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+Project Gutenberg's Olive, by Dinah Maria Craik, (AKA Dinah Maria Mulock)
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Olive
+       A Novel
+
+Author: Dinah Maria Craik, (AKA Dinah Maria Mulock)
+
+Illustrator: G. Bowers
+
+Release Date: July 23, 2007 [EBook #22121]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVE ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+OLIVE
+
+A NOVEL
+
+BY DINAH MARIA CRAIK, AKA: Dinah Maria Mulock
+
+"BY THE AUTHOR OF
+'JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN'"
+
+WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. BOWERS
+
+
+1875
+
+
+FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1850.
+
+[Illustration: Frontispiece]
+
+[Illustration: Titlepage]
+
+
+
+
+OLIVE.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+
+"Puir wee lassie, ye hae a waesome welcome to a waesome warld!"
+
+Such was the first greeting ever received by my heroine, Olive Rothesay.
+However, she would be then entitled neither a heroine nor even "Olive
+Rothesay," being a small nameless concretion of humanity, in colour and
+consistency strongly resembling the "red earth," whence was taken the
+father of all nations. No foreshadowing of the coming life brightened
+her purple, pinched-up, withered face, which, as in all new-born
+children, bore such a ridiculous likeness to extreme old age. No tone
+of the all-expressive human voice thrilled through the unconscious wail
+that was her first utterance, and in her wide-open meaningless eyes
+had never dawned the beautiful human soul. There she lay, as you and
+I, reader, with all our compeers, lay once-a helpless lump of breathing
+flesh, faintly stirred by animal life, and scarce at all by that
+inner life which we call spirit. And, if we thus look back, half in
+compassion, half in humiliation, at our infantile likeness-may it not be
+that in the world to come some who in this world bore an outward image
+poor, mean, and degraded, will cast a glance of equal pity on
+their well-remembered olden selves, now transfigured into beautiful
+immortality?
+
+I seem to be wandering from my Olive Rothesay; but time will show the
+contrary. Poor little spirit! newly come to earth, who knows whether
+that "waesome welcome" may not be a prophecy? The old nurse seemed
+almost to dread this, even while she uttered it, for with superstition
+from which not an "auld wife" in Scotland is altogether free, she
+changed the dolorous croon into a "Gude guide us!" and, pressing the
+babe to her aged breast, bestowed a hearty blessing upon her nursling of
+the second generation--the child of him who was at once her master and
+her foster-son.
+
+"An' wae's me that he's sae far awa', and canna do't himsel. My bonnie
+bairn! Ye're come into the warld without a father's blessing."
+
+Perhaps the good soul's clasp was the tenderer, and her warm heart
+throbbed the warmer to the new-born child, for a passing remembrance of
+her own two fatherless babes, who now slept--as close together, as when,
+"twin-laddies," they had nestled in one mother's bosom--slept beneath
+the wide Atlantic which marks the sea-boy's grave.
+
+Nevertheless, the memory was now grown so dim with years, that it
+vanished the moment the infant waked, and began to cry. Rocking to
+and fro, the nurse tuned her cracked voice to a long-forgotten
+lullaby--something about a "boatie." It was stopped by a hand on her
+shoulder, followed by the approximation of a face which, in its bland
+gravity, bore "M.D." on every line.
+
+"Well, my good---- excuse me, but I forget your name."
+
+"Elspeth, or mair commonly, Elspie Murray. And no an ill name, doctor.
+The Murrays o' Perth were"----
+
+"No doubt--no doubt, Mrs. Elsappy."
+
+"_Elspie_, sir. How daur ye ca' me out o' my name, wi' your unceevil
+English tongue!"
+
+"Well, then, Elspie, or what the deuce you like," said the doctor, vexed
+out of his proprieties. But his rosy face became rosier when he met the
+horrified and sternly reproachful stare of Elspie's keen blue eyes as
+she turned round--a whole volume of sermons expressed in her "Eh, sir?"
+Then she added, quietly,
+
+"I'll thank ye no to speak ill words in the ears o' this puir innocent
+new-born wean. It's no canny."
+
+"Humph!--I suppose I must beg pardon again. I shall never get out what
+I wanted to say--which is, that you must be quiet, my good dame, and
+you must keep Mrs. Rothesay quiet. She is a delicate young creature, you
+know, and must have every possible comfort that she needs."
+
+The doctor glanced round the room as though there was scarce enough
+comfort for his notions of worldly necessity. Yet though not luxurious,
+the antechamber and the room half-revealed beyond it seemed to furnish
+all that could be needed by an individual of moderate fortune and
+desires. And an eye more romantic and poetic than that of the worthy
+medico might have found ample atonement for the want of rich furniture
+within, in the magnificent view without. The windows looked down on a
+lovely champaign, through which the many-winding Forth span its silver
+network, until, vanishing in the distance, a white sparkle here and
+there only showed whither the river wandered. In the distance, the blue
+mountains rose like clouds, marking the horizon. The foreground of this
+landscape was formed by the hill, castle-crowned--than which there is
+none in the world more beautiful or more renowned.
+
+In short, Olive Rothesay shared with many a king and hero the honour of
+her place of nativity. She was born at Stirling.
+
+Perhaps this circumstance of birth has more influence over character
+than many matter-of-fact people would imagine. It is pleasant, in after
+life, to think that we first opened our eyes in a spot famous in the
+world's story, or remarkable for natural beauty. It is sweet to say,
+"Those are _my_ mountains," or "This is _my_ fair valley;" and there
+is a delight almost like that of a child who glories in his noble or
+beautiful parents, in the grand historical pride which links us to
+the place where we were born. So this little morsel of humanity, yet
+unnamed, whom by an allowable prescience we have called Olive, may
+perhaps be somewhat influenced in after life by the fact that her cradle
+was rocked under the shadow of the hill of Stirling, and that the first
+breezes which fanned her baby brow came from the Highland mountains.
+
+But the excellent presiding genius at this interesting advent "cared for
+none of these things." Dr. Jacob Johnson stood at the window with his
+hands in his pockets--to him the wide beautiful world was merely a field
+for the exercise of the medical profession--a place where old women
+died, and children were born. He watched the shadows darkening over
+Ben-Ledi--calculating how much longer he ought in propriety to stay with
+his present patient, and whether he should have time to run home and
+take a cosy dinner and a bottle of port before he was again required.
+
+"Our sweet young patient is doing well, I think, nurse," said he, at
+last, in his most benevolent tones.
+
+"Ye may say that, doctor--ye suld ken."
+
+"I might almost venture to leave her, except that she seems so lonely,
+without friend or nurse, save yourself."
+
+"And wha's the best nurse for Captain Angus Rothesay's wife and bairn,
+but the woman that nursed himsel?" said Elspie, lifting up her tall
+gaunt frame, and for the second time frowning the little doctor into
+confused silence. "An' as for friends, ye suld just be unco glad o' the
+chance that garr'd the leddy bide here, and no amang her ain folk. Else
+there wadna hae been sic a sad welcome for her bonnie bairn. Maybe a
+waur, though," added the woman to herself, with a sigh, as she once more
+half-buried her little nursling in her capacious embrace.
+
+"I have not the slightest doubt of Captain Rothesay's respectability,"
+answered Dr. Johnson. _Respectability_! applied to the scions of
+a family which had had the honour of being nearly extirpated at
+Flodden-field, and again at Pinkie. Had the trusty follower of the
+Rothesays heard the term, she certainly would have been inclined to
+annihilate the presumptuous Englishman. But she was fortunately engaged
+in stilling the cries of the poor infant, who, in return for the pains
+she took in addressing it, began to give full evidence that the weakness
+of its lungs was not at all proportionate to the smallness of its size.
+
+"Crying will do it good. A fine child--a very fine child," observed the
+doctor, as he made ready for his departure, while the nurse proceeded
+in her task, and the heap of white drapery was gradually removed, until
+from beneath it appeared a very--very tiny specimen of babyhood.
+
+"Ye needna trouble yoursel to say what's no' true," was the answer;
+"it's just a bit bairnie--unco sma' An' that's nae wonder, considering
+the puir mither's trouble."
+
+"And the father is gone abroad?"
+
+"Just twa months sin' syne. But eh! doctor, look ye here," suddenly
+cried Elspie, as with her great, brown, but tender hand she was rubbing
+down the delicate spine of the now quieted babe.
+
+"Well--what's the matter now?" said Dr. Johnson rather sulkily, as he
+laid down his hat and gloves, "The child is quite perfect, rather small
+perhaps, but as nice a little girl as ever was seen. It's all right."
+
+"It's no a' richt," cried the nurse, in a tone trembling between anger
+and apprehension. "Doctor, see!"
+
+She pointed with her finger to a slight curve at the upper part of the
+spine, between the shoulder and neck. The doctor's professional anxiety
+was aroused--he came near and examined the little creature, with a
+countenance that grew graver each instant.
+
+"Aweel?" said Elspie, inquiringly.
+
+"I wish I had noticed this before; but it would have been of no use," he
+answered, his bland tones made earnest by real feeling.
+
+"Eh, what?" said the nurse.
+
+"I am sorry to say that the child is _deformed_--slightly so--very
+slightly I hope--but most certainly deformed. Hump-backed."
+
+At this terrible sentence Elspie sank back in her chair. Then she
+started up, clasping the child convulsively, and faced the doctor.
+
+[Illustration: Page 5, How daur ye speak so]
+
+"Ye lee, ye ugly creeping Englisher! How daur ye speak so of ane o' the
+Rothesays,--frae the blude o' whilk cam the tallest men an' the bonniest
+leddies--ne'er a cripple amang them a ---- How daur ye say that my
+master's bairn will be a------. Wae's me! I canna speak the word."
+
+"My poor woman!" mildly said the doctor, "I am really concerned."
+
+"Haud your tongue, ye fule!" muttered Elspie, while she again laid the
+child on her lap, and examined it earnestly for herself. The result
+confirmed all. She wrung her hands, and rocked to and fro, moaning
+aloud.
+
+"Ochone, the wearie day! O my dear master, my bairn, that I nursed on
+my knee! how will ye come back an' see your first-born, the last o' the
+Rothesays, a puir bit crippled lassie!"
+
+A faint call from the inner room startled both doctor and nurse.
+
+"Good heavens!" exclaimed the former. "We must think of the mother.
+Stay--I'll go. She does not, and she must not, know of this. What a
+blessing that I have already told her the child was a fine and perfect
+child. Poor thing, poor thing!" he added passionately, as he hurried to
+his patient leaving Elspie hushed into silence, still mournfully gazing
+on her charge.
+
+It would have been curious to mark the changes in the nurse's face
+during that brief interval. At first it wore a look almost of
+repugnance as she regarded the unconscious child, and then that very
+unconsciousness seemed to awaken her womanly compassion. "Puir hapless
+wean, ye little ken what ye're coming to! Lack o' kinsman's love, and
+lack o' siller, and lack o' beauty. God forgie me--but why did He send
+ye into the waefu' warld at a'?"
+
+It was a question, the nature of which has perplexed theologians,
+philosophers, and metaphysicians, in every age, and will perplex them
+all to the end of time. No wonder, therefore, that it could not be
+solved by the poor simple Scotswoman. But as she stood hushing the
+child to her breast, and looking vacantly out of the window at the far
+mountains which grew golden in the sunset, she was unconsciously soothed
+by the scene, and settled the matter in a way which wiser heads might
+often do with advantage.
+
+"Aweel! He kens best. He made the warld and a' that's in't; and maybe
+He will gie unto this puir wee thing a meek spirit to bear ill-luck. Ane
+must wark, anither suffer. As the minister says, It'll a' come richt at
+last."
+
+Still the babe slept on, the sun sank, and night fell upon the earth.
+And so the morning and evening made the first day of the new existence,
+which was about to be developed, through all the various phases which
+compose that strange and touching mystery--a woman's life.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+
+There is not a more hackneyed subject for poetic enthusiasm than
+that sight--perhaps the loveliest in nature--a young mother with her
+first-born child. And perhaps because it is so lovely, and is ever
+renewed in its beauty, the world never tires of dwelling thereupon.
+
+Any poet, painter, or sculptor, would certainly have raved about Mrs.
+Rothesay, had he seen her in the days of convalescence, sitting at the
+window with her baby on her knee. She furnished that rare sight--and
+one that is becoming rarer as the world grows older--an exquisitely
+beautiful woman. Would there were more of such!--that the idea of
+physical beauty might pass into the heart through the eyes, and bring
+with it the ideal of the soul's perfection, which our senses can
+only thus receive. So great is this influence--so unconsciously do we
+associate the type of spiritual with material beauty, that perhaps the
+world might have been purer and better if its onward progress in what
+it calls civilisation had not so nearly destroyed the fair mould of
+symmetry and loveliness which tradition celebrates.
+
+It would have done any one's heart good only to look at Sybilla
+Rothesay. She was a creature to watch from a distance, and then to go
+away and dream of, wondering whether she were a woman or a spirit. As
+for describing her, it is almost impossible--but let us try.
+
+She was very small in stature and proportions--quite a little fairy. Her
+cheek had the soft peachy hue of girlhood; nay, of very childhood. You
+would never have thought her a mother. She lay back, half-buried in the
+great armchair; and then, suddenly springing up from amidst the cloud of
+white muslins and laces that enveloped her, she showed her young, blithe
+face.
+
+"I will not have that cap, Elspie; I am not an invalid now, and I don't
+choose to be an old matron yet," she said, in a pretty, wilful way,
+as she threw off the ugly ponderous production of her nurse's active
+fingers, and exhibited her beautiful head.
+
+It was, indeed, a beautiful head! exquisite in shape, with masses
+of light-brown hair folded round it. The little rosy ear peeped out,
+forming the commencement of that rare and dainty curve of chin and
+throat, so pleasant to an artist's eye. A beauty to be lingered over
+among all other beauties. Then the delicately outlined mouth, the lips
+folded over in a lovely gravity, that seemed ready each moment to melt
+away into smiles. Her nose--but who would destroy the romance of a
+beautiful woman by such an allusion? Of course, Mrs. Rothesay had a
+nose; but it was so entirely in harmony with the rest of her face,
+that you never thought whether it were Roman, Grecian, or aquiline. Her
+eyes--
+
+     "She has two eyes, so soft and brown--
+     She gives a side-glance and looks down."
+
+But was there a soul in this exquisite form? You never asked--you hardly
+cared! You took the thing for granted; and whether it were so or not,
+you felt that the world, and yourself especially, ought to be thankful
+for having looked at so lovely an image, if only to prove that earth
+still possessed such a thing as ideal beauty; and you forgave all the
+men, in every age, that have run mad for the same. Sometimes, perchance,
+you would pause a moment, to ask if this magic were real, and remember
+the calm holy airs that breathed from the presence of some woman,
+beautiful only in her soul. But then you never would have looked upon
+Sybilla Rothesay as a woman at all--only a flesh-and-blood fairy--a
+Venus de Medici transmuted from the stone.
+
+Perhaps this was the way in which Captain Angus Rothesay contrived to
+fall in love with Sybilla Hyde; until he woke from the dream to find his
+seraph of beauty--a baby-bride, pouting like a vexed child, because,
+in their sudden elopement, she had neither wedding-bonnet nor Brussels
+veil!
+
+And now she was a baby-mother; playing with her infant as, not so very
+long since, she had played with her doll; twisting its tiny fingers, and
+making them close tightly round her own, which were quite as elfin-like,
+comparatively. For Mrs. Rothesay's surpassing beauty included beautiful
+hands and feet; a blessing which Nature--often niggardly in her
+gifts--does not always extend to pretty women, but bestows it on those
+who have infinitely more reason to be thankful for the boon.
+
+"See, nurse Elspie," said Mrs. Rothesay, laughing in her childish way;
+"see how fast the little creature holds my finger! Really, I think a
+baby is a very pretty thing; and it will be so nice to play with until
+Angus comes home."
+
+Elspie turned round from the corner where she sat sewing, and looked
+with a half-suppressed sigh at her master's wife, whose delicate English
+beauty, and quick, ringing English voice, formed such a strong contrast
+to herself, and were so opposed to her own peculiar prejudices. But
+she had learned to love the young creature, nevertheless; and for the
+thousandth time she smothered the half-unconscious thought that Captain
+Angus might have chosen better.
+
+"Children are a blessing frae the Lord, as maybe ye'll see, ane o'
+these days, Mrs. Rothesay," said Elspie, gravely; "ye maun tak' them as
+they're sent, and mak' the best o' them."
+
+Mrs. Rothesay laughed merrily. "Thank you, Elspie, for giving me such a
+solemn speech, just like one of my husband's. To put me in mind of him,
+I suppose. As if there were any need for that! Dear Angus! I wonder
+what he will say to his little daughter when he sees her; the new Miss
+Rothesay, who has come in opposition to the old Miss Rothesay,--ha! ha!"
+
+"The auld Miss Rothesay! She's your husband's aunt," observed Elspie,
+feeling it necessary to stand up for the honour of the family. "Miss
+Flora was a comely leddy ance, as a' the Rothesays were."
+
+"And this Miss Rothesay will be too, I hope, though she is such a
+little brown thing now. But people say that the brownest babies grow the
+fairest in time, eh, nurse?"
+
+"They do say that," replied Elspie, with another and a heavier sigh; as
+she bent closer over her work.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay went on in her blithe chatter. "I half wished for a boy,
+as Captain Rothesay thought it would please his uncle; but that's of
+no consequence. He will be quite satisfied with a girl, and so am I.
+Of course she will be a beauty, my dear little baby!" And with a deeper
+mother-love piercing through her childish pleasure, she bent over the
+infant; then took it up, awkwardly and comically enough, as though it
+were a toy she was afraid of breaking, and rocked it to and fro on her
+breast.
+
+Elspie started up. "Tak' tent, tak' tent! ye'll hurt it, maybe, the puir
+wee----Oh, what was I gaun to say!"
+
+"Don't trouble yourself," said the young mother, with a charming
+assumption of matronly dignity; "I shall hold the baby safe. I know all
+about it."
+
+And she really did succeed in lulling the child to sleep; which was no
+sooner accomplished than she recommenced her pleasant musical chatter,
+partly addressed to her nurse, but chiefly the unconscious overflow of a
+simple nature, which could not conceal a single thought.
+
+"I wonder what I shall call her--the darling! We must not wait until her
+papa comes home. She can't be 'baby' for three years. I shall have to
+decide on her name myself. Oh, what a pity! I, who never could
+decide anything. Poor dear Angus! he does all--he had even to fix
+the wedding-day!" And her musical laugh--another rare charm that she
+possessed--caused Elspie to look round with mingled pity and affection.
+
+"Come, nurse, you can help me, I know. I am puzzling my poor head for
+a name to give this young lady here. It must be a very pretty one. I
+wonder what Angus would like? A family name, perhaps, after one of those
+old Rothesays that you and he make so much of."
+
+"Oh, Mrs. Rothesay! And are ye no proud o' your husband's family?"
+
+"Yes, very proud; especially as I have none of my own. He took me--an
+orphan, without a single tie in the wide world--he took me into his warm
+loving arms"--here herm voice faltered, and a sweet womanly tenderness
+softened her eyes. "God bless my noble husband! I _am_ proud of him, and
+of his people, and of all his race. So come," she added, her childish
+manner reviving, "tell me of the remarkable women in the Rothesay family
+for the last five hundred years--you know all about them, Elspie. Surely
+we'll find one to be a namesake for my baby."
+
+Elspie--pleased and important--began eagerly to relate long traditions
+about the Lady Christina Rothesay, who was a witch, and a great friend
+of "Maister Michael Scott," and how, with spells, she caused her seven
+step-sons to pine away and die; also the lady Isobel, who let her lover
+down from her bower-window with the long strings of her golden hair, and
+how her brother found and slew him;--whence she laid a curse on all the
+line who had golden hair, and such never prospered, but died unmarried
+and young.
+
+"I hope the curse has passed away now," gaily said the young mother,
+"and that the latest scion will not be a golden-tressed damsel. Yet look
+here"--and she touched the soft down beneath her infant's cap, which
+might, by a considerable exercise of imagination, be called hair--"it is
+yellow, you see, Elspie! But I'll not believe your tradition. My child
+shall be both beautiful and beloved."
+
+Smitten with a sudden pang, poor Elspie cried, "Oh, my leddy, dinna
+think o' the future. Dinna!"---- and she stopped, confused.
+
+"Really, how strange you are. But go on. We'll have no more Christinas
+nor Isobels."
+
+Hurriedly, Elspie continued to relate the histories: of noble Jean
+Rothesay, who died by an arrow aimed at her husband's heart; and Alison,
+her sister, the beauty of James the Fifth's reckless court, who was "no
+gude;" and Mistress Katharine Rothesay, who hid two of the "Prince's"
+soldiers after Culloden, and stood with a pair of pistols before their
+bolted door.
+
+"Nay, I'll have none of these--they frighten me," said Sybilla, "I
+wonder I ever had courage to marry the descendant of such awful women.
+No! my sweet innocent! you shall not be christened after them," she
+continued, stroking the baby cheek with her soft finger. "You shall
+not be like them at all, except in their beauty. And they were all
+handsome--were they, Elspie?"
+
+"Ne'er a ane o' the Rothesay line, man or woman, that wasna fair to
+see."
+
+"Then so will my baby be!--like her father, I hope--or just a little
+like her mother, who is not so very ugly, either; at least, Angus says
+not." And Mrs. Rothesay drew up her tiny figure, patted one dainty
+hand--the wedded one--with its fairy fellow; then--touched perhaps with
+a passing melancholy that he who most prized her beauty, and for whose
+sake she most prized it herself, was far away--she leaned back and
+sighed.
+
+However, in a few minutes, she cried out, her words showing how light
+and wandering was the reverie, "Elspie, I have a thought! The baby shall
+be christened Olive!"
+
+"It's a strange, heathen name, Mrs. Rothesay."
+
+"Not at all. Listen how I chanced to think of it. This very morning,
+just before you came to waken me, I had such a queer, delicious dream."
+
+"Dream! Are ye sure it was i' the morning-tide?" cried Elspie, aroused
+into interest.
+
+"Yes; and so it certainly means something, you will say, Elspie? Well,
+it was about my baby. She was then lying fast asleep in my bosom,
+and her warm, soft breathing soon sent me to sleep too. I dreamt that
+somehow I had gradually let her go from me, so that I felt her in my
+arms no more, and I was very sad, and cried out how cruel it was for any
+one to steal my child, until I found I had let her go of my own accord.
+Then I looked up, after awhile, and saw standing at the foot of the bed
+a little angel--a child-angel--with a green olive-branch in its hand.
+It told me to follow; so I rose up, and followed it over a wide desert
+country, and across rivers and among wild beasts; but at every peril
+the child held out the olive-branch, and we passed on safely. And when I
+felt weary, and my feet were bleeding with the rough journey, the little
+angel touched them with the olive, and I was strong again. At last we
+reached a beautiful valley, and the child, said, 'You are quite safe
+now.' I answered, 'And who is my beautiful comforting angel?' Then the
+white wings fell off, and I only saw a sweet child's face, which bore
+something of Angus's likeness and something of my own, and the little
+one stretched out her hands and said, 'Mother!'"
+
+While Mrs. Rothesay spoke, her thoughtless manner had once more softened
+into deep feeling. Elspie watched her with wondering eagerness.
+
+"It was nae dream; it was a vision. God send it true!" said the old
+woman, solemnly.
+
+"I know not. Angus always laughed at my dreams, but I have a strange
+feeling whenever I think of this. Oh, Elspie, you can't tell how sweet
+it was! And so I should like to call my baby Olive, for the sake of
+the beautiful angel. It may be foolish--but 'tis a fancy of mine. Olive
+Rothesay! It sounds well, and Olive Rothesay she shall be."
+
+"Amen; and may she be an angel to ye a' her days. And ye'll mind o' the
+blessed dream, and love her evermair. Oh, my sweet leddy, promise me
+that ye will!" cried the nurse, approaching her mistress's chair, while
+two great tears stole down her hard cheeks.
+
+"Of course I shall love her dearly! What made you doubt it? Because I am
+so young? Nay, I have a mother's heart, though I am only eighteen. Come,
+Elspie, do let us be merry; send these drops away;" and she patted the
+old withered face with her little hand. "Was it not you who told me the
+saying, 'It's ill greeting ower a new-born wean'? There! don't I succeed
+charmingly in your northern tongue?"
+
+What a winning little creature she was, this young wife of Angus
+Rothesay! A pity he had not seen her--the old Highland uncle, Miss
+Flora's brother, who had disinherited his nephew and promised heir for
+bringing him a _Sassenach_ niece.
+
+"A charming scene of maternal felicity! I am quite sorry to intrude upon
+it," said a bland voice at the door, as Dr. Johnson put in his shining
+bald head.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay welcomed him in her graceful, cordial way. She was so
+ready to cling to every one who showed her kindness--and he had
+been very kind; so kind that, with her usual quick impulses, she had
+determined to stay and live at Stirling until her husband's return from
+Jamaica. She told Dr. Johnson so now; and, moreover, as an earnest of
+the friendship which she, accustomed to be loved by every one, expected
+from him, she requested him to stand godfather to her little babe.
+
+"She shall be christened after our English fashion, doctor, and her name
+shall be Olive. What do you think of her now? Is she growing prettier?"
+
+The doctor bowed a smiling assent, and walked to the window. Thither
+Elspie followed him.
+
+"Ye maun tell her the truth--I daurna. Ye will!" and she clutched his
+arm with eager anxiety. "An' oh! for Gudesake, say it safyly, kindly."
+
+He shook her off with an uneasy look. He had never felt in a more
+disagreeable position.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay called him back again. "I think, doctor, her features are
+improving. She will certainly be a beauty. I should break my heart if
+she were not. And what would Angus say? Come--what are you and Elspie
+talking about so mysteriously?"
+
+"My dear madam--hem!" began Dr. Johnson. "I do hope--indeed, I am
+sure--your child will be a good child, and a great comfort to both her
+parents;"----
+
+"Certainly--but how grave you are about it."
+
+"I have a painful duty--a very painful duty," he replied. But Elspie
+pushed him aside.
+
+"Ye're just a fule, man!--ye'll kill her. Say your say at ance!"
+
+The young mother turned deadly pale. "Say _what_ Elspie? What is he
+going to tell me? Angus"----
+
+"No, no, my darlin' leddy! your husband's safe;" and Elspie flung
+herself on her knees beside the chair. "But, the lassie--(dinna fear,
+for it's the will o' God, and a' for gude, nae doubt)--your sweet wee
+dochter is"----
+
+"Is, I grieve to say it, deformed," added Dr. Johnson.
+
+The poor mother gazed incredulously on him, on the nurse, and lastly on
+the sleeping child. Then, without a word, she fell back, and fainted in
+Espie's arms.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+
+It was many days before Mrs. Rothesay recovered from the shock
+occasioned by the tidings--to her almost more fearful than her child's
+death--that it was doomed for life to suffer the curse of hopeless
+deformity. For a curse, a bitter curse, this seemed to the young and
+beautiful creature, who had learned since her birth to consider beauty
+as the greatest good. She was, so to speak, in love with loveliness; not
+merely in herself, but in every human creature. This feeling sprang more
+from enthusiasm than from personal vanity, the borders of which meanness
+she had just touched, but never crossed. Perhaps, also, she was too
+conscious of her own loveliness, and admired herself too ardently to
+care for attracting the petty admiration of others. She took it quite as
+a matter of course; and was no more surprised at being worshipped than
+if she had been the Goddess of Beauty herself.
+
+But if Sybilla Rothesay gloried in her own perfections, she no less
+gloried in those of all she loved, and chiefly in her noble-looking
+husband. And they were so young, so quickly wed, and so soon parted,
+that this emotion had no time to deepen into that soul-united affection
+which is independent of outward things, or, rather, becomes so divine,
+that instead of beauty creating love, love has power to create beauty.
+
+No marvel, then, that not having attained to a higher experience,
+Sybilla considered beauty as all in all. And this child--her child and
+Angus's,--would be a deformity, a shame to its parents, a dishonour
+to its race. How should she ever bear to look upon it? Still more, how
+should she ever dare to show the poor cripple to its father, and say,
+"This is our child--our firstborn." Would he not turn away in disgust,
+and answer that it had better died?
+
+Such exaggerated fancies as these haunted the miserable mother, when she
+passed from her long swoon into a sort of fever; which, though scarce
+endangering her life, was yet for days a source of great anxiety to the
+devoted Elspie. To the unhappy infant this madness--for it was temporary
+madness--almost caused death. Mrs. Rothesay positively refused to see
+or notice her child, scorning alike the tearful entreaties and the stern
+reproaches of the nurse. At last Elspie ceased to combat this passionate
+resolve, springing half from anger and half from delirium----
+
+"God forgie ye, and save the innocent bairn--the dochter He gave, and
+that ye're gaun to murder--unthankfu' woman as ye are," muttered Elspie,
+under her breath, as she quitted the room and went to succour the almost
+dying babe. Over it her heart yearned as it had never yearned before.
+
+"Your mither casts ye aff, ye puir wee thing. Maybe ye're no lang for
+this warld, but while ye're in it ye sall be my ain lassie, an' I'll be
+your ain mammie, evermair."
+
+So, like Naomi of old, Elspie Murray "laid the child in her bosom and
+became nurse unto it." But for her, the life of our Olive Rothesay--with
+all its influences, good or evil, small or great, as yet unknown--would
+have expired like a faint-flickering taper.
+
+Perhaps, in her madness, the unhappy mother might almost have desired
+such an ending. As it was, the disappointed hope, which had at
+first resembled positive dislike, subsided into the most complete
+indifference. She endured her child's presence, but she took no notice
+of it; she seemed to have forgotten its very existence. Her shattered
+health supplied sufficient excuse for the utter abandonment of all a
+mother's duties, and the poor feeble spark of life was left to Elspie's
+cherishing. By night and by day the child knew no other resting-place
+than the old nurse's arms, the mother's seeming to be for ever closed to
+its helpless innocence. True, Sybilla kissed it once a day, when
+Elspie brought the little creature to her, and exacted, as a duty, the
+recognition which Mrs. Rothesay, girlish and yielding as she was, dared
+not refuse. Her husband's faithful retainer had over her an influence
+which could never be gainsaid.
+
+Elspie seemed to be the sole regent of the babe's destiny. It was she
+who took it to its baptism;--not the festal ceremony which had pleased
+Sybilla's childish fancy with visions of christening robes and cakes,
+but the beautiful and simple "naming" of Elspie's own church. She stood
+before the minister, holding the desolate babe in her protecting arms;
+and there her heart sealed the promise of her lips, to bring it up in
+the knowledge and fear of God. And with an earnest credulity, which
+contained the germ of purest faith, she, remembering the mother's dream,
+called her nursling by the name of Olive.
+
+She carried the babe home and laid it on Mrs. Rothesay's lap. The
+young creature, who had so strangely renounced that dearest blessing of
+mother-love, would fain have put the child aside; but Elspie's stern eye
+controlled her.
+
+"Ye maun kiss and bless your dochter. Nae tongue but her mither's suld
+ca' her by her new-christened name."
+
+"What name?"
+
+"The name ye gied her yer ain sel."
+
+"No, no. Surely you have not called her so. Take her away; she is not
+my sweet angel-baby--the darling in my dream." And Sybilla hid her face;
+not in anger, or disgust, but in bitter weeping.
+
+"She's yer ain dochter--Olive Rothesay," answered Elspie, less harshly.
+"She may be an angel to ye yet."
+
+While she spoke, it so chanced that there flitted over the infant-face
+one of those smiles that we see sometimes in young children--strange,
+causeless smiles, which seem the reflection of some invisible influence.
+
+And so, while the babe smiled, there came to its face such an
+angel-brightness, that it shone into the mother's careless heart. For
+the first time since that mournful day which had so changed her nature,
+Sybilla Rothesay sat down and kissed the child of her own accord. Elspie
+heard no maternal blessing--the name of "Olive" was never breathed; but
+the nurse was satisfied when she saw that the babe's second baptism was
+its mother's repentant tears.
+
+There was in Sybilla no hardness nor cruelty, only the disappointment
+and vexation of a child deprived of an expected toy. She might have
+grown weary of her little daughter almost as soon, even if her pride and
+hope had not been crushed by the knowledge of Olive's deformity. Love to
+her seemed a treasure to be paid in requital, not a free gift bestowed
+without thought of return. That self-forgetting maternal devotion,
+lavished first on unconscious infancy, and then on unregarding youth,
+was a mystery to her utterly incomprehensible. At least it seemed so
+now, when, with the years and the character of a child, she was called
+to the highest duty of woman's life. This duty comes to some girlish
+mothers as an instinct, but it was not so with Mrs. Rothesay. An orphan,
+and heiress to a competence, if not to wealth, she had been brought up
+like a plant in a hot-bed, with all natural impulses either warped and
+suppressed, or forced into undue luxuriance. And yet it was a sweet
+plant withal; one that might have grown, ay, and might yet grow, into
+perfect strength and beauty.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay's education--that education of heart, and mind, and
+temper, which is essential to a woman's happiness, had to begin when it
+ought to have been completed--at her marriage. Most unfortunate it was
+for her, that ere the first twelvemonth of their wedded life had passed,
+Captain Rothesay was forced to depart for Jamaica, whence was derived
+his wife's little fortune; their whole fortune now, for he had quitted
+the army on his marriage. Thus Sybilla was deprived of that wholesome
+influence which man has ever over a woman who loves him, and by which
+he may, if he so will, counteract many a fault and weakness in her
+disposition.
