CHAPTER XI.
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.