"No, dear; he hardly ever speaks either to me or aunt. He did say that
he was kept away to attend an important patient."
"Yes, yes, of course. That must be it."
Laura was silent. Aunt Grace had sown a seed in her heart which had
begun to grow rapidly, in spite of her sisterly efforts to check it as a
noxious weed.
"Well, why don't you speak?" cried the visitor, sharply.
"Because I have nothing to say."
Isabel flushed up, and Laura stared at her, wondering whether this was
the placid, gentle girl whom she had known so long.
"Then why have you nothing to say?" cried Isabel, angrily. "He is your
brother, and if all the world is turning against him, is it not your
duty to defend--to try and find excuses for his conduct?"
"Isabel!"
"Well, I mean what I say. It is quite enough that I turn against him
and that everything between us is at an end. I hate him now, for he has
used me cruelly, and it seems to have changed my nature; but I cannot
forget the past, and would not be malignant and cruel too."
Laura took the hand that was resigned to her, and the pair sat in
silence for some minutes.
Isabel's lips moved several times, as if she were about to speak, but no
words came, till, with a desperate effort, she said in a husky whisper--
"Have you seen her, Laura?"
"I? No!" cried the girl, who was startled by the question.
"But you know she is beautiful, and rich, and aristocratic?"
"I only know what aunt has said, dear; but if she were the most
beautiful woman that ever breathed, it is no excuse for Fred treating
you as he did."
"I don't know," said Isabel, sadly. "He is wise and clever, while I
have often felt that it was more than I could expect for a man like him
to care for me, so simple and homely as I am."
"Fred ought to have been only too proud to have won such a girl," cried
Laura, sharply, but her visitor shook her head.
"It was only a brief fancy of his, dear, and as soon as the right woman
came across his path he forgot me. Well, I am patient if I am not
proud, for I cannot resent it, dear, only try to bear it, for I loved
him very dearly; but it is very hard for the little romance of one's
poor homely life to be so soon brought to an end."
"It was cruel--cruel in the extreme," cried Laura, angrily. "I would
not have believed that my brother, whom I almost worshipped, could have
behaved so ill."
"These things are a mystery," said Isabel, gently; "and perhaps it is
better that it should have happened now than later on when we were
married. But tell me about him, dear. Has he settled down to seeing
his patients again? You wrote to me saying that he was neglecting
everything."
"So he is, nearly everything, now. Bel dear, I will not be so hard upon
him any more. You must be right, that he cannot help himself, or he
would never have behaved so ill. He must be mad."
Isabel clung to her with a startled look in her eyes.
"It is the only way in which I can account for the change," continued
Laura, "for I will not believe what Aunt Grace says, that all men are
bad at heart. If they are, women must be as wicked too."
Isabel shivered slightly.
"Tell me about what he does now."
"I can't, dear," cried Laura, piteously. "I seem to know so little.
Only that he goes out soon after breakfast, and does not come back till
dinner-time, and so wet sometimes that he must have been walking about
the streets for hours."
Isabel sighed.
"I've tried--oh, how I've tried!--to win his confidence; but he says
nothing, only turns away, and goes out. It is just as if he had lost
something of which he is always in search, and every day he grows more
moody and strange."
"Then he is ill--mentally ill," cried Isabel, excitedly. "I knew that
there must be some excuse for his strange behaviour. Laura dear, my
heart has misgiven me from the first. It is all so directly opposed to
his nature and character. I will not believe that he could be so false
to everything that he has said to me."
Laura was silent again, and Isabel's careworn face flushed once more.
"You are not sisterly and true," she cried. "The world is censorious
enough without those who are nearest and dearest to us turning away and
becoming our enemies."
"I am not Fred's enemy, Bel," said Laura, gently.
"Then why are you so hard against him?"
"Because I feel that by his conduct he has put us all to shame."
"Yes, all to shame--all to shame, my dear," cried Aunt Grace, who had
entered the room unnoticed. "It's a wicked, wicked world; but it's very
good of you to come and see us, my dear, heart-broken as we are. You
have come to stop a few days, of course?"
"I? Oh, no no, no. We are staying in town," said Isabel, hurriedly,
"and I must go directly."
"I am sorry to hear that," said Aunt Grace in rather an offended tone.
"I did not think you would turn away from us in our trouble, Isabel; I
thought better of you."
"I turn away from you and Laura, Aunt Grace? Oh no, no, no."
"I'm glad to hear it, my dear, because if you would stay we should be
very glad."
"Oh, auntie!" whispered Laura, "impossible."
"It is not impossible, Laura," cried the old lady; "and I beg that you
will not interfere. Isabel, my child, I shall be very glad indeed if
you will stay, and you need not be at all afraid of meeting that
dissolute, dissipated young man."
"Mrs Crane"--began Isabel, agitatedly, but she was interrupted at once.
"No, no, no, my dear; pray don't apologise and make excuses. Laura and
I would be very pleased, and we see nothing whatever of Frederick now
from breakfast-time to dinner. I don't know where he spends his days,
but he is after no good."
"Aunt dear, I really must interfere once more," cried Laura, warmly.
"It is, as I said, impossible for Isabel to stoop to meet Fred again;
and as to staying in the house--my dear aunt, of what can you be
thinking?"
"That we are beginning to live in evil times, Laura," cried the old
lady, indignantly, "when little girls so far forget the respect due to
their elders as to speak as you did just now. I ought to be the best
judge, miss, of what is correct, if you please."
"Pray say no more, Mrs Crane," cried Isabel, earnestly. "I must go
back to the hotel where we are staying. It would indeed be impossible
for me to visit here now."
"Oh, very well, my dear, very well," cried the old lady, drawing herself
up. "I can see very plainly that you have allowed yourself to be
impressed by what Laura has said. Young people will hold together, and
think that they are wiser than their elders. There is one comfort,
though, for us old folk: you all find out your mistake."
"Good-bye, dear Mrs Crane," said Isabel, advancing with open hands.
"Good-day, Miss Lee," said the old lady, frigidly, as she held out her
fingers limply.
But Isabel did not take them. She laid her hands upon her shoulders,
and, with tears in her eyes, kissed her affectionately twice.
There was magic in the touch, for in an instant she was snatched to the
old lady's breast and kissed passionately again and again.
"Oh, my dear, my dear!" was sobbed; "I didn't think I was such an
ill-tempered, wicked old woman. Pray, pray forgive me. I don't know
what comes to me sometimes. And you in such sorrow and pain! Oh, that
wicked, miserable, faithless boy! Something will come upon him some day
like a judgment."
"Oh no, no, no!" cried Isabel, wildly. "Don't--pray don't say that."
"But I have said it, my dear. Ah, well, I won't think it, then, any
more, for I don't see what greater judgment could fall upon him than
losing you."
Isabel could not trust herself to speak, but hurried out of the room and
downstairs with Laura.
"Don't speak to me, dear; let me go now," whispered the poor girl,
faintly. "I am weak and ill, and can bear no more now. I ought not to
have come, but the impulse was too strong. Good-bye, dear sister,
good-bye!"
The two girls were locked in a loving embrace, and then, with Isabel
turning sick with dread, they sprang apart, for there was the rattle of
a latch-key at the door, it was thrown open, and Chester strode in.
He stood for a few moments aghast, as he saw Isabel recoil from him.
Then, drawing down her veil, she tottered out, and was half-way to the
brougham, drawn up by the kerb, before he recollected himself and sprang
after her to open the door and try to hand her in. But she shrank from
him as if in dread, and gathering her veil closely over her white, drawn
face, she sank back in the carriage, and her betrothed stood gazing
after her as she was rapidly driven away.