Chapter IX: “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.