+
+Time passed on, and Mrs. Rothesay, a wife and mother, was at twenty-one
+years old just the same as she had been at seventeen--as girlish, as
+thoughtless, eager for any amusement, and often treading on the very
+verge of folly. She still lived at Stirling, enforced thereunto by the
+entreaties, almost the commands, of Elspie Murray, against whom she
+bitterly murmured sometimes, for shutting her up in such a dull Scotch
+town. When Elspie urged her unprotected situation, the necessity of
+living in retirement, for the "honour of the family," while Captain
+Angus was away, Mrs. Rothesay sometimes frowned, but more often put the
+matter off with a merry jest. Meanwhile she consoled herself by going as
+much into society as the limited circle of Dr. and Mrs. Johnson allowed;
+and therein, as usual, the lovely, gay, winning young creature was
+spoiled to her heart's content.
+
+So she still lived the life of a wayward, petted child, whose natural
+instinct for all things good and beautiful kept her from ever doing
+what was positively wrong, though she did a great deal that was foolish
+enough in its way. She was, as she jestingly said, "a widow bewitched;"
+but she rarely coquetted, and then only in that innocent way which comes
+natural to some women, from a universal desire to please. And she never
+ceased talking and thinking of her noble Angus.
+
+When his letters came, she always made a point of kissing them
+half-a-dozen times, and putting them under her pillow at night, just
+like a child! And she wrote to him regularly once a month--pretty,
+playful, loving letters. But there was in them one peculiarity--they
+were utterly free from that delicious maternal egotism which chronicles
+all the little incidents of babyhood. She said, in answer to her
+husband's questions, that "Olive was well;" "Olive could just walk;"
+"Olive had learned to say 'Papa and Elspie.'" Nothing more.
+
+The fatal secret she had not dared to tell him.
+
+Her first letters--full of joy about "the loveliest baby that ever was
+seen"--had brought his in return echoing the rapture with truly paternal
+pride. They reached her in her misery, to which they added tenfold.
+Every sentence smote her with bitter regret, even with shame, as though
+it were her fault in having given to the world the wretched child.
+Captain Rothesay expressed his joy that his little daughter was not only
+healthy, but pretty; for, he said, "He should be quite unhappy if she
+did not grow up as beautiful as her mother." The words pierced Sybilla's
+heart; she could not--dared not tell him the truth; not yet, at least.
+And whenever Elspie's rough honesty urged her to do so, she fell into
+such agonies of grief and anger, that the nurse was obliged to desist.
+
+Sometimes, when letter after letter came from the father, full of
+inquiries about his precious first-born,--Sybilla, whose fault was more
+in weakness than deceit, resolved that she would nerve herself for the
+terrible task. But it was vain--she had not strength to do it.
+
+The three years extended into four, and still Captain Rothesay sent gift
+after gift, and message after message, to his daughter. Still he wrote
+to the conscience-stricken mother how many times he had kissed the
+"little lock of golden hue," severed from the baby-head; picturing the
+sweet face and lithe, active form which he had never seen. And all
+the while there was stealing about the old house at Stirling a pale,
+deformed child: small and attenuated in frame--quiet beyond its years,
+delicate, spiritless, with scarce one charm that would prove its lineage
+from the young beautiful mother, out of whose sight it instinctively
+crept.
+
+Thus the years fled with Olive Rothesay and her parents; each month,
+each day, sowing seeds that would assuredly spring up, for good or for
+evil, in the destinies of all three.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+
+The fourth year of Captain Rothesay's absence passed,--not without
+anxiety, for it was war-time, and his letters were frequently
+interrupted. At first, whenever this happened, his wife fretted
+extremely--_fretted_ is the right word, for it was more a fitful chafing
+than a positive grief. Sybilla knew not the sense of deep sorrow. Her
+nature resembled one of those sunny climes where even the rains are
+dews. So, after a few disappointments, she composed herself to the
+certainty that nothing would happen amiss to her Angus; and she
+determined never to expect a letter until she received it, and not to
+look for _him_ at all until he wrote her word that he was coming. He
+was sure to do what was right, and to return to his dearly-loved wife
+as soon as ever he could. And, though scarce acknowledging the fact to
+herself, her husband's return involved such a humiliating explanation
+of truth concealed, if not of positive falsehood, that Sybilla dared
+not even think of it. Whenever the long-parted wife mused on the joy of
+meeting--of looking once more into the beloved face, and being lifted up
+like a child to cling round his neck with her fairy arms, for Angus was
+a very giant to her--then there seemed to rise between them the phantom
+of the pale, deformed child.
+
+To drown these fancies, Sybilla rushed into every amusement which her
+secluded life afforded. At last, she resolved on an exploit at which
+Elspie looked aghast, and which made the quiet Mrs. Johnson shake her
+head--an evening party--nay, even a dance, at her own home.
+
+"It will never do for the people here; they're '_unco gude_,'" said the
+doctor's English wife, who had imbibed a few Scottish prejudices by a
+residence of thirty years. "Nobody ever dances in Stirling."
+
+"Then I'll teach them," cried the lively Mrs. Rothesay: "I long to show
+them a quadrille--even that new dance that all the world is shocked at
+Oh! I should dearly like a waltz."
+
+Mrs. Jacob Johnson was scandalised at first, but there was something in
+Sybilla to which she could not say nay,--nobody ever could. The matter
+was decided by Mrs. Rothesay's having her own way, except with regard to
+the waltz, which her friend staunchly resisted. Elspie, too, interfered
+as long as she could; but her heart was just now full of anxiety about
+her nursling, who seemed to grow more delicate every year. Day after
+day the faithful nurse might have been seen trudging across the country,
+carrying little Olive in her arms, to strengthen the child with the
+healing springs of Bridge of Allan, and invigorate her weak frame with
+the fresh mountain air--the heather breath of beautiful Ben-Ledi. Among
+these influences did Olive's childhood dawn, so that in after-life they
+never faded from her.
+
+Elspie scarcely thought again about the gay party, until when she came
+in one evening, and was undressing the sleepy little girl in the dusk,
+a vision appeared at the nursery door. It quite startled the old
+Scotswoman at first, it looked so like a fairy apparition, all in white,
+with a green coronet. She hardly could believe that it was her young
+mistress.
+
+"Eh! Mrs. Rothesay, ye're no goin' to show yoursel in sic a dress," she
+cried, regarding with horror the gleaming bare arms, the lovely
+neck, and the tiny white-sandaled feet, which the short and airy robe
+exhibited in all their perfection.
+
+"Indeed, but I am! and 'tis quite a treat to wear a ball-dress. I, that
+have been smothered up in all sorts of ugly costume for nearly five
+years. And see my jewels! Why, Elspie, this pearl-set has only beheld
+the light once since I was married--so beautiful as it is--and Angus's
+gift too."
+
+"Dinna say that name," cried Elspie, driven to a burst of not very
+respectful reproach. "I marvel ye daur speak of Captain Angus--and ye
+wi' your havers and your jigs, while yer husband's far awa', and your
+bairn sick! It's for nae gude I tell ye, Mrs. Rothesay."
+
+Sybilla had looked a little subdued at the allusion to her husband, but
+the moment Elspie mentioned the little Olive, her manner changed. "You
+are always blaming me about the child, and I will not bear it. She is
+quite well. Are you not, baby?"--the mother never would call her _Olive_.
+
+A feeble, trembling voice answered from the little bed, "Yes, please,
+mamma!"
+
+"There, you hear, Elspie! Now don't torment me any more about her. But I
+must go down stairs."
+
+She danced across the room in a graceful waltzing step, held out her
+hand towards the child, and touched one so tiny, cold, and damp, that
+she felt half inclined to take and warm it in her own. But Elspie's
+hawk-eyes were watching her, and she was ashamed. So she only said,
+"Goodnight, baby!" and danced back again, out through the open door.
+
+For hours Elspie sat in the dark room beside the bed of the little
+child, who lay murmuring, sometimes moaning, in her sleep. She never
+did moan but in her sleep, poor innocent! The sound of music and dancing
+rose up from below, and then Mrs. Rothesay's singing.
+
+"Ye'd better be hushin' your puir wee bairnie here, ye heartless woman!"
+muttered Elspie, who grew daily more jealous over the forsaken child,
+now the very darling of her old age. She knew not that her love for
+Olive, and its open tokens shown by reproaches to Olive's mother, were
+sure to suppress any dawning tenderness that might be awakened in Mrs.
+Rothesay's bosom.
+
+It had not done so yet, for many a time during the dance and song did
+the touch of that little cold hand haunt the young mother, rousing
+a feeling akin to remorse. But she threw it off again and again, and
+entered with the gaiety of her nature into all the evening's pleasure.
+Her enjoyment was at its height, when an old acquaintance, just
+discovered--an English officer, quartered at the castle--proposed a
+waltz. Before she had time to say "Yes" or "No," the music struck up one
+of those enchanting waltz-measures which to all true lovers of dancing,
+are as irresistible as Maurice Connor's "Wonderful Tune." Sybilla felt
+again the same blithe young creature of sixteen, who had led the revels
+at her first ball, dancing into the heart of one old colonel, six
+ensigns, a doctor, a lawyer, and of Angus Rothesay. There was no
+resisting the impulse: in a moment she was whirling away.
+
+In the midst of the dizzy round the door opened, and, like some evil
+spectre, in stalked Elspie Murray.
+
+Never was there such an uncouth apparition seen in a ball-room. Her grey
+petticoat exhibited her bare feet; her short upper gown, that graceful
+and picturesque attire of the Scottish peasantry, was thrown carelessly
+over her shoulders; her _mutch_ was put on awry, and from under its
+immense border her face appeared, as white almost as the cap itself.
+She walked right into the centre of the floor, laid her heavy hand on
+Sybilla's shoulder, and said,
+
+"Mrs. Rothesay, your husband's come!"
+
+The young wife stood one moment transfixed; she turned pale, afterwards
+crimson, and then, uttering a cry of joy, sprang to the door--sprang
+into her husband's arms.
+
+Dazzled with the light, the traveller resisted not, while Elspie
+half-led, half dragged him--still clasping his wife--into a little room
+close by, when she shut the door and left them. Then she burst in once
+more among the astonished guests.
+
+"Ye may gang your gate, ye heathens! Awa wi' ye, for Captain Rothesay's
+come hame!"
+
+Sybilla and her husband stood face to face in the little gloomy room,
+lighted only by a solitary candle. At first she clung about him so
+closely that he could not see her face, though he felt her tears
+falling, and her little heart beating against his own. He knew it was
+all for joy. But he was strangely bewildered by the scene which had
+flashed for a minute before his eyes, while standing at the door of the
+room.
+
+After a while he drew his wife to the light, and held her out at arm's
+length to look at her. Then, for the first time, she remembered all.
+Trembling--blushing scarlet, over face and neck--she perceived her
+husband's eyes rest on her glittering dress. He regarded her fixedly,
+from head to foot. She felt his expression change from joy to uneasy
+wonder, from love to sternness, and then he wore a strange, cold look,
+such a one as she had never beheld in him before.
+
+"So, the young lady I saw whirling madly in some man's arms--was you,
+Sybilla--was _my wife_."
+
+As Captain Rothesay spoke, Sybilla distinguished in his voice a new
+tone, echoing the strange coldness in his eyes. She sprang to his neck,
+weeping now for grief and alarm, as she had before wept for joy; she
+prayed him to forgive her, told him, with a sincerity that none could
+doubt, how rejoiced she was at his coming, and how dearly she loved
+him--now and ever. He kissed her, at her passionate entreaty; said
+he had nothing to blame; suffered her caresses patiently; but the
+impression was given, the deed was done.
+
+While he lived, Captain Rothesay never forgot that night. Nor did
+Sybilla; for then she had first seen that cold, stern look, and heard
+that altered tone. How many times was it to haunt her afterwards!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+
+Next morning Captain Rothesay and his wife sat together by the fireside,
+where she had so often sat alone. Sybilla seemed in high spirits--her
+love was ever exuberant in expression--and the moment her husband seemed
+serious she sprang on his knee and looked playfully in his face.
+
+"Just as much a child as ever, I see," said Angus Rothesay, with a
+rather wintry smile.
+
+And then, looking in his face by daylight, Sybilla had opportunity to
+see how changed he was. He had become a grave, middle-aged man. She
+could not understand it. He had never told her of any cares, and he was
+little more than thirty. She felt almost vexed at him for growing so
+old; nay, she even said so, and began to pull out a few grey hairs that
+defaced the beauty of his black curls.
+
+"You shall lecture me presently, my dear," said Captain Rothesay. "You
+forget that I had two welcomes to receive, and that I have not yet seen
+my little girl."
+
+He had not indeed. His eager inquiries after Olive overnight had been
+answered by a pretty pout, and several trembling, anxious speeches about
+"a wife being dearer than a child." "Baby was asleep, and it was so
+very late--he might, surely, wait till morning." To which, though rather
+surprised, he assented. A few more caresses, a few more excuses, had
+still further delayed the terrible moment; until at last the father's
+impatience would no longer be restrained.
+
+"Come, Sybilla, let us go and see our little Olive."
+
+"O Angus!" and the mother turned deadly white.
+
+Captain Rothesay seemed alarmed. "Don't trifle with me, Sybilla--there
+is nothing the matter? The child is not ill?"
+
+"No; quite well."
+
+"Then, why cannot Elspie bring her?" and he pulled the bell violently.
+The nurse appeared. "My good Elspie, you have kept me waiting quite long
+enough; do let me see my little girl."
+
+Elspie gave one glance at the mother, who stood mute and motionless,
+clinging to the chair for support. In that glance was less compassion
+than a sort of triumphant exultation. When she quitted the room Sybilla
+flung herself at her husband's feet. "Angus, Angus, only say you forgive
+me before"----
+
+The door opened and Elspie led in a little girl. By her stature she
+might have been two years old, but her face was like that of a child of
+ten or twelve--so thoughtful, so grave. Her limbs were small and wasted,
+but exquisitely delicate. The same might be said of her features; which,
+though thin, and wearing a look of premature age, together with that
+quiet, earnest, melancholy cast peculiar to deformity, were yet regular,
+almost pretty. Her head was well-shaped, and from it fell a quantity
+of amber-coloured hair--pale "lint-white locks," which, with the almost
+colourless transparency of her complexion, gave a spectral air to her
+whole appearance. She looked less like a child than a woman dwarfed into
+childhood; the sort of being renowned in elfin legends, as springing
+up on a lonely moor, or appearing by a cradle-side; supernatural, yet
+fraught with a nameless beauty. She was dressed with the utmost care,
+in white, with blue ribands; and her lovely hair was arranged so as to
+hide, as much as possible, the defect, which, alas! was even then only
+too perceptible. It was not a hump-back, nor yet a twisted spine; it
+was an elevation of the shoulders, shortening the neck, and giving the
+appearance of a perpetual stoop. There was nothing disgusting or
+painful in it, but still it was an imperfection, causing an instinctive
+compassion--an involuntary "Poor little creature, what a pity!"
+
+Such was the child--the last daughter of the ever-beautiful Rothesay
+line--which Elspie led to claim the paternal embrace. Olive looked up
+at her father with her wistful, pensive eyes, in which was no childish
+shyness--only wonder. He met them with a gaze of frenzied unbelief. Then
+his fingers clutched his wife's arm with the grasp of an iron vice.
+
+"Tell me! Is that--that miserable creature--our daughter, Olive
+Rothesay?"
+
+She answered, "Yes." He shook her off angrily, looked once more at the
+child, and then turned away, putting his hand before his eyes, as if to
+shut out the sight.
+
+Olive saw the gesture. Young as she was, it went deep to her child's
+soul. Elspie saw it too, and without bestowing a second glance on her
+master or his wife, she snatched up the child and hurried from the room.
+
+The father and mother were left alone--to meet that crisis most fatal to
+wedded happiness, the discovery of the first deceit Captain Rothesay
+sat silent, with averted face; Sybilla was weeping--not that repentant
+shower which rains softness into a man's heart, but those fretful tears
+which chafe him beyond endurance.
+
+"Sybilla, come to me!" The words were a fond husband's words: the tone
+was that of a master who took on himself his prerogative. Never had
+Angus spoken so before, and the wilful spirit of his wife rebelled.
+
+"I cannot come. I dare not even look at you. You are so angry."
+
+His only answer was the reiterated command, "Sybilla, come!" She crept
+from the far end of the room, where she was sobbing in a fear-stricken,
+childish way, and stood before him. For the first time she recognised
+her husband, whom she must "obey." Now, with all the power of his roused
+nature, he was teaching her the meaning of the word. "Sybilla," he said,
+looking sternly in her face, "tell me why, all these years, you have put
+upon me this cheat--this lie!"
+
+"Cheat!--lie! Oh, Angus! What cruel, wicked words!"
+
+"I am sorry I used them, then. I will choose a lighter term--deceit. Why
+did you so _deceive_ your husband?"
+
+"I did not mean it," sobbed the young wife. "And this is very unkind of
+you, Angus! As if Heaven had not punished me enough in giving me that
+miserable child!"
+
+"Silence! I am not speaking of the child, but of you; my wife, in whom
+I trusted; who for five long years has wilfully deceived me. Why did you
+so?"
+
+"Because I was afraid--ashamed. But those feelings are past now," said
+Sybilla, resolutely. "If Heaven made me mother, it made you father to
+this unhappy child. You have no right to reproach me."
+
+"God forbid! No, it is not the misfortune--it is the falsehood which
+stings me."
+
+And his grave, mournful tone, rose into one of bitter anger. He paced
+the room, tossed by a passion such as his wife had never before seen.
+
+"Sybilla!" he suddenly cried, pausing before her; "you do not know what
+you have done. You little think what my love has been, nor against how
+much it has struggled these five years. I have been true to you--ay, to
+the depth of my heart And you to me have been--not wholly true."
+
+Here he was answered by a burst of violent hysterical weeping. He longed
+to call for feminine assistance to this truly feminine ebullition, which
+he did not understand. But his pride forbade. So he tried to soothe
+his wife a little with softer words, though even these seemed somewhat
+foreign to his lips, after so many long-parted years.
+
+"I did not mean to pain you thus deeply, Sybilla. I do not say that you
+have ceased to love me!"
+
+Would that Sybilla had done as her first impulse taught her; have clung
+about him, crying "Never! never!" murmuring penitent words, as a tender
+wife may well do, and in such humility be the more exalted! But she had
+still the wayward spirit of a petted child. Fancying she saw her husband
+once more at her feet, she determined to keep him there. She wept on,
+refusing to be pacified.
+
+At last Angus rose from her side, dignified and cold, his new, not his
+old self; the lover no more, but the quiet, half-indifferent husband.
+"I see we had better not talk of these things until you are more
+composed--perhaps, indeed, not at all. What is past--is past, and cannot
+be recalled."
+
+"Angus!" She looked up, frightened at his manner. She determined to
+conciliate him a little. "What do you want me to do? To say I am sorry?
+That I will--but," with an air of coquettish command, "you must say so
+too."
+
+The jest was ill-timed; he was in too bitter a mood. "Excuse me--you
+exact too much, Mrs. Rothesay."
+
+"_Mrs. Rothesay!_ Oh, call me Sybilla, or my heart will break!" cried
+the young creature, throwing herself into his arms. He did not repulse
+her; he even looked down upon her with a melting, half-reproachful
+tendernes.
+
+"How happy we might have been! How different had been this coming home
+if you had only trusted me, and told me all from the beginning."
+
+"Have you told _me_? Is there nothing you have kept back from me these
+five years?"
+
+He started a little, and then said resolutely, "Nothing, Sybilla! I
+declare to Heaven--nothing! save, perhaps, some trifles that I would at
+any time tell you; now, if you will."
+
+"Oh no! some other time, I am too much exhausted now," murmured Sybilla,
+with an air of languor, half real, half feigned, lest perchance she
+should lose what she had gained. In the sweetness of this reconciled
+"lovers' quarrel," she had almost forgotten its hapless cause. But
+Angus, after a pause of deep and evidently conflicting thoughts,
+referred to the child.
+
+"She is ours still. I must not forget that. Shall I send for her again?"
+he said, as if he wished to soothe the mother's wounded feelings.
+
+Alas! in Sybilla's breast the fountain of mother's feeling was as yet
+all sealed. "Send for Olive!" she said, "oh no! Do not, I implore you.
+The very sight of her is a pain to me. Let us two be happy together, and
+let the child be left to Elspie."
+
+Thus she said, thinking not only to save herself, but him, from
+what must be a constant pang. Little she knew him, or guessed the
+after-effect of her words.
+
+Angus Rothesay looked at his wife, first with amazement, then with cold
+displeasure. "My dear, you scarcely speak like a mother. You forget
+likewise that you are speaking to a father. A father who, whatever
+affection may be wanting, will never forsake his duty. Come, let us go
+and see our child."
+
+"I cannot--I cannot!" and Sybilla hung back, weeping anew.
+
+Angus Rothesay looked at his wife--the pretty wayward idol of his
+bridegroom-memory--looked at her with the eyes of a world-tried,
+world-hardened man. She regarded him too, and noted the change which
+years had brought in her boyish lover of yore. His eye wore a fretful
+reproach--his brow, a proud sorrow.
+
+He walked up to her and clasped her hand. "Sybilla, take care! All these
+years I have been dreaming of the wife and mother I should find here at
+home; let not the dream prove sweeter than the reality."
+
+Sybilla was annoyed--she, the spoilt darling of every one, who knew
+not the meaning of a harsh word. She answered, "Don't let us talk so
+foolishly."
+
+"You think it foolish? Well, then! we will not speak in this
+confidential way any more. I promise, and you know I always keep my
+promises."
+
+"I am glad of it," answered Sybilla. But she lived to rue the day when
+her husband made this one promise.
+
+At present, she only felt that the bitter secret was disclosed, and
+Angus' anger overpast. She gladly let him quit the room, only pausing
+to ask him to kiss her, in token that all was right between them. He did
+so, kindly, though with a certain pride and gravity--and departed. She
+dared not ask him whether it was to see again their hapless child.
+
+What passed between the father and mother whilst they remained shut
+up together there, Elspie thought not-cared not. She spent the time in
+passionate caresses of her darling, in half-muttered ejaculations, some
+of pity some of wrath. All she desired was to obliterate the impression
+which she saw had gone deeply to the child's heart. Olive wept not--she
+rarely did; it seemed as though in her little spirit was a pensive
+repose, above either infant sorrow or infant fear. She sat on her
+nurse's knee, scarcely speaking, but continually falling into those
+reveries which we see in quiet children even at that early age, and
+never without a mysterious wonder, approaching to awe. Of what can these
+infant musings be?
+
+"Nurse," said the child, suddenly fixing on Elspie's face her large
+eyes, "was that my papa I saw?"
+
+"It was just himsel, my sweet wee pet," cried Elspie, trying to stop her
+with kisses; but Olive went on.
+
+"He is not like mamma--he is great and tall, like you. But he did not
+take up and kiss me, as you said he would."
+
+Elspie had no answer for these words--spoken in a tone of quiet pain--so
+unlike a child. It is only after many years that we learn to suffer and
+be silent.
+
+Was it that nature, ever merciful, had implanted in this poor girl,
+as an instinct, that meek endurance which usually comes as the painful
+experience of after-life?
+
+A similar thought passed through Elspie's mind, while she sat with
+little Olive at the window, where, a few years ago, she had stood
+rocking the new-born babe in her arms, and pondering drearily on
+its future. That future seemed still as dark in all outward
+circumstances--but there was one ray of hope, which centred in the
+little one herself. There was something in Olive which passed Elspie's
+comprehension. At times she looked almost with an uneasy awe on the
+gentle, silent child who rarely played, who wanted no amusing, but would
+sit for hours watching the sky from the window, or the grass and waving
+trees in the fields; who never was heard to laugh, but now and then
+smiled in her own peculiar way--a smile almost "uncanny," as Elspie
+expressed it. At times the old Scotswoman--who, coming from the
+debateable ground between Highlands and Lowlands, had united to the
+rigid piety of the latter much wild Gaelic superstition--was half
+inclined to believe that the little girl was possessed by some spirit.
+But she was certain it was a good spirit; such a darling as Olive
+was--so patient, and gentle, and good--more like an angel than a child.
+
+If her misguided parents did but know this! Yet Elspie, in her secret
+heart, was almost glad they did not. Her passionate and selfish love
+could not have borne that any tie on earth, not even that of father or
+mother, should stand between her and the child of her adoption.
+
+While she pondered, there came a light knock to the door, and Captain
+Rothesay's voice was heard without--his own voice, soothed down to its
+soft, gentleman-like tone; it was a rare emotion, indeed, could deprive
+it of that peculiarity.
+
+"Nurse, I wish to see Miss Olive Rothesay."
+
+It was the first time that formal appellation had ever been given to the
+little girl. Still it was a recognition. Elspie heard it with joy. She
+answered the summons, and Captain Rothesay walked in.
+
+We have never described Olivet father--there could not be a better
+opportunity than now. His tall, active form--now subsiding into the
+muscular fulness of middle age--was that of a Hercules of the mountains.
+The face combined Scottish beauties and Scottish defects, which,
+perhaps, cease to be defects when they become national peculiarities.
+There was the eagle-eye: the large, but well-chiselled features--
+especially the mouth; and also there was the high cheek-bone, the rugged
+squareness of the chin, which, while taking away beauty, gave character.
+
+When he came nearer, one could easily see that the features of the
+father were strangely reflected in those of the child. Altered the
+likeness was--from strength into feebleness--from manly beauty into
+almost puny delicacy; but it did exist, and, faint as it was, Elspie
+perceived it.
+
+Olive was looking up at the clouds, her thin cheek resting against the
+embrasure of the window, gazing so intently that she never seemed to
+hear her father's voice or step. Elspie motioned him to walk softly, and
+they came behind the child.
+
+"Do ye no see, Captain Angus," she whispered, "'tis your ain bonnie
+face--ay, and your Mither's. Ye mind her yet?"
+
+Captain Rothesay did not answer, but looked earnestly at his little
+daughter. She, turning round, met his eyes. There was something in their
+expression which touched her, for a rosy colour suffused her face; she
+smiled, stretched out her little hands, and said "Papa!"
+
+How Elspie then prided herself for the continual tutoring which had made
+the image of the absent father an image of love!
+
+Captain Rothesay started from his reverie at the sound of the child's
+voice. The tone, and especially the word, broke the spell. He felt once
+more that he was the father, not of the blooming little angel that he
+had pictured, but of this poor deformed girl. However, he was a man in
+whom a stern sense of right stood in the place of many softer virtues.
+He had resolved on his duty--he had come to fulfil it--and fulfil it he
+would. So he took the two little cold hands, and said--
+
+"Papa is glad to see you, my dear."
+
+There was a silence, during which Elspie placed a chair for Captain
+Rothesay, and Olive, sliding quietly down from hers, came and stood
+beside him. He did not offer to take the two baby-hands again, but did
+not repulse them, when the little girl laid them on his knee, looking
+inquiringly, first at him, and then at Elspie.
+
+"What does she mean?" said Captain Rothesay.
+
+"Puir bairn! I tauld her, when her father was come hame, he wad tak' her
+in his arms and kiss her."
+
+Rothesay looked angrily round, but recollected himself. "Your nurse was
+right, my dear." Then pausing for a moment, as though arming himself for
+a duty--repugnant, indeed, but necessary--he took his daughter on his
+knee, and kissed her cheek--once, and no more. But she, remembering
+Elspie's instructions, and prompted by her loving nature, clung about
+him, and requited the kiss with many another. They melted him visibly.
+There is nothing sweeter in this world than a child's unasked voluntary
+kiss!
+
+He began to talk to her--uneasily and awkwardly--but still he did it.
+"There, that will do, little one! What is your name, my dear?" he said
+absently.
+
+She answered, "Olive Rothesay." "Ay--I had forgotten! The name at least,
+she told me true." The next moment, he set down the child--softly but as
+though it were a relief.
+
+"Is papa going?" said Olive, with a troubled look.
+
+"Yes; but he will come back to-morrow. Once a day will do," he added
+to himself. Yet, when his little daughter lifted her mouth for another
+kiss, he could not help giving it.
+
+"Be a good child, my dear, and say your prayers every night, and love
+nurse Elspie."
+
+"And papa too, may I?"
+
+He seemed to struggle violently against some inward feeling, and then
+answered with a strong effort, "Yes."
+
+The door closed after him abruptly. Very soon Elspie saw him walking
+with hasty strides along the beautiful walk that winds round the foot of
+the castle rock. The nurse sat still for a long time thinking, and then
+ended her ponderings with her favourite phrase,
+
+"God guide us! it's a' come richt at last."
+
+Poor, honest, humble soul!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+
+The return of the husband and father produced a considerable change in
+the little family at Stirling. A household, long composed entirely of
+women, always feels to its very foundations the incursion of one of the
+"nobler sex." From the first morning when there resounded the multiplied
+ringing of bells, and the creaking of boots on the staircase, the glory
+of the feminine dynasty was departed. Its easy _laisser-aller_, its
+lax rule, and its indifference to regular forms were at an end. Mrs.
+Rothesay could no longer indulge her laziness--no breakfasting in
+bed, and coming down in curl-papers. The long gossiping visits of her
+thousand-and-one acquaintances subsided into frigid morning calls,
+at which the grim phantom of the husband frowned from a corner and
+suppressed all idle chatter. Sybilla's favourite system of killing time
+by half-hours in various idle ways, at home and abroad, was terminated
+at once. She had now to learn how to be a duteous wife, always ready
+at the beck and call of her husband, and attentive to his innumerable
+wants.
+
+She was quite horrified by these at first. The captain actually
+expected to dine well and punctually, every day, without being troubled
+beforehand with "What he would like for dinner?" He listened once
+or twice, patiently too, to her histories of various small domestic
+grievances, and then requested politely that she would confine such
+details to the kitchen in future; at which poor Mrs. Rothesay retired
+in tears. He liked her to stay at home in the evening, make his tea,
+and then read to him, or listen while he read to her. This was the more
+arduous task of the two, for dearly as she loved to hear the sound of
+his voice.
+
+Sybilla never could feel interested in the prosy books he read, and
+often fell half asleep; then he always stopped suddenly, sometimes
+looked cross, sometimes sad; and in a few minutes he invariably lighted
+her candle, with the gentle hint that it was time to retire. But often
+she woke, hours after, and heard him still walking up and down below, or
+stirring the fire perpetually, as a man does who is obliged to make the
+fire his sole companion.
+
+And then Sybilla's foolish, but yet loving heart, would feel itself
+growing sad and heavy; her husband's image, once painted there in such
+glittering colours, began to fade. The real Angus was not the Angus of
+her fancy. Joyful as was his coming home, it had not been quite what she
+expected. Else, why was it that at times, amidst all her gladness, she
+thought of their olden past with regret, and of their future with doubt,
+almost fear.
+
+But it was something new for Sybilla to think at all. It did her good in
+spite of herself.
+
+While these restless elements of future pain were smouldering in the
+parents, the little neglected, unsightly blossom, which had sprung up
+at their feet, lived the same unregarded, monotonous life as heretofore.
+Olive Rothesay had attained to five years, growing much like a primrose
+in the field, how, none knew or cared, save Heaven. And that Heaven
+did both know and care, was evident from the daily sweetness that was
+stealing into this poor wayside flower, so that it would surely one day
+be discovered through the invisible perfume which it shed.
+
+Captain Rothesay kept to his firm resolve of seeing his little daughter
+in her nursery, once a day at least. After a while, the visit of a few
+minutes lengthened to an hour. He listened with interest to Elspie's
+delighted eulogiums on her beloved charge, which sometimes went so far
+as to point out the beauty of the child's wan face, with the assurance
+that Olive, in features at least, was a true Rothesay. But the father
+always stopped her with a dignified, cold look.
+
+"We will quit that subject, if you please."
+
+Nevertheless, guided by his rigid sense of a parent's duty, he showed
+all kindness to the child, and his omnipotent way over his wife exacted
+the same consideration from the hitherto indifferent Sybilla. It might
+be, also, that in her wayward nature, the chill which had unconsciously
+fallen on the heart of the wife, caused the mother's heart to awaken And
+then the mother would be almost startled to see the response which this
+new, though scarcely defined tenderness, created in her child.
+
+For some months after Captain Rothesay's return, the little family lived
+in the retired old-fashioned dwelling on the hill of Stirling. Their
+quiet round of uniformity was only broken by the occasional brief
+absence of the head of the household, as he said, "on business."
+_Business_ was a word conveying such distaste, if not horror, to
+Sybilla's ears, that she asked no questions, and her husband volunteered
+no information. In fact, he rarely was in the habit of doing so--whether
+interrogated or not.
