“My heart is sair for somebody.”
_Scotch Song._
But a blow was awaiting Violet, a blow which had never so much as cast
its shadow on the mirror of her fancy.
When Leicester returned from the business in Yorkshire, on which he
had been engaged, he, acting according to the expression in the letter
to Marian, put away the memory of the past, and resumed his old life
with his sisters. He summoned a considerable degree of cheerfulness,
dined at home frequently, and acted as _chaperon_ whenever his services
were required. Some of his sisters were deceived by the tranquillity of
his manner. Talking over the events of the past year, about two months
after the separation of their brother and Violet, Jessie, in the course
of conversation, observed:
“I never was more surprised than I am at the way John bears it. I
thought he would have been miserable. I thought his heart would have
been broken.”
“John is too sensible to break his heart for what is worthless,”
Margaret said quickly, for she had not forgiven Violet.
“Ah! but, Margaret, then it was not love--not real love,” and Jessie
became very sentimental. “People don’t think of that when they are
truly in love. And besides, Miss Osborne was very pretty, and it is not
her fault that she lost her money.”
“You goose!” replied her sister, shortly, but she said no more.
“For once I must own I agree with Jessie,” observed Marian. “I am
surprised, very much surprised, at the way in which John has borne it.
I certainly thought he would have taken it more to heart.”
“He has taken it to heart quite enough,” said Henrietta. “He has not
been the same man since it happened, and I begin to think he never
will.”
All her sisters looked at her, and Jessie said:
“Oh! Henrietta, what! what do you see?”
“I see that he is a great deal too quiet and patient. If I could once
see him put out as he _sometimes_ used to be; if I could see him
annoyed at your folly, Jessie, or teased at Margaret’s attentions, I
should have some hope; but he has no spirit left in him. His heart may
not be broken, but it has somehow or other been bruised, or wounded, or
crushed, or whatever the proper and not the sentimental word would be.
He never _has_ been like himself since the very first night he saw her.”
“I said that!” cried Jessie triumphantly; “I said then it was love at
first sight, and you would not believe me; but I knew I was right.”
“Is it true, do you think, Rachel?” Margaret said, stealing to Rachel’s
room shortly afterwards. “Do you think Henrietta is right about John?”
Rachel nodded.
“I hoped he was getting over it. I hoped his spirit was roused, as mine
would have been.”
Rachel shook her head.
“Oh! that Miss Osborne!” and Margaret clenched her fist. “What has she
not to answer for?”
“The worst is over now, Margaret,” Rachel said. “Do not let us talk of
it. I cannot bear to speak even to you of John’s feelings; they seem
to me too sacred for discussion. I only see that, as Henrietta said,
his heart is wounded and sore, and that as yet little has been done
towards healing it. But the worst is past.”
“You think so really?”
“I do indeed. He is busier than he has ever yet been; and business is
everything for a man, and _everything_ for him. I don’t at all despair
of seeing cheerfulness, real cheerfulness, return.”
About a week after this conversation, Leicester one night dined at
home with his sisters, and remained at home during the evening. He was
grave, and abstracted, and, unlike his usual practice, made no efforts
to rouse himself. On more than one occasion, when eagerly appealed to
as umpire in their feminine disputes, he, instead of half-playfully,
half-satirically, as was his custom, appeasing the strife, smiled
faintly, begged their pardon, and owned that his mind had wandered.
The sisters looked at each other, but asked no question.
After dinner he pulled a pamphlet from his pocket and read for an hour
or two, without any apology, or any attempt to make himself agreeable.
The shadow of his gravity fell on all, and each sister worked, or read,
or wrote in silence. But again without remark on his part; without the
usual considerate speech, that, though he was busy, he could assure
them their conversation was no interruption to his studies.
An hour or two had passed without other sound than the clicking of
Henrietta’s pen, the fall of Margaret’s scissors, and two yawns from
Jessie, when Leicester suddenly looked at the clock, saw it was past
half-past ten, restored the pamphlet to his pocket, rose and stood
with his back to the fire.
All looked up at him; there was a general feeling that something was
coming, and when, in a hesitating voice, he said, “I have something to
say to you all,” each sister felt that they had been prepared for some
momentous event. All remained silent, but every eye rested upon him
inquiringly.
“An offer has been made to me to-day, the offer of an appointment, a
judgeship. I have two days allowed me to think it over;”--he paused;
then slowly added, “it is in India.”
There was a faint scream from Marian, Henrietta, and Jessie. Margaret
and Rachel sat with open eyes and lips apart, but made no sound.
