Chapter XII

“The wise and active conquer difficulties
By daring to attempt them.”

_Rowe._

Leicester went about his business during these days of uncertainty and trial, and listened to his sisters’ wants and wishes as usual; but there was a devouring fire within him. The pangs of wounded love tortured him; Violet had become all to him, and he was nothing to her. Nor was this all; the future was in every way a place of uncertainty and dread. He had taken on himself new relations, in the confidence that they in no way opposed his duty to his sisters, and _now_ opposition had arisen. Love, if it was to be successful, warred with duty.

In vain he walked alone and meditated, in vain he sat alone and meditated; in his uncertainty regarding Violet’s feelings for him, he could come to no conclusion. In vain his sisters’ eyes--some compassionately, some curiously, some anxiously--rested upon him; he could not speak, for he had nothing to tell. He was Violet’s betrothed husband, but he was shut out like a stranger.

It was a want of spirit, some may say, to be thus shut out; a lover of spirit would have forced his way in, in spite of displeasure; but to force his way was not in Leicester’s nature. He had his pride--it was wounded pride that was torturing him now--but he was too humble, too distrustful of his claims, to press a claim that was not acknowledged.

On the fourth evening after the change of circumstances, having dined with his sisters, he left them early, unable to endure the turmoil of his thoughts in their society.

“I am not very good company just now,” he said, smiling kindly; “but you will be good-natured enough to excuse me.”

He nodded a good night, and closed the door quickly, to shut out any reply.

“This is a very disagreeable state of things,” Jessie remarked, with fretfulness. “If we knew what it was all about, I should not mind; but it is a dreadful nuisance to have a person looking as John does, and not to know what it means.”

“I am sure I was unhappy enough when I thought John was going to be married,” Margaret said, leaning her head on her hands; “and now I would give the world to have that day back again. How one’s feelings do change in this world! It is enough to teach one never to fret about things.”

“I feel like you, Margaret,” said Henrietta; “I lay awake then thinking how dull we should be; and now I should be quite glad to have the dulness. However a marriage is to be managed now, I can’t conceive! People cannot live on air, however much in love they may be.”

“It must require very great management, certainly,” said Marian; “and I should not fancy that Miss Osborne was fit for that.”

“I hate the Osbornes,” Margaret said suddenly with flashing eyes. “They do not treat John as he ought to be treated; that is, Miss Osborne does not. When a woman has gone and gained a man’s whole heart she ought to feel it a great responsibility, and not treat it like a light thing. I know John has not been considered, for I am sure he would tell us if he knew anything; and I know he has not seen her, because I asked him to-day; he tried to answer, ‘Not yet,’ as if it was natural; but I saw his poor face, how it looked!”

“But, my dear Margaret,” Rachel said gently, “you should consider Miss Osborne too. It would be a dreadful thing if _we_ were ruined; I dare say we hardly know what we should do; but to Miss Osborne, who has been more like a princess than anything else, it must be far worse. No doubt she is too bewildered to know how she acts.”

“If I was ruined a thousand times over,” Margaret replied undauntedly, “I should feel for the man who cared for me.”

“And so should I,” said Jessie. “I should remember that I had got love left to comfort me, and then I should not so much care about money.”

Margaret looked very fierce at this _fade_ repetition of her sentiment, but being really unhappy about Leicester, allowed it to pass without a strife.

That night, when all her sisters were gone to their rooms, Rachel softly opened her door, and watched for Leicester. Henrietta and Jessie had a room on the drawing-room floor, preferring to be together; Rachel, Marian and, Margaret had rooms on the second floor, and Leicester had a large room on the floor (that was not an attic) above. When he came home, and went up with heavy strides to his room, she crept after him. But it was so unusual a thing to do, that she paused breathlessly outside his closed door, and was still breathless, when she timidly and almost noiselessly knocked and entered.

He was standing by the fire, leaning his arms on the low chimney-piece, already in an attitude of thought; but he turned quickly round and said,

“Is that you, Rachel? Do you want anything?”

“Yes,” she replied, still breathless with the effort of putting herself forward; “I am come because I want to speak to you.”

“Then speak,” he said kindly. “There,” and he put her into a chair near the fire, “will that do? What is it, dear Rachel? Do you want my advice, or help, or what?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head and recovering herself at the tone of the kind friendly voice. “_I_ do not want advice; I want to give it.”

The kind friendly look vanished, and a grave shadow came in its place.

“Is it me you wish to advise?” he asked. “I do not want advice. I do not need it.”

“I am not sure,” she replied again, breathless. “I think you do.”

“In what way? Speak out, dear Rachel. I am very willing to hear.”

“I do not think you consider us and our wishes enough,” she said hurriedly. “You like to give up all to us, and you do not consider that we may wish to give up to you. You have lived for us all your life long, and you do not remember that now we should be and are willing to live for you. You do not mean it, dear John, but it is unjust and unkind.”

“My dear Rachel,” he said, turning gravely towards her from the fireplace, and fixing his eyes on her excited face, “what would you have me do?”

“Marry!” she exclaimed, the word escaping with strange force from her lips. “I think I see what thoughts are troubling you. I know that worldly cares are pressing on you; but let me speak for once. Do not let thoughts for us disturb you. Make a home for _her_; for them all, if you will. It may not be a rich one, but it will be a home; and if that home must make us poorer, do not grudge to let us, for once, and for a time, do what you have been doing all your life. We may have something to give up, but trust us, me and all, that it will be the happiest day of our lives to do it.”

He stooped and silently kissed her, without a word of thanks.

“You may be right, dear Rachel,” was all his reply; “and if it should be right, though it might break my heart I will not forget what you have said.”

She thanked him, and then wishing him good night, stole from the room, and softly crept down stairs. But softly as her visit had been effected, it had not escaped the ears of her sisters, and before she reached her own door every door was thrown open, and Jessie, in a white dressing-gown, was half up stairs, to see what the matter was.

“What has happened, Rachel?” asked Marian. “Has John anything to communicate?”

“Oh! do tell us, do tell us!” cried Jessie, flying up higher, followed by Henrietta in the distance. “Is Miss Osborne coming to live with us? or has she had a legacy? or is it all come straight? or has it all gone wrong? and don’t John mean to marry? or....”

“There is nothing,” Rachel said hurriedly. “I know nothing.”

“Then what were you doing at this time of night?” asked Marian.

“There is a mystery! I know there is a mystery!” cried Jessie. “We heard you go up to his room; didn’t we, Henrietta? and we know you have been talking together; and we _must_ know what he says; we have a right to know what he says. We are all his sisters quite as much as you.”

“Now, Jessie, have done,” said Margaret, stepping forward. Perhaps in the hope of something being betrayed, she had hitherto stood silent. “I will not have Rachel pestered.”

“You have no business to interfere; has she Marian?” Jessie said.

“Yes, I have. It is my business to see justice done in this house. Is it not a shame to think that one sister cannot speak to her brother without being set upon in this way? We had all much better go to bed.”

“But I know you were watching till Rachel came down, Margaret; because I heard your door open very soon after she went up.”

After saying this, Henrietta retired to her room.

Margaret coloured, and said, quickly:

“It is a good thing that I do keep watch, or I believe Rachel would have been eaten up. And now, good night.”

She stood with a look of defiance at her door, till every sister slowly glided away and disappeared.