+
+At last, one day when he was sitting after dinner with his wife and
+child--he always punctiliously commanded that "Miss Rothesay" might be
+brought in with the dessert--Angus made the startling remark:
+
+"My dear Sybilla, I wish to consult with you on a subject of some
+importance."
+
+She looked up with a pretty, childish surprise.
+
+"Consult with me! O Angus! pray don't tease me with any of your hard
+business matters; I never could understand them."
+
+"And I never for a moment imagined you could. In fact, you told me so,
+and therefore I have never troubled you with them, my dear," was the
+reply, with just the slightest shade of satire. But its bitterness
+passed away the moment Sybilla jumped up and came to sit down on the
+hearth at his feet, in an attitude of comical attention. Thereupon he
+patted her on the head, gently and smilingly, for he was a fond husband
+still, and she was such a sweet plaything for an idle hour.
+
+A plaything! Would that all women considered the full meaning of the
+term--a thing sighed for, snatched, caressed, wearied of, neglected,
+scorned! And would also, that every wife knew that her fate depends less
+on what her husband makes of her, than what she makes herself to him!
+
+"Now, Angus, begin--I am all attention."
+
+He looked one moment doubtfully at Olive, who sat in her little chair at
+the farther end of the room, quiet, silent, and demure. She had beside
+her some purple plums, which she did not attempt to eat, but was playing
+with them, arranging them with green leaves in a thousand graceful ways,
+and smiling to herself when the afternoon sunlight, creeping through the
+dim window, rested upon them and made their rich colour richer still.
+
+"Shall we send Olive away?" said the mother.
+
+"No, let her stay--she is of no importance."
+
+The parents both looked at the child's pale, spiritual face, felt the
+reproach it gave, and sighed. Perhaps both father and mother would
+have loved her, but for a sense of shame in the latter, and the painful
+memory of deceit in the former.
+
+"Sybilla," suddenly resumed Captain Rothesay, "what I have to say is
+merely, how soon you can arrange to leave Stirling?"
+
+"Leave Stirling?"
+
+"Yes; I have taken a house."
+
+"Indeed! and you never told me anything about it," said Sybilla, with a
+vexed look.
+
+"Now, my little wife, do not be foolish; you never wish to hear about
+business, and I have taken you at your word; you cannot object to that?"
+
+But she could, and she had a thousand half-pouting, half-jesting
+complaints to urge. She put them forth rather incoherently; in fact,
+she talked for five minutes without giving her husband opportunity for a
+single word. Yet she loved him dearly, and had in her heart no objection
+to being saved the trouble of thinking beforehand; only she thought it
+right to stand up a little for her conjugal prerogative.
+
+He listened in perfect silence. When she had done, he merely said, "Very
+well, Sybilla; and we will leave Stirling this day month. I have decided
+to live in England. Oldchurch is a very convenient town, and I have no
+doubt you will find Merivale Hall an agreeable residence."
+
+"Merivale Hall. Are we really going to live in a Hall?" cried Sybilla,
+clapping her hands with childish glee. But immediately her face changed.
+"You must be jesting with me, Angus. I don't know much about money, but
+I know we are not rich enough to keep up a Hall."
+
+"We _were_ not, but we are now, I am happy to say," answered Captain
+Rothesay, with some triumph.
+
+"Rich! very rich! and you never told me?" Sybilla's hands fell on
+her knee, and it was doubtful which expression was dominant in her
+countenance--womanly pain, or womanly indignation.
+
+Angus looked annoyed. "My dear Sybilla, listen to me quietly--yes,
+quietly," he added, seeing how her colour came and went, and her lips
+seemed ready to burst out into petulant reproach. "When I left England,
+I was taunted with having run away with an heiress. That I did not do,
+since you were far poorer than the world thought--and I loved little
+Sybilla Hyde for herself and not for her fortune. But the taunt stung
+me, and, when I left you, I resolved never to return until I could
+return a rich man on my own account. I am such now. Are you not glad,
+Sybilla?"
+
+"Glad--glad to have been kept in the dark like a baby--a fool! It was
+not proper treatment towards your wife, Angus," was the petulant answer,
+as Sybilla drew herself from his arm, which came as a mute peacemaker to
+encircle her waist.
+
+"Now you are a child indeed. I did it from love--believe me or not, it
+was so--that you might not be pained with the knowledge of my struggles,
+toils, and cares. And was not the reward, the wealth, all for you?"
+
+"No; it wasn't."
+
+"Pray, hear reason, Sybilla!" her husband continued, in those quiet,
+unconcerned tones, which, to a woman of quick feelings and equally quick
+resentments, were sure to add fuel to fire.
+
+"I will not hear reason. When you have these four years been rolling in
+wealth, and your wife and child were--O Angus!" and she began to weep.
+
+Captain Rothesay tried at first, by explanations and by soothings, to
+stop the small torrent of fretful tears and half-broken accusations. All
+his words were misconstrued or misapplied. Sybilla would not believe but
+that he had slighted, ill-used, _deceived_ her.
+
+At the term the husband rose up sternly.
+
+"Mrs. Rothesay, who was it that deceived me?"
+
+He pointed to the child, and the glance of both rested on little Olive.
+
+She sat, her graceful playthings fallen from her hands, her large soft
+eyes dilated with such a terrified wonder, that both father and mother
+shrank before them. That fixed gaze of the unconscious child seemed like
+the reproachful look of some angel of innocence sent from a purer world.
+
+There was a dead silence. In the midst of it the little one crept from
+her corner, and stood between her parents, her little hands stretched
+out, and her eyes full of tears.
+
+"Olive has done nothing wrong? Papa and mamma, you are not angry with
+poor little Olive?"
+
+For the first time, as she looked into the poor child's face, there
+flashed across the mother's memory the likeness of the angel in her
+dream. She pressed the thought back, almost angrily, but it came again.
+Then Sybilla stooped down, and, for the only time since her babyhood,
+Olive found herself lifted to her mother's embrace.
+
+"The child had better go away to bed," said Captain Rothesay.
+
+Olive was carried out nestling closely in her mother's arms.
+
+When Sybilla came back the angry pout had passed away, though a grave
+troubled shadow still remained. She made tea for her husband, tried to
+talk on common topics once or twice, but he gave little encouragement.
+Before retiring to rest, she said to him, timidly,
+
+"There is no quarrel between us, Angus?"
+
+"Not in the least, my dear," he answered, with that composed deprecation
+of any offence, given or received, which is the most painful check to
+an impulsive nature; "only, we will not discuss matters of business
+together again. Women never can talk things over quietly. Good-night,
+Sybilla."
+
+He lifted his head a little, a very little, for her accustomed kiss. She
+gave it, but with it there came a sigh. He scarcely noticed either one
+or the other, being apparently deep in a large folio "Commentary on the
+Proverbs," for it was Sunday evening. He lingered for a whole hour over
+the last chapter, and chiefly the passages,--
+
+     "Who can find a virtuous woman;
+        for her price is far above rubies.
+     The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her:
+        so that he shall have no need of spoil....
+     She openeth her mouth with wisdom:
+        and in her tongue is the law of kindness."
+
+At this, Captain Rothesay closed the book, laid his arms upon it; and
+sighed--O how heavily! He did not go to bed that night until his young
+wife had lain awake for hours, regretting and resolving; nor until,
+after many determinations of future penitence and love, she had at last
+wept herself to sleep for very sorrow.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+
+Looking back on a calm and uneventful childhood--and by childhood we
+mean the seven years between the babyhood of five and the dignity of
+"teens,"--it always seems like a cloudy landscape, with a few points of
+view here and there, which stand out clearly from the rest. Therein the
+fields are larger and the sky brighter than any we now behold. Persons,
+places, and events assume a mystery and importance. We never think of
+them, or hear them named afterwards, but there clings to them something
+of the strange glamour of the time when "we saw men as trees walking."
+
+Olive's childhood was passed in the place mentioned by her father.
+Merivale! Oldchurch! In her future life the words, whenever heard,
+always sounded like an echo of that dreamy time, whose sole epochs are
+birthdays, Christmas-days, the first snowdrop found in the garden, the
+first daisy in the field. Such formed the only chronicle of Olive's
+childhood.
+
+Its earliest period was marked by events which she was too young to
+notice, troubles which she was too young to feel. They passed over her
+like storm-clouds over a safely sheltered flower--only perceived by the
+momentary shadow which they cast. Once--it was in the first summer at
+Merivale--the child noticed how pleased every one seemed, and how papa
+and mamma, now always together, used to speak more tenderly than usual
+to her. Elspie said it was because they were so happy, and that Olive
+ought to be happy too, because God would soon send her "a wee wee
+brother." She would find him some day in the pretty cradle, which Elspie
+showed her. So the little girl went to look there every morning, but in
+vain. At last her nurse said she need not look there any more, for God
+had taken away the baby-brother as soon as it came. Olive was very much
+disappointed, and when she went down to her father that day she told him
+of her trouble. But he angrily sent her away to her nurse. She looked
+ever after with grief and childish awe on the empty cradle.
+
+[Illustration: Page 45, Olive, little noticed, sat on the hearthrug]
+
+At last it was empty no longer. She, a thoughtful child of seven, could
+never forget the impression made, when one morning she was roused by the
+loud pealing of the Old-church bells, and the maids told her, laughing,
+that it was in honour of her little brother, come at last. She was
+allowed to kiss him once, and then spent half her time, watching, with
+great joy and wonderment, the tiny face and touching the tiny hands.
+After some days she missed him; and after some more Elspie showed her
+a little heap in the nearest churchyard, saying, that was her
+baby-brother's cradle now. Poor little Olive!--her only knowledge of the
+tie of brotherhood was these few days of silent watching and the little
+green mound left behind in the churchyard.
+
+From that time there came a gradual change over the household, and
+over Olive's life. No more long, quiet hours after dinner, her father
+reading, her mother occupied in some light work, or resting on the sofa
+in delicious idleness, while Olive herself, little noticed, but yet
+treated with uniform kindness by both, sat on the hearthrug, fondling
+the sleepy cat, or gazing with vague childish reverie into the fire. No
+more of the proud pleasure with which, on Sunday afternoons, exalted to
+her grave papa's knee, she created an intense delight out of what was to
+him a somewhat formal duty, and said her letters from the large family
+Bible. These childish joys vanished gradually, she scarce knew how. Her
+papa she now rarely saw, he was so much from home, and the quiet house,
+wherein she loved to ramble, became a house always full of visitors, her
+beautiful mamma being the centre of its gaiety. Olive retreated to
+her nursery and to Elspie, and the rest of her childhood was one long,
+solitary, pensive dream.
+
+In that dream was the clear transcript of all the scenes amidst which
+it passed. The old hall, seated on a rising ground, and commanding views
+which were really beautiful in their way, considering that Merivale
+was on the verge of a manufacturing district, bounded by pastoral and
+moorland country. Those strange furnace-fires, which rose up at dusk
+from the earth and gleamed all around the horizon, like red fiery eyes
+open all night long, how mysteriously did they haunt the imaginative
+child! Then the town, Oldchurch, how in her after-life it grew distinct
+from all other towns, like a place seen in a dream, so real and yet so
+unreal! There was its castle-hill, a little island within a large pool,
+which had once been a real fortress and moat. Old Elspie contemned
+alike tradition and reality, until Olive read in her little "History of
+England" the name of the place, and how John of Gaunt had built a castle
+there. And then Elspie vowed it was unworthy to be named the same day
+with beautiful Stirling. Continually did she impress on the child
+the glories of her birthplace, so that Olive in after-life, while
+remembering her childhood's scenes as a pleasant land of earth, came to
+regard her native Scotland as a sort of dream-paradise. The shadow of
+the mountains where she was born fell softly, solemnly, over her whole
+life; influencing her pursuits, her character, perhaps even her destiny.
+
+Yet there was a curious fascination about Oldchurch. She never
+forgot it. The two great wide streets, High-street and Butcher-row,
+intersecting one another in the form of a cross: the two churches--the
+Old Church, gloomy and Norman, with its ghostly graveyard; and the New
+Church, shining white amidst a pleasant garden cemetery, beneath one of
+whose flower-beds her baby-brother lay: the two shops, the only ones she
+ever visited, the confectioner's, where she stood to watch the yearly
+fair, and the bookseller's whither she dragged her nurse on any excuse,
+that she might pore over its incalculable treasures.
+
+Above all, there was fixed in her memory the strange aspect the town
+wore on one day--a Coronation-day, the grandest gala of her childhood.
+One king had died and been buried.--Olive saw the black-hung pulpit and
+heard the funeral sermon, awfully thundered forth at night Another king
+had been proclaimed, and Olive had gloried in the sight of the bonfires
+and the roasted sheep. Now the people talked of a Coronation-day. Simple
+child! She knew nothing of the world's events or the world's destinies,
+save that she rose early to the sound of carolling bells, was dressed
+in a new white frock, and taken to see the town--the beautiful town,
+smiling with triumphal flower-arches and winding processions. How she
+basked in the merry sunshine, and heard the shouts, and the band playing
+"God save the King," and felt very loyal, until her enthusiasm vented
+itself in tears.
+
+Such was one of the few links between Olive's early life and the world
+outside. Otherwise she dwelt, for those seven years of childhood, in
+a little Eden of her own, whose boundary was rarely crossed by the
+footsteps of either joy or pain. She was neither neglected nor ill-used,
+but she never knew that fulness of love on which one looks back in
+after-life, saying deprecatingly, and yet sighing the while, "Ah, I was
+indeed a spoiled child!" Her little heart was not positively checked in
+its overflowings; but it had a world of secret tenderness, which, being
+never claimed, expended itself in all sorts of wild fancies. She loved
+every flower of the field and every bird in the air. She also--having
+a passionate fondness for study and reading--loved her pet authors and
+their characters, with a curious individuality. Mrs. Holland stood in
+the place of some good aunt, and Sandford and Merton were regarded just
+like real brothers.
+
+She had no one to speak to about poetry; she did not know there was such
+a thing in the world. Yet she was conscious of strange and delicious
+sensations, when in the early days of spring she had at length conquered
+Elspie's fears about wet feet and muddy fields, and had gone with her
+nurse to take the first meadow ramble; she could not help bounding to
+pluck every daisy she saw; and when the violets came, and the
+primroses, she was out of her wits with joy. She had never even heard of
+Wordsworth; yet, as she listened to the first cuckoo note, she thought
+it no bird, but truly "a wandering voice." Of Shelley's glorious lyric
+ode she knew nothing; and yet she never heard the skylark's song
+without thinking it a spirit of the air, or one of the angels hymning
+at Heaven's gate. And many a time she looked up in the clouds at early
+morning, half expecting to see that gate open, and wondering whereabouts
+it was in the beautiful sky.
+
+She had never heard of Art, yet there was something in the gorgeous
+sunset that made her bosom thrill; and out of the cloud-ranges she tried
+to form mountains such as there were in Scotland, and palaces of crystal
+like those she read of in her fairy tales. No human being had ever told
+her of the mysterious links that reach from the finite to the infinite,
+out of which, from the buried ashes of dead Superstition, great souls
+can evoke those mighty spirits, Faith and Knowledge; yet she went to
+sleep every night believing that she felt, nay, could almost see, an
+angel standing at the foot of her little bed, watching her with holy
+eyes, guarding her with outspread wings.
+
+O Childhood! beautiful dream of unconscious poetry; of purity so pure
+that it knew neither the existence of sin nor of its own innocence; of
+happiness so complete, that the thought, "I am now happy," came not to
+drive away the wayward sprite which never _is_, but always is to come!
+Blessed Childhood! spent in peace and loneliness and dreams; hidden
+therein lay the germs of a whole life.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+
+Olive Rothesay was twelve years old, and she had never learnt the
+meaning of that word whose very sound seems a wail--sorrow. And that
+other word, which is the dirge of the whole earth--death--was still to
+her only a name. She knew there was such a thing; she read of it in her
+books; its shadow had passed her by when she missed her little brother
+from the cradle; but still it had never stood by her side and said, "Lo,
+I am here!" Her circle of love was so small that it seemed as though the
+dread spectre could not enter. She saw it afar off; she thought upon
+it sometimes in her poetical dreams, which clad the imaginary shape of
+grief with a strange beauty. It was sweet to be sad, sweet to weep. She
+even tried to make a few delicious sorrows for herself; and when a young
+girl--whose beautiful face she had watched in church--died, she felt
+pensive and mournful, and even took a pleasure in thinking that there
+was now one grave in the new churchyard which she would almost claim to
+weep over.
+
+Such were the tendencies of this child's mind--ever toward the
+melancholy and the beautiful united. Quietly pensive as her disposition
+was, she had no young companions to rouse her into mirth. But there was
+a serenity even in her sadness; and no one could have looked in her face
+without feeling that her nature was formed to suit her apparent fate,
+and that if less fitted to enjoy, she was the more fitted for the
+solemnity of that destiny, to endure.
+
+She had lived twelve years without knowing sorrow, and it was time that
+the first lesson, bitter, yet afterwards sweet, should be learned by the
+child. The shaft came to her through Elspie's faithful bosom, where she
+had rested all her life, and did rest now, with the unconscious security
+of youth, which believes all it loves to be immortal. That Elspie should
+grow old seemed a thing of doubtful future; that she should be ill or
+die was a thing that never crossed her imagination.
+
+And when at last, one year in the fall of the leaf, the hearty and
+vigorous old woman sickened, and for two or three days did not quit her
+room, still Olive, though grieving for the moment, never dreamed of any
+serious affliction. She tended her nurse lovingly and cheerfully, made
+herself quite a little woman for her sake, and really half enjoyed the
+stillness of the sickroom. It was a gay time--the house was full of
+visitors--and Elspie and her charge, always much left to one another's
+society, were now alone in their nursery, night and day. No one thought
+the nurse was ailing, except with the natural infirmity of old age, and
+Elspie herself uttered no word of complaint. Once or twice, while Olive
+was doing her utmost to enliven the sick-chamber, she saw her nurse
+watch her with eager love, and then sink into a grave reverie, from
+which it took more than one embrace to rouse her.
+
+One night, or rather morning, Olive was roused by the sight of a white
+figure standing at her bedside. She would have been startled, but that
+Elspie, sleeping in the same room, had many a time come to look on her
+darling, even in the middle of the night. She had apparently done so
+now.
+
+"Go to your bed again, dear nurse," anxiously cried Olive. "You should
+not walk about. Nay, you are not worse?"
+
+"Ay, ay, maybe; but dinna fear, dearie, we'll bide till the morn," said
+Elspie, faintly, as she tried to move away, supporting herself by the
+bed. Soon she sank back dizzily. "I canna walk. My sweet lassie, will ye
+help your puir auld nurse?"
+
+Olive sprang up, and guided her back to her bed. When she reached it,
+Elspie said, thoughtfully, "It's strange, unco strange. My strength is
+a' gane."
+
+"Never mind, Elspie dear, you are weak with being ill; but you will get
+better soon. Oh, yes, very soon!"
+
+"It's no that;" and Elspie took her child's hands and looked wistfully
+in her face. "Olive, gin ye were to tine your puir auld nurse? Gin I
+were to gang awa?"
+
+"Where?"
+
+"Unto God," said Elspie, solemnly.--"Dearie, I wadna grieve ye, but I'm
+aye sure this sickness is unto death."
+
+It was strange that Olive did not begin to weep, as many a child would
+have done; but though a cold trembling crept through her frame at these
+words, she remained quite calm. For Elspie must be kept calm likewise,
+and how could she be so if her child were not. Olive remembered this,
+and showed no sign of grief or alarm. Besides, she could not--would not
+believe a thing so fearful as Elspie's death. It was impossible.
+
+"You must not think thus--you must think of nothing but getting well.
+Lie down and go to sleep," she said, in a tone of almost womanly
+firmness, which Elspie obeyed mechanically. Then she would have roused
+the household, but the nurse forbade. By her desire Olive again lay
+down.
+
+It had always been her custom to creep to Elspie's bed as soon as she
+awoke, but now she did so long before daylight, in answer to a faint
+summons.
+
+"I want ye, my bairn. Ye'll come to your auld nurse's arms--maybe
+they'll no haud ye lang," murmured Elspie. She clasped the child once,
+with an almost passionate tenderness, and then, turning away, dropped
+heavily asleep.
+
+But Olive did not sleep. She lay until broad daylight, counting hour
+by hour, and thinking thoughts deep and strange in a child of her
+years--thoughts of death and eternity. She did not believe Elspie's
+words; but if they should be true--if her nurse should die--if this
+should be the last time she would ever creep to her living bosom!
+
+And then there came across the child's mind awful thoughts of death
+and of the grave. She struggled with them, but they clung with fearful
+tenacity to her fancy. All she had heard or read of mortality, of the
+coffin and the mould, came back with a vivid horror. She thought,--what
+if in a few weeks, a few days, the hand she held should be cold,
+lifeless; the form, whose faint breathings she listened to, should
+breathe no more, but be carried from her sight, and shut up in a
+grave--under a stone? And then where would be Elspie--the tender, the
+faithful--who seemed to live but in loving her? Olive had been told that
+when people died, it was their bodies only that lay in the grave, and
+their souls went up to heaven to be with God. But all her childish
+reasoning could not dissever the two.
+
+It was a marvel, that, loving Elspie as she did, such thoughts should
+come at all--that her mind was not utterly numbed with grief and terror.
+But Olive was a strange child. There were in her little spirit depths of
+which no one dreamed.
+
+Hour after hour she lay thinking these thoughts, horrible, yet fraught
+with a strange fascination, starting with a shudder every time they were
+broken by the striking of the clock below. How awful a clock sounds in
+the night-time, and to such a watcher--a mere child too! Olive longed
+for morning, and yet when the dusk of daybreak came, the very curtains
+took ghastly shapes, and her own white dress, hanging behind the door,
+looked like a shroud, within which----. She shuddered--and yet, all the
+while, she could not help eagerly conjecturing what the visible form of
+Death would be.
+
+Utterly unable to endure her own thoughts, she tried to rouse her nurse.
+And then Elspie started up in bed, seized her with burning hands, and
+asked her who she was and what she had done with little Olive.
+
+"I am little Olive--indeed I am," cried the terrified child.
+
+"Are ye sure? Aweel then, dearie, dinna greet," murmured poor Elspie,
+striving vainly against the delirium that she felt fast coming on. "My
+bairn, is it near morn? Oh, for a drink o' milk or tea."
+
+"Shall I go and call the maids? But that dark dark passage--I dare not."
+
+"It's no matter, bide ye till the daylight," said Elspie, as she sank
+again into heavy sleep.
+
+But the child could not rest. Was it not cruel to let her poor nurse lie
+suffering burning thirst, rather than encounter a few vague terrors? and
+if Elspie should have a long illness, should die--what then would the
+remorseful remembrance be? Without another thought the child crept out
+of bed and groped her way to the door.
+
+It is easy to laugh at children's fancies about "ghosts" and "bogie,"
+but Dante's terrors in the haunted wood were not greater or more real
+than poor little Olive's, when she stood at the entrance of the long
+gallery, dimly peopled with the fantastic shadows of dawn. None but
+those who remember the fearful imaginings of their childhood, can
+comprehend the self-martyrdom, the heroic daring, which dwelt in that
+little trembling bosom, as Olive groped across the gloom.
+
+Half-way through, she touched the cold handle of a door, and could
+scarce repress a scream. Her fears took no positive shape, but she felt
+surrounding her Things before and Things behind. No human courage could
+give her strength to resist such terrors. She paused, closed her eyes,
+and said the Lord's Prayer all through. But "_Deliver us from evil_" she
+repeated many times, feeling each time stronger and bolder. Then
+first there entered into her heart that mighty faith "which can remove
+mountains;" that fervent boldness of prayer with the very utterance of
+which an answer comes. And who dare say that the Angel of that child
+"always beholding the face of the Father in Heaven," did not stand
+beside her then, and teach her in faint shadow-ings the mystery of a
+life to come?
+
+Olive's awe-struck fancy became a truth--she never crept to her nurse's
+bosom more. By noon that day, Elspie lay in the torpor which marks the
+last stage of rapid inflammation. She did not even notice the child,
+who crept in and out of the thronged room, speaking to no one, neither
+weeping nor trembling, but struck with a strange awe, that made her
+countenance and "mien almost unearthly in their quietness.
+
+"Take her away to her parents," whispered the physician. But her mother
+had left home the day before, and Captain Rothesay had been absent a
+week. There were only servants in the house; they looked at her often,
+said "Poor child!" and left her to go where she would. Olive followed
+the physician downstairs.
+
+"Will she die?"
+
+He started at the touch of the soft hand--soft but cold, always cold.
+He looked at the little creature, whose face wore such an unchildlike
+expression. He never thought to pat her head, or treat her like a girl
+of twelve years old, but said gravely, as though he were speaking to a
+grown woman:
+
+"I have done my best, but it is too late. In three hours, or perhaps
+four, all will be over." He quitted the room, and Olive heard the rattle
+of his carriage wheels. They died away down the gravel road, and all
+was silent Silent, except the twitter of a few birds, heard through the
+stillness of a July evening. Olive stood at the window and mechanically
+looked out. It was so beautiful, so calm. At the west, the clouds were
+stretched out in pale folds of rose colour and grey. On the lawn slept
+the long shadows of the trees, for behind them was rising the round, red
+moon. And yet, within the house was--death.
+
+She tried to realise the truth. She said to herself, time after time,
+"Elspie will die!" But even yet she could not believe it. How could the
+little birds sing and the sunset shine when Elspie was dying! At last
+the light faded, and then she believed it all. Night and death seemed to
+come upon the world together.
+
+Suddenly she remembered the physician's words. "Three hours--four
+hours." Was that all? And Elspie had not spoken to her since the moment
+when she cried and was afraid to rise in the dark. Elspie was going
+away, for ever, without one kiss, one good-bye.
+
+Weeping passionately, Olive flew back to the chamber, where several
+women stood round the bed. There lay the poor aged form in a torpor
+which, save for the purple face and the loud, heavy breathing, had all
+the unconsciousness of death. Was that Elspie? The child saw, and her
+tears were frozen. The maids would have drawn her away.
+
+"No--no," Olive said in a frightened whisper; "let me look at her--let
+me touch her hand."
+
+It lay outside the bedclothes, helpless and rigid, the fingers dropping
+together, as they always do in the hour of parting life. Olive touched
+them. They were cold--so cold! Then she knew what was death. The maids
+carried her fainting from the room.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay had returned, and, frightened and grieved, now wept with
+all a woman's softness over the death-bed of the faithful old nurse. She
+took her little daughter to her own sitting-room, laid her on the sofa,
+and watched by her very tenderly. Olive, exhausted and half insensible,
+heard, as in a dream, her mother whispering to the maid:
+
+"Come and tell me when there is _any change_."
+
+_Any change!_ What change? That from life to death--from earth to
+heaven! And would it take place at once? Could they tell the instant
+when Elspie's soul departed "to be beyond the sun"?
+
+Such and so strange were the thoughts that floated through the mind
+of this child of twelve years old. And from these precocious yearnings
+after the infinite, Olive's fancy turned to earthly, childish things.
+She pictured with curious minuteness how she would feel when she awoke
+next morning, and found that Elspie was dead;--how there would be a
+funeral; how strange the house would seem afterward; even what would be
+done with the black bonnet and shawl which, two days since, Elspie had
+hung up against the nursery-door never to put on again.
+
+And then a long silent agony of weeping came. Her mother, thinking she
+slept, sat quietly by; but in any case Olive would never have thought
+of going to her for consolation. Young as she was, Olive knew that her
+sorrow must be borne alone, for none could understand it. Until we feel
+that we are alone on earth, how rarely do we feel that we are _not_
+alone in heaven! For the second time this day the child thought of God.
+Not merely as of Him to whom she offered her daily prayers, and those
+repeated after the clergyman in church on Sunday, but as One to whom,
+saying "Our Father," she could ask for anything she desired.
+
+And she did so, lying on the sofa, not even turning to kneel down, using
+her own simple words. She prayed that God would comfort her when Elspie
+died, and teach her not to grieve, but to be a good, patient child,
+so that she might one day go to her dear nurse in heaven, and never be
+parted from her any more.
+
+She heard the maid come in and whisper to her mamma. Then she knew that
+all was over--that Elspie was dead. But so deep was the peace which had
+fallen on her heart that the news gave no pang--caused no tears.
+
+"Olive, dearest," said Mrs. Rothesay, herself subdued into weeping.
+
+"I know, mamma," was the answer. "Now I have no one to love me but you."
+
+The feeling was strange, perhaps even wrong; but as Mrs. Rothesay
+clasped her child, it was not without a thrill of pleasure that Olive
+was all her own now.
+
+"Where shall Miss Rothesay sleep to-night?" was the whispered question
+of the maid. Olive burst into tears.
+
+"She shall sleep with me. Darling, do not cry for your poor nurse, will
+not mamma do instead?"
+
+And looking up, Olive saw, as though she had never seen it before,
+the face which, now shining with maternal love, seemed beautiful as an
+angel's. It became to her like an angel's evermore.
+
+How often, in our human fate, does the very Hand that taketh, give!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay, touched by an impulse of regretful tenderness, showed
+all due respect to the memory of the faithful woman who had nursed with
+such devotion her husband and her child. For a whole long week Olive
+wandered about the shut-up house, the formal solemnities of death, now
+known for the first time, falling heavily on her young heart. Alas!
+that there was no one to lift it beyond the terrors of the grave to the
+sublime mysteries of immortality.
+
+But the child knew none of these, and therefore she crept, awe-struck,
+about the silent house, and when night fell, dared not even to pass near
+the chamber--once her own and Elspie's--now Death's. She saw the other
+members of the household enter there with solemn faces, and pass out,
+carefully locking the door. What must there be within? Something on
+which she dared not think, and which nothing could induce her to behold.
+At times she forgot her sorrow; and, still keeping close to her mother's
+side, amused herself with her usual childish games, piecing disjointed
+maps, or drawing on a slate; but all was done with a quietness sadder
+than even tears.
+
+The evening before the funeral, Mrs. Rothesay went to look for the last
+time on the remains of her faithful old servant. She tried to persuade
+little Olive to go with her; the child accompanied her to the door, and
+then, weeping violently, fled back and hid herself in another chamber.
+From thence she heard her mother come away--also weeping, for the feeble
+nature of Sybilla Rothesay had lost none of its tender-hearted softness.
+Olive listened to the footsteps gliding downstairs, and there was
+silence. Then the passionate affection which she had felt for her old
+nurse rose up, driving away all childish fear, and strengthening her
+into a resolution which until then she had not dared to form. To-morrow
+they would take away Elspie--_for ever_. On earth she would never again
+see the face which had been so beloved. Could she let Elspie go without
+one look, only one? She determined to enter the awful room now, and
+alone.
+
+It was about seven in the evening, still daylight, though in the
+darkened house dimmer than without. Olive drew the blind aside, took one
+long gaze into the cheerful sunset landscape to strengthen and calm her
+mind, and then walked with a firm step to the chamber-door. It was not
+locked this time, but closed ajar. The child looked in a little way
+only. There stood the well-remembered furniture, the room seemed the
+same, only pervaded with an atmosphere of silent, solemn repose. There
+would surely be no terror there.
+
+Olive stole in, hearing in the stillness every beating of her heart.
+She stood by the bed. It was covered, not with its usual counterpane of
+patchwork stars, the work of Elspie's diligent hand through many a
+long year, and on which her own baby-fingers had been first taught to
+sew--but with a large white sheet. She stood, scarce knowing whether to
+fly or not, until she heard a footstep on the stairs. One minute, and
+it would be too late. With a resolute hand she lifted the sheet, and saw
+the white fixed countenance, not of sleep, but death.
+
+Uttering a shriek so wild and piercing that it rang through the house,
+Olive sprang to the door, fled through the passage, at the end of which
+she sank in convulsions.
+
+That night the child was taken ill, and never recovered until some weeks
+after, when the grass was already springing on poor Elspie's grave.
+
+It is nature's blessed ordinance, that in the mind of childhood the
+remembrance of fear or sorrow fades so fast. Therefore, when Olive
+regained strength, and saw the house now smiling within and without
+amidst the beauty of early autumn,--the horrors of death passed from her
+mind, or were softened into a tender memory. Perhaps, in the end, it was
+well for her that she had looked on that poor dead face, to be certain
+that it was not Elspie. She never thought of Elspie in that awful
+chamber any more. She thought of her as in life, standing knitting by
+the nursery-window, walking slowly and sedately along the green lanes,
+carrying the basket of flowers and roots, collected in their rambles, or
+sitting in calm Sunday afternoons with her Bible on her knee.
+
+And then, passing from the memory of Elspie once on earth, Olive thought
+of Elspie now in heaven. Her glowing imagination idealised all sorrow
+into poesy. She never watched the sunset, she never looked up into the
+starry sky at night, without picturing Elspie as there. All the foibles
+and peculiarities of her poor old Scottish nurse became transmuted into
+the image of a guardian invisible, incorporeal; which seemed to draw
+her own spirit nearer to heaven, with the thought that there was one she
+loved, and who loved her, in the glorious mansions there.
