“World, world, oh! world,
But that thy strange mutations make us tremble,
Life would not yield to age.”
_King Lear._
Leicester called in Park Lane early the following day; but Mr. Osborne
was out, and as the restrictions regarding secresy were still in
force, his visit was only moderate in its duration. He fancied Mrs.
Osborne looked grave as she sat, a mute, impassive spectator, with
him and her daughter; but Violet was in her gayest spirits. She made
him tell her all his sisters had said, and half archly, half shyly
alluding to his old reproofs for her attentions, asked his leave to
be a good sister to them in the future. He had never seen her more
fascinating, and yet that wayward thing, the human heart, his human
heart, was not satisfied. That timid, trusting softness of the previous
day was not there; she was herself; bright, kind, feeling, thoughtful;
but self-possessed and confident. He knew that she was all to _him_;
he could not feel that _he_ was all to _her_. He went to his usual
business with a weight upon his spirits, he could neither explain nor
understand.
In the course of the day Albert visited him, and asked him with a look
of great uneasiness if he had seen Mr. Osborne. Leicester replied in
the negative. Albert looked about him as if to make sure there was no
listener, and then told him that he was afraid there was something
wrong in the bank. He hardly knew what, or to what extent, or what
would be the event if such a thing happened as a run on the bank;
but he heard it was likely, and some said the bank would close the
following day.
Leicester thought of Mr. Osborne’s strange looks and words, and
felt that it was true; nay, was scarcely startled, so much had the
oppression on his spirits prepared him for some impending evil. But he
thought of Violet, and trembled.
Albert left him, enjoining silence, and promising to bring him
intelligence after he had been to Park Lane.
“I don’t believe it myself,” he said, as he left the room, “it would be
much too bad to be true. Poor Violet! it would kill _her_--that I know.”
Albert’s news when he returned was not good, although he had nothing to
tell. He was certain Mrs. Osborne was very anxious about something, but
when he asked her if she was ill, she had replied “Oh! no” much more
shortly than was common to her. But Albert’s own mind had been diverted
by hearing from Violet, whom he had not seen the night before, of her
engagement. He congratulated Leicester with all his heart, and told him
that in his opinion it was Violet who ought to be congratulated. He had
told her so, and she had fully agreed.
A night and a morning passed by in wearing anxiety, and then the blow
fell. It was known far and wide that Mr. Osborne was ruined. The bank
in which he was a partner had closed. Such things have been too common
to need many words.
There had been during the autumn a time of great pressure in the
commercial world; but this bank, one of long standing and excellent
repute, had weathered the storm. It was now, when the sky was clearing,
that the unexpected blow fell. It is only as regards the actors in this
tale that the circumstances must be recalled.
Mr. Osborne met the crisis with a resignation that was half-Christian,
half-philosophical, and wholly manly. When, after the first panic, it
was found that there had been no rash doings among the more efficient
partners (Mr. Osborne had always been more devoted to every other man’s
business than to his own); that the funds were nearly sufficient to
meet the demands, and that beyond those who naturally must bear the
brunt of the day, the sufferers would be few, he evinced a composure
and judgment which commanded the respect and confidence of all parties.
He was a man of strict integrity and an honourable mind, and disgrace
would have overwhelmed him. Relieved from this dread, he prepared
himself to bear his misfortune with courage. One thought only unmanned
him, and that was his daughter.
Mrs. Osborne never had any thoughts of herself. She sympathised with
her husband and child in their troubles as she had done in their joys,
and, so sympathising, had hardly time to realise the greatness of the
change, to them or to herself. She went from one to the other, with her
soft words and soothing manner, and was miserable only in their grief.
But Violet.... the resignation shown by her parents was not to be found
in her. She was at first stunned by the violence of the shock, and when
she realised what had befallen her, every moment added fuel to the
anguish of her feelings. In prosperity she had been a spoiled child,
unspoilt; unselfish, dutiful, generous, and thoughtful; but adversity
came, and found her unprepared, and she fell.
Let none harshly judge her. There are many unknown lands on earth, and
those of mental trial are as unsounded by the inexperienced as the
pathless sea, or the untrodden desert. We may wonder at the faltering
steps of others, as they climb some hill of difficulty, or wade through
some slough of despond; but until we have walked in the same path,
we cannot tell that ours would be stronger. Violet had been shielded
not only from every breath of trial, but even from the fancy of such a
breath. A too fond love and cherishing care had averted not from her
eyes only, but her thoughts, every picture of the instability of mortal
things. She had heard of want and poverty coming to others suddenly
like an armed man; but that there were dangers of such mutability in
her lot had been hidden from her eyes. As men of this generation had
heard of wars and rumours of wars, but knew not till war in its horror
was amongst them what was the meaning of the word, so Violet had heard
of the changes of mortal life, but thought not of them till they came
upon _her_.
She behaved unlike herself, and most unlike a heroine. Self-possession,
confidence, hopefulness were gone; and, as a child, whose eyes have no
power to look beyond the present, abandons itself to childish grief, so
the present anguish blinded her eyes, dulled her powers of mind, and
overwhelmed her.
In the first shock of her grief, she begged her mother to write a note
to Leicester, telling him she was incapable of seeing him, and desiring
him to leave her to herself.
Such a message was no surprise to him, and he obeyed it. He knew that
she was all to him, but he knew he was not all to her. She would
have shared prosperity with him, but he was not that friend who was
sufficient for her in adversity. He knew it, felt it, and his love
shrank backwards into his heart.