“I startle you,” he gently said, looking round; and then again there
was a silence.
It was broken by Marian. She was ashamed of her scream, and, anxious to
redeem her character, now asked quietly, “Is it a good thing?”
“Yes, very good, far beyond my expectations or my deserts.”
“That I deny,” Henrietta observed, also anxious to efface the memory of
her scream. “How came it to be offered?”
“I do not know. Some kind friend must have suggested my name.”
There was another silence, and then Margaret spoke. “You wish to accept
it, John?”
A faint flush tinted his cheek. All saw it as he stood full in the
lamp-light. “If it concerned only myself,” he replied steadily, “I
certainly should wish to take it, but I am in your hands. What concerns
me, concerns you also.”
“I know why you wish to go,” said Jessie in a tearful voice; “it is all
Miss Osborne’s fault.”
The faint flush deepened to a purple glow, and an expression as if
a wound fretted and sore had been rudely touched, contracted his
countenance for a moment; but when he spoke it was gently.
“I believe you are right, Jessie. I have not been happy of late,
and I would forget if I could. Am I selfish in this?” Though gently
spoken, it was with such evident effect, that there was a hasty answer
“No--no,” from all, to relieve him.
“But you must understand,” he continued quickly, “that I leave it in
your hands to decide. Will you talk it over to-night and to-morrow; and
to-morrow night tell me what answer I shall give.”
“We cannot till we know more,” said Marian. “I do not understand. Are
we to go with you, or to be left behind?”
“I am not so selfish as to propose to drag you from your home,” he
replied hastily; “I trust there is no need. With this addition to our
income, you and I can equally live in comfort; and after a few years I
shall hope to return to you.”
“You will not return to me, John!” cried Margaret, rising from her
seat, and approaching him. “If you go, I go with you!”
He smiled, and stroked her head as she stood beside him.
“Thanks, dear Margaret; but I will have no hasty speeches. Think it
well over, and decide as is best for your happiness. Good night.”
After saying good night, he moved so rapidly, that he had left the room
before another word was said.
When the door closed there was another silence. Each sister looked
oppressed with thought. At last Margaret spoke again:
“Why did you not all speak?” she inquired. “Do you mean to let him go
alone?”
“I did not think it needed words,” Rachel replied in a husky voice.
“John knows that he is all the world to me.”
And it was true. Rachel had given no look, nor signed a sign, but John
did know that her mind was made up, and that she was, even at that
moment, ready to accompany him.
“I did not speak, because I was not ready to speak,” said Henrietta.
“You must own, Margaret, it is a startling proposal. Half an hour ago
we thought we were all happy and comfortable for life in England, and
here is a plan for removing us from friends, and acquaintances, and
habits, and all we care for.”
“Henrietta is right,” observed Marian. “It requires thought.”
“I never can leave friends and acquaintance, and all I care for,”
cried Jessie tearfully. “I must say I think it is unkind of John.”
“Unkind!” cried Margaret, as if she would have murdered her.
“I don’t mean unkind, but only very thoughtless, and very unlike John.
It is all Miss Osborne, I know, and I hate her!”
“If you ever again mention Miss Osborne to John,” observed Henrietta,
“I shall turn you out of my room, and then what shall you do?”
“I think you are all very unkind to me,” cried poor Jessie; “you have
never liked me since the day I said John was in love with Miss Osborne;
but I was right all the while.”
The sisters were too much occupied with other and weighty thoughts to
attend to Jessie and her grievances, and Henrietta and Marian, with
occasional words from the others, proceeded to discuss the _pros_ and
_cons_ of the question. No decision was then made, but in the course of
the night each came in her secret cogitations to the same issue: they
would all go with John. When Marian and Henrietta had thus resolved,
Jessie gave in her adhesion at once.
“It will be very disagreeable and a dreadful nuisance to leave all we
care for,” she said; “but I suppose we shall come back some day, and at
any rate India will be quite a new place to see.”
Leicester, wishing his sisters to make an unbiassed decision, left the
house before breakfast the following morning. When he returned to
dinner, the announcement was made.
Whether in his secret heart the universal acceptance was welcome was
a question which even his secret thoughts were not allowed to debate.
That which was offered with affectionate devotion, with affectionate
gratitude, was accepted; and the point was debated no more. He gave his
answer on the following day, and the change of prospects became known
to all the friends of the family; as some impatience on the subject was
also expressed, preparations for an early departure were immediately
begun.