+
+From the time of her nurse's death, the whole current of Olive's life
+changed. It cast no shadow over the memory of the deep affection
+lost, to say that the full tide of living love now flowed towards Mrs.
+Rothesay as it had never done before, perhaps never would have done but
+for Elspie's death. And truly the mother's heart now thirsted for that
+flood.
+
+For seven years the little cloud which appeared when Captain Rothesay
+returned, had risen up between husband and wife, increasing slowly but
+surely, and casting a shadow over their married home. Like many another
+pair who wed in the heat of passion, or the wilful caprice of youth,
+their characters, never very similar, had grown less so day by day,
+until their two lives had severed wider and wider. There was no open
+dissension that the wicked world could take hold of, to glut its eager
+eyes with the spectacle of an unhappy marriage; but the chasm was there,
+a gulf of coldness, indifference, and distrust, which no foot of love
+would ever cross.
+
+Angus Rothesay was a disappointed man. At five-and-twenty he had taken a
+beautiful, playful, half-educated child,
+
+     "His bride and his darling to be,"
+
+forgetting that at thirty-five he should need a sensible woman to be his
+trustworthy sympathising wife, the careful and thoughtful mistress of
+his household. When hard experience had made him old and wise, even a
+little before his time, he came home expecting to find her old and wise
+too. The hope failed. He found Sybilla as he had left her--a very child.
+Ductile and loving as she was, he might even then have guided her mind,
+have formed her character, in fact, have made her anything he liked. But
+he would not do it; he was too proud. He brooded over his disappointed
+hope in silence and reserve; and though he reproached her not, and never
+ceased to love her in his own cold way, yet all respect and sympathy
+were gone. Her ways were not his ways, and was it the place of a man and
+a husband to bend? After a few years of struggling, less with her than
+with himself, he decided that he would take his own separate course, and
+let her take hers.
+
+He did so. At first she tried to win him back, not with a woman's sweet
+and placid dignity of love, never failing, never tiring, yet invisible
+as a rivulet that runs through deep green bushes, scarcely heard and
+never seen. Sybilla's arts--the only arts she knew--were the whole
+armoury of girlish coquetry, or childish wile, passionate tenderness
+and angry or sullen reproach, alternating each other. Her husband was
+equally unmoved by all. He seemed a very rock, indifferent to either
+sunshine or storm. And yet it was not so. He had in his nature deep,
+earnest, abiding tenderness; but he was one of those people who must be
+loved only in their own quiet, silent way. A hard lesson for one whose
+every feeling was less a principle than an impulse. Sybilla could not
+learn it. And thus the happiness of two lives was blighted, not
+from evil, or even lack of worth in either, but because they did not
+understand one another. Their current of existence flowed on coldly and
+evenly, in two parallel lines, which would never, never meet!
+
+The world beheld Captain Rothesay in two phases--one as the grave,
+somewhat haughty but respected master of Merivale Hall; the other as the
+rash and daring speculator, who was continually doubling and trebling
+his fortune by all the thousand ways of legal gambling in which men
+of capital can indulge. There was in this kind of life an interest and
+excitement Captain Rothesay rushed to it as many another man would have
+rushed to far less sinless means of atoning for the dreary blank of
+home.
+
+In Mrs. Rothesay the world only saw one of its fairest adornments--one
+of those "charming women" who make society so agreeable; beautiful,
+kind-hearted--at least as much so as her thoughtless life allowed;
+lively, fond of amusement--perhaps a little too much, for it caused
+people to note the contrast between the master and the mistress of the
+Hall, and to say what no wife should ever give the world reason to say,
+"Poor thing! I wonder if she is happy with her husband?"
+
+But between those two stood the yet scarce recognised tie which bound
+them together--the little deformed child.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+
+"Captain Rothesay?"
+
+"My dear?"
+
+Reader, did you ever notice the intense frigidity that can be expressed
+in a "my dear!" The coldest, cruellest husband we ever knew once
+impressed this fact on our childish fancy, by our always hearing him
+call his wife thus. Poor, pale, broken-hearted creature! He "my deared"
+her into her grave.
+
+Captain Rothesay also used the epithet with a formality which was
+chilling enough in its way. He said it without lifting his eyes from the
+book, "Smith's Wealth of Nations," which had become his usual evening's
+study now, whenever he was at home. That circumstance, rare enough to
+have been welcome, and yet it was not welcome, now subdued his wife and
+daughter into silence and quietness. Alas! that ever a presence which
+ought to be the sunshine of a household should enter only to cast a
+perpetual shade.
+
+The firelight shone on the same trio which had formed the little
+after-dinner circle years ago at Stirling. But there was a change in
+all. The father and mother sat--not side by side, in that propinquity
+which is so sweet, when every breath, every touch of the beloved's
+garment gives pleasure; they sat one at each corner of the table,
+engrossed in their several occupations; reading with an uncommunicative
+eagerness, and sewing in unbroken silence. Each was entrenched within
+a chilling circle of thoughts and interests in which the other never
+entered. And now the only point of meeting between them was the
+once-banished child.
+
+Little Olive was growing almost a woman now, but she was called "little
+Olive" still. She retained her diminutive stature, together with her
+girlish dress, but her face wore, as ever, its look of premature age.
+And as she sat between her father and mother, now helping the one in
+her delicate fancy-work, now arranging the lamp for the other's reading,
+continually in request by both, or when left quiet for a minute,
+watching both with anxious earnestness, there was quite enough in
+Olive's manner to show that she had entered on a woman's life of care,
+and had not learned a woman's wisdom one day too soon.
+
+The captain's last "my dear" found his wife in the intricacies of
+a Berlin-wool pattern, so that she did not speak Again for several
+minutes, when she again appealed to "Captain Rothesay." She rarely
+called him anything else now. Alas! the time of "Angus" and "Sybilla"
+was gone.
+
+"Well, my dear, what have you to say?"
+
+"I wish you would not be always reading, it makes the evening so dull."
+
+"Does it?" and he turned over another leaf of Adam Smith, and leisurely
+settled himself for its perusal.
+
+"Papa is tired, and may like to be quiet. Suppose we talk to one
+another, mamma?" whispered Olive, as she put aside her own work--idle,
+but graceful designings with pencil and paper--and drawing near to her
+mother, began to converse in a low tone. She discussed all questions as
+to whether the rose should be red or white, and what coloured wool
+would form the striped tulip, just as though they had been the most
+interesting topics in the world. Only once her eyes wandered wistfully
+to the deserted "Sabrina," which, half sketched, lay within the leaves
+of her "Comus." Mrs. Rothesay observed this, and said, kindly--
+
+"Let me look at what you are doing, love. Ah!--very pretty! What is
+Sabrina? Tell me all about her." And she listened, with a pleased,
+maternal smile, while her gratified little daughter dilated on the
+beloved "Comus," and read a passage or two in illustration. "Very
+pretty, my love," again repeated Mrs. Rothesay, stroking Olive's hair.
+"Ah! you are a clever child. But now come and tell me what sort of
+winter dresses you think we should have."
+
+If any observer could have seen a shade of disappointment on Olive's
+face, he would also have seen it instantly suppressed. The young girl
+closed "Comus" with the drawing inside, and came to sit down again,
+looking up into the eyes of her "beautiful mamma." And even the
+commonplace question of dress soon became interesting to her, for her
+artistic predilection followed her even there, and no lover ever gloried
+in his mistress's charms, no painter ever delighted to deck his model,
+more than Olive loved to adorn and to admire the still exquisite beauty
+of her mother. It stood to her in the place of all attractions
+in herself--in fact, she rarely thought about herself at all. The
+consciousness of her personal defect had worn off through habit, and
+her almost total seclusion from strangers prevented its being painfully
+forced on her mind.
+
+"I wish we could leave off this mourning," said Mrs. Rothesay. "It is
+quite time, seeing Sir Andrew Rothesay has been dead six months. And,
+living or dying, he did not show kindness enough to make one remember
+him longer."
+
+"Yet he was kind to papa, when a child; and so was Auntie Flora," softly
+said Olive, to whose enthusiastic memory there ever clung Elspie's tales
+about the Perthshire relatives--bachelor brother and maiden sister,
+living together in their lonely, gloomy home. But she rarely talked
+about them; and now, seeing her mamma looked troubled, as she always did
+at any reference to Scotland and the old times, the little maiden ceased
+at once. Mrs. Rothesay was soon again safely and contentedly plunged
+into the mysteries of winter costume.
+
+"Your dresses must be handsomer and more womanly now, Olive; for I
+intend to take you out with me now and then. You are quite old enough;
+and I am tired of visiting alone. I intended to speak to your papa about
+it to-night; but he seems not in a good humour."
+
+"Only tired with his journey," put in the sweet little awdiator. "Is it
+not so papa?"
+
+Captain Rothesay started from a dull, anxious reverie, into which his
+reading had merged, and lifted his face, knitted and darkened with some
+inward care, heavy enough to make his tone sharp and angry, as he said,
+
+"Well, child, what do you want?"
+
+"Do not scold Olive; it was I who wished to speak to you." And then,
+without pausing to consider how evidently ill-timed the conversation
+was, Mrs. Rothesay began to talk eagerly about Olive's "coming out," and
+whether it should be at home or abroad; finally arguing that a ball
+at Merivale would be best, and entering at large on the question of
+ball-costume. There was nothing wrong in anything she said, but she said
+it at the wrong time. Her husband listened first with indifference, then
+fidgeted restlessly in his chair, and at last subsided into an angry
+silence.
+
+"Why don't you speak, Captain Rothesay?" He took up the poker and
+hammered the fire to small cinders. "Of course, you will be reasonable.
+Say, shall it be as I have arranged?"
+
+"No!" The word came thundering out--as Captain Rothesay rarely
+thundered; for he was calm and dignified even in his wrath. Immediately
+afterwards he rose up and left the room.
+
+Sybilla grew pale, sorrowful, and then melted into tears. She tried not
+to let Olive see them. She was still too faithful a wife to seek in any
+way to turn the child against her father. But yet she wept: and drawing
+her young daughter closer to her arms, she felt the sweetness of having
+a child--and such a child--left to love her. In proportion as the wife's
+heart closed, the mother's opened.
+
+Ere long, Captain Rothesay sent for little Olive, to read the evening
+newspaper to him in his study.
+
+"Go, love," said Mrs. Rothesay; and she went--without fear, too; for her
+father never said a harsh word to _her_. And as, each year of her life,
+the sterling truth and stern uprightness of his character dawned upon
+her, she could not fail to respect him, even while she worshipped her
+sweet-tempered gentle mother.
+
+Captain Rothesay made no remark, save upon the subject she was reading,
+and came in with Olive to tea, just as usual. But when he had finished,
+and was fast sinking back into that painful reverie which seemed to
+oppress him, his weak ill-judging wife recommenced her attack. She
+talked gently when speaking of Olive, even affectionately--poor soul!
+She persuaded herself, all the time, that she was doing right, and
+that he was a hardhearted father not to listen to her. He did listen,
+apparently; and she took his silence for consent, for she ended with--
+
+"Well, then, it is quite settled; the ball shall be at Merivale, on the
+20th of next month."
+
+Angus turned round, his blue eyes glittering, yet cold as steel--"Mrs.
+Rothesay, if you will worm the truth out of me, you shall. By next month
+you may not have a roof over your head."
+
+He rose up and again quitted the room. Mrs. Rothesay trembled--grew
+terrified--but tried to reassure herself. "He only says this in
+anger, or else to frighten me. I will not believe it." Then conscience
+whispered, that never in her whole life had she known Angus Rothesay to
+tell a falsehood; and she trembled more and more. Finally, she passed
+into a violent fit of nervous weeping--a circumstance by no means rare.
+Her health was weakened by the exciting gaieties of her outward life,
+and the inward sorrow which preyed upon her heart.
+
+This night--and not for the first time either--the little maiden of
+fifteen might have been seen, acting with the energy and self-possession
+of a woman--soothing her mother's hysterical sufferings--smoothing her
+pillow, and finally watching by her until she fell asleep. Then Olive
+crept downstairs, and knocked at her father's study-door. He said, "Come
+in," in a dull, subdued tone. She entered, and saw him sitting, his
+head on his hand, jaded and exhausted, leaning over the last embers of
+the fire, which had gone out without his noticing it. If there had been
+any anger in the child's heart, it must have vanished at once, when she
+looked upon her father thus.
+
+"Oh! is that you, Olive?" was all he said, beginning to turn over his
+papers, as if to make a show of occupation.
+
+But he soon relapsed into that unknown thought which oppressed him so
+much. It was some minutes before he completely aroused himself, and saw
+the little elfin-like figure standing beside him, silent and immovable,
+with the taper in her hand.
+
+"Shall I bring your candle, dear papa? It is eleven o'clock and more."
+
+"Where is your mother, Olive?"
+
+"She is gone to bed;" and Olive paused, uncertain whether she should
+tell him that her mamma was ill. Again there was a silence--during
+which, do what he would, Captain Rothesay could not keep his eyes from
+the earnest, wistful, entreating gaze of his "little Olive." At last, he
+lifted her on his knee, and took her face between his two hands, saying,
+in a smothered tone,
+
+"You are not like your mother; you are like _mine_--ay, and seem more so
+as you grow to be a woman."
+
+"I wish I were a woman, that papa might talk to me and tell me anything
+which he has on his mind," whispered Olive, scarcely daring to breathe
+that which she had nerved herself to say, during many minutes of silent
+pondering at the study-door.
+
+Captain Rothesay relapsed hastily into his cold manner. "Child, how do
+you know?"
+
+"I know nothing, and want to know nothing, that papa does not wish to
+tell me," answered Olive, gently.
+
+The father turned round again, and looked into his daughter's eyes.
+Perhaps he read there a spirit equal to, and not unlike, his own--a
+nature calm, resolute, clear-sighted; the strong will and decision of
+a man, united to the tenderness of a woman. From that hour father and
+daughter understood one another.
+
+"Olive, how old are you?--I forget."
+
+"Fifteen, dear papa."
+
+"Ah! and you are a thoughtful girl. I can talk to you as to a
+woman--pah! I mean, a sensible woman. Put out your candle; you can sit
+up a while longer."
+
+She obeyed, and sat with him for two whole hours in his study, while he
+explained to her how sudden reverses had so damaged his fortune that it
+was necessary to have a far smaller establishment than Merivale Hall.
+
+"Not that we need fear poverty, my dear child; but the future must be
+considered and provided for. Your mother's jointure, should I die--nay,
+do not look sad, we will not talk of that--and then, too, your own
+portion, when you marry."
+
+Olive blushed, as any girl of fifteen will do when talked to on such a
+topic, even in the most business-like way. "I shall not marry, papa,"
+said she, expressing the thought which had come to her, as it does
+to most young girls who love their parents very dearly, too dearly to
+imagine a parting.
+
+Captain Rothesay started, as if suddenly recollecting himself. Then he
+regarded her earnestly, mournfully; and in the look was something which
+struck on Olive's memory as though she had seen it before.
+
+"I had forgotten," muttered Captain Rothesay to himself. "Of course, she
+will never marry. Poor child!--poor child!"
+
+He kissed her very tenderly, then lighted his candle, and went upstairs
+to bed, holding her hand all the way, until they parted at her room
+door, when he kissed her a second time. As he did so, she contrived to
+whisper--
+
+"Mamma is sure to wake; she always does when you come in. Kiss mamma,
+too."
+
+Olive went to bed, happier than she could have believed possible, had
+any one told her in the morning that ere night she would hear the ill
+news of having to leave beautiful Merivale. But it was so sweet to feel
+herself a comfort to both parents--they who, alas! would receive no
+comfort from each other.
+
+Only, just when she was falling asleep, the thought floated across
+Olive's mind--
+
+"I wonder why papa said that, of course, I should never marry!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+
+"Dear mamma, is not this a pretty house, even though it is in a
+town?--so pretty, one need hardly pine after Merri-vale."
+
+Thus said Olive when they had been established some time in their new
+abode, and sat together, one winter evening, listening to the sweet
+bells of Oldchurch--one of the few English parishes where lingers "the
+curfew's solemn sound."
+
+"A pretty house, if any one came to see us in it, my dear; but nobody
+does. And then we miss the close carriage so much. To think that I
+have been obliged to refuse the Stantons' ball and the dinner-party at
+Everingham. How dull these long winter evenings will be, Olive!"
+
+Olive answered neither _yes_ nor _no_, but tried quietly, by her
+actions, to disprove the fact She was but a child--scarcely would have
+been called a clever child; was neither talkative nor musical; and yet
+she had a thousand winning ways of killing time, so sweetly that each
+minute died, dolphin-like, shedding glorious hues.
+
+A very romantic simile this--one that would never have crossed Olive's
+innocent brain. She only knew that she loved her mother; and therefore
+tried to amuse and make her happy, so that she might not feel the change
+of circumstances--a change so unimportant to Olive, so vital to Mrs.
+Rothesay.
+
+Olive, this night, was peculiarly successful in her little _ruse_ of
+love. Her mother listened while she explained a whole sketch-book of
+designs, illustrative of half-a-dozen modern poets. Mrs. Rothesay even
+asked her to read some of the said poets aloud; and though not of an
+imaginative temperament, was fain to shed a few womanly tears over
+Tennyson's "Queen of the May" and the "Miller's Daughter." Finally, she
+was coaxed into sitting to her daughter for her portrait, which Olive
+thought would make a design exactly suited to the heroine of the latter
+poem, and chiefly at the verse--
+
+"Look through mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine
+arms entwine; My other dearer life in life, Look through my very soul
+with thine."
+
+And, reading the verses over and over again, to bring the proper
+expression to her mother's face, the young girl marvelled that they
+brought likewise a look so sad that she would fain have made some
+excuse, and terminated the sitting.
+
+"No, no, my dear; it amuses me, and I can talk with you the while."
+
+But Mrs. Rothesay did not talk much; she was continually falling into a
+reverie. Once she broke it with the words--
+
+"Olive, my child, I think, now we lead a quieter life, your papa will
+stay at home more. He seems to like this house, too--he never liked
+Merivale."
+
+"Dear old Merivale!" said Olive, with a sigh. It seemed ages since she
+had left the familiar place.
+
+"Do not call it _dear_. It was a dreary home. I did not think so at
+first, but I did afterwards."
+
+"Why, mamma?" asked Olive. She was glad to lure her mother on to talk a
+little, if only to dispel the shadow which so ill became Mrs. Rothesay's
+still fair face.
+
+"You were too young to know anything then--indeed, you are now, almost.
+But, somehow, I have learned to talk with you as if you were quite a
+little woman, Olive, my dear."
+
+"Thank you, mamma. And what made you dislike sweet Merivale?"
+
+"It was when your papa first began to take his long journeys--on
+business you know. He was obliged to do it, I suppose; but,
+nevertheless, it was very dull for me. I never had such a dreary summer
+as that one. You could not remember it, though--you were only ten years
+old."
+
+Olive did remember it faintly, nevertheless--a time when her father's
+face was sterner, and her mother's more fretful, than now; when the
+shadow of many domestic storms passed over the child. But she never
+spoke of these things; and, lest her mother should ponder painfully on
+them now, she began to talk of lighter matters. Yet though the sweet
+companionship of her only daughter was balm to Mrs. Rothesay's heart,
+still there was a pain there which even Olive could not remove. Was
+it that the mother's love had sprung from the ruins of the wife's
+happiness; and that while smiling gaily with her child, Sybilla
+Rothesay's thoughts were with the husband who, year by year, was growing
+more estranged, and whom, as she found out too late, by a little more
+wisdom, patience, and womanly sympathy, she might perhaps have kept for
+ever at her side?
+
+But none of these mysteries came to the knowledge of little Olive. She
+lived the dream-life of early girlhood--dwelling in an atmosphere still
+and pure as a grey spring morning ere the sun has risen. All she learnt
+was from books; for though she had occasional teachers, she had never
+been sent to school. Sometimes she regretted this, thinking how pleasant
+it would be to have companions, or at least one friend, of her own age,
+to whom she might talk on the various subjects of which she had of
+late begun to dream. These never passed the still sanctuary of her
+own thoughts; for some instinct told her that her mother would not
+sympathise with her fancies. So she thought of them always by herself,
+when she was strolling about the small but pleasant garden that sloped
+down from the back of the house to the river; or when, extending her
+peregrinations, she went to sit in the summer-house of the garden
+adjoining, which belonged to a large mansion close by, long uninhabited.
+It was quite a punishment to Olive when a family came to live there, and
+she lost the use of the beautiful deserted garden.
+
+Still, it was something new to have neighbours. She felt quite a
+curiosity respecting them, which was not diminished when, looking out
+one day from the staircase window (a favourite seat, from which every
+night she watched the sun set), Olive caught sight of the new occupants
+of her former haunts.
+
+They were two little boys of about nine or ten, playing noisily
+enough--as boys will. Olive did not notice them much, except the
+youngest, who appeared much the quieter and gentler of the two; but her
+gaze rested a long time on a girl, who seemed to be their elder sister.
+She was walking by herself up and down an alley, with a shawl thrown
+over her head, and her thick, black hair blown about by the March winds.
+Olive thought she looked very picturesque--in fact, just like some
+of her own fantastic designs of "Norna on the Fitful head," "Medora
+watching for Conrad," etc. etc. And when the young stranger drew nearer,
+her admiration was still further excited, by perceiving under the
+shawl a face that needed but a little romantic imagination to make it
+positively beautiful. Olive thought so, and accordingly sat the whole
+evening drawing it from memory, and putting it into various characters,
+from Scott, Byron, Moore, and Coleridge.
+
+For several days after, she took a deep interest in watching the family
+party, and chiefly this young girl--partly because she was so pretty,
+and partly because she seemed nearly about her own age, or perhaps a
+year or two older. Olive often contrived to walk in her garden when her
+neighbours were in theirs--so that she could hear the boys' cheerful
+voices over the high hedge. By this means she learnt their Christian
+names, Robert and Lyle--the latter of which she admired very much, and
+thought it exactly suited the pretty, delicate younger brother. She
+wished much to find out the name of their sister--but could not; for the
+elder girl took little notice of them, or they of her. So Olive, after
+thinking and talking of her for some time, as "my beauty next door," to
+Mrs. Rothesay's great amusement, at last christened her by the imaginary
+name of Maddalena.
+
+After a few weeks it seemed as though the interest between the young
+neighbours became mutual--for Olive, in her walks, sometimes fancied
+she saw faces watching _her_, too from the staircase window. And once,
+peering over the wall, she perceived the mischievous eyes and pointed
+finger of the elder boy, and heard the younger one say, reproachfully--
+
+"Don't--pray! You are very cruel, Bob."
+
+And Olive, deeply blushing--though at what she scarcely knew--fled into
+the house, and did not take her usual garden walks for some days.
+
+At last, when, one lovely spring evening, she stood leaning over the low
+wall at the garden's end, idly watching the river flow by beneath, she
+turned round, and saw fixed on her, with a curiosity not unmingled with
+interest, the dark eyes of "Maddalena." Somehow or other, the two girls
+smiled--and then the elder spoke.
+
+"The evening was very fine," she said; "and it was rather dull, walking
+in the garden all alone."
+
+Olive had never found it so; but she was used to it. Her young neighbour
+was not; she had always lived in a large town, etc. etc.
+
+A few more simple nothings spun out the conversation for ten minutes.
+The next day it was resumed, and extended to twenty; during which Olive
+learnt that her young beauty's name, so far from being anything so fine
+as Maddalena, was plain Sarah--or _Sara_, as its owner took care to
+explain. Olive was rather disappointed--but she thought of Coleridge's
+ladye love; consoled herself, and tried to console the young lady, with
+repeating,
+
+     My pensive Sarah! thy soft cheek reclined, etc.
+
+At which Miss Sara Derwent laughed, and asked who wrote that very pretty
+poetry?
+
+Olive was a little confounded. She fancied everybody read Coleridge, and
+her companion sank just one degree in her estimation. But as soon as she
+looked again on the charming face, with its large, languishing Asiatic
+eyes, and delicate mouth--just like that of the lotus-leaved "Clytie,"
+which she loved so much,--Olive felt all her interest revive.
+
+Never was there any girl over whom every form of beauty exercised more
+fascination. By the week's end she was positively enchanted with her
+neighbour, and before a month had passed, the two young girls had struck
+up that romantic friendship peculiar to sixteen.
+
+There is a deep beauty--more so than the world will acknowledge--in
+this impassioned first friendship, most resembling first love, the
+fore-shadowing of which it truly is. Who does not, even while smiling
+at its apparent folly, remember the sweetness of such a dream? Many a
+mother with her children at her knee, may now and then call to mind some
+old playmate, for whom, when they were girls together, she felt such
+an intense love. How they used to pine for the daily greeting--the long
+walk, fraught with all sorts of innocent secrets. Or, in absence, the
+almost interminable letters--positive love-letters, full of
+"dearest" and "beloveds," and sealing-wax kisses. Then the delicious
+meetings--sad partings, also quite lover-like in the multiplicity
+of tears and embraces--embraces sweeter than those of all the world
+beside--and tears--But our own are gathering while we write--Ah!
+
+We also have been in Arcadia.
+
+Gracious reader! grave, staid mother of a family!--you are not quite
+right if you jest at the days of old, and at such feelings as these.
+They were real at the time--and most pure, true, and beautiful. What
+matter, if years sweeping on have swept them all away or merged them
+into higher duties and closer ties? Perhaps, if you met your beautiful
+idol of fifteen, you would see a starched old maid of fifty, or a
+grandame presiding over the third generation; or perchance, in seeking
+thus, you would find only a green hillock, or a stone inscribed with the
+well-known name. But what of that? To you the girlish image is still the
+same--it never can grow old, or change, or die. Think of it thus; and
+then you will think not mockingly, but with an interest almost mournful,
+on the rapturous dream of first friendship which now came to visit Olive
+Rothesay.
+
+Sara Derwent was the sort of girl of whom we meet some hundreds in a
+lifetime--the class from whence are taken the lauded "mothers,
+wives, and daughters of England." She was sincere, good-tempered, and
+affectionate; not over-clever, being more gifted with heart than brains;
+rather vain, which fault her extreme prettiness half excused; always
+anxious to do right, yet, from a want of decision of character, often
+contriving to do wrong.
+
+But she completely charmed the simple Olive with her beauty, her
+sparkling, winning cheerfulness, and her ready sympathy. So they became
+the most devoted friends. Not a day passed without their spending some
+portion of it together--Olive teaching the young Londoner the pleasures
+of the country; and Sara, in her turn, inducting the wondering Olive
+into all the delightful mysteries of life, as learnt in a large home
+circle, and a still larger circle of society. Olive, not taking aught
+from the passionate love with which she looked up to her mother, yet
+opened her warm heart to the sweetness of this affection--so fresh, so
+sudden, so full of sympathetic contact. It was like a new revelation in
+her girlhood--the satisfying of a thirst, just beginning to be felt. She
+thought of Sara continually; delighted in being with her; in admiring
+her beauty, and making interests out of every interest of hers. And to
+think that her friend loved her in return brought a sensation of deep
+happiness, not unmixed with gratitude.
+
+Sara's own feelings may be explained by one sentence of a letter which
+she wrote to an old schoolfellow. Therein she told how she had found
+"such a dear, loving, gentle thing; a girl, not pretty--even slightly
+deformed; but who was an amusing companion, and to whom she could
+confide everything. Such a blessing in that dull place, Oldchurch!"
+
+Poor little Olive!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+
+As the summer advanced, Olive Rothesay and her new friend, sanctioned
+by the elders of both families, took long walks together, read, and
+practised. Not that Olive practised, for she had no voice, and little
+knowledge of music; but she listened to Sara's performances for hours,
+with patience, if not with delight. And when they talked--oh, what talks
+those were!
+
+Now, reader, be not alarmed lest we should indulge you with the same. Go
+back into your own _repertoire_ of early friendships, and that will suit
+us quite as well Still, we may just say that these young friends flitted
+like bees over every subject under heaven, and at last alighted on the
+subject most interesting at their age--love.
+
+It is curious to note how the heart first puts out its tendrils and
+stretches them forth toward the yet unknown good which is to be in
+after-life its happiness and its strength. What folly of parents to
+repress these blind seekings after such knowledge--this yearning which
+nature teaches, and which in itself involves nothing wrong. Girls _will_
+think of love, whether or no! How much better, then, that they should be
+taught to think of it rightly, as the one deep feeling of life. Not,
+on the one hand, to be repressed by ridicule; nor, on the other, to be
+forced by romance into a precocious growth; but to be entered upon, when
+fate brings the time, rationally, earnestly, and sacredly.
+
+Olive Rothesay found, with considerable pain, that Miss Derwent and she
+did not at all agree in their notions of love. Olive had always felt
+half-frightened at the subject, and never approached it save with great
+awe and timidity; but Sara did not seem to mind it in the least. She
+talked of a score of "flirtations" at quadrille parties--showed her
+friend half-a-dozen complimentary billets-doux which she had received,
+and all with the greatest unconcern. By degrees this indifference
+vanished under the influence of Olive's more earnest nature; and at
+last, when they were sitting together one night, listening to the fierce
+howling of the wind, a little secret came out.
+
+"I don't like that equinoctial gale," said Sara, shyly. "I used to hear
+so much of its horrors from a friend I have--at sea."
+
+"Indeed. Who was that?"
+
+"Only Charles Geddes. Did I never speak of him? Very likely not--because
+I was so vexed at his leaving college and running off to sea. It was
+a foolish thing. But don't mention him to papa or the boys." And Sara
+blushed--a real, good, honest blush.
+
+Olive did the same--perhaps from sympathy. She continued very thoughtful
+for a long time; longer even than Sara. They were not many days in
+making out between them the charming secret for which in their hearts
+they had been longing. Both were thirsting to taste--or at least to see
+each other taste--of that enchanting love-stream, the stream of life or
+of death, at whose verge they had now arrived.
+
+And so, it somehow chanced that, however the conversation began, it
+usually glided into the subject of Charles Geddes. Sara acknowledged
+that he and she had always liked one another very much, though she
+allowed that he was fonder of her than she was of him; that, when they
+parted, he had seemed much agitated--and she had cried--but they were
+mere boy and girl then. It was nothing--nothing at all.
+
+Olive did not think so; and, contrasting all this with similar
+circumstances in her pet poems and novels, she wove a very nice romance
+round Charles Geddes and her beloved Sara, whom she now began to look
+upon with greater interest and reverence than ever. This did not prevent
+her reading Sara a great many lectures on constancy, and giving her own
+opinions on what true love ought to be--opinions which were a little
+too ethereal for Miss Derwent's comprehension, but which she liked very
+much, nevertheless.
+
+Olive took quite an affectionate interest in her friend's lover--for
+lover she had decided that he must be. Not a day passed that she did not
+eagerly consult the _Times'_ "shipping intelligence;" and when at last
+she saw the name of Charles Geddes' vessel, as "arrived," her heart
+beat, and tears sprang to her eyes. When she showed it to Sara, Olive
+could hardly speak for joy. Little simpleton! she counted her friend's
+happiness as if it were her own. She kept the secret even from her
+mother; that is, in the only manner Olive would conceal aught from any
+one so beloved, by saying, "Please, mamma, do not ask me anything." And
+Mrs. Rothesay, who, always guided by some one, was now in a fair way
+to be entirely guided by her daughter, made no inquiries, but depended
+entirely upon Olive's wisdom and tenderness.
+
+Charles Geddes came to Oldchurch. It was quite a new life for Olive--a
+changed life, too; for now the daily rambles with her friend were less
+frequent. Instead of which, she used to sit at her window, and watch
+Sara and Charles taking long strolls in the garden, arm-in-arm, looking
+so happy, that it was beautiful to see them.
+
+Who can describe the' strange, half-defined thoughts which often brought
+tears to the young girl's eyes as she watched them thus! It was no
+jealousy of Sara's deserting her for Charles, still less was it envy;
+but it was a vague longing--a desiring of love for love's own sake. Not
+as regarded any individual object, for Olive had never seen any one in
+whom she felt or fancied the slightest interest. Yet, as she looked on
+these two young creatures, apparently so bound up in each other, she
+thought how sweet such a tie must be, and how dearly she herself could
+love some one. And her yearning was always _to love_ rather than _to be
+loved_.
+
+One morning, when Olive had not seen Sara for a day or two, she
+was hastily summoned to their usual trysting-place, a spot by the
+river-side, where the two gardens met, and where an over-arching
+thorn-tree made a complete bower. Therein Sara stood, looking so pale
+and serious, that Olive remarked it.
+
+"Has anything happened?"
+
+"Nothing--that is, nothing amiss. But oh, Olive, what do you think?
+Charles put this letter into my hand last night. I have scarcely
+slept--I feel so agitated--so frightened."
+
+And in truth she looked so. Was there ever a very young girl who did
+not, on receiving her first love-letter?
+
+It was an era in Olive's life, too. She even trembled, as by her
+friend's earnest desire she read the missive. It was boyish, indeed, and
+full of the ultra-romantic devotion of boyish love; but it was sincere,
+and it touched Olive deeply. She finished it, and leaned against the
+thorn-tree, pale and agitated as Sara herself.
