CONSEQUENCES.
From the deep grief into which the death of her brother, to whom she
was fondly attached, had plunged the mind of Eveline, she was aroused
by a sudden suspicion of the defection of her lover. There was a
change, not to be mistaken, in his manner, and his visits were far less
frequent. Pride, native independence, and a feeling of indignation, all
arose, and lent their aid to sustain her; but, actively as they exerted
their influence, they were not effective in calming the wild pulsations
of a wounded heart; for Eveline truly loved the faithless Pascal. At
last, and before any suspicion of the real cause of his estrangement
had come to the maiden’s mind, the lover ceased to visit her altogether.
Nearly a month had elapsed since he had called to see Eveline, and she
was in a state of tremulous doubt and anxiety. She had been out on a
short visit to a friend--the first time she had been in the street for
a week--when, in returning home, her eyes suddenly fell upon Pascal a
short distance in advance of her. He was approaching. The heart of
Eveline gave a sudden strong bound, and then fluttered in her bosom. At
the instant she saw the young man, his eyes met hers. She continued to
look at him as they drew near, but his eyes turned from her face, and
fixed themselves upon some object beyond. He passed without noticing
her.
Eveline felt, for a few moments, as if she would suffocate. It required
her utmost efforts and presence of mind to keep from losing command
of herself in the street. She had walked on a few squares farther,
when the face of a young lady friend, to whom she was much attached,
presented itself among the passengers on the side-walk. Eveline paused,
and was about speaking, when the young lady nodded coldly and passed
on. Another friend whom she met, appeared under restraint as she
exchanged greetings with her, and then, after a few brief inquiries as
to how she was and had been, moved away.
Not less surprised than pained was Eveline at these unlooked-for marks
of estrangement in old friends. On arriving at home, she ran up into
her chamber, and, after closing the door and laying off her bonnet,
threw herself upon a bed and gave way to a violent burst of grief.
In the midst of this wild excitement of feeling, Eunice came in, and,
seeing the agitation of her sister, inquired, with much concern,
the cause. A more passionate gush of tears was the only answer she
received. After the mind of Eveline had, in a measure, grown calm, she
said, in reply to the affectionate inquiries of Eunice,
“I met Henry in the street, and he did not speak to me.”
“He could not have seen you, sister,” replied Eunice, in an earnest
voice; “I am sure he could not.”
“And I am sure he did, for he looked me in the face.” And the tears
of Eveline flowed afresh. “He has not been to the house for a month.
Something is wrong. I met Mary Grant, and she, instead of stopping
with her usual pleasant smile, nodded coldly and passed on. I also
saw Adelaide Winters, who merely paused a moment, and spoke in a very
distant way. What can it all mean, Eunie? I am sure there must be some
dreadful story told about me, or why would my friends treat me so
distantly, and Henry, above all things, refuse to know me?”
And again the maiden wept bitterly.
“Whatever evil judgment there may be of you, Evie,” said Eunice, with
great tenderness, drawing her arm around the neck of Eveline as she
spoke, “is a false judgment. And however painful the consequences may
be, you have, in the conscious innocence of any wrong, that to sustain
you which will keep your head above the waters. If Henry’s trust in
you be so poorly based, that it can be blown away by a breath of
detraction--if he be so ready to believe an evil report against you--he
never could have really known you or truly loved you, and, therefore,
is himself not worthy the pure love of your heart. It may cost you a
severe struggle to do so, but, Evie, give him up! Erase his image from
your heart. Pardon me for saying now, what I have always thought, that
Henry Pascal is not worthy of you.”
Eveline started at this, with an indignant expression on her face
and word on her tongue; but she checked herself as she met the calm,
truthful, loving eyes of her sister fixed earnestly upon her.
“I have uttered what was in my heart, Evie. That my impression has been
as I have said, I cannot help. Of the truth of it, I have not a doubt.
To speak out as I feel, and yet as the sister who loves you truly, I
will go farther, and say, that I am glad of almost any circumstance
that would try his affection for you, and more glad that he has turned
away coldly from one he was not capable of loving as she deserved.
Time, Evie, will prove you the truth of what I now say.”
The language of Eunice completely bewildered the mind of Eveline. It
was so strange and so unexpected. She knew not what reply to make.
“All will come out right in the end, Evie,” pursued Eunice. “Trust in
that, sister, and trust in it implicitly. As Mr. Carlton showed so
beautifully last Sunday, there is not the smallest circumstance of our
lives that is not in some way connected with our future, and which the
future will not show to be a link in a progressive series of causes,
all tending to bring out some good result. If Henry has suffered his
mind to be estranged from you, no matter what may be the cause, depend
upon it that it is for the best. This you will one day see. Be brave,
then, dear Evie, to meet the present danger; and let the reflection,
that whatever occurs, whether joyous or grievous, is under the Divine
permission, support you in the trial.”
