THAT VOICE
Isabel and her mother were jubilant over the result of Lady Peasewell’s
drawing-room.
The occasion had been one of signal triumph for the former, for she had
been universally declared the belle of the evening—the reigning star in
all that brilliant company.
Not so much indeed on account of her superior beauty—for she could lay
no claim to beauty of features—as her stately presence, fascinating
address, and her rich and elegant attire.
Sir Charles Randal had undoubtedly been deeply impressed, for after his
introduction to her he had scarce left her side during the remainder of
the evening.
He called the next day, and the next he came to escort her to Buckingham
Palace, the queen and her retinue being absent, and he having obtained
passes to visit that royal residence so fraught with historic interest.
These incidents led to a more intimate acquaintance, until the young
baronet became her almost constant attendant at the opera and other
places of amusement, and it soon grew to be common talk that the fair
American was likely to win him for a husband.
Isabel’s heart often turned longingly toward Adrian Dredmond, for she
had been deeply touched by him. He was her ideal of manly excellence and
nobility, but she knew how useless was that longing, for that look of
scorn which he had given her at Lady Peasewell’s told her but too
plainly how heartily he despised her.
She had met him since at a number of places of amusement, but he never
asked her to dance, or noticed her presence save by a grave, cool bow,
and the involuntary curling of his handsome lips; so she turned the
battery of her charms upon the baronet, and with much better success.
Sir Charles was accounted a very fine young man, and a great catch, for
he, too, was very rich; so that Mrs. Coolidge spread her motherly wings,
ruffled her most gorgeous plumage, and made much of him, feeling
immensely gratified at her daughter’s evident conquest, although no
proposals had as yet been made.
Two months passed thus; the search for Brownie had been given up by Mr.
Coolidge, who could not gain the vestige of a clew that, despairing of
obtaining a situation in exclusive and aristocratic old England, she had
returned to her native land, hoping to be more successful there.
What to do with her property was a puzzle to him, and he was greatly
troubled on account of it, but he could only lock it carefully away,
hoping some time in the future to see her and return it.
Isabel had been successful in returning the gems she had worn to the
casket without his knowledge, and emboldened by her good luck, she
continued, from time to time, to abstract some of them to garnish her
ravishing toilets. At length her triumph was complete.
Sir Charles proposed and was accepted, and great was the rejoicing
thereof.
His mother at first was somewhat troubled at the idea of his marrying
out of his own country—she had hoped he would choose some one from the
nobility; but as she was eager to multiply his worldly possessions, and
she had heard such accounts of Mr. Coolidge’s fabulous wealth, she
consented as gracefully as possible, and the contract was finally
concluded to the satisfaction of all parties.
Mr. Coolidge, who could not fail to honor the young man, told Isabel
that she was getting a husband much too good for her, unless she mended
her ways in the future, and it certainly seemed as if she had adopted
his advice, for she became so amiable, apparently, that she excited the
admiration of all for the time.
Lady Randal was a widow.
At the death of her husband she had been left with two sons, one
fifteen, the other, which was Sir Charles, ten.
The elder died in just a year after his father, so that the younger came
into the title and property.
There had been a prospect two years after Sir Charles’ birth of another
addition to the family, but Lady Randal was traveling upon the Continent
at the time of its birth, and remained away a year after the event
occurred; therefore it occasioned scarce any remark when it was reported
that there was no child after all.
When, after her return to England, a friend ventured to speak of her
disappointment, Lady Randal had put her black-bordered handkerchief to
her eyes, and remarked that “it was so hard to lose one’s children,” and
there the matter dropped.
Not more than a week after the engagement between Sir Charles and Isabel
was announced, Mr. Coolidge was suddenly recalled to New York upon
important and unforeseen business.
His partner telegraphed for his immediate return, and he departed in
great haste, having only a few hours in which to make his preparation
and catch the steamer. And in his haste he forgot to take with him, as
he had intended, Miss Douglas’ casket of jewels.
As soon as Lady Randal knew of his departure, she sent a polite note,
containing an invitation, to Mrs. Coolidge and her family, to spend a
month with them at their country seat, as they were about departing for
a season from town.
This was exceedingly flattering to the Coolidges, and the last of
February found them domiciled at “Vallingham Hall,” near the ancient and
beautiful town of West Malling, Kent County; all but Wilbur, who, still
heart-sore and filled with anxiety upon Brownie’s account, resolved to
try to lose himself in a trip to Switzerland and the Alps.
Lady Randal and her servants preceded her guests by a week to the Hall,
leaving Sir Charles behind to escort their visitors, so that upon their
arrival everything was in readiness for them, and they received a most
cordial welcome.
Vallingham Hall was a handsome, though rather an ancient-looking
structure, built partly of brick and partly of stone. The central
portion seemed much older than the rest, a couple of wings and other
additions having evidently been built on at different times. It had
mullioned windows, and wide, massive doors, which gave it a grand and
imposing appearance. The beautiful ivy, green and luxuriant, which
clambered upon its sides to the very top of some of its turrets, gave it
also a picturesqueness which made it charming to every one, and more
than one artist, enamored of its beauty, had reproduced it upon canvas.
About a mile from the Hall, and standing within the limits of its park,
there was a charming little villa of quite modern structure, and having
such an air of comfort and cosiness about it that tempted the beholder
to seek an entrance and obtain a glimpse within, wondering if the inside
were as attractive as the outside.