+
+"Well, Olive?" said the latter.
+
+Olive threw her arms round her friend's neck and kissed her, feeling
+almost ready to cry.
+
+"And now, dear, tell me what I must do," said Sara, earnestly; for
+of late she had really begun to look up to Olive, so great was the
+influence of the more thoughtful and higher nature.
+
+"Do! Why, if you love him, you must tell him so, and give him your whole
+life-long faith and affection."
+
+"Really, Olive, how grave you are! I had no idea of making it such a
+serious matter. But, poor Charles!--to think that he should love me so
+very much!"
+
+"Oh, Sara, Sara!" murmured Olive, "how happy you ought to be!"
+
+The time that followed was a strange period in Olive's life. It was one
+of considerable excitement, too; she might as well have been in love
+herself, so deeply did she sympathise with Sara and with Charles. With
+the latter, even more than with her friend; for there was something in
+the sincere, reserved, and yet passionate nature of the young sailor,
+that answered to her own. If he had been her brother, she could not have
+felt more warmly interested in Charles Geddes and his wooing. And
+he liked her very much, for Sara's sake first, and then for her own,
+regarding her also with that gentle compassion which the strong and bold
+delight to show to the weak. He often called her "his faithful little
+friend;" and truly she stood his friend in every conceivable way, by
+soothing Sara's only parent--a most irascible papa--to consent to the
+engagement, and also by lecturing the gay and coquettish Sara herself
+into as much good behaviour as could be expected from an affianced
+damsel of seventeen.
+
+Charles Geddes went to sea again. Poor little Olive, in her warm
+sympathies, suffered almost as much as the young man's own betrothed,
+who, after looking doleful for a week, consoled herself by entering,
+heart and soul, into the gaieties of the gayest Christmas that ever
+was spent by the society of Oldchurch. Everywhere Miss Derwent was the
+belle, and continually did her friend need to remind her of the promise
+which Olive herself regarded as such a sacred, solemn thing.
+
+The love-adventure in which she had borne a part had stirred strange
+depths in the nature of the young girl. She was awakening slowly to the
+great mystery of woman's life. And when, by degrees, Sara's amusements
+somewhat alienated their continual intercourse, Olive was thrown
+back upon her own thoughts more and more. She felt a vague sadness--a
+something wanting in her heart, which not even her mother's love could
+supply.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay saw how dull and pensive she was at times, and with a
+tender unselfishness contrived that, by Sara Derwent's intervention,
+Olive should see a little more society; in a very quiet way, though; for
+her own now delicate health and Captain Rothesay's will, prevented any
+regular introduction of their daughter into the world. And sometimes
+Mrs. Rothesay, pondering on Olive's future, felt-glad of this.
+
+"Poor child! she is not made for the world, or the world for her. Better
+that she should lead her own quiet life, where she will suffer no pain,
+and be wounded by no neglect."
+
+Yet, nevertheless, it was with a vague pleasure that Mrs. Rothesay
+dressed Olive for her first ball--a birthday treat--coaxed by Sara
+Derwent out of her formidable papa, and looked forward to by both girls
+for many weeks.
+
+No one would have believed that the young creature, on whom Mrs.
+Rothesay gazed with a tenderness, not unmingled with admiration, had
+been the poor infant from which she once turned with a sensation of
+pain, almost amounting to disgust. But, learning to love, one learns
+also to admire. Besides, Olive's defect was less apparent as she grew
+up, and the extreme sweetness of her countenance almost atoned for her
+bad figure. Yet, as the mother fastened her white dress, and arranged
+the golden curls so as to fall in a shower on her neck and bosom, she
+sighed heavily.
+
+Olive did not notice it; she was too much occupied in tying up a rare
+bouquet--a birthday gift for Sara.
+
+"Well, are you quite satisfied with my dress, dearest mamma?"
+
+"Not quite;" and Mrs. Rothesay fetched a small mantle of white fur,
+which she laid round Olive's shoulders. "Wear this, dear; you will
+look better then--see." She led her to the mirror, and Olive saw the
+reflection of her own figure, so effectually disguised, that the head,
+with its delicate and spiritual beauty, seemed lifting itself out of a
+white cloud.
+
+"'Tis a pretty little mantle, but why must I wear it, mamma?--the night
+is not cold." So little did she think of herself, and so slight had
+been her intercourse with the world, that the defect in her shape rarely
+crossed her mind. But the mother, so beautiful herself, and to whom
+beauty was still of such importance, was struck with bitter pain. She
+would not even console herself by the reflection, with which many a one
+had lately comforted her, that Olive's slight deformity was becoming
+less perceptible, and that she might, in a great measure, outgrow it
+in time. Still it was there. As Mrs. Rothesay looked at the swan-like
+curves of her own figure, and then at her daughter's, she would almost
+have resigned her own once-cherished, but now disregarded, beauty, could
+she have bestowed that gift upon her beloved child.
+
+Without speaking, lest Olive should guess her thoughts, she laid the
+mantle aside, only she whispered in bidding adieu, "Dear, if you see
+other girls prettier, or more admired, more noticed than yourself, never
+mind! Olive is mamma's own pet--always."
+
+Oh, blessed adversity! oh, sweetness, taught by suffering! How
+marvellous was the change wrought in Sybilla's heart.
+
+Olive had never in her life before been at a "private ball," with
+chalked floors, rout seats, and a regular band. She was quite dazzled
+by the transformation thus effected in the Derwents' large, rarely-used,
+dining-room, where she had had many a merry game with little Robert and
+Lyle. It was perfect fairyland. The young damsels of Oldchurch--haughty
+boarding-school belles, whom she had always rather feared, when Sara's
+hospitality brought her in contact with them--were now grown into
+perfect court beauties. She was quite alarmed by their dignity, and they
+scarcely noticed poor little Olive at all. Sara, sweeping across the
+room, appeared to the eyes of her little friend a perfect queen of
+beauty. But the vision came and vanished. Never was there a belle so
+much in request as the lively Sara.
+
+Only once, Olive looked at her, and remembered the sailor-boy, who was,
+perhaps, tossing in some awful night-storm, or lying on the lonely deck,
+in the midst of the wide Atlantic. And she thought, that when her time
+came to love and be loved, she would not take everything quite so easily
+as Sara.
+
+"How pleasant quadrilles must be!" said Olive, as she sat with her
+favourite Lyle, watching the dancers. Lyle had crept to her, sliding his
+hand in hers, and looking up to her with a most adoring gaze, as indeed
+he often did. He had even communicated his intention of marrying her
+when he grew a man--a determination which greatly excited the ridicule
+of his elder brother.
+
+"I like far better to sit here quietly with you," murmured the faithful
+little cavalier.
+
+"Thank you, Lyle; still, they all look so merry, I almost wish some one
+had asked me to dance."
+
+"You dance, Miss Rothesay! What fun! Why nobody would ever dance with
+you," cried rude Bob.
+
+Lyle looked imploringly at his brother: "Hush! you naughty boy! Please,
+Miss Rothesay, I will dance with you at any time, that is, if you think
+I am tall enough."
+
+"Oh, quite; I am so small myself," answered Olive, laughing; for
+she took quite a pride in patronising him, as girls of sixteen often
+affectionately patronise boys some five or six years their junior. "You
+know, you are to grow up to be my little husband."
+
+"Your husband!" repeated Bob, mischievously. "Don't be too sure of
+getting one at all. What do you think I overheard those girls there say?
+That you looked just like an old maid; and, indeed, no one would ever
+care to marry you, because you were"--
+
+Here Lyle, blushing crimson, stopped his brother's mouth with his little
+hand; whereat Bob flew into such a passion, that he quite forgot Olive,
+and all he was about to say, in the excitement of a pugilistic
+combat with his unlucky _cadet_ In the midst of which the two
+belligerents--poor, untaught, motherless lads--were hurried off to bed.
+
+Their companionship lost, Olive was left very much to her own devices
+for amusement. Some few young people that she knew came and talked
+to her for a little while, but they all went back to their singing,
+dancing, or flirting; and Olive, who seemed to have no gift nor share
+in either, was left alone. She did not feel this much at first, being
+occupied in her thoughts and observations on the rest. She took great
+interest in noticing all around. Her warm heart throbbed in sympathy
+with many an idle, passing flirtation, which she in her simplicity
+mistook for a real "attachment." It seemed as if every one loved, or
+was loved, except herself. She thought this, blushing as if it were
+unmaidenliness, when it was only nature speaking in her heart.
+
+Poor Olive! perhaps it was ill for her that Sara's "love affair" had
+aroused prematurely these blind gropings after life's great mystery, so
+often
+
+     Too early seen unknown, and known too late.
+
+"What! tired of dancing already?" cried Sara, flitting to the corner
+where Olive sat.
+
+"I have not danced once yet," Olive answered, rather piteously.
+
+"Come--shall I get you a partner?" said Sara, carelessly.
+
+"No, no; every one is strange to me here. If you please, and if it would
+not trouble you, Sara, I had much rather dance with you."
+
+Sara consented with a tolerably good grace; but there was a slight
+shadow on her face, which somewhat pained her friend.
+
+"Is she ashamed of me, I wonder?" thought Olive. "Perhaps, because I
+am not beautiful. Yet, no one ever told me I was _very_ disagreeable to
+look at. I will see."
+
+As they danced, she watched in the tall mirror Sara's graceful, floating
+image, and the little pale figure that moved beside her. There _was_
+a contrast! Olive, who inherited all her mother's love of beauty,
+spiritualised by the refinement of a dawning artist-soul, felt keenly
+the longing regret after physical perfection. She went through the dance
+with less spirit, and in her heart there rung the idle echoes of some
+old song she knew:
+
+     "I see the courtly ladies stand,
+        With their dark and shining hair;
+     And I coldly turn aside to weep--
+        Oh, would that I were fair!"
+
+The quadrille ended, she hid herself in her old corner; and Sara, whose
+good nature led her to perform this sacrifice to friendship, seemed
+to smile more pleasantly and affectionately when it was over. At least
+Olive thought so. She did not see her beautiful idol again for some
+time; and feeling little interest in any other girl, and none at all in
+the awkward Oldchurch "beaux," she took consolation in her own harmless
+fashion. This was hiding herself under the thick curtains, and looking
+out of the window at the moon.
+
+Sara's voice was heard close by, talking to a young girl whom Olive
+knew. But Olive was too shy to join them. She greatly preferred her
+friend the moon.
+
+"I laughed to see you dancing with that little Olive Rothesay, Miss
+Derwent. For my part, I hate dancing with girls--and as for _her_--But I
+suppose you wanted to show the contrast."
+
+"Nay, that's ill-natured," answered Sara, "She is a sweet little
+creature, and my very particular friend."
+
+Here Olive, blushing and happy, doubted whether she ought not to come
+out of the curtains. It was almost wrong to listen--only her beloved
+Sara often said she had no secrets from Olive.
+
+"Yes, I know she is your friend, and Mr. Charles Geddes' great friend
+too; if I were you, I should be almost jealous."
+
+"Jealous of Olive--how very comical!" and the silver laugh was a little
+scornful. "To think of Olive's stealing any girl's lover! She, who will
+probably never have one in all her life--poor thing!"
+
+"Of course not; nobody would fall in love with her! But there is a
+waltz, I must run away. Will you come?"
+
+"Presently--when I have looked in the other room for Olive?"
+
+"Olive is here," said a timid voice. "Oh, Sara, forgive me if I have
+done wrong; but I can't keep anything from you. It would grieve me to
+think I heard what you were saying, and never told you of it."
+
+Sara appeared confused, and with a quick impulse kissed and fondled her
+little friend: "You are not vexed, or pained, Olive?"
+
+"Oh, no--that is, not much; it would be very silly if I were. But," she
+added, doubtfully, "I wish you would tell me one thing, Sara--not that I
+am proud, or vain; but still I should like to know. Why did you and Jane
+Ormond say just now that nobody would ever love me?"
+
+"Don't talk so, my little pet," said Sara, looking pained and puzzled.
+Yet, instinctively, her eye glanced to the mirror, where their two
+reflections stood. So did Olive's.
+
+"Yes, I know," she murmured. "I am little, and plain, and in figure very
+awkward--not graceful like you. Would that make people hate me, Sara?"
+
+"Not hate you; but"----
+
+"Well, go on--nay, I _will_ know all!" said Olive firmly; though
+gradually a thought--long subdued--began to dawn painfully in her mind.
+
+"I assure you, dear," began Sara, hesitatingly, "it does not signify to
+me, or to any of those who care for you; you are such a gentle little
+creature, we forget it all in time. But perhaps with strangers,
+especially with men, who think so much about beauty, this defect"----
+
+She paused, laying her arm round Olive's shoulders--even affectionately,
+as if she herself were much moved. But Olive, with a cheek that
+whitened, and a lip that quivered more and more, looked resolutely at
+her own shape imaged in the glass.
+
+"I see as I never saw before--so little I thought of myself. Yes, it is
+quite true--quite true."
+
+She spoke beneath her breath, and her eyes seemed fascinated into a
+hard, cold gaze. Sara became almost frightened.
+
+"Do not look so, my dear girl; I did not say that it was a positive
+_deformity_."
+
+Olive faintly shuddered: "Ah, that is the word! I understand it all
+now."
+
+She paused a moment, covering her face. But very soon she sat down, so
+quiet and pale that Sara was deceived.
+
+"You do not mind it, then, Olive--you are not angry with me?" she said
+soothingly.
+
+"Angry with you--how could I be?"
+
+"Then you will come back with me, and we will have another dance."
+
+"Oh, no, no!" And the cheerful good-natured voice seemed to make Olive
+shrink with pain. "Sara, dear Sara, let me go home!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+
+"Well, my love, was the ball as pleasant as you expected?" said Mrs.
+Rothesay, when Olive drew the curtains, and roused her invalid mother to
+the usual early breakfast, received from no hands but hers.
+
+Olive answered quietly, "Every one said it was pleasant."
+
+"But you," returned the mother, with an anxiety she could scarce
+disguise--"who talked to you?--who danced with you?"
+
+"No one, except Sara."
+
+"Poor child!" was the half involuntary sigh; and Mrs. Rothesay drew her
+daughter to her with deep tenderness.
+
+It was a strange fate, that made the once slighted child almost the
+only thing in the world to which Sybilla Rothesay now clung. And yet, so
+rich, so full had grown the springs of maternal love, long hidden in her
+nature, that she would not have exchanged their sweetness to be
+again the petted, wilful, beautiful darling of society, as she was at
+Stirling. The neglected wife--the often-ailing mother--dependent on her
+daughter's tenderness, was happier and nearer to heaven than she had
+ever been in her life.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay regarded Olive earnestly. "You look as ill as if you
+had been up all night; and yet you came to bed tolerably early, and I
+thought you slept, you lay so quiet. Was it so, darling?"
+
+"Not quite; I was thinking," said Olive, truthfully, though her face
+flushed, for she would fain have kept her bitter thoughts from her
+mother. Just then, Mrs. Rothesay started at the sound of the hall-bell.
+
+"Is that your father come home? He said he might, today or to-morrow."
+
+Olive went down-stairs. It was only a letter, to say Captain Rothesay
+would return that day, and would bring--most rare circumstance!--some
+guests to visit them. Olive seemed to shrink painfully at this news.
+
+"What, my child, are you not pleased?--It will make the house less dull
+for you."
+
+"No, no--I do not wish; oh, mamma! if I could only shut myself up, and
+never see any one but you"---- And Olive turned very pale. At
+last, resolutely trying to speak without any show of trouble, she
+continued--"I have found out something that I never knew--at least,
+never thought of before--that I am different from other girls. Oh,
+mother! am I really deformed?"
+
+She spoke with much agitation. Mrs. Rothesay burst into tears.
+
+"Oh, Olive! how wretched you make me, to talk thus. Unhappy mother that
+I am! Why should Heaven have punished me thus?"
+
+"Punished you, mother?"
+
+"Nay, my child--my poor, innocent child! I did not mean that," cried
+Mrs. Rothesay, embracing her with a passionate revulsion of feeling.
+
+But the word was said,--to linger for ever after on Olive's mind. It
+brought back the look once written on her childish memory--grown faint,
+but never quite erased--her father's first look. She understood it now.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay continued weeping, and Olive had to cast aside all other
+feelings in the care of soothing her mother. She succeeded at last;
+but she learnt at the same time that on this one subject there must be
+silence between them for ever. It seemed, also, to her sensitive nature,
+as if every tear and every complaining word were a reproach to the
+mother that bore her. Henceforth her bitter thoughts must be wrestled
+with alone.
+
+She did so wrestle with them. She walked out into her favourite
+meadow--now lying in the silent, frost-bound mistiness of a January day.
+It was where she had often been in summer with Sara, and Charles Geddes,
+and the little boys. Now everything seemed so wintry and lonely. What
+if her own future life were so--one long winter-day, wherein was neither
+beauty, gladness, nor love?
+
+[Illustration: Page 88, She walked out into her favourite meadow]
+
+"I am 'deformed.' That was Sara's own word," murmured Olive to herself.
+"If this is felt by one who loves me, what must I appear to the world?
+Will not all shrink from me--and even those who pity, turn away in pain.
+As for loving me"----
+
+Thinking thus, Olive's fancy began to count, almost in despair, all
+those whose affection she had ever known. There was Elspie, there were
+her parents. Yet, the love of both father and mother--how sweet soever
+now--had not blessed her always. She remembered the time when it was not
+there.
+
+"Alas! that I should have been, even to them, a burden--a punishment!"
+cried the girl, in the first outburst of suffering, which became ten
+times keener, because concealed. Her vivid fancy even exaggerated the
+truth. She saw in herself a poor deformed being, shut out from all
+natural ties--a woman, to whom friendship would be given but in kindly
+pity; to whom love--that blissful dream in which she had of late
+indulged--would be denied for evermore. How hard seemed her doom! If it
+were for months only, or even years; but, to bear for a whole life this
+withering ban--never to be freed from it, except through death! And her
+lips unconsciously repeated the bitter murmur, "O God! why hast thou
+made me thus?"
+
+It was scarcely uttered before her heart trembled at its impiety. And
+then the current of her thoughts changed. Those mysterious yearnings
+which had haunted her throughout childhood, until they had grown fainter
+under the influence of earthly ties and pleasures, returned to her now.
+God's immeasurable Infinite rose before her in glorious serenity. What
+was one brief lifetime to the ages of eternity? She felt it: she, in her
+weakness--her untaught childhood--her helplessness--felt that her poor
+deformed body enshrined a living soul. A soul that could look on Heaven,
+and on whom Heaven also looked--not like man, with scorn or loathing,
+but with a Divine tenderness that had power to lift the mortal into
+communion with the immortal.
+
+Olive Rothesay seemed to have grown years older in that hour of solitary
+musing. She walked homewards through the silent fields, over which the
+early night was falling--night coming, as it were, in the midst of day,
+where the only light was given by the white, cold snow. To Olive this
+was a symbol, too--a token that the freezing sorrow which had fallen on
+her path might palely light her on her earthly way. Strange things for
+a young girl to dream of! But they whom Heaven teaches are sometimes
+called--Samuel-like--while to them still pertains the childish ephod and
+the temple-porch.
+
+Passing on, with footsteps silent and solemn as her own heart, Olive
+came to the street, on the verge of the town, where was her own dwelling
+and Sara's. From habit she looked in at the Derwents' house. It had
+all the cheerful brightness given by a blazing fire, glimmering through
+windows not yet closed. Olive could plainly distinguish the light
+shining on the crimson wall; even the merry faces of the circle round
+the hearth. And, as if to chant the chorus of so sweet a scene, there
+broke out on the clear frosty air the distant carillon of Oldchurch
+bells--marriage-bells too--signifying that not far off was dawning
+another scene of love and hope; that, somewhere in the parish, was
+celebrated the "coming home" of a bride.
+
+The young creature, born with a woman's longings--longings neither
+unholy nor impure, after the love which is the religion of a woman's
+heart--the sweetness of home, which is the heaven of a woman's
+life--felt that from both she was shut out for ever.
+
+"Not for me--alas! not for me," she murmured; and her head drooped, and
+it seemed as though a cold hand were laid on her breast, saying, "Grow
+still, and throb no more!"
+
+Then, lifting her eyes, she saw shining far up in the sky, beyond the
+mist and the frost and the gloom, one little star--the only one. With a
+long sigh, her soul seemed to pass upward in prayer.
+
+"Oh, God! since Thou hast willed it so--if in this world I must walk
+alone, do Thou walk with me! If I must know no human love, fill my soul
+with Thine! If earthly joy be far from me, give me that peace of Heaven
+which passeth all understanding!"
+
+And so--mournful, yet serene--Olive Rothesay reached her home.
+
+She found her friend there. Sara looked confused at seeing her, and
+appeared to try, with the unwonted warmth of her greeting, to efface
+from Olive's mind the remembrance of what had happened the previous
+evening. But Olive, for the first time, shrank from these tokens of
+affection.
+
+"Even Sara's love may be only compassion," she bitterly thought; but her
+father's nature was in the girl--his self-command--his proud reserve.
+Sara Derwent only thought her rather silent and cold.
+
+There was a constraint on both--so much so that Olive heard, without
+testifying much pain, news which a few days before would have grieved
+her to the heart. This visit was a good-bye. Sara had been suddenly sent
+for by her grandfather, who lived in a distant county; and the summons
+entailed a parting of some weeks--perhaps longer.
+
+"But I shall not forget you, Olive. I shall write to you constantly. It
+will be my sole amusement in the dull place I am going to. Why, nobody
+ever used to enter my grandfather's house except the parson, who lived
+some few miles off. Poor old soul! I used to set fire to his wig, and
+hide his spectacles. But he is dead now, I hear, and there has come in
+his place a young clergyman. Shall I strike up a little flirtation with
+_him_, eh, Olive?"
+
+But Olive was in no jesting mood. She only shook her head.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay looked with admiration on Sara. "What a blithe young
+creature you are, my dear. You win everybody's liking. I wish Olive were
+only half as merry as you."
+
+Another arrow in poor Olive's heart!
+
+"Well, we must try to make her so when I come back," said Sara,
+affectionately. "I shall have tales enough to tell, perhaps about that
+young curate. Nay, don't frown, Olive. My cousin says he is a Scotsman
+born, and you like Scotland. Only his father was Welsh, and he has a
+horrid Welsh name: Gwyrdyr, or Gwynne, or something like it. But I'll
+give you all information."
+
+And then she rose--still laughing--to bid adieu; which seemed so long a
+farewell, when the friends had never yet been parted but for one brief
+day. In saying it, Olive felt how dear to her had been this girl--this
+first idol of her warm heart. And then there came a thought almost like
+terror. Though fated to live unloved, she could not keep herself from
+loving. And if so, how would she bear the perpetual void--the yearning,
+never to be fulfilled?
+
+She fell on Sara's neck and wept. "You do care for me a little--only a
+little."
+
+"A great deal--as much as ever I can, seeing I have so many people to
+care for," answered Sara, trying to laugh away the tears that--from
+sympathy, perhaps--sprang to her eyes.
+
+"Ah, true! And everybody cares for you. No wonder," answered Olive.
+
+"Now, little Olive, why do you put on that grave face? Are you going
+to lecture me about not flirting with that stupid curate, and always
+remembering Charles. Oh! no fear of that."
+
+"I hope not," said Olive, quietly. She could talk no more, and they bade
+each other good-bye; perhaps not quite so enthusiastically as they might
+have done a week ago, but still with much affection. Sara had reached
+the door, when with a sudden impulse she came back again.
+
+"Olive, I am a foolish, thoughtless girl; but if ever I pained you in
+any way, don't think of it again. Kiss me--will you--once more?"
+
+Olive did so, clinging to her passionately. When Sara went away, she
+felt as though the first flower had perished in her garden--the first
+star had melted from her sky.
+
+Sara gone, she went back to her old dreamy life. The romance of first
+friendship seemed to have been swept away like a morning cloud. From
+Sara there came no letters.
+
+Olive wrote once or twice, even thrice. But a sense of wounded feeling
+prevented her writing again. Robert and Lyle told her their sister was
+quite well, and very merry. Then, over all the dream of sweet affection
+fell a cold silence.
+
+In Olive's own home were arising many cares. A great change came
+over her father. His economical habits became those of the wildest
+extravagance--extravagance in which his wife and daughter were not
+likely to share. Little they saw of it either, save during his rare
+visits to his home. Then he either spent his evenings out, or else
+dining, smoking, drinking, disturbed the quiet house at Oldchurch.
+
+Many a time, till long after midnight, the mother and child sat
+listening to the gay tumult of voices below; clinging to each other,
+pale and sad. Not that Captain Rothesay was unkind, or that either had
+any fear for him, for he had always been a strict and temperate man. But
+it pained them to think that any society seemed sweeter to him than that
+of his wife and daughter--that any place was become dearer to him than
+his home.
+
+One night, when Mrs. Rothesay appeared exhausted, either with weariness
+or sorrow of heart, Olive persuaded her mother to go to rest, while she
+herself sat up for her father.
+
+"Nay, let some of the servants do that, not you, my child."
+
+But Olive, innocent as she was, had accidentally seen the footman smile
+rudely when he spoke of "master coming home last night;" and a vague
+thought struck her, that such late hours were discreditable in the head
+of a family. Her father should not be despised in his servant's eyes.
+
+She dismissed the household, and waited up for him alone.
+Twelve--one--two. The hours went by like long years. Heavily at first
+drooped her poor drowsy eyes, and then all weariness was dispelled by
+a feeling of loneliness--an impression of coming sorrow. At last,
+when this was gradually merging into fear, she heard the sound of the
+swinging gate, and her father's knock at the door--A loud, unsteady,
+angry knock.
+
+"Why do you stay up for me? I don't want anybody to sit up," grumbled
+Captain Rothesay, without looking at her.
+
+"But I liked to wait for you, papa."
+
+"What, is that you, Olive?" and he stepped in with a lounging, heavy
+gait.
+
+"Did you not see me before? It was I who opened the door."
+
+"Oh, yes--but--I was thinking of something else," he said, throwing
+himself into the study-chair, and trying with an effort to seem just as
+usual. "You are--a very good girl--I'm much obliged to you. The pleasure
+is--I may truly say on both sides." And he energetically struck the
+table with his hand.
+
+Olive thought this an odd form of speech; but her father's manner was
+grown so changed of late--sometimes he seemed quite in high spirits,
+even jocose--as he did now.
+
+"I am glad to see you are not much tired, papa. I thought you were--you
+walked so wearily when you first came in."
+
+"I tired? Nonsense, child! I have had the merriest evening in the world.
+I'll have another to-morrow, for I've asked them all to dine here. We'll
+give dinner parties to all the county."
+
+"Papa," said Olive, timidly, "will that be quite right, after what you
+told me of our being now so much poorer than we were?"
+
+"Did I? Pshaw! I don't remember. However, I am a rich man now; richer
+than I have ever been."
+
+"I am so glad; because then, dear papa, you know you need not be so much
+away from home, or weary yourself with the speculations you told me of;
+but come and live quietly with us."
+
+Her father laughed loudly. "Foolish little girl! your notion of
+quietness would not suit a man like me. Take my word for it, Olive, home
+serves as a fantastic dream till five-and-twenty, and then means nothing
+at all. A man's home is the world."
+
+"Is it?"
+
+"Ay, as I intend to show to you. By-the-by, I shall give up this stupid
+place, and enter into society. Your mother will like it, of course; and
+you, as my only child--eh, what did I say?" here he stopped hastily with
+a blank, frightened look--then repeated, "Yes, you, my only child, will
+be properly introduced to the world. Why, you will be quite an heiress,
+my girl," continued he, with an excited jocularity that frightened
+Olive. "And the world always courts such; who knows but that you may
+marry in spite of"----
+
+"Oh, no--never!" interrupted Olive, turning away with bitter pain.
+
+"Come, don't mind it," continued her father, with a reckless
+indifference to her feelings, quite unusual to him. "Why--my little
+sensible girl--you are better than any beauty in England; beauties are
+all fools, or worse."
+
+And he laughed so loud, so long, that Olive was seized with a great
+horror, that absorbed even her own individual suffering. Was her father
+mad? Alas! there is a madness worse than disease, a voluntary madness,
+by which a man--longing at any price for excitement, or oblivion--"puts
+an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains." This was the foe--the
+stealthy-footed demon, that had at last come to overmaster the brave and
+noble Angus Rothesay. As yet it ruled him not--he was no sot; but his
+daughter saw enough to know that the fiend was nigh upon him--that this
+night he was even in its grasp.
+
+It is only the noblest kind of affection that can separate the sinner
+from the sin, and even while condemning, pity. Fallen as he was, Olive
+Rothesay looked on her father mournfully--intreatingly. She could not
+speak.
+
+He seemed annoyed, and slightly confounded. "Come, simpleton, why do you
+stare at me?--there is nothing the matter. Go away to bed."
+
+Olive did not move.
+
+"Make haste--what are you waiting for? Nay, stay; 'tis a cold
+night--just leave out the keys of the sideboard, will you, there's a
+good little housekeeper," he said, coaxingly.
+
+Olive turned away in disgust, but only for a moment. "In case you should
+want anything, let me stay a little longer, papa; I am not tired, and I
+have some work to do--suppose I go and fetch it."
+
+She went into the inner room, slowly, quietly; and when safe out of
+sight, burst into tears of such shame and terror as she had never before
+known. Then she sat down to think. Her father thus; her mother feeble in
+mind or body; no one in the wide world to trust to but herself; no one
+to go to for comfort and counsel--none, save Heaven! She sank on her
+knees and prayed. As she rose, the angel in the daughter's soul was
+stronger than the demon in her father's.
+
+Olive waited a little, and then walked softly into the other room. Some
+brandy, left on the sideboard, had attracted Captain Rothesay's sight.
+He had reached it stealthily, as if the act still conveyed to his dulled
+brain a consciousness of degradation. Once he looked round suspiciously;
+alas, the father dreaded his daughter's eye! Then stealthily standing
+with his face to the fire, he began to drink the tempting poison.
+
+It was taken out of his hand! So noiseless was Olive's step, so gentle
+her movement, that he stood dumb, astonished, as though in the presence
+of some apparition. And, in truth, the girl looked like a spirit; for
+her face was very white, and her parted lips seemed as though they never
+had uttered, and never could utter, one living sound.
+
+Father and daughter stood for some moments thus gazing at each other;
+and then Captain Rothesay threw himself into his chair, with a forced
+laugh.
+
+"What's the matter, little fool? Cannot your father take care of
+himself? Give me the brandy again."
+
+But she held it fast, and made no answer.
+
+"Olive, I say--do you insult me thus?" and his voice rose in anger. "Go
+to bed, I command you! Will you not?"
+
+"No!" The refusal was spoken softly--very softly--but it expressed
+indomitable firmness; and there was something in the girl's resolute
+spirit, before which that of the man quailed. With a sudden transition,
+which showed that the drink had already somewhat overpowered his brain,
+he melted into complaints.
+
+"You are very rude to your poor father; you--almost the only comfort he
+has left!"
+
+This touch even of maudlin sentiment went direct to Olive's heart. She
+clung to him, kissed him, begged his forgiveness, nay, even wept over
+him. He ceased to rage, and sat in a sullen silence for many minutes.
+Meanwhile Olive took away every temptation from his sight. Then she
+roused him gently.
+
+"Now, papa, it is time to go to bed. Pray, come upstairs."
+
+He--the calm, gentlemanlike, Captain Rothesay--burst into a storm of
+passion that would have disgraced a boor. "How dare you order me about
+in this manner! Cannot I do as I like, without being controlled by
+you--a mere chit of a girl--a very child?"
+
+"I know I am only a child," answered Olive, meekly. "Do not be angry
+with me, papa; do not speak unkindly to your poor little daughter."
+
+"My daughter! how dare you call yourself so, you white-faced,
+mean-looking hunchback!"----
+
+At the word, Olive recoiled--a strong shudder ran through her frame; one
+long, sobbing sigh, and no more.
+
+Her father, shocked, and a little sobered, paused in his cruel speech.
+For minutes they remained--he leaning back with a stupefied air--she
+standing before him; her face drooped, and covered with her hands.
+
+"Olive!" he muttered, in a repentant, humbled tone.
+
+"Yes, papa."
+
+"I am quite ready. If you like, I'll go to bed now."
+
+Without speaking, she lighted him up-stairs--nay, led him, for, to his
+bitter shame, the guidance was not un-needed. When she left him, he had
+the grace to whisper--
+
+"Child, you are not vexed about anything I said?"
+
+She looked sorrowfully into his hot fevered face, and stroked his arm.
+"No--no--not vexed at all! You could not help it, poor father!"
+
+She heard her mother's feeble voice speaking to him as he entered,
+and saw his door close. Long she watched there, until beneath it she
+perceived not one glimmer of light. Then she crept away, only murmuring
+to herself--
+
+"O God! teach me to endure!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+
+"What is the matter with the child to-day?" said Captain Rothesay to his
+wife, with whom, oh rare circumstance! he was sitting _tete-a-tete_.