The first two days Violet passed on her bed. Excess of agitation and
bitter weeping affected her body as well as her mind, and she lay
speechless and immoveable. Her mother hung over her, and kissed and
bathed her burning forehead, and murmured her soft words of comfort;
but Violet would not be comforted; would not, because her sense of
wretchedness made words of common comfort hateful to her. Had some
strong man stood by her bedside, and startled her by pointing out the
sinfulness and selfishness of her conduct, she would probably have
risen up abashed and ashamed; but her mother’s gentle truisms and
tender sympathy did not reach her ear. She felt a misery beyond their
comfort; a load of grief none knew but herself. It was the loss of
_all_ to her; _all_ that made life happy. She might be ashamed to say
it in words, but she felt it in her burning, beating heart.
On the third day the body began to revive, and the restless mind could
no longer be confined to one place. She was forced to move about,
to creep about the house she no longer dared to look upon; and once
roused, the future began to force itself upon her thoughts. There _was_
a future, and she must decide what that future should be.
In the dusk of the day she was sitting absorbed in gloomy thought, when
her mother approached her and kissed her.
“How are you now, darling?” she said gently.
Violet sighed and made no answer.
Mrs. Osborne put her cool hand on her forehead.
“It burns still, dear,” she said softly; “had you not better lie down
again?”
“No, mamma. I can’t lie down any more, my head is well enough. I must
think now. Think,” she repeated despondingly.
“I think, dearest, we must see Mr. Leicester soon, must we not?” Mrs.
Osborne said soothingly. “Albert says....”
“Albert does not know. It must be left to me,” she replied petulantly.
“Yes, dear, not till you are quite able, but we must think of him when
you can.”
Violet sighed deeply but made no inquiry and no reply.
Her mother stood timidly by her for a moment, and then held a note
before her eyes.
“He has written to you, dearest, but there is no need to trouble
yourself to answer it at present. No one is waiting.”
A glow, not a blush, but a glow of agitation flushed her face. She took
the note quickly and looked at it, then laid it beside her, and sat
again absorbed in her gloomy thoughts.
Mrs. Osborne sighed, and turned away. Violet had never named Leicester,
except to request his absence; but she had hoped thus to rouse her to
life again.
Violet heard her mother sigh, and her heart smote her. She rose
suddenly, ran after her, and, putting her arms round her, exclaimed,
“Oh! mamma, I am a curse to you, and not a comfort; but you should
have taught me better things; you should not have suffered me to put my
whole happiness in this world’s goods.”
“You do not, dearest,” said her mother softly; “you are too noble for
that. The shock has startled you, but it is but for a short time; and
then, with youth, and hope, and love, you will be happy again.”
Violet shook her head and returned to her place and her meditations.
After a time she took up Leicester’s letter, and inspected it. She
seemed to shrink from reading it, and it was only with an effort that
at last it was read. When she had done she laid it down with a sigh of
relief.
The letter contained only these few words:--
“I have not intruded upon you, and will not till I have your
permission. I can imagine what you feel. If in any way I can be of
use to Mr. Osborne, need I say that I am at his command? God bless
you!
“JOHN LEICESTER.”
It was not much for a first love letter; it was cold and constrained
enough; but Leicester had read Violet truly, and dared approach no
nearer; cold though it might be, she was comforted by it.
Before she left the room she went to her mother and said,
“I will see Mr. Leicester, mamma.”
“That is right, dear, for he will expect it. When shall it be? Will you
write to him?”
“No, mamma, you must write. Say I will see him soon. He shall hear
when. Very soon--as soon as I feel able.”
Violet would have been indeed unlike herself if her own self had long
absorbed her. She was already beginning to awake, and before many hours
she had completely awakened. That night the change in her father’s face
attracted her attention. For the first time since the shock, she sat
with her father and mother and Albert alone, like their own selves; no
change as yet, except in the grave, sad faces. Her father lay back in
his usual chair, with his eyes closed; Violet saw he was not sleeping,
and once she saw a single tear roll down his cheek. It was dashed off
instantly, with a furtive glance at her, and she guessed that _she_
had caused that tear. The sight brought hope and comfort with it; she
had something yet to live for--something yet to do; and a gleam of
brightness flashed over the future, and diffused vigour and courage
into her body and mind. She went to bed early, for she was in want of
rest; and when she wished her father “good night,” she spoke some of
the thoughts that occupied her.
“My dearest papa, I have been a bad daughter to you,” she said, twice
kissing his brow; “you have cared for me, and I have had little care
for you. But now we must change, and you must let me comfort you. I
_will_ be a comfort to you, and we will still be happy!”
Poor Mr. Osborne was broken down by her words; he tried to smile and
speak, but in vain, and could only softly pat her hand, and kiss her
again and again.
Albert followed her out of the room, with tears in his eyes.
“I say, Violet,” he said, catching hold of her, “you all make me so
wretched I could cry like a baby. What’s come to the world, I wonder,
to have all this misery in it?”
Violet sighed again, and from her soul. The momentary hope had
disappeared, and she saw only the gloom around her.
“It is as bad for you as for us, Albert,” she said at last; “I am very
sorry for you.”
“Never mind me. I must exert myself, that is all; but it is as
miserable a business as ever I heard of in my life. And, Violet, that
poor Leicester, when....”
“Leave him to me,” she said, with sharpness; “I will not be dictated
to.”
“I don’t want to dictate. I only say, don’t try the poor fellow more
than he can bear. He is as unhappy as we are, Violet.”
“He need not be,” she said, coldly; “good night, dear Albert. I wonder
if your head aches as mine does; or if there are many poor heads in the
world that seem to have live coals within them, as mine has.”
“A good many, I dare say, if all came to be known,” he said, gravely;
“but good night, Violet, and sleep if you can, for you make my heart
ache.”