The head of Eveline sunk upon the breast of her sister, and her tears
continued to flow; but the deep agitation of her bosom had subsided. An
hour after, and she was calm; but her face was pale, and the marks of
suffering were upon it. She was still alone with her sister. They had
been sitting silent for some time, when Eveline said--
“I am distressed in doubt of the cause of this sudden change manifested
toward me. What can it mean, Eunice? Something dreadful has been said
about me.”
“It may be nothing about you, in particular, sister.”
“About all of us? What can be said about all of us?”
The eyes of Eunice grew dim as she replied--
“Have you noticed how distressed father has looked for some time?”
“Yes, ever since we heard of brother’s death.”
“But there is another cause besides that for his distress of mind,
Evie; I am sure of it. Grief for even those most tenderly beloved,
is softened by time, but father looks more troubled every day.
_Troubled_--yes, that is the word. It is not grief that bows him down,
sister, depend upon it, but trouble.”
“Trouble? What can he have to trouble him?”
“Much, I fear. You know the United States Bank failed a few months ago,
and that ever since much has been said in the papers about the terrible
destruction in private fortunes that it occasioned. Do you know that I
have been impressed, ever since that event, with the idea that father
has sustained a heavy loss?”
“What could have put that into your head, Eunie?” asked Eveline.
“I will tell you. A good while ago, I remember hearing father say to a
gentleman with whom he was talking, that he believed he would retire
from business and invest every dollar he had in the stock of the United
States Bank, which he considered the safest security in the country.
You know he has given up business; and is it not more than probable
that he has done what he then proposed to do?”
“You frighten me, sister!” exclaimed Eveline, the expression of her
face not belieing her words. “Do you think he has lost every thing?”
“I know nothing about it, Eveline. I only state my fears, for which I
think there are too good grounds. Ever since the failure of the Bank,
this has been in my mind, although I have never breathed it before.
Carefully, since that time, have I read all that has been said about
the Bank, and particularly noticed the price at which the stock has
sold. It is now down to twenty cents a share, the par value of which
is one hundred dollars. If father really did own much of this stock,
and has kept it until now, in hope of a better price, you can see how
heavily he must have lost. And if he still holds on to it, and the
price still keeps going down, he may lose nearly every dollar he is
worth.”
“Dreadful! What will become of us all?”
With a meek, patient, humble expression of face, Eunice raised her eyes
and said, in a low, earnest voice--
“The Lord will provide.”
Then, with a look of encouragement, and even a smile upon her lips, she
added--
“Let us not think of ourselves, sister, but of our father. Let us seek
to lighten this heavy burden, if it should, indeed, be laid upon his
shoulder.”
“How are we to do that, Eunice?”
“In many ways. If father’s circumstances should really be so greatly
reduced, as I have been led to fear, we will have to change our style
of living, for the present style cannot be maintained, except at a
heavy expense. This change he will be compelled to make in the end, but
may delay it long beyond a prudent time in dread of shocking us with a
knowledge of what has occurred. Let us, then, the moment we are sure
that things are as I have been led to fear, ourselves with cheerfulness
propose and insist upon the change, and it will take from his mind more
than half the pain the reverse has occasioned. Let us, in this and in
every other way, help him to bear up; and, above all things, let us
be cheerful, so that home may be the sweetest place to him in all the
earth. Evie, we may have a sacred duty to perform toward our parents;
let us perform it with brave hearts and cheerful countenances.”
“I stand rebuked, dear sister!” said Eveline, tenderly kissing Eunice.
“You are younger, but oh! how much better and wiser. You shall guide
me. Only show the way, and I will walk bravely by your side. Yes, it
may all be as you say, and the world may know it, while we yet remain
in ignorance. And this may be the reason why lover and friend have
grown cold!”
Eveline’s voice trembled on the last sentence.
“Neither lover nor friend deserve the name, if such a change can chill
their hearts’ warm impulses,” returned Eunice, with some emphasis in
her voice.
The idea suggested by Eunice, took strong hold of the mind of Eveline,
and helped to sustain her under the deep trial the defection of her
lover compelled her to bear. Both observed their father more closely
than either had done before, and the observation confirmed, rather than
weakened, the conclusions to which Eunice had come. It was plain that
something more than the death of their brother preyed upon his mind.
The silent, gloomy, troubled state into which he had fallen, was as
unaccountable to Mrs. Townsend as to Eveline and Eunice, and even more
so; for the idea that had occurred to the mind of the latter, had never
crossed hers, as was plain from her replies to their questions on the
subject.
Anxiously did the daughters wait for some occurrence that would reveal
to them the truth in regard to their father, resolute in their minds
to stand up bravely by his side, let what would come, and forget
themselves in their efforts to sustain him. They were not kept long in
suspense.