+But this, and a few other alterations for the better had taken place
+in consequence of his longer stay at home than usual, during which an
+unseen influence had been busily at work. Poor Olive! Was it not well
+for her, that, to temper the first shock of her bitter destiny, there
+should arise, in the dreary blank of the future, duties so holy, that
+they stood almost in the place of joys?
+
+"How dull the girl seems!" again observed Captain Rothesay, looking
+after his daughter, with a tenderness of which he afterwards appeared
+rather ashamed.
+
+"Dull, is she?" said the mother; "oh, very likely poor child! She is
+grieving to lose her chief friend and companion, Miss Derwent. News came
+to her this morning that Sara is about to be married."
+
+"Oh, indeed!" and Captain Rothesay made an attempt at departure. He
+hated gossiping, even of the most harmless kind. But his wife, pleased
+that he condescended to talk to her at all, tried to amuse him in her
+own easy way.
+
+"Poor Sara! I am glad that she is going to have a home of her
+own--though she is young enough to marry. But I believe it was a very
+sudden affair; and the gentleman fell so desperately in love with her."
+
+"More fool he!" muttered Captain Rothesay.
+
+"Nay, he is not a fool at all; he is a very sensible, clever man, and a
+clergyman too; Miss Derwent said so in her brief note to Olive. But she
+did not mention where he lived; little indeed she told, but that his
+name was Gwynne"----
+
+Captain Rothesay turned round quickly.
+
+--"And Sara speaks of his mother being a stiff old Scotswoman. Ah, you
+are listening now, my dear. Let me see, I think Miss Derwent mentions
+her maiden name. The silly girl makes quite a boast of her lover's
+ancient family, on the maternal side."
+
+"There is no silliness in that, I hope, Mrs. Rothesay?"
+
+"Certainly not--was I not always proud of yours?" said the wife, with a
+meekness not newly learnt She hunted in her reticule for Sara's letter,
+and read.
+
+"Ah, here is the name--Alison Balfour: do you know it?"
+
+"I did once, when I was a boy."
+
+"Stay! do not go away in that hasty manner. Pray, talk to me a little
+more, Angus; it is so dull to be confined to this sick-room. Tell me of
+this Alison Balfour; you know I should like to hear about your friends."
+
+"Should you?--that is something new. If it had been always so--if you
+had indeed made my interests yours, Sybilla!" There was a touch of
+regret and old tenderness in his voice. She thought he was kind on
+account of her illness, and thanked him warmly. But the thanks sent
+him back to his usual cold self; he did not like to have his weakness
+noticed.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay understood neither one state of feeling nor the other, so
+she said, cheerfully, "Come, now for the story of Alison Balfour."
+
+"There is no story to tell. She was merely a young companion of my aunt
+Flora. I knew her for some years--in fact, until she married Mr. Gwynne.
+She was a noble woman."
+
+"Really, Angus, I shall grow jealous," said Mrs. Rothesay, half in jest,
+half in earnest. "She must have been an old love of yours."
+
+Her husband frowned. "Folly, Sybilla! She was a woman, and I a
+schoolboy!"
+
+And yet the words galled him, for they were not far off the truth. True,
+Alison was old enough to have been his mother; but many a precocious lad
+of sixteen conceives a similar romantic passion, and Angus Rothesay had
+really been very much in love, as he thought, with Alison Balfour.
+
+Even when he quitted the room, and walked out into the road, his
+thoughts went backward many years; picturing the old dull mansion, whose
+only brightness had come with her presence. He remembered how he used to
+walk by her side, in lonely mountain rambles--he a young boy, and she a
+grown woman; and how proud he was, when she stooped her tall stature to
+lean upon his arm. Once, she kissed him; and he lay awake all night, and
+many a night after, dreaming of the remembered bliss. And, as he grew a
+youth, what delicious sweetness in these continued dreams! what pride to
+think himself "in love"--and with such a woman! Folly it was--hopeless
+folly--for she had been long betrothed to one she loved. But that was
+not Owen Gwynne. Alas! Alison, like many another proud, passionate
+woman, had married in sudden anger, thereby wrecking her whole life!
+When she did so, Angus Rothesay lost his boyish dream. He had already
+begun to find out that it was only a dream; though his first fancy's
+idol never ceased to be to him a memory full of all that was noble and
+beautiful in womanhood.
+
+For many years this enchanted portion of Captain Rothesay's past life
+had rarely crossed his mind; but when it did, it was always with a
+half-unconscious thought, that he himself might have been a better and
+a happier man, had his own beautiful Sybilla been more like Alison
+Balfour.
+
+This chance news of her awakened memories connected with other scenes
+and characters, which had gradually melted away from Angus Rothesay's
+life, or been enveloped in the mist of selfishness and worldliness which
+had gathered over it and over him. He thought of the old uncle, Sir
+Andrew Rothesay, whose pride he had been; of the sweet aunt Flora, whose
+pale beauty had bent over his cradle with a love almost like a mother's,
+save that it was so very very sad. One had died estranged; the other--he
+would not let many weeks pass before he sought out Miss Flora Rothesay:
+that he was determined on! And to do so, the best plan would be first to
+go and see Alison--Mrs. Gwynne.
+
+Captain Rothesay always kept his intentions to himself, and transacted
+his matters alone. Therefore, without the aid of wife or daughter, he
+soon discovered in what region lay Mr. Gwynne's curacy, and determined
+to hasten his customary journey to London, that he might visit the place
+on his way.
+
+The night before his departure came. It was really a melancholy evening;
+for he had stayed at home so long, and been most of the time what his
+wife called "so good," that she quite regretted his going. The more
+so, as he was about to travel by the awful railway--then newly
+established--which, in the opinion of poor Mrs. Rothesay, with her
+delicate nerves and easily-roused terrors, entailed on him the certainty
+of being killed. She pleaded so much and so anxiously--even to the
+last--that when, in order to start at daybreak, he bade "good-bye"
+to her and Olive overnight, Captain Rothesay was softened even to
+tenderness.
+
+"Do you really care so much about me, Sybilla?" said he, half
+mournfully.
+
+She did not spring to his arms, like the young wife at Stirling, but she
+kissed his hand affectionately, and called him "Angus!"
+
+"Olive!" said the father, when having embraced his wife, he now turned
+to his daughter, "Olive, my child! take care of your mother! I shall be
+at home soon, and we shall be very happy again--all three!"
+
+As they ascended the staircase, they saw him watching them from below.
+Olive so content, even though her father was going away. She kissed
+her hand felt to him with a blithe gesture, and then saw him go in and
+close the door. When the house sank into quietness, a curious feeling
+oppressed Captain Rothesay. It seemed to take rise in his wife's
+infectious fears.
+
+"Women are always silly," he argued to himself. "Why should I dread any
+danger? The railway is safe as a coach--and yet, that affair of poor
+Huskisson! Pooh! what a fool I am!"
+
+But even while he mocked it, the vague presentiment appeared to take
+form in his mind; and sitting, the only person awake in the slumbering
+house, where no sound broke the stillness, except the falling of a
+few cinders, and the occasional noise of a mouse behind the wainscot,
+somewhat of the superstitions of his northern youth came over him. His
+countenance became grave, and he sank into deep thought.
+
+It is a trite saying, that every man has that in his heart, which, if
+known, would make all his fellow-creatures hate him. Was it this evil
+spirit which now struggled in Captain Rothesay's breast, and darkened
+his face with storms of passion, remorse, or woe? He gave no utterance
+to them in words. If any secret there were, he would not trust it even
+to the air. But, at times, his mute lips writhed; his cheeks burned, and
+grew ghastly. Sometimes, too, he wore a cowed and humble look, as on the
+night when his daughter had stood like a pure angel to save him from the
+abyss on the brink of which he trod.
+
+She had saved him, apparently. That night's shame had never occurred
+again. Slowly, his habits were changing, and his tastes becoming
+home-like. But still his lonely hours betokened some secret hidden in
+his soul--a secret which, if known, might have accounted for his having
+plunged into uproarious excitement or drunken oblivion.
+
+At length, as by a violent effort, Angus Rothesay sat down and began
+to write. He wrote for several hours--though frequently his task was
+interrupted by long reveries, and by fits of vehement emotion. When he
+had finished, he carefully sealed up what he had written, and placed
+it in a secret drawer of his desk. Then he threw himself on a sofa, to
+sleep, during the brief time that intervened before daybreak.
+
+In the grey of the morning, when he stood despatching a hasty breakfast,
+he was startled by a light touch on his arm.
+
+"Little Olive!--why, I thought you were fast asleep."
+
+"I could not sleep when papa was going away; so I rose and dressed. You
+will not be angry?"
+
+"Angry?--no!" He stooped down and kissed her, more affectionately even
+than was his wont But he was hasty and fidgety, as most men are when
+starting on a journey. They were both too busy for more words until the
+few minutes during which he sat down to wait for the carriage. Then he
+took his daughter on his knee--an act of fatherly tenderness rather rare
+with him.
+
+"I wish you were not going, or that I were going with you, papa," Olive
+whispered, nestling to him, in a sweet, childish way, though she was
+almost a woman now. "How tired you look! You have not been in bed all
+night."
+
+"No; I had writing to do." As he spoke his countenance darkened.
+"Olive," he said, looking at her with sorrowful, questioning eyes.
+
+"Well, dear papa."
+
+"Nothing--nothing. Is the carriage ready?"
+
+"Not yet. You will have time just for one little thing--'twill take only
+a minute," said Olive, persuasively.
+
+"What is it, little one?"
+
+"Mamma is asleep--she was tired and ill; but if you would run up-stairs,
+and kiss her once again before you go, it would make her so much
+happier--I know it would."
+
+"Poor Sybilla!" he muttered, remorsefully, and quitted the room
+slowly--not meeting his daughter's eyes; but when he came back, he took
+her in his arms, very tenderly.
+
+"Olive, my child in whom I trust, always remember I did love you--you
+and your mother."
+
+These were the last words she heard him utter, ere he went away.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+Captain Rothesay had intended to make the business-excursion wait on
+that of pleasure--if pleasure the visit could be called, which
+was entered on from duty, and would doubtless awaken many painful
+associations; but he changed his mind, and it was not until his return
+from London, that he stayed on the way, and sought out the village of
+Harbury.
+
+Verbal landscape-painting is rarely interesting to the general reader;
+and as Captain Rothesay was certainly not devoted to the picturesque,
+it seems idle to follow him during his ten-mile ride from the nearest
+railway station to the place which he discovered was that of Mrs.
+Gwynne's abode, and where her son was "perpetual curate."
+
+Her son! It seemed very strange to imagine Alison a mother; and yet,
+while he thought, Angus Rothesay almost laughed at himself for his
+folly. His boyish fancy had perforce faded at seventeen, and he was
+now--pshaw!--he was somewhere above forty. As for Mrs. Gwynne, sixty
+would probably be nearer her age. Yet, not having seen her since she
+married, he never could think of her but as Alison Balfour.
+
+As before observed, Captain Rothesay was by no means keenly susceptible
+to beauty of scenery; otherwise, he would often have been attracted from
+his meditations by that through which he passed. Lovely woodlands, just
+bursting into the delicate green of spring; deep, still streams, flowing
+through meadows studded with cattle; forest-roads shadowed with stately
+trees, and so little frequented, that the green turf spread from hedge
+to hedge, and the primroses and bluebells sprung up almost in the
+pathway. All these composed a picture of rural loveliness which is
+peculiar to England, and chiefly to that part of England where Harbury
+is situated. Captain Rothesay scarcely noticed it, until, pausing
+to consider his track, he saw in the distance a church upon a hill.
+Beautiful and peaceful it looked--its ancient tower rising out against
+the sky, and the evening sun shining on its windows and gilded vane.
+
+"That must surely be my landmark," thought Captain Rothesay; and he made
+an inquiry to that effect of a man passing by.
+
+"Ay, ay, measter," was the answer, in rather unintelligible Doric;
+"thot bees Harbury Church, as sure as moy name's John Dent; and thot red
+house--conna ye see't?--thot's our parson's."
+
+Prompted by curiosity, Rothesay observed, "Oh, Mr. Gwynne's. He is quite
+a young man, I believe? Do you like him, you good folks hereabout?"
+
+"Some on us dun, and some on us dunna. He's not much of parson though;
+he wunna send yer to sleep wi' his long preachings. But oi say the mon's
+a good mon: he'll coom and see yer when you're bad, an' talk t' ye by
+th' hour; though he dunna talk oot o' th' Bible. But oi'm a lad o' t'
+forest, and 'll be a keeper some toime. That's better nor book-larning."
+
+Captain Rothesay had no will to listen to more personal revelations from
+honest John Dent; so he said, quickly, "Perhaps so, my good fellow."
+Then added, "Mr. Gwynne has a mother living with him, I believe. What
+sort of person is she?"
+
+"Her's a good-enough lady, oi reckon: only a bit too proud. Many's
+the blanket her's gen to poor folk; and my owd mother sees her every
+week--but her's never shook hands wi' her yet. Eh, measter, won ye
+go?"
+
+This last remark was bellowed after Captain Rothesay, whose horse had
+commenced a sudden canter, which ceased not until its owner dismounted
+at the parsonage-gate.
+
+This gate formed the boundary of the garden, and a most lovely spot
+it was. It extended to the churchyard, with which it communicated by a
+little wicket-door. You passed through beautiful parterres and alleys,
+formed of fragrant shrubs, to the spot
+
+     Where grew the turf in many a mouldering heap.
+
+It seemed as though the path of death were indeed through flowers.
+Garden and churchyard covered the hill's summit; and from both might
+be discerned a view such as is rarely seen in level England. It was
+a panorama, extending some twenty or thirty miles across the country,
+where, through woodlands and meadow-lands, flowed the silver windings
+of a small river. Here and there was an old ruined castle--a manor-house
+rising among its ancestral trees--or the faint, misty smoke-cloud, that
+indicated some hamlet or small town. Save these, the landscape swept
+on unbroken, until it ended at the horizon in the high range of the
+D--shire hills.
+
+Even to Captain Rothesay, this scene seemed strangely beautiful. He
+contemplated it for some time, his hand still on the unopened gate; and
+then he became aware that a lady, whose gardening dress and gardening
+implements showed she was occupied in her favourite evening employment,
+was looking at him with some curiosity.
+
+The traces of life's downward path are easier to recognise than those
+of its ascent. Though the mature womanhood of Alison Balfour had glided
+into age, Rothesay had no difficulty in discovering that he was in the
+presence of his former friend. Not so with her. He advanced, addressed
+her by name, and even took her hand, before she had the slightest idea
+that her guest was Angus Rothesay.
+
+"Have you, then, so entirely forgotten me--forgotten the days in our
+native Perthshire, when I was a bit laddie, and you, our guest, were
+Miss Alison Balfour?"
+
+There came a trembling over her features--ay, aged woman as she was!
+But at her years, all the past, whether of joy or grief, becomes faint;
+else, how would age be borne? She extended both her hands, with a warm
+friendliness.
+
+"Welcome, Angus Rothesay! No wonder I did not know you. These thirty
+years--is it not thus much?--have changed you from a boy into a
+middle-aged man, and made of me an old woman."
+
+She really was an elderly lady now. It seemed almost ridiculous to think
+of her as his youth's idol. Neither was she beautiful--how could he ever
+have imagined her so? Her irregular features--unnoticed when the white
+and red tints of youth adorned them--were now, in age, positively plain.
+Her strong-built frame had, in losing elasticity, lost much of grace,
+though dignity remained. Looking on Mrs. Gwynne for the first time,
+she appeared a large, rather plain woman. Looking again, it would be to
+observe the noble candour that dwelt in the eyes, and the sweetness--at
+times even playfulness--that hovered round the mouth. Regarding her
+for the third time, you would see a woman whom you felt sure you must
+perforce respect, and might, in time, love very much, if she would let
+you. Of that gracious permission you would long have considerable doubt;
+but once granted, you would never unlove her to the end of your days.
+As for her loving _you_, you would not be quite clear that it did not
+spring from the generous benevolence of her nature, rather than from
+any individual warmth toward yourself; and such was the reserve of her
+character, that, were her affection, ever so deep, she might possibly
+never let you know it until the day of your death.
+
+Yet she was capable of attachments, strong as her own nature. All her
+feelings, passions, energies, were on a grand scale: in her were no
+petty feminine follies--no weak, narrow illiberalities of judgment. She
+had the soul of a man and the heart of a woman.
+
+"You were gardening, I see?" said Captain Rothesay, making the first
+ordinary remark that came to his mind to break the awkward pause.
+
+"Yes; I do so every fine evening. Harold is very fond of flowers.
+That reminds me I must call him to you at once, as it is
+Wednesday,--service-night, and he will be engaged in his duties soon."
+
+"Pray, let us enter the house; I should much like to see your son," said
+Angus Rothesay. He gave her his arm; and they walked together, through
+the green alleys of holly, to the front-door. Then Mrs. Gwynne stopped,
+put her hand oyer her eyes for a moment, removed it, and looked
+earnestly at her guest.
+
+"Angus Rothesay! how strange this seems!--like a dream--a dream of
+thirty years. Well, let us go in."
+
+Mechanically, and yet in a subdued, absent manner, she laid her bonnet
+and shawl on the hall-table, and took off her gardening gloves, thereby
+discovering hands, which, though large, were white and well formed,
+and in their round, taper delicacy, exhibited no sign of age. Captain
+Rothesay, without pausing to think, took the right hand.
+
+"Ah! you wear still the ring I used to play with when a boy. I
+thought"---- and recollecting himself, he stopped, ashamed of his
+discourtesy in alluding to what must have been a painful past.
+
+But she said, quietly, sadly, "You have a good memory. Yes, I wear it
+again now. It was left to me, ten years since, on the death of Archibald
+Maclean."
+
+Strange that she could thus speak that name! But over how many a buried
+grief does the grass grow green in thirty years!
+
+In the hall they encountered a young man.
+
+"Harold," said Mrs. Gwynne, "give welcome to an old--a very old friend
+of mine--Captain Angus Rothesay. Angus, this is my son--my only son,
+Harold."
+
+And she looked upon him as a mother, widowed for twenty years, looks
+upon an only son; yet the pride was tempered with dignity, the affection
+was veiled under reserve. She, who doubtless would have sustained his
+life with her own heart's blood, had probably never since his boyhood
+suffered him to know a mother's passionate tenderness, or to behold a
+mother's tear.
+
+Perhaps that was the reason that Harold's whole manner was the
+reflection of her own. Not that he was like her in person; for nature
+had to him been far more bountiful. But there was a certain rigidness
+and harshness in his mien, and a slightly repellant atmosphere around
+him. Probably not one of the young lambs of his flock had ever dreamed
+of climbing the knee of the Reverend Harold Gwynne. Though he wore the
+clerical garb, he did not look at all apostle-like; he was neither a St.
+Paul nor a St. John. Yet a grand, noble head it was. It might have been
+sketched for that of a young philosopher--a Galileo or a Priestley, with
+the heavy, strongly-marked brows. The eyes--hackneyed as the description
+is, no one can paint a man without mentioning his eyes: those of Harold
+Gwynne were not unlike his mother's, in their open, steadfast look;
+yet they were not soft, like hers, but of steel-grey, diamond-clear.
+He carried his head very erect; and these eyes of his seemed as though
+unable to rest on the ground; they were always turned upwards, with
+a gaze--not reverent or dreamy--but eager, inquiring, and piercing as
+truth itself.
+
+Such was the young man with whom Captain Rothesay shook hands,
+congratulating his old friend on having such a son.
+
+"You are more fortunate than I," he said; "my marriage has only bestowed
+on me a daughter."
+
+"Daughters are a great comfort sometimes," answered Mrs. Gwynne;
+"though, for my part, I never wished for one."
+
+The quick, reproachful glance of Harold sought his mother's face; and
+shortly afterwards he re-entered his study.
+
+"My son thinks I meant to include a daughter-in-law," was Mrs. Gwynne's
+remark, while the concealed playfulness about her mouth appeared. "He is
+soon to bring me one."
+
+"I know it--and know her too; by this means I found you out. I should
+scarcely have imagined Sara Derwent the girl for you to choose."
+
+"_He_ chooses, not I. A mother, whose dutiful son has been her sole
+stay through life, has no right to interfere with what he deems his
+happiness," said Alison, gravely. And, at that moment, the young curate
+reappeared, ready for the duties to which he was summoned by the sharp
+sound of the "church-going bell."
+
+"I will stay at home with Captain Rothesay," observed Mrs. Gwynne.
+Her guest made a courteous disclaimer, which ended in something about
+"religious duties."
+
+"Hospitality is a duty too--at least we thought so in the north," she
+answered. "And old friendship is ever somewhat of a religion with me.
+Therefore I will stay, Harold."
+
+"You are right, mother," said Harold. But he would not that his mother
+had seen the smile which curled his lip as he passed along the hall and
+through the garden towards the churchyard. There it faded into a look,
+dark and yet mournful; which, as it turned from the dust beneath his
+feet to the stars overhead, and then back again to the graves, seemed to
+ask despairingly, at once of heaven and earth, for the solution of some
+inward mystery.
+
+While Harold preached, his mother and Captain Rothesay sat in the
+parsonage and talked of their olden days, now faint as a dream. The
+rising wind, which, sweeping over the wide champaign, came to moan in
+the hill-side trees, seemed to sing the dirge of that long-past life.
+Yet the heart of both, even of Angus Rothesay, throbbed to its memory,
+as a Scottish heart ever does to that of home and the mountain-land.
+
+Among other long unspoken names came that of Miss Flora Rothesay. "She
+is an old woman now--a few years older than I; Harold visits her not
+infrequently; and she and I correspond now and then, but we have not met
+for many years."
+
+"Yet you have not forgotten her?"
+
+"Do I ever forget?" said Alison, as she turned her face towards him. And
+looking thereon, he felt that such a woman never could.
+
+Their conversation, passing down the stream of time, touched on all that
+was memorable in the life of both. She mentioned her husband--but merely
+the two events, not long distant each from each, of their marriage and
+his death.
+
+"Your son is not like yourself--does he resemble Mr. Gwynne?" observed
+Rothesay.
+
+"In person, yes, a little; in mind--no! a thousand times no!" Then,
+recollecting herself, she added, "It was not likely. Mr. Gwynne has
+been dead so many years that my son"--it was always _my_ son--"has no
+remembrance of his father."
+
+Alas! that there should be some whose memories are gladly suffered to
+perish with the falling of the earth above them.
+
+A thought like this passed through the mind of Angus Rothesay. "I
+fancy," said he, "that I once met Mr. Gwynne; he was"---
+
+"My husband." Mrs. Gwynne's tone suppressed all further remark--even all
+recollection of the contemptible image that was intruding on her guest's
+mind--an image of a young, roistering, fox-hunting fool. Rothesay looked
+on the widow, and the remembrance passed away, or became sacred as
+memory itself. And then the conversation glided as a mother's heart
+would fain direct it--to her only son.
+
+"He was a strange creature ever, was my Harold. In his childhood he
+always teased me with his 'why and because;' he would come to the root
+of everything, and would not believe anything that he could not quite
+understand. Gradually I began to glory in this peculiarity, for I saw it
+argued a mind far above the common order. Angus, you are a father; you
+may be happy in your child, but you never can understand the pride of a
+mother in an only son."
+
+While she talked, her countenance and manner brightened, and Captain
+Rothesay saw again, not the serene, stern widow of Owen Gwynne, but the
+energetic, impassioned Alison Balfour. He told her this.
+
+"Is it so? Strange! And yet I do but talk to you as I often did when we
+were young together."
+
+He begged her to continue--his heart warmed as it had not done for
+many a day; and, to lead the way, he asked what chance had caused the
+descendant of the Balfours to become an English clergyman?
+
+"From circumstances. When Harold was very young, and we two lived
+together in the poor Highland cottage where he was born, my boy made
+an acquaintance with an Englishman, one Lord Arundale, a great student.
+Harold longed to be a student too."
+
+"A noble desire."
+
+"I shared it too. When the thought came to me that my boy would be a
+great man, I nursed it, cherished it, made it my whole life's aim. We
+were not rich--I had not married for money"--and there was a faint show
+of pride in her lip--"yet, Harold must go, as he desired, to an English
+university. I said in my heart, 'He shall!' and he did."
+
+Angus looked at Mrs. Gwynne, and thought that a woman's will might
+sometimes be as strong and daring as a man's.
+
+Alison continued--"My son had only half finished his education when
+fortune made the poor poorer. But Scotland and Cambridge, thank Heaven
+were far distant I never told him one word--I lived--it matters little
+how--I cared not! Our fortune lasted, as I had calculated it would, till
+he had taken his degree, and left college rich in honours--and then"----
+
+She ceased, and the light in her countenance faded. Angus Rothesay gazed
+upon her as reverently as he had done upon the good angel of his boyish
+days.
+
+"I said you were a noble woman, Alison Balfour."
+
+"I was a mother, and I had a noble son."
+
+They sat a long time silent, looking at the fire, and listening to
+the wind. There was a momentary interruption--a message from the young
+clergyman, to say that he was summoned some distance to visit a sick
+person.
+
+"On such a stormy night as this!" said Angus Rothesay.
+
+"Harold never fails in his duties," replied the mother, with a smile.
+Then turning abruptly to her guest--"You will let me talk, old friend,
+and about him. I cannot often talk _to_ him, for he is so reserved--that
+is, so occupied with his clerical studies. But there never was a better
+son than my Harold."
+
+"I am sure of it," said Captain Rothesay.
+
+The mother continued--"Never shall I forget the triumph of his coming
+home from Cambridge. Yet it brought a pang, too; for then first he
+had to learn the whole truth. Poor Harold! it pained me to see him so
+shocked and overwhelmed at the sight of our lowly roof and mean fare;
+and to know that even these would not last us long. But I said to
+him--'My son, what signifies it, when you can soon bring your mother to
+your own home?' For he, already a deacon, had had a curacy offered him,
+as soon as ever he chose to take priest's orders."
+
+"Then he had already decided on entering the Church?"
+
+"He had chosen that career in his youth. Towards it his whole education
+had tended. But," she added, with a troubled look, "my old friend, I may
+tell you one doubt, which I never yet breathed to living soul--I think
+at this time there was a struggle in his mind. Perhaps his dreams of
+ambition rose higher than the simple destiny of a country clergyman.
+I hinted this to him, but he repelled me. Alas! he knew, as well as I,
+that there was now no other path open for him."
+
+Mrs. Gwynne paused, and then went on, as though speaking more to herself
+than to her listener.
+
+"The time came for Harold to decide. I did not wonder at his
+restlessness, for I knew how strong ambition must be in a man like him.
+God knows I would have worked, begged, starved, rather than he should
+be thus tried. I told him so the day before his ordination; but he
+entreated me to be silent, with a look such as I never saw on his face
+before--such as I trust in God I never may see again. I heard him all
+night walking about his room; and the next morning he was gone ere I
+rose. When he came back, he seemed quite excited with joy, embraced me,
+told me I should never know poverty more, for that he was in priest's
+orders, and we should go the next week to the curacy at Harbury."
+
+"And he has never repented?"
+
+"I think not. He is not without the honours he desired; for his fame in
+science is extending far beyond his small parish. He fulfils his duties
+scrupulously; and the people respect him, though he sides with no party,
+high-church or evangelical We abhor illiberality--my son and I."
+
+"That is clear, otherwise I had never seen Alison Balfour quitting the
+kirk for the church."
+
+"Angus Rothesay," said Mrs. Gwynne, with dignity, "I have learned,
+throughout a long life, the lesson that trifling outward differences
+matter little--the spirit of religion is its true life. This lesson
+I have taught my son from his cradle; and where will you find a more
+sincere, moral, or pious man than Harold Gwynne?"
+
+"Where, indeed, mother?" echoed a voice, as Harold, opening the door,
+caught her last words. "But come, no more o' that, an thou lovest me!"
+
+"Harold!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+
+Captain Rothesay found himself at breakfast on the sixth morning of his
+stay at Harbury--so swiftly had the time flown. But he felt a purer and
+a happier man every hour that he spent with his ancient friend.
+
+The breakfast-room was Harold's study. It was more that of a man of
+science and learning than that of a clergyman. Beside Leighton and
+Flavel were placed Bacon and Descartes; dust lay upon John Newton's
+Sermons, while close by, rested in honoured, well-thumbed tatters, his
+great namesake, who read God's scriptures in the stars. In one corner by
+a large, unopened packet--marked "Religious Society's Tracts;" it
+served as a stand for a large telescope, whose clumsiness betrayed the
+ingenuity of home manufacture. The theological contents of the library
+was a vast mass of polemical literature, orthodox and heterodox,
+including all faiths, all variations of sect. Mahomet and Swedenborg,
+Calvin and the Talmud, lay side by side; and on the farthest shelf was
+the great original of all creeds--the Book of books.
+
+On this morning, as on most others, Harold Gwynne did not appear until
+after prayers were over. His mother read them, as indeed she always did
+morning and evening. A stranger might have said, that her doing so was
+the last lingering token of her sway as "head of the household."
+
+Harold entered, his countenance bearing the pallid restless look of one
+who lies half-dreaming in bed, long after he is awake and ought to have
+risen. His mother saw it.
+
+"You are not right, Harold. I had far rather that you rose at six and
+studied till nine, as formerly, than that you should dream away the
+morning hours, and come down looking as you do now. Forgive me, but it
+is not good for you, my son."
+
+She often called him _my son_ with a beautiful simplicity, that reminded
+one of the holy Hebrew mothers--of Rebekah or of Hannah.
+
+Harold looked for a moment disconcerted--not angry. "Do not mind me,
+mother; I shall go back to study in good time. Let me do as I judge
+best."
+
+"Certainly," was all the mother's reply. She reproved--she never
+"scolded." Turning the conversation, she directed hers to Captain
+Rothesay, while Harold ate his breakfast in silence--a habit not unusual
+with him. Immediately afterwards he rose, and prepared to depart for the
+day.
+
+"I need not apologise to Captain Rothesay," he said in his own
+straightforward manner, which was only saved from the imputation of
+bluntness by a certain manly dignity--and contrasted strongly with
+the reserved and courtly grace of his guest. "My pursuits can scarcely
+interest you, while I know, and _you_ know, what pleasure my mother
+takes in your society."
+
+"You will not stay away all this day too, Harold. Surely that is a
+little too much to be required, even by Miss Derwent," spoke the quick
+impulse of the mother's unconscious jealousy. But she repressed it at
+once--even before the sudden flush of anger awakened by her words had
+faded from Harold's brow. "Go, my son--your mother never interferes
+either with your duties or your pleasures."
+
+Harold took her hand--though with scarce less formality than he did that
+of Captain Rothesay; and in a few minutes they saw him gallop down the
+hill and across the open country, with a speed beseeming well the age of
+five-and-twenty, and the season of a first love.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne looked after him with an intensity of feeling that in any
+other woman would have found vent in a tear--certainly a sigh.
+
+"You are thinking of your son and his marriage," said Angus.
+
+"That is not strange. It is a life-crisis with all men--and it has come
+so suddenly--I scarcely know my Harold of two months since in my Harold
+now."
+
+"To work such results, it must be an ardent love."
+
+"Say, rather, a vehement passion--love does not spring up and flower,
+like my hyacinths there, in six weeks. But I do not complain. Reason, if
+not feeling, tells me that a mother cannot be all in all to a young man.
+Harold needs a wife--let him take one! They will be married soon; and
+if all Sara's qualities equal her beauty, this wild passion will soon
+mature into affection. He may be happy--I trust so!"
+
+"But does the girl love him?"--"Of course," spoke the quick-rising
+maternal pride. But she almost smiled at it herself, and added--"Really,
+you must excuse these speeches of mine. I talk to you as I never do to
+any one else; but it is all for the sake of olden times. This has been a
+happy week to me. You must pay us another visit soon."
+
+"I will And you must take a journey to my home, and learn to know my
+wife and Olive," said Rothesay. The influence of Alison Gwynne was
+unconsciously strengthening him; and though, from some inexplicable
+feeling, he had spoken but little of his wife and child, there were
+growing up in his mind many schemes, the chief of which were connected
+with Olive. But he now thought less of her appearing in the world as
+Captain Rothesay's heiress, than of her being placed within the shadow
+of Alison Gwynne, and so reflecting back upon her father's age that
+benign influence which had been the blessing of his youth.
+
+He went on to tell Mrs. Gwynne more of his affairs and of his plans than
+he had communicated to any one for many a long year. In the midst of
+their conversation came the visitation--always so important in remote
+country districts--the every-other-day's post.
+
+"For you--not me. I have few correspondents. So I will go to my duties,
+while you attend to yours," said Mrs. Gwynne, and departed.
+
+When she came in again, Captain Rothesay was pacing the room uneasily.
+
+"No ill news, I hope?"
+
+"No, my kind friend--not exactly ill news, though vexatious enough. But
+why should I trouble you with them!"
+
+"Nothing ever troubles me that can be of use to my friends. I ask no
+unwelcome confidence. If it is any relief to you to speak I will gladly
+hear. It is sometimes good for a man to have a woman to talk to."