Vallingham Hall was already gay with company when the Coolidges arrived,
and more was expected the following week.
Sir Charles’ courtship seemed to be of the most blissful nature, at
least to two persons.
Isabel was brilliant from her conquest, and rendered herself so
fascinating to everybody that the young man was nearly overwhelmed with
congratulations at having won so bonny and wealthy a bride, although
among some of the high-born damsels, who were husband-hunting for
themselves, there was now and then the curl of a red lip, and murmur of
scorn about “plebian blood.”
Lady Randal, ignoring caste entirely, was always eulogizing Isabel’s
“elegant manners, and her exquisite taste in dress,” and promising
herself “so much happiness with a daughter, which she had always wanted,
but never had.”
Mrs. Coolidge spared neither labor nor expense for her eldest, and her
wardrobe was the most _recherché_ of anything to be seen among all the
visitors at the Hall, while the jewels which she wore were a marvel to
every one, and helped to swell the reports of her vast wealth.
When she found that her father had departed without taking them with
him, she was delighted, and appropriated them without a scruple, and, as
time wore away, she began to look upon them as almost belonging to her.
It must be confessed that she stood a little bit in awe of her high-born
lover.
It did not take her long to discover that he was actuated only by the
loftiest sentiments.
His manner was as courteous to a servant or an inferior as to an equal,
and he never stopped to consider the position of any one when granting a
favor.
The beggar or the peer was befriended with equal kindness.
Open and frank himself, he could not tolerate deception or hypocrisy in
any one, and a deliberate wrong incurred his deepest displeasure.
Of course, the haughty and selfish girl could feel no sympathy with any
such sentiments so foreign to her own nature, but having once learned
Sir Charles’s idiosyncracies, and being extremely anxious to share his
coronet and plethoric purse, she exerted herself to the utmost to blind
his eyes, and, to all outward appearance, she became a most earnest
advocate of all his philanthropic schemes, much to his satisfaction, and
the secret contempt and amusement of Viola and Alma, who neglected no
opportunity when alone with their sister to torment her about it.
One evening Sir Charles invited her to walk over a portion of the estate
with him, and unfolded to her his plans for beautifying it, and of
improving the condition and comfort of his tenantry.
She strove to listen attentively, and appear interested in it all, but
it was hard work, and although she was exceedingly kind and gracious to
all whom she met, and won for herself high encomiums for her sweetness
among his people, yet her heart was not in it, and she was immensely
relieved when they turned their steps homeward.
On their way they had to pass the villa before described.
Just before reaching it, Sir Charles had called her attention to a
lovely view.
They stood silent for several minutes enjoying it, when suddenly a few
rich chords, struck upon a fine-toned piano, saluted their ears, and
then a voice of ravishing sweetness and power burst forth into joyous
song.
Isabel started at the sound as if a wasp had stung her.
“Who is that?” she demanded, her face flushing with a sudden thought and
fear.
“It comes from yonder villa. Did it startle you?” asked Sir Charles,
regarding her disturbed manner with some surprise.
“A little—it was so quiet before.”
“I think it very fine,” he replied, stopping to listen again to the
clear, beautiful tones.
“Who lives there?” Isabel asked, an anxious expression on her face.
“Lady Ruxley, an aged aunt of my mother’s.”
“Indeed! I thought she resided with you,” she said, wondering why a lady
of such high degree should be living in what appeared to her such
limited quarters.
She had heard of Lady Ruxley before, and knew that it was from her Sir
Charles was to inherit a large amount of his property.
She had never met her, although she was quite curious about her, having
heard much about her peculiarities.
“Lady Ruxley always makes her home with us while we are in town, but
when we come to Vallingham Hall she prefers to be by herself, and a few
years since she had this villa built, so as to escape the gayety and
confusion which always reign there,” Sir Charles explained.
“Does she live alone?” Isabel queried, with a thoughtful look.
“She has never had any one but her servants, until within the past few
years she has had a companion to read to and amuse her. She is quite
old.”
“Ah, then it must be her companion who is singing now,” and she leaned
eagerly forward to listen again. “Who is she?” she asked, somewhat
sharply, when after a moment the sweet singer suddenly ceased.
“I really do not remember the name—some unfortunate individual, I
believe, who met with an accident, enlisted Aunt Ruxley’s sympathies,
and she insisted upon having her as a companion. I have never seen her.
Indeed,” he added, smiling, “my time has been so fully occupied in
another direction lately that I have not paid much attention to other
people’s affairs,” and Sir Charles bestowed a fond look upon his
betrothed, which called the bright color to her cheeks, and the smile to
her lips again.
She asked no more questions, and they remained a few moments longer
gazing into the valley; then, as the sun sank out of sight, and the air
began to grow keener, they turned their faces homeward.
As they passed the villa they caught a glimpse of an old woman bent
nearly double with age, hobbling into the house from the vine-covered
porch.
She was leaning upon the arm of a slender, graceful figure, who seemed
to be clad in deep mourning, the sight of which made Isabel Coolidge’s
heart bound again with a sudden fear, and she bent forward for a better
view.
She could not distinguish the person clearly, for the shadow of the
vines about the door made it impossible, but a nameless dread of
something, she knew not what, pursued her the entire evening, which
neither the gay company at the Hall nor her lover’s fondest words could
make her forget.