Chapter XI

“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.”