+
+"It is--it is!" And his heart opening itself more and more, he told her
+his cause of annoyance. A most important mercantile venture would be
+lost to him for want of what he called "a few paltry hundreds," to be
+forthcoming on the morrow.
+
+"If it had been a fortnight--just till my next ship is due; or even one
+week, to give me time to make some arrangement! But where is the use of
+complaining! It is too late."
+
+"Not quite," said Alison Gwynne, looking up after a few moments of
+deep thought; and, with a clearness which would have gained for her
+the repute of "a thorough woman of business," she questioned Captain
+Rothesay, until she drew from him a possible way of obviating his
+difficulty.
+
+"If, as you say, I were in London now, where my banker or some business
+friend would take up a bill for me; but that is impossible!"
+
+"Nay--why say that you have friends only in London?" replied Alison,
+with a gentle smile. "That is rather too unjust, Angus Rothesay. Our
+Highland clanship is not so clean forgotten, I hope. Come, old friend,
+it will be hard if I cannot do something for you. And Harold, who loves
+Flora Rothesay almost as much as he loves me, would gladly aid her
+kinsman."
+
+"How--how! Nay, but I will never consent," cried Angus, with a
+resoluteness through which his first eager sense of relief was clearly
+discernible. Truly, there was coming upon him, with this mania of
+speculation, the same desperation which causes the gambler to clutch
+money from the starving hands of those who even yet are passionately
+dear.
+
+"You _shall_ consent, friend," answered Mrs. Gwynne, composedly. "Why
+should you not? It is a mere form--an obligation of a week, at most. You
+will accept that for the sake of Alison Balfour."
+
+He clasped her hand with as much emotion as was in his nature to show.
+
+She continued--"Well, we will talk of this again when Harold comes in
+to dinner. But, positively, I see him returning. There he is, dashing up
+the hill. I hope nothing is the matter."
+
+Yet she did not quit the room to meet him, but sat apparently quiet,
+though her hands were slightly trembling, until her son came in. In
+answer to her question, he said--
+
+"No, no; nothing amiss. Only Mr. Fludyer would have me go to the Hall to
+see his new horses; and there I found"----
+
+"Sara!" interrupted the mother. "Well, perhaps she thought it would be
+a pleasant change from the dulness of Waterton during your absence; so
+never mind."
+
+He did mind. He restlessly paced the room, angry with his mother,
+himself--with the whole world. Mrs. Gwynne might well notice how this
+sudden passion had changed his nature. A moralist, looking on the
+knotted brow, would have smiled to see--not for the first time--a wise
+man making of himself a slave, nay, a very fool, for the enchantments of
+a beautiful woman.
+
+His mother took his arm and walked with him up and down the room,
+without talking to him at all. But her firm step and firm clasp seemed
+to soothe--almost force him into composure. She had over him at once a
+mother's influence and a father's control.
+
+Meanwhile, Captain Rothesay busied, or seemed to busy himself, with his
+numerous letters, and very wisely kept nearly out of sight.
+
+As soon as her son appeared a little recovered from his vexation, Mrs.
+Gwynne said,
+
+"Now, Harold, if you are quite willing, I want to talk to you for a few
+minutes. Shall it be now or this evening?"
+
+"This evening I shall ride over to Waterton."
+
+"What! not one evening to spare for your mother, or"----she corrected
+herself, "for your beloved books?"
+
+He moved restlessly.
+
+"Nay, I have had enough of study; I must have interest, amusement,
+excitement. I think I have drunk all the world's pleasures dry, except
+this one. Mother, don't keep it from me; I know no rest except I am
+beside Sara."
+
+He rarely spoke to her so freely, and, despite her pain, the mother was
+touched.
+
+"Go, then, go to Sara; and the matter I wished to speak upon we will
+discuss now."
+
+He sat down and listened, though often only with his outward ears, to
+her plan, by which Captain Rothesay might be saved from his difficulty.
+
+"It is a merely nominal thing; I would do it myself, but a man's name
+would be more useful than a woman's. Yours will. My son Harold will at
+once perform such a trifling act of kindness for his mother's friend."
+
+"Of course--of course. Come, mother, tell me what to do; you understand
+business affairs much better than your son!" said Harold, as he rose to
+seek his guest.
+
+Captain Rothesay scrupled a while longer; but at length the dazzling
+vision of coming wealth absorbed both pride and reluctance. It would be
+so hard to miss the chance of thousands, by objecting to a mere form.
+"Besides, Harold Gwynne shall share my success," he thought; and
+he formed many schemes for changing the comparative poverty of the
+parsonage into comfort and luxury. It was only when the pen was in the
+young man's hand, ready to sign the paper, that the faintest misgiving
+crossed Rothesay's mind.
+
+"Stay, it is but for a few days--yet life sometimes ends in an hour.
+What if I should die, at once, before I can requite you? Mr. Gwynne, you
+shall not do it."
+
+"He _shall_--I mean, he will," answered the mother.
+
+"But not until I have secured him in some way."
+
+"Nay, Angus; we 'auld acquaintance' should not thus bargain away our
+friendship," said Mrs. Gwynne, with wounded pride--Highland pride. "And
+besides, there is no time to lose. Here is the acceptance ready--so,
+Harold, sign!"
+
+Harold did sign. The instant after, glad to escape, he quitted the room.
+
+Angus Rothesay sank on a chair with a heart-deep sigh of relief. It was
+done now. He eyed with thankfulness the paper which had secured him the
+golden prize.
+
+"It is but a trifle--a sum not worth naming," he muttered to himself;
+and so, indeed, it seemed to one who had "turned over" thousands like
+mere heaps of dust. He never thought that it was an amount equal to
+Harold's yearly income for which the young man had thus become bound.
+
+Yet he omitted not again and again to thank Mrs. Gwynne, and with
+excited eagerness to point to all the prospects now before him.
+
+"And besides, you cannot think from what you have saved me--the
+annoyance--the shame of breaking my word. Oh, my friend, you know not in
+what a whirling, restless world of commerce I live! To fail in anything,
+or to be thought to fail, would positively ruin me and drive me mad."
+
+"Angus--old companion!" answered Mrs. Gwynne, regarding him earnestly,
+"you must not blame me if I speak plainly. In one week I have seen far
+into your heart--farther than you think. Be advised by me; change this
+life for one more calm. Home and its blessings never come too late."
+
+"You are right," said Angus. "I sometimes think that all is not well
+with me. I am growing old, and business racks my head sadly sometimes.
+Feel it now!"
+
+He carried to his brow her hand--the hand which had led him when a boy,
+which in his fantastic dream of youth he had many a time kissed; even
+now, when the pulses were grown leaden with age, it felt cool, calm,
+like the touch of some pitying and protecting angel.
+
+Alison Gwynne said gently, "My friend, you say truly all is not well
+with you. Let us put aside all business, and walk in the garden. Come!"
+
+Captain Rothesay lingered at Harbury yet one day more. But he could
+not stay longer, for this important business-venture made him restless.
+Besides, Harold's wedding was near at hand: in less than a week the
+mother would be sole regent of her son's home no more. No wonder that
+this made her grave and anxious--so that even her old friend's presence
+was a slight restraint Yet she bade him adieu with her own cordial
+sincerity. He began to pour out thanks for all kindness--especially the
+one kindness of all, adding--
+
+"But I will say no more. You shall see or hear from me in a few days at
+farthest."
+
+"Not until after the wedding--I can think of nothing till after the
+wedding," answered Mrs. Gwynne. "Now, farewell, friend! but not for
+another thirty years, I trust!"
+
+"No, no!" cried Angus, warmly. He looked at her as she sat by the light
+of her own hearth--life's trials conquered--life's duties fulfilled--and
+she appeared not less divine a creature than the Alison Balfour who had
+trod the mountains full of joy, and hope, and energy. Holy and beautiful
+she had seemed to him in her youth; and though every relic of that
+passionate idealisation he once called love, was gone, still holy and
+beautiful she seemed to him in her age.
+
+Angus Rothesay rode away from Harbury parsonage, feeling that there he
+had gained a new interest to make life and life's duties more sacred.
+He thought with tenderness of his home--of his wife, and of his "little
+Olive;" and then, travelling by a rather circuitous route, his thoughts
+rested on Harold Gwynne.
+
+"The kind-hearted, generous fellow! I will take care he is requited
+double. And to-morrow, before even I reach Oldchurch, I will go to my
+lawyer's and make all safe on his account."
+
+"To-morrow!" He remembered not the warning, "Boast not thyself of
+to-morrow."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+
+Olive sat mournfully contemplating Sara Derwent's last letter--the last
+she knew it would be. It was written, not with the frank simplicity of
+their girlish confidence, but with the formal dignity of one who the
+next day would become a bride. It spoke of no regret, no remorse for her
+violated troth; it mentioned her former promise in a cold, business-like
+manner, without inferring any changed love, but merely stating her
+friends' opinion on the "evil of long engagements, and that she would be
+much better married at once to Mr. Gwynne, than waiting some ten years
+for Charles Geddes."
+
+But to Olive this change seemed a positive sin. She shuddered to think
+of Sara's wicked faithlessness; she wept with pity, remembering poor
+Charles. The sense of wrong, as well as of misery, had entered her world
+at once; her idols were crumbling into dust. Life grew painful, and a
+morbid bitterness was settling on her mind.
+
+She read the account that Sara had somewhat boastfully written, of her
+prospects, her pretty home, and of her lover's devotion to her. "This
+clever man--this noble man (as people call him, and most of all his
+mother)--I could wind him round my little finger. What think you, Olive?
+Is not that something to be married for? You ask if I am happy. Yes,
+certainly, happier than you can imagine."
+
+"That is true, indeed," murmured Olive; and there came upon her a bitter
+sense of the inequalities of life. It seemed that Heaven to some gave
+all things; to others, nothing! But she hushed the complainings, for
+they seemed impious. Upon her was the influence of the faith she had
+been taught by Elspie, which though in the old Scotswoman it became
+all the mystic horrors of Calvinism, yet in Olive's gentler and higher
+nature, had worked out blessing instead of harm. For it was a faith
+that taught the peace of resting child-like beneath the shadow of that
+Omnipotent Will, which holds every tangled thread of fate within one
+mighty Hand, which rules all things, and rules them continually for
+good.
+
+While thinking thus, Olive was sitting in her "bower." It was a
+garden-seat, placed under the thorn-tree, and shut out from sight of the
+house by an espalier of apple-trees. Not very romantic, certainly, but
+a most pleasant spot, with the sound of the "shallow river" gliding by,
+and of many a bird that "sang madrigals" in the meadows opposite.
+And Olive herself, as she sat with her hands crossed on her knee, her
+bending head and pensive eyes out-gazing, added no little to the scene.
+Many a beauty might have coveted the meek yet heavenly look which threw
+sweetness over the pale features of the deformed girl.
+
+Olive, sitting with her eyes cast down, was some time before she became
+conscious that she was watched--long and earnestly, but by an innocent
+watcher--her "little knight" as he had dubbed himself, Lyle Derwent. His
+face looked out from the ivy-leaves at the top of the wall. Soon he had
+leaped down, and was kneeling at her feet, just like a young lover in a
+romance. Smiling, she told him so; for in truth she made a great pet
+of the child, whose delicate beauty pleased her artist-eye, while his
+gentleness won her affection.
+
+"Well, and I will be your lover, Miss Olive," said he, stoutly; "for I
+love you very much indeed. I should so like to kiss you--may I?"
+
+She stooped down; moved almost to tears.
+
+"Why are you always so sad? why do you never laugh, like Sara or the
+other young ladies we know?"
+
+"Because I am not like Sara, or like any other girl. Ah! Lyle, all is
+very different with me. But, my little knight, this can scarcely be
+understood by one so young as you."
+
+"Though I am a little boy, I know thus much, that I love you, and think
+you more beautiful than anybody else in the world."
+
+And speaking rather loudly and energetically, he was answered by a burst
+of derisive laughter from behind the wall.
+
+Olive crimsoned; it was one more of those passing wounds which her
+sensitive nature now continually received. Was even a child's love for
+her deemed so unnatural, and that it should be mocked at thus cruelly?
+Lyle, with a quickness beyond his years, seemed to have divined her
+thoughts, and his gentle temper was roused into passion.
+
+"I will kill Bob, I will! Never mind him, sweet, dear, beautiful Miss
+Rothesay; I love you, and I hate him."
+
+"Hush! Lyle, hush! that is wrong." And then she was silent. The little
+boy stood by her side, his face still burning with indignation.
+
+Soon Olive's trouble subsided. She whispered to herself, "It must be
+always thus--I will try to bear it," and then she became composed. She
+bade her little friend adieu, telling him she was going back into the
+house.
+
+"But you will forgive all, you will not think of anything that would
+grieve you?" said Lyle, hesitatingly.
+
+Olive promised, with a patient smile.
+
+"And to prove this, will you kiss your little knight once again?"
+
+Her soft drooping hair swept his cheek; her lips touched his. Lyle
+Derwent never forgot this kiss of Olive Rothesay's.
+
+The young girl entered the house. Within it was the quiet of a Sunday
+afternoon. Her mother had gone to a distant church, and there was none
+left "to keep house," save one of the maids and the old grey cat, that
+dosed on the window-sill in the sunshine. The cat was a great pet of
+Olive's; and the moment it saw its young mistress, it was purring round
+her feet, following her from room to room, never resting until she took
+it up in her arms. The love even of a dumb animal touched her then. She
+sat down on her own little low chair, spread on her lap the smooth white
+apron which Miss Pussy loved--and so she leaned back, soothed by the
+monotonous song of her purring favourite, and thinking that there was
+at least one living creature who loved her, and whom she could make
+perfectly happy.
+
+She sat at the open window, seeing only the high, green privet hedge
+that enclosed the front garden, the little wicket-gate, and the blue sky
+beyond. How still everything was! By degrees the footsteps of a few late
+church-goers vanished along the road; the bells ceased--first the quick,
+sharp clang of the new church, and then the musical peal that rang out
+from the grey Norman tower. There never were such bells as those
+of Oldchurch! But they melted away in silence; and then the dreamy
+quietness of the hour stole over Olive's sense.
+
+She thought of many things--things which might have been sad, but for
+the slumberous peace that took away all pain. It was just the hour
+when she once used to sit on the floor, leaning against Elspie's knees,
+generally reading aloud in the Book which alone the nurse permitted on
+Sundays. Now and then--once in particular she remembered--old Elspie
+fell asleep; and then Olive turned to her favourite study, the Book
+of Revelations. Childlike she terrified herself over the mysterious
+prophecies of the latter days, until at last she forgot the gloom and
+horror, in reading of the "beautiful city, New Jerusalem."
+
+She seemed to see it--its twelve gates, angel-guarded, its crystal
+river, its many-fruited tree--the Tree of Life. Her young but glowing
+fancy created out of these marvels a visible material paradise. She knew
+not that Heaven is only the continual presence of the Eternal. Yet she
+was happy, and in her dreams she never pictured the land beyond the
+grave but there came back to her, as though the nearest foreshadowing of
+it, the visions of that Sunday afternoon.
+
+She sat a long time thinking of them, and of herself--how much older she
+felt since then, and how many troubles she had passed through. Troubles!
+Poor child!--how little knew she those of the world! But even her own
+small burthen seemed lightened now. She leaned her head against the
+window, listening to the bees humming in the garden--bees, daring Sunday
+workers, and even they seemed to toil with a kind of Sabbatic solemnity.
+And then, turning her face upwards, Olive watched many a fair white
+butterfly, that, having flitted awhile among the flowers, spread its
+wings and rose far into the air, like a pure soul weary of earth, and
+floating heavenward. How she wished that she could do likewise; and
+leaving earth behind--its flowers as well as weeds, its sunshine as its
+storm--soar into another and a higher existence!
+
+Not yet, Olive--not yet! None receive the guerdon, save those who have
+won the goal!
+
+A pause in the girl's reverie--caused by a light sound that broke the
+perfect quietness around. She listened; it was the rumbling of carriage
+wheels along the road--a rare circumstance; for the people of Oldchurch,
+if not individually devout, lived in a devout atmosphere, which made
+pleasure-drives on the day of rest not "respectable."
+
+A momentary hope struck Olive that it might be her father returning
+home. But he was a strict man; he never travelled on Sundays.
+Nevertheless, Olive listened mechanically to the wheels: they dashed
+rapidly on--came near--stopped. Yes, it must be her father.
+
+She flew to the hall door to welcome him. There stood, not her father,
+but a little hard-featured old man, Mr. Wyld, the family lawyer. Olive
+drew back, sorely disappointed; for if in her gentle heart lingered
+one positive aversion, it was felt towards this man--partly on his own
+account, partly because his appearance seemed always the forewarning of
+evil in the little household. He never came but at his departure Captain
+Rothesay wore a frowning brow, and indulged in a hasty temper for days
+and days. No marvel was there in Olive's dislike; yet she regretted
+having shown it.
+
+"Mr. Wyld, I thought it was my father. I am sorry that he is not at home
+to receive you."
+
+"Nay,--I did not come to see Captain Rothesay," answered the lawyer,
+betraying some confusion and hesitation beneath his usual smooth manner.
+"The fact is, my dear young lady, I bring a letter for your mother."
+
+"From papa?" cried Olive, eagerly.
+
+"No, not exactly; that is--. But can I see Mrs. Rothesay?"
+
+"She is at church. She will be at home in half-an-hour, probably. Will
+you wait?"
+
+He shook his head.
+
+"Nay, there is nothing wrong?"
+
+"Don't alarm yourself, my dear."
+
+Olive shrank from the touch of his hand, as he led her into the parlour.
+
+"Your papa is at my house. But I think, Miss Rothesay, as your mother is
+not at home, you had better read the letter yourself."
+
+She took it. Slowly, silently, she read it through, twice; for the
+words seemed to dazzle and blaze before her eyes. Then she looked up
+helplessly. "I--I cannot understand."
+
+"I thought the doctor wrote plainly enough, and broke the matter
+cautiously, too," muttered Mr. Wyld; adding aloud, "Upon my honour, my
+dear, I assure you your father is alive."
+
+"Alive! Oh, my poor father!" And then she sank down slowly where she
+stood, as if pressed by some heavy, invisible hand. Mr. Wyld thought she
+had fainted; but it was not so. In another moment she stood before him,
+nerved by this great woe to a firmness which was awful in its rigid
+composure.
+
+"I can listen now. Tell me everything!"
+
+He told her in a few words how Captain Rothesay had come to his house
+the night before; and, while waiting his return, had taken up the
+newspaper. "Suddenly, my clerk said, he let it fall with a cry, and was
+immediately seized with the fit from which he has not yet recovered.
+There is hope, the doctor thinks; but, in case of the worst, you must
+come to him at once."
+
+"Yes, yes, at once!" She rose and walked to the door, guiding herself by
+the wall.
+
+"Nay, Miss Rothesay, what are you doing? You forget we cannot go without
+your mother."
+
+"My mother! O, Heaven! it will kill my mother!"
+
+And the thought brought tears, the first that had burst from her. It was
+well.
+
+She recovered to consciousness and strength. In this great crisis there
+came to her the wisdom and forethought that lay dormant in her nature.
+She became a woman--one of those of whom the world contains few--at once
+gentle and strong, meek and fearless, patient to endure, heroic to act.
+
+She sat down for a moment and considered. "Fourteen miles it is to
+B----. If we start in an hour we shall reach there by sunset." Then she
+summoned the maid, and said, speaking steadily, that she might by no
+sign betray what might in turn be betrayed to her mother--
+
+"You must go and meet mamma as she comes from church; or, if not, go
+into the church to her. Tell her there is a message come from papa,
+and ask her to hasten home. Make haste yourself. I will keep house the
+while."
+
+The woman left the room, murmuring a little, but never thinking to
+disobey her young mistress, so sudden, so constraining, was the dignity
+which had come upon the girl. Even Mr. Wyld felt it, and his manner
+changed from condolence to respect.
+
+"What can I do, Miss Rothesay? You turn from me. No wonder, when I have
+had the misfortune to be the bearer of such evil tidings."
+
+"Hush!" she said. Mechanically she set wine before him. He drank talking
+between the draughts, of his deep sorrow, and earnest hope that no
+serious evil would befall his good friend, Captain Rothesay.
+
+Olive could endure no more. She fled away, shut herself up in her own
+room, and fell on her knees! but no words came, save the bitter cry, "O
+God, have pity on us!" And there was no time, not even to pray, except
+within her heart.
+
+She pressed her hands on her brow, and once more thought what she had
+to do. At that moment, through the quietness of the house, she heard the
+clock striking four. Never had time's passing seemed so awful. The day
+was fleeting on whose every moment perhaps hung a life.
+
+Something she must do, or her senses would have failed. She thought of
+little things that might be needed when they reached her father; went
+into Mrs. Rothesay's room, and put up some clothes and necessaries, in
+case they stayed more than one day at B----; a large, warm shawl,
+too, for her mother might have to sit up all night. In these trifling
+arrangements what a horrible reality there was? And yet she scarcely
+felt it--she was half-stunned still.
+
+It was past four--and Mrs. Rothesay had not come. Every minute seemed an
+eternity. Olive walked to the window and looked out. There was the same
+cheerful sunshine--the bees humming, and the butterflies flitting about,
+in the sweet stillness of the Sabbath afternoon, as she had watched them
+an hour ago. One little hour, to have brought into her world such utter
+misery!
+
+She thought of it all, dwelling vividly on every accompaniment of
+woe--even as she remembered to have done when she first learned that
+Elspie would die. She pictured her mother's coming home; and almost
+fancied she could see her now, walking across the fields. But no; it was
+some one in a white dress, strolling by the hedgerow's side; and Mrs.
+Rothesay that day wore blue--her favourite pale blue muslin in which she
+looked so lovely. She had gone out, laughing at her daughter for saying
+this. What if Olive should never see her in that pretty dress again!
+
+All these fancies, and more, clung to the girl's mind with a horrible
+pertinacity. And then, through the silence, she heard the Oldchurch
+bells awaking again, in the dull minute-peal which told that
+service-time was ended, and the afternoon funerals were taking place.
+Olive, shuddering, closed her ears against the sound, and then, gazing
+out once more, she saw her mother stand at the gate. Mrs. Rothesay
+looked up at the window and smiled.
+
+Olive had never thought of that worst pang of all--how she should break
+the news to her mother--her timid, delicate mother, whose feeble frame
+quivered beneath the lightest breath of suffering. Scarcely knowing what
+she did, she flew down stairs.
+
+"Not there, mamma, not there!" she cried, as Mrs. Rothesay was about to
+enter the parlour. Olive drew her into another room, and made her sit
+down.
+
+"What is all this, my dear!--why do you look so strange! Is not your
+papa come home? Let us go to him."
+
+"We will, we will! But mamma!"--One moment she looked speechlessly in
+Mrs. Rothesay's face, and then fell on her neck, crying, "I can't, I
+can't keep it from you any longer. Oh, mother, mother! there is great
+trouble come upon us; we must be patient; we must bear it together. God
+will help us."
+
+"Olive!" The shrill terror of Mrs. Rothesay's voice rung through the
+room.
+
+"Hush! we must be quiet, very quiet. Papa is dangerously ill at B----,
+and we must start at once. I have arranged all. Come, mamma, dearest!"
+
+But her mother had fainted.
+
+There was no time to lose. Olive snatched some restoratives, and then
+made ready to depart. Mrs. Rothesay, still insensible, was lifted into
+the carriage. She lay there, for some time, quite motionless, supported
+in her daughter's arms--to which never had she owed support before. As
+Olive looked down upon her, strange, new feelings came into the girl's
+heart. Filial tenderness seemed transmuted into a devotion passing
+the love of child to mother, and mingled therewith was a sense of
+protection, of watchful guardianship.
+
+She thought, "What if my father should die, and we two should be left
+alone in the world! Then she will have none to look to save me, and I
+will be to her in the stead of all. Once, I think, she loved me very
+little; but, oh! mother, dearly we love one another now."
+
+When Mrs. Rothesay's senses returned, she lifted her head, with a
+bewildered air. "Where are we going? What has happened? I can't think
+clearly of anything."
+
+"Dearest mamma, do not try--I will think for us both. Be content; you
+are quite safe with your own daughter."
+
+"My daughter--ah! I remember, I fainted, as I did long years ago, when
+they told me something about my daughter. Are you she--that little child
+whom I cast from my arms? and now I am lying in yours!" she cried, her
+mind seeming to wander, as if distraught by this sudden shock.
+
+"Hush, mamma! don't talk; rest quiet here."
+
+Mrs. Rothesay looked wistfully in her daughter's face, and there seemed
+to cross her mind some remembered sense of what had befallen. She clung
+helplessly to those sustaining arms--"Take care of me, Olive!--I do not
+deserve it, but take care of me!"
+
+"I will, until death!" was Olive's inward vow.
+
+And so, travelling fast, but in solemn silence, they came to B----.
+Alas! it was already too late! By Angus Rothesay's bed they stood--the
+widow and the fatherless!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+
+The tomb had scarcely closed over Captain Rothesay, when it was
+discovered that his affairs were in a state of irretrievable confusion.
+For months he must have lived with ruin staring him in the face.
+
+His sudden death was then no mystery. The newspaper had startled him
+with tidings--partly false, as afterwards appeared--of a heavy disaster
+by sea, and the failure of his latest speculation at home. There seemed
+lifted against him at once the hand of Heaven and of man. His proud
+nature could not withstand the shock; shame smote him, and he died.
+
+"Tell me only one thing!" cried Olive to Mr..Wyld, with whom, after
+the funeral, she was holding conference--she only--for her mother was
+incapable of acting, and this girl of sixteen was the sole ruler of
+the household now. "Tell me only that my father died unblemished in
+honour--that there are none to share misfortune with us, and to curse
+the memory of the ruined merchant."
+
+"I know of none," answered Mr. Wyld. "True, there are still remaining
+many private debts, but they may be easily paid." And he cast a meaning
+glance round the luxuriously furnished room.
+
+"I understand. It shall be done," said Olive. Misery had made her very
+wise--very quick to comprehend. Without shrinking she talked over every
+matter connected with that saddest thing--a deceased bankrupt's sale.
+
+The lawyer was a hard man, and Olive's prejudice against him was not
+unfounded. Still the most stony heart has often a little softness buried
+deep at its core. Mr. Wyld looked with curiosity, even with kindness, on
+the young creature who sat opposite to him, in the dim lamp-light of the
+silent room, once Captain Rothesay's study. Her cheek, ever delicate,
+was now of a dull white; her pale gold hair fell neglected over her
+black dress; her hand supported her care-marked brow, as she pored over
+dusty papers, pausing at times to speak, in a quiet, sensible, subdued
+manner, of things fit only for old heads and worn hearts. Mr. Wyld
+thought of his own merry daughters, whom he had left at home, and felt a
+vague thankfulness that they were not as Olive Rothesay. Tenderness was
+not in his nature; but in all his intercourse with her, he could not
+help treating with a sort of reverence the dead merchant's forlorn
+child.
+
+When they had finished their conversation, he said, "There is one
+matter--painful, too--upon which I ought to speak to you. I should have
+done so before, but I did not know it myself until yesterday."
+
+"Know what? Is there more trouble coming?" answered Olive, sighing
+bitterly. "But tell me all."
+
+"_All_, is very little. You know, my dear Miss Rothesay, that your
+father was speechless from the moment of his seizure. But my wife, who
+never quitted him--ah! I assure you she was a devoted nurse to him, was
+Mrs. Wyld."
+
+"I thank her deeply, as she knows."
+
+"My wife has just told me, that a few minutes before his death your poor
+father's consciousness returned; that he seemed struggling in vain to
+speak; at last she placed a pencil in his hand, and he wrote--one word
+only, in the act of writing which he died. Forgive me, my dear young
+lady for thus agitating you, but"----
+
+"The paper--give me the paper!"
+
+Mr. Wyld pulled out his pocket-book, and produced a torn and blotted
+scrap, whereon was written, in characters scarcely legible, the name
+"Harold."
+
+"Do you know any one who bears that name, Miss Rothesay?"
+
+"No. Yes--one," added she, suddenly remembering that the name of Sara's
+husband was Harold Gwynne. But between him and her father she knew of no
+single tie. It must be a mere chance coincidence.
+
+"What is to be done?" cried Olive. "Shall I tell my mother?"
+
+"If I might advise, I would say decisively, No! Better leave the matter
+in my hands. Harold!--'tis a boy's name," he added, meditatively. "If it
+were a girl's now--I executed a little commission for Captain Rothesay
+once."
+
+"What did you say?" asked Olive, looking up at him with her innocent
+eyes. He could not meet them; his own fell confused.
+
+"What did I say, Miss Rothesay? Oh, nothing--nothing at all; only that
+if I had a commission--to--to hunt out this secret."
+
+"I thank you, Mr. Wyld; but a daughter would not willingly employ
+any third person to 'hunt out' her father's secret. His papers will
+doubtless inform me of everything; therefore we will speak no more on
+this subject."
+
+"As you will" He gathered up his blue bag and its voluminous contents,
+and made his adieux.
+
+But Olive had scarcely sat down again, and with her head leaning on her
+father's desk, had given vent to a sigh of relief, in that she was freed
+from Mr. Wyld's presence, when the old lawyer again appeared.
+
+"Miss Rothesay, I merely wished to say, if ever you find out--any
+secret--or need any advice about that paper, or anything else, I'm the
+man to give it, and with pleasure in this case. Good evening!"
+
+Olive thanked him coldly, somewhat proudly, for what she thought a piece
+of unnecessary impertinence. However, it quickly passed from her gentle
+mind; and then, as the best way to soothe all her troubles, she quitted
+the study, and sought her mother.
+
+Of Mrs. Rothesay's affliction we have as yet said little. Many and
+various are earth's griefs; but there must be an awful individuality
+in the stroke which severs the closest human tie, that between two whom
+marriage had made "one flesh." And though in this case coldness had
+loosened the sacred tie, still no power could utterly divide it, while
+life endured. Angus Rothesay's widow remembered that she had once been
+the loved and loving bride of his youth. As such, she mourned him; nor
+was her grief without that keenest sting, the memory of unatoned wrong.
+From the dim shores of the past, arose ghosts that nothing could ever
+lay, because death's river ran eternally between.
+
+Sybilla Rothesay was one of those women whom no force of circumstances
+can ever teach self-dependence or command. She had looked entirely to
+her husband for guidance and control, and now for both she looked to her
+child. From the moment of Captain Rothesay's death, Olive seemed to rule
+in his stead--or rather, the parent and child seemed to change
+places. Olive watched, guided, and guarded the passive, yielding,
+sorrow-stricken woman, as with a mother's care; while Mrs. Rothesay
+trusted implicitly in all things to her daughter's stronger mind, and
+was never troubled by thinking or acting for herself in any one thing.
+
+This may seem a new picture of the maternal and filial bond, but it
+is frequently true. If we look around on those daughters who have best
+fulfilled the holy duty, without which no life is or can be blest, are
+they not women firm, steadfast--able to will and to act? Could not many
+of them say, "I am a mother unto my mother. I, the strongest now, take
+her in her feeble age, like a child, to my bosom--shield her, cherish
+her, and am to her all in all."
+
+And so, in heart, resolved Olive Rothesay. She had made that vow when
+her mother lay insensible in her arms; she kept it faithfully; until
+eternity, closing between them, sealed it with that best of earth's
+blessings--the blessing that falls on a duteous daughter, whose mother
+is with God.
+
+When Captain Rothesay's affairs were settled, the sole wreck of his
+wealth that remained to his widow and child was the small settlement
+from Mrs. Rothesay's fortune, on which she had lived at Stirling. So
+they were not left in actual poverty.
+
+Still, Olive and her mother were poor--poor enough to make them desire
+to leave prying, gossiping Oldchurch, and settle in the solitude of some
+great town. "There," Olive said to herself, "I shall surely find
+means to work for her--that she may have not merely necessaries, but
+comforts."
+
+And many a night--during the few weeks that elapsed before their home
+was broken up--she lay awake by her sleeping mother's side, planning all
+sorts of schemes; arranging everything, so that Mrs. Rothesay might not
+be annoyed with arguings or consultations. When all was matured, she
+had only to say, "Dearest mother, should we not be very happy living
+together in London?" And scarcely had Mrs. Rothesay assented, than she
+found everything arranged itself, as under an invisible fairy hand--so
+that she had but to ask, "My child, when shall we go?"
+
+The time of departure at last arrived. It was the night but one before
+the sale. Olive persuaded her mother to go to rest early; for she
+herself had a trying duty to perform--the examining of her father's
+private papers. As she sat in his study--in solitude and gloom--the
+young girl might have been forgiven many a pang of grief, even a shudder
+of superstitious fear. But Heaven had given her a hero-soul, not the
+less heroic because it was a woman's.
+
+Her father's business-papers she had already examined; these were only
+his private memoranda. But they were few,--Captain Rothesay's thoughts
+never found vent in words; there were no data of any kind to mark the
+history of a life, which was almost as unknown to his wife and daughter
+as to any stranger. Of letters, she found very few; he was not a man who
+loved correspondence. Only among these few she was touched deeply to
+see some, dated years back, at Stirling. Olive opened one of them. The
+delicate hand was that of her mother when she was young. Olive only
+glanced at the top of the page, where still smiled, from the worn,
+yellow paper, the words, "My dearest, dearest Angus;" and then, too
+right-minded to penetrate further, folded it up again. Yet, she felt
+glad; she thought it would comfort her mother to know how carefully he
+had kept these letters. Soon after she found a memento of herself--a
+little curl, wrapped in silver-paper, and marked with his own hand,
+"Olive's hair." Her father had loved her then--ay, and more deeply than
+she knew.
+
+The chief thing which troubled Olive was the sight of the paper on which
+her father's dying hand had scrawled "Harold." No date of any kind had
+been found to explain the mystery. She determined to think of the matter
+no more, but to put the paper by in a secret drawer.
+
+In doing so, she found a small packet, carefully tied and sealed. She
+was about to open it, when the superscription caught her eyes. Thereon
+she read her father's written desire that it should after his death be
+burnt unopened.
+
+His faithful daughter, without pausing to think, threw the packet on
+the fire; even turning aside, lest the flames, while destroying, should
+reveal anything of the secret. Only once, forgetting herself, the
+crackling fire made her start and turn, and she caught a momentary
+glimpse of some curious foreign ornament; while near it, twisted in the
+flame into almost life-like motion, was what seemed a long lock of black
+hair. But she could be certain of nothing; she hated herself for even
+that involuntary glance. It seemed an insult to the dead.
+
+Still more did these remorseful feelings awake, when, her task being
+almost done, she found one letter addressed thus:
+
+"For my daughter, Olive. Not to be opened till her mother is dead, and
+she is alone in the world."
+
+Alone in the world! His fatherly tenderness had looked forward, then,
+even to that bitter time--far off, she prayed God!--when she would be
+alone--a woman no longer young, without parents, husband, or child, or
+smiling home. She doubted not that her father had written this letter to
+counsel and comfort her at such a season of desolation, years after he
+was in the dust.
+
+His daughter blessed him for it; and her tender tears fell upon words
+which he had written, as she saw by the date outside, on that
+night--the last he ever spent at home. She never thought of breaking
+his injunction, or of opening the letter before the time; and after
+considering deeply, she decided that it was too sacred even for the ear
+of her mother, to whom it would only give pain. Therefore she placed it
+in the private drawer of her father's desk--now her own--to wait until
+time should bring about the revealing of this solemn secret between her
+and the dead.
+
+Then she went to bed, wearied and worn; and creeping close to her
+slumbering mother, thanked God that there was one warm living bosom to
+which she could cling, and which would never cast her out.
+
+O mother! O daughter! who, when time has blended into an almost sisterly
+bond the difference of years, grow together, united, as it were, in one
+heart and one soul by that perfect love which is beyond even "honour"
+and "obedience," because including both--how happy are ye! How blessed
+she, who, looking on her daughter--woman grown--can say, "Child, thou
+art bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh, as when I brought thee into
+the world!" And thrice blessed is she who can answer, "Mother, I am all
+thine own--I desire no love but thine--I bring to thee my every joy; and
+my every grief finds rest on thy bosom."
+
+Let those who have this happiness rejoice! Let those who only have
+its memory pray always that God would make that memory live until the
+eternal meeting, at the resurrection of the just!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+
+In one of the western environs of London is a region which, lying
+between two great omnibus outlets, is yet as retired and old-fashioned
+as though it had been miles and miles distant from the metropolis.
+Fields there are few or none, certainly; but there are quiet, green
+lanes (where in springtime you may pluck many a fragrant hawthorn
+branch), and market-gardens, and grand old trees; while on summer
+mornings you may continually hear a loud chorus of birds--especially
+larks--though these latter "blithe spirits" seem to live perpetually in
+the air, and one marvels how they ever contrive to make their nests in
+the potato-grounds below. Perhaps they do so in emulation of their
+human neighbours--authors, actors, artists, who in this place "most do
+congregate," many of them, poor souls! singing their daily songs of life
+out in the world, as the larks in the air; none knowing what a mean,
+lowly, sometimes even desolate home, is the nest whence such music
+springs.
+
+Well, in this region, there is a lane * (a crooked, unpaved, winding,
+quaint, dear old lane!); and in that lane there is a house; and in that
+house there are two especially odd rooms, where dwelt Olive Rothesay and
+her mother.
+
+     *  _Was_.   It is no more, now.
+
+Chance had led them hither; but they both--Olive especially--thanked
+chance, every day of their lives, for having brought them to such
+a delicious old place. It was the queerest of all queer abodes, was
+Woodford Cottage. The entrance-door and the stable-door stood side by
+side; and the cellar-staircase led out of the drawing-room. The direct
+way from the kitchen to the dining-room was through a suite of sleeping
+apartments; and the staircase, apparently cut out of the wall, had a
+beautiful little break-neck corner, which seemed made to prevent any one
+who once ascended from ever descending alive. Certainly the contriver
+of Woodford Cottage must have had some slight twist of the brain, which
+caused the building to partake of the same pleasant convolution.
+
+Yet, save this slight peculiarity, it was a charming house to live in.
+It stood in a garden, whose high walls shut out all view, save of the
+trees belonging to an old dilapidated, uninhabited lodge, where an
+illustrious statesman had once dwelt, and which was now creeping to
+decay and oblivion, like the great man's own memory. The trees waved,
+and the birds sang therein for the especial benefit of Woodford Cottage
+and of Olive Rothesay. She, who so dearly loved a garden, perfectly
+exulted in this. Most delightful was its desolate untrimmed
+luxuriance--where the peaches grew almost wild upon the wall, and one
+gigantic mulberry-tree looked beautiful all the year through. Moreover,
+climbing over the picturesque, bay-windowed house, was such a clematis!
+Its blossoms glistened like a snow-shower throughout the day; and, in
+the night-time, its perfume was a very breath of Eden. Altogether the
+house was a grand old house--just suited for a dreamer, a poet, or
+an artist. An artist did really inhabit it, which had been no small
+attraction to draw Olive thither. But of him more anon.
+
+At present let us look at the mother and daughter, as they sit in the
+one parlour to which all the glories of Meri-vale Hall and Oldchurch had
+dwindled. But they did not murmur at that, for they were together; and
+now that the first bitterness of their loss had passed away, they began
+to feel cheerful--even happy.
+
+Olive was flitting in and out of the window which opened into the
+garden, and bringing thence her apron full of flowers to dispose about
+the large, somewhat gloomy, and scantily-furnished room. Mrs. Rothesay
+was sitting in the sunshine, engaged in some delicate needlework. In the
+midst of it she stopped, and her hands fell with a heavy sigh.
+
+"It is of no use, Olive."
+
+"What is of no use, mamma?"
+
+"I cannot see to thread my needle. I really must be growing old."
+
+"Nonsense, darling."--Olive often said "darling" quite in a protecting
+way--"Why, you are not forty yet. Don't talk about growing old, my own
+beautiful mamma--for you are beautiful; I heard Mr. Vanbrugh saying so
+to his sister the other day; and of course he, an artist, must know,"
+added Olive, with a sweet flattery, as she took her mother's hands, and
+looked at her with admiration.
+
+And truly it was not uncalled for. Over the delicate beauty of Sybilla
+Rothesay had crept a spiritual charm, that increased with life's
+decline--for her life _was_ declining--even so soon. Not that her health
+was broken, or that she looked withered and aged; but still there was a
+gradual change, as of the tree which from its richest green melts into
+hues that, though still lovely, indicate the time, distant but certain,
+of autumn days, and of leaves softly falling earthwards. So, doubtless,
+her life's leaf would fall.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay smiled; sweeter than any of the flatteries of her youth,
+now fell her daughter's tender praise. "You are a silly little girl;
+but never mind! Only I wish my eyes did not trouble me so much. Olive,
+suppose I should come to be a blind old woman, for you to take care of?"
+
+Olive snatched away the work, and closed the strained aching eyes with
+two sweet kisses. It was a subject she could not bear to talk upon;
+perhaps because it rested often on Mrs. Rothesay's mind: and she herself
+had an instinctive apprehension that there was, after all, some truth in
+these fears concerning her mother's sight. She began quickly to talk of
+other matters.
+
+"Hark, mamma, there is Mr. Vanbrugh walking in his painting-room
+overhead. He always does so when he is dissatisfied about his picture;
+and I am sure he need not be, for oh! how beautiful it is! Miss Meliora
+took me in yesterday to see it, when he was out."
+
+"She seems to make quite a pet of you, my child."
+
+"Her kitten ran away last week, which accounts for it, mamma. But indeed
+I ought not to laugh at her, for one must have something to love, and
+she has nothing but her dumb pets."
+
+"And her brother."
+
+"Oh, yes. I wonder if anybody else ever loved him, or if he ever loved
+anybody," said Olive, musingly. "But, mamma, if he is not handsome
+himself he admires beauty in others. What do you think?--he is longing
+to paint _somebody's_ face, and put it in this picture; and I promised
+to ask. Oh, darling, do sit to him! It would not be much trouble, and I
+should be so proud to see my beautiful mamma in the Academy-exhibition
+next year."
+
+Mrs. Rothesay shook her head.
+
+"Nay--here he comes to ask you himself," cried Olive, as a tall, a very
+tall shadow darkened the window, and its corporeality entered the room.
+
+He was a most extraordinary-looking man,--Mr. Van-brugh. Olive had,
+indeed, reason to call him "not handsome," for you probably would not
+see an uglier man twice in a lifetime. Gigantic and ungainly in height,
+and coarse in feature, he certainly was the very antipodes of his
+own exquisite creations. And for that reason he created them. In his
+troubled youth, tortured with the sense of that blessing which was
+denied him, he had said, "Providence has created me hideous: I will
+outdo Providence; I with my hand will continually create beauty." And
+so he did--ay, and where he created, he loved. He took his art for his
+mistress, and, like the Rhodian sculptor, he clasped it to his soul
+night and day, until it grew warm and life-like, and became to him in
+the stead of every human tie. Thus Michael Vanbrugh had lived, for
+fifty years, a life solitary even to moroseness; emulating the great
+Florentine master, whose Christian name it was his glory to bear.
+He painted grand pictures, which nobody bought, but which he and his
+faithful little sister Meliora thought the greater for that. The world
+did not understand him, nor did he understand the world; so he shut
+himself out from it altogether, until his small and rapidly-decreasing
+income caused him to admit into his house as lodgers the widow and
+daughter.
+
+He might not have done so, had not Miss Meliora hinted how lovely
+the former was, and how useful she might be as a model when they grew
+sociable together.
+
+He came to make his request now, and he made it with the greatest
+unconcern. In his opinion everything in life tended toward one
+great end--Art He looked on all beauty as only made to be painted.
+Accordingly, he stepped up to his inmate, with the following succinct
+address:
+
+"Madam, I want a Grecian head. Yours just suits me; will you oblige
+me by sitting?" And then adding, as a soothing and flattering
+encouragement: "It is for my great work--my 'Alcestis!'--one of a series
+of six pictures, which I hope to finish one day."
+
+He tossed back his long iron-grey hair, and scanned intently the
+gentle-looking lady whom he had hitherto noticed only with the usual
+civilities of an acquaintanceship consequent on some months' residence
+in the same house.
+
+"Excellent! madam. Your features are the very thing--they are perfect."
+
+"Really, Mr. Vanbrugh, you are very flattering," began the widow,
+faintly colouring, and appealing to Olive, who looked delighted; for she
+regarded the old artist with as much reverence as if he had been Michael
+Angelo himself.
+
+He interrupted them both. "Ay, that will just do;" and he drew in the
+air some magic lines over Mrs. Rothesay's head. "Good brow--Greek mouth,
+If, madam, you would favour me with taking off your cap. Thank you, Miss
+Olive. _You_ understand me, I see. That will do--the white drapery over
+the hair--ah, divine! My 'Alcestis' to the life! Madam--Mrs. Rothesay,
+your head is glorious; it shall go down to posterity in my picture."
+
+And he walked up and down the room, rubbing his hands with a delighted
+pride, which, in its perfect simplicity, could never be confounded with
+paltry vanity or self-esteem. "_My_ work, _my_ picture," in which he
+so gloried, was utterly different from, "I, the man who executed it" He
+worshipped--not himself at all; and scarcely so much his real painted
+work, as the ideal which ever flitted before him, and which it was the
+one great misery of his life never to have sufficiently attained.
+
+"When shall I sit?" timidly inquired Mrs. Rothesay, still too much of a
+woman not to be pleased by a painter's praise.
+
+"At once, madam, at once, while the mood is on me. Miss Rothesay,
+you will lead the way; you are not unacquainted with the arcana of my
+studio." As, indeed, she was not, having before stood some three hours
+in the painful attitude of a "Cassandra raving," while he painted from
+her outstretched and very beautiful hands.
+
+Happy she was the very moment her foot crossed the threshold of a
+painter's studio, for Olive's love of Art had grown with her growth,
+and strengthened with her strength. Moreover, the artistic atmosphere in
+which she now lived had increased this passion tenfold.
+
+"Truly, Miss Rothesay, you seem to know all about it," said Michael
+Vanbrugh, when, in great pride and delight, she was helping him to
+arrange her mother's pose, and at last became herself absorbed in
+admiration of "Alcestis." "You might have been an artist's daughter or
+sister."
+
+"I wish I had been."
+
+"My daughter is somewhat of an artist herself, Mr. Vanbrugh," observed
+Mrs. Rothesay, with maternal pride; which Olive, deeply blushing, soon
+quelled by an entreating motion of silence.
+
+But the painter went on painting; he saw nothing, thought of nothing,
+save his "Alcestis." He was indeed an enthusiast. Olive watched how,
+beneath the coarse, ill-formed hand, grew images of perfect beauty; how,
+within the body, almost repulsive in its ugliness, dwelt a brain which
+could produce the grandest ideal loveliness; and there dawned in the
+girl's spirit a stronger conviction than ever of the majesty of the
+human soul.
+
+It was a comforting thought to one like her, who, as she deemed, had
+been deprived of so many of life's outward sweetnesses. Between herself
+and Michael Vanbrugh there was a curious sympathy. To both Nature seemed
+to have said, "Renounce the body, in exchange for the soul."
+
+The sitting had lasted some hours, during which it took all poor Mrs.
+Rothesay's gentle patience to humour Olive's enthusiasm, by maintaining
+the very arduous position of an artist's model. "Alcestis" was getting
+thoroughly weary of her duties, when they were interrupted by an
+advent rather rare at Woodford Cottage, that of the daily post Vanbrugh
+grumblingly betook himself to the substitute of a lay figure and
+drapery, while Mrs. Rothesay read her letter, or rather looked at it,
+and gave it to Olive to read: glad, as usual, to escape from the trouble
+of correspondence.
+
+Olive examined the superscription, as one sometimes does, uselessly
+enough, when breaking the seal would explain everything. It was
+a singularly bold, upright hand, distinct as print, free from all
+caligraphic flourishes, indicating, as most writing does indicate in
+some degree, the character of the writer. Slightly eccentric it might
+be, quick, restless, in its turned-up Gs and Ys, but still it was a good
+hand, an honest hand. Olive thought so, and liked it. Wondering who the
+writer could be, she opened it, and read thus:
+
+     "Madam--From respect to your recent affliction I have kept
+     silence for some months--a silence which, you will allow,
+     was more than could have been expected from me. Perhaps I
+     should not break it now, save for the claim of a wife and
+     mother, who are suffering, and must suffer, from the results
+     of an act which sprung from my own folly and another's
+     cruel---- But no; I will not apply harsh words towards one
+     who is now no more.
+
+     "Are you aware, madam, that your late husband, not two days
+     before his death, when in all human probability he must have
+     known himself to be a ruined man, accepted from me
+     assistance in a matter of business, which the enclosed
+     correspondence between my solicitor and yours will explain?
+     This act of mine, done for the sake of an ancient friendship
+     subsisting between my mother and Captain Rothesay, has
+     rendered me liable for a debt so heavy, that in paying it my
+     income is impoverished, and must continue to be so for
+     years.
+
+     "Your husband gave me no security:  I desired none.
+     Therefore I have no legal claim for requital for this great
+     and bitter sacrifice, which makes me daily curse my own
+     folly in having trusted living man. But I ask of you, madam,
+     who, secured from the effects of Captain Rothesay's
+     insolvency, have, I understand, been left in comfort, if not
+     affluence--I ask, is it right, in honour and in honesty,
+     that I, a clergyman with a small stipend, should suffer the
+     penalty of a deed wherein, with all charity to the dead, I
+     cannot but think I was grievously injured?
+
+     "Awaiting your answer, I remain, madam, your very obedient,
+
+     "Harold Gwynne."
+
+"Harold Gwynne!" Olive, repeating the name to herself, let the letter
+fall on the ground. Well was it that she stood hidden from sight by the
+"great picture," so that her mother could not know the pang which came
+over her.
+
+The mystery, then, was solved. Now she knew why in his last agony her
+dying father had written the name of "Harold"--her poor father, who was
+here accused, by implication at least, of a wilful act of dishonesty!
+She regarded the letter with a sense of abhorrence--so coldly cruel it
+seemed to her, whose tenderness for a father's memory naturally a little
+belied her judgment. And the heartless charge was brought by the husband
+of Sara Derwent! There was bitterness in every association connected
+with the name of Harold Gwynne.
+
+"Well, dear, the letter!" said Mrs. Rothesay, as they passed from the
+studio to their own apartment.
+
+"It brings news that will grieve you. But never mind, mamma, darling: we
+will bear all our troubles together." And as briefly and as tenderly
+as she could she explained the letter--together with the fact hitherto
+unknown to Mrs. Rothesay, that her husband in his last moments had
+evidently wished to acknowledge the debt.
+
+Well Olive knew the effect this would produce on her mother's mind.
+Tears, angry exclamations, and bitter repinings; but the daughter
+soothed them all.
+
+"Now, dear mamma," she whispered, when Mrs. Rothesay was a little
+composed, "we must answer the letter at once. What shall we say!"
+
+"Nothing! That cruel man deserves no reply at all."
+
+"Mamma!" cried Olive, somewhat reproachfully. "Whatever he may be, we
+are evidently his debtors. Even Mr. Wyld admits this, you see. We must
+not forget justice and honour--my poor fathers honour."
+
+"No--no! You are right, my child. Let us do anything, if it is for
+the sake of his dear memory," sobbed the widow, whose love death had
+sanctified, and endowed with an added tenderness. "But, Olive, you must
+write--I cannot!"
+
+Olive assented. She had long taken upon herself all similar duties. At
+once she sat down to pen this formidable letter. It took her some time;
+for there was a constant struggle between the necessary formality of a
+business letter, and the impulse of wounded feeling, natural to her dead
+father's child. The finished epistle was a curious mingling of both.
+
+"Shall I read it aloud, mamma? and then the subject will be taken from
+your mind," said Olive, as she came and stood by her mother's chair.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay assented.
+
+"Well, then, here it begins--'Reverend Sir' (I ought to address him
+thus, you know, because he is a clergyman, though he does seem so harsh,
+and so unlike what a Christian pastor ought to be)."
+
+"He does, indeed, my child--but, go on." And Olive read:
+
+     "'Reverend Sir--I address you by my mother's desire, to say
+     that she was quite unaware of your claim upon my late dear
+     father. She can only reply to it, by requesting your
+     patience for a little time, until she is able to liquidate
+     the debt--not out of the wealth you attribute to her, but
+     out of her present restricted means. And I, my father's only
+     child, wishing to preserve his memory from the imputations
+     you have cast upon it, must tell you, that his last moments
+     were spent in endeavouring to write your name.    We never
+     understood why, until now.    Oh, sir! was it right or kind
+     of you so harshly to judge the dead? My father _intended_ to
+     pay you. If you have suffered, it was through his
+     misfortune--not his crime. Have a little patience with us,
+     and your claim shall be wholly discharged.
+
+     "'Olive Rothesay.'"
+
+"You have said nothing of Sara. I wonder if she knows this!" said the
+mother, as Olive folded up her letter.
+
+"Hush, mamma! Let me forget everything that was once. Perhaps, too, she
+is not to blame. I knew Charles Geddes; Sara might not like to speak of
+me to her husband?"
+
+Yet, with a look of bitter pain, Olive wrote the address of her
+letter--"Harbury Parsonage"--Sara's home! She lingered, too, over the
+name of Sara's husband.
+
+"_Harold Gwynne!_ Oh, mamma! how different names look! I cannot bear the
+sight of this! I hate it."
+
+Years after, Olive remembered these words.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+
+If the old painter of Woodford Cottage was an ascetic and a misanthrope
+never was the "milk of human kindness" so redundant in any human heart
+as in that of his excellent little sister, Miss Meliora Vanbrugh. From
+the day of her birth, when her indigent father's anticipation of a
+bequeathed fortune had caused her rather eccentric Christian name,
+Miss Meliora began a chase after the wayward sprite Prosperity. She had
+hunted it during her whole lifetime, and never caught anything but its
+departing shadow. She had never grown rich, though she was always hoping
+to do so. She had never married, for no one had ever asked her. Whether
+she had loved--but that was another question. She had probably quite
+forgotten the days of her youth; at all events, she never talked about
+them now.
+
+But though to herself her name had been a mockery, to others it was not
+so. Wherever she went, she always brought "better things"--at least in
+anticipation. She was the most hopeful little body in the world, and
+carried with her a score of consolatory proverbs, about "long lanes"
+that had most fortunate "turnings," and "cloudy mornings" that were sure
+to change into "very fine days." She had always in her heart a garden
+full of small budding blessings; and though they never burst into
+flowers, she kept on ever expecting they would do so, and was therefore
+quite satisfied. Poor Miss Meliora! if her hopes never blossomed, she
+also never had the grief of watching them die.
+
+Her whole life had been pervaded by one grand desire--to see her brother
+president of the Royal Academy. When she was a school-girl and he a
+student, she had secretly sketched his likeness--the only one extant of
+his ugly, yet soul-lighted face--and had prefixed thereto his name,
+with the magic letters, "P. B. A." She felt sure the prophecy would be
+fulfilled one day, and then she would show him the portrait, and let
+her humble, sisterly love go down to posterity on the hem of his robe of
+fame.
+
+Meliora told all this to her favourite, Olive Rothesay, one day when
+they were busying themselves in gardening--an occupation wherein their
+tastes agreed, and which contributed no little to the affection and
+confidence that was gradually springing up between them.
+
+"It is a great thing to be an artist," said Olive, musingly.
+
+"Nothing like it in the whole world, my dear. Think of all the stories
+of little peasant-boys who have thus risen to be the companions of
+kings, whereby the kings were the parties most honoured. Remember the
+stories of Francis I. and Titian, of Henry VII. and Hans Holbein, of
+Vandyck and Charles I.!"
+
+"You seem quite learned in Art, Miss Vanbrugh. I wish you would impart
+to me a little of your knowledge.''
+
+"To be sure I will, my dear," said the proud, delighted little woman.
+"You see, when I was a girl, I 'read up' on Art, that I might be able to
+talk to Michael. Somehow, he never did care to talk with me; but perhaps
+he may yet.".
+
+Olive's mind seemed wandering from the conversation, and from her
+employment, too; for the mignonette-bed she was weeding lost quite as
+many flowers as weeds. At last she said--
+
+"Miss Meliora, do people ever grow _rich_ as artists?"
+
+"Michael has not done so," answered her friend (at which Olive began to
+blush for what seemed a thoughtless question). "But Michael has peculiar
+notions. However, I feel sure he will be a rich man yet--like Sir Joshua
+Reynolds, and Sir Thomas Lawrence, and many more."
+
+Olive began to muse again. Then she said timidly, "I wonder why, with
+all your love for Art, you yourself did not become an artist?"
+
+"Bless you, my dear, I should never think of such a thing. I have no
+genius at all for anything--Michael always said so. I an artist!--a poor
+little woman like me!"
+
+"Yet some women have been painters."
+
+"Oh, yes, plenty. There was Angelica Kauffman, and Properzia Rossi, and
+Elizabetta Sirani. In our day, there is Mrs. A---- and Miss B----, and
+the two C----s. And if you read about the old Italian masters, you will
+find that many of them had wives, or daughters, or sisters, who helped
+them a great deal. I wish I had been such an one! Depend upon it, my
+dear girl," said Meliora, waxing quite oracular in her enthusiasm,
+"there is no profession in the world that brings fame, and riches, and
+happiness, like that of an artist."
+
+Olive only half believed in the innocent optimism of her companion.
+Still Miss Vanbrugh's words impressed themselves strongly on her mind,
+wherein was now a chaos of anxious thought. From the day when Mr.
+Gwynne's letter came, she had positively writhed under the burden of
+this heavy debt, which it would take years to discharge, unless a great
+deduction were made from their slender income. And how could she propose
+that--how bear to see her delicate and often-ailing mother deprived of
+the small luxuries which had become necessary comforts? To their letter
+no answer had come--the creditor was then a patient one; but this
+thought the more stimulated Olive to defray the debt. Night and day it
+weighed her down; plan after plan she formed, chiefly in secret, for
+the mention of this painful circumstance was more than her mother could
+bear. Among other schemes, the thought of entering on that last resource
+of helpless womanhood, the dreary life of a daily governess; but her
+desultory education, she well knew, unfitted her for the duty; and
+no sooner did she venture to propose the plan, than Mrs. Rothesay's
+lamentations and entreaties rendered it impracticable.
+
+But Miss Vanbrugh's conversation now awakened a new scheme, by which in
+time she might be able to redeem her father's memory, and to save her
+mother from any sacrifice entailed by this debt. And so--though this
+confession may somewhat lessen the romance of her character--it was from
+no yearning after fame, no genius-led ambition, but from the mere desire
+of earning money, that Olive Rothesay first conceived the thought of
+becoming an artist.
+
+Very faint it was at first--so faint that she did not even breathe it to
+her mother. But it stimulated her to labour incessantly at her drawing;
+silently to try and gain information from Miss Meliora; to haunt
+the painter's studio, until she had become familiar with many of its
+mysteries. She had crept into Vanbrugh's good graces, and he made her
+useful in a thousand ways.
+
+But labouring secretly and without encouragement, Olive found her
+progress in drawing--she did not venture to call these humble efforts
+_Art_--very slow indeed. One day, when Mrs. Rothesay was gone out,
+Meliora came in to have a chat with her young favourite, and found poor
+Olive sitting by herself, quietly crying. There was lying beside her
+an unfinished sketch, which she hastily hid, before Miss Vanbrugh could
+notice what had been her occupation.
+
+"My dear, what is the matter with you--no serious trouble, I hope?"
+cried the painter's little sister, who always melted into anxious
+compassion at the sight of anybody's tears. But Olive's only flowed the
+faster--she being in truth extremely miserable. For this day her mother
+had sorrowfully alluded to Mr. Gwynne's claim, and had begun to propose
+many little personal sacrifices on her own part, which grieved her
+affectionate daughter to the heart.
+
+Meliora made vain efforts at comforting, and then, as a last resource,
+she went and fetched two little kittens and laid them on Olive's lap by
+way of consolation; for her own delight and solace was in her household
+menagerie, from which she was ever evolving great future blessings. She
+had always either a cat so beautiful, that when sent to Edwin Landseer,
+it would certainly produce a revolution in the subjects of his
+animal-pictures--or else a terrier so bewitching, that she intended to
+present it to her then girlish, dog-loving Majesty, thereby causing a
+shower of prosperity to fall upon the household of Vanbrugh.
+
+Olive dried her tears, and stroked the kittens--her propensity for such
+pets was not her lightest merit in Meliora's eyes. Then she suffered
+herself to be tenderly soothed into acknowledging that she was very
+unhappy.
+
+"I'll not ask you why, my dear, because Michael used to tell me I had
+far too much of feminine curiosity. I only meant, could I comfort you in
+any way?"
+
+There was something so unobtrusive in her sympathy, that Olive felt
+inclined to open her heart to the gentle Meliora. "I can't tell you
+all," said she, "I think it would be not quite right;" and, trembling
+and hesitating, as if even the confession indicated something of shame,
+she whispered her longing for that great comfort, money of her own
+earning.
+
+"You, my dear, you want money!" cried Miss Meliora, who had always
+looked upon her new inmate, Mrs. Rothesay, as a sort of domestic
+gold-mine. But she had the delicacy not to press Olive further.
+
+"I do. I can't tell you why, but it is for a good--a holy purpose--Oh,
+Miss Vanbrugh, if you could but show me any way of earning money for
+myself! Think for me--you, who know so much more of the world than I."
+
+--Which truth did not at all disprove the fact, that innocent little
+Meliora was a very child in worldly wisdom. She proved it by her next
+sentence, delivered oracularly after some minutes of hard cogitation.
+"My dear, there is but one way to gain wealth and prosperity. If you had
+but a taste for Art!"
+
+Olive looked up eagerly. "Ah, that is what I have been brooding over
+this long time; until I was ashamed of myself and my own presumption."
+
+"Your presumption!"
+
+"Yes; because I have sometimes thought my drawings were not so very,
+very bad; and I love Art so dearly, I would give anything in the world
+to be an artist!"
+
+"You draw! You long to be an artist!" It was the only thing wanted to
+make Olive quite perfect in Meliora's eyes. She jumped up, and embraced
+her young favourite with the greatest enthusiasm. "I knew this was in
+you. All good people must have a love for Art. And you shall have
+your desire, for my brother shall teach you. I must go and tell him
+directly."
+
+But Olive resisted, for her poor little heart began to quake. What
+if her long-loved girlish dreams should be quenched at once--if Mr.
+Vanbrugh's stern dictum should be that she had no talent, and never
+could become an artist at all!
+
+"Well, then, don't be frightened, my dear girl. Let me see your
+sketches. I do know a little about such things, though Michael thinks I
+don't," said Miss Meliora.
+
+And Olive, her cheeks tingling with that sensitive emotion which makes
+many a young artist, or poet, shrink in real agony, when the crude
+first-fruits of his genius are brought to light--Olive stood by, while
+the painter's kind little sister turned over a portfolio filled with a
+most heterogeneous mass of productions.
+
+Their very oddity showed the spirit of Art that dictated them. There
+were no pretty, well-finished, young-ladyish sketches of tumble-down
+cottages, and trees whose species no botanist could ever define;--or
+smooth chalk heads, with very tiny mouths, and very crooked noses.
+Olive's productions were all as rough as rough could be; few even
+attaining to the dignity of drawing-paper. They were done on backs of
+letters, or any sort of scraps: and comprised numberless pen-and-ink
+portraits of the one beautiful face, dearest to the daughter's
+heart--rude studies, in charcoal, of natural objects--outlines, from
+memory, of pictures she had seen, among which Meliora's eye proudly
+discerned several of Mr. Vanbrugh's; while, scattered here and there,
+were original pencil designs, ludicrously voluminous, illustrating
+nearly every poet, living or dead.
+
+Michael Vanbrugh's sister was not likely to be quite ignorant of Art.
+Indeed, she had quietly gathered up a tolerable critical knowledge of
+it. She went through the portfolio, making remarks here and there. At
+last she closed it; but with a look so beamingly encouraging, that Olive
+trembled for very joy.
+
+"Let us go to Michael, let us go to Michael," was all the happy little
+woman said. So they went.
+
+Unluckily, Michael was not himself; he had been "pestered with a
+popinjay," in the "shape of a would-be connoisseur, and he was trying to
+smooth his ruffled feathers, and compose himself again to solitude and
+"Alcestis." His "well, what d'ye want?" was a sort of suppressed bellow,
+softening down a little at sight of Olive.
+
+"Brother," cried Miss Meliora, trying to gather up her crumbling
+enthusiasm into one courageous point--"Michael, I have found out a new
+genius! Look here, and say if Olive Rothesay will not make an artist!"
+
+"Pshaw--a woman make an artist! Ridiculous!" was the answer. "Ha! don't
+come near my picture. The paint's wet Get away."
+
+And he stood, flourishing his mahl-stick and palette--looking very like
+a gigantic warrior guarding the shrine of Art with shield and spear.
+
+His poor little sister, quite confounded, tried to pick up the drawings
+which had fallen on the floor, but he thundered out--"Let them alone!"
+and then politely desired Meliora to quit the room.
+
+"Very well, brother--perhaps it will be better for you to look at the
+sketches another time. Come, my dear."
+
+"Stay, I want Miss Rothesay; no one else knows how to put on that
+purple chlamys properly, and I must work at drapery to-day. I am lit for
+nothing else, thanks to that puppy who is just gone; confound him! I beg
+your pardon, Miss Rothesay," muttered the old painter, in a slight tone
+of concession, which encouraged Meliora to another gentle attack.
+
+"Then, brother, since your day is spoiled, don't you think if you were
+to look"----
+
+"I'll look at nothing; get away with you, and leave Miss Rothesay
+here--the only one of you womenkind who is fit to enter an artist's
+studio."
+
+Here Meliora slyly looked at Olive with an encouraging smile, and then,
+by no means despairing of her kind-hearted mission, she vanished.
+
+Olive, humbled and disconsolate, prepared for her voluntary duty as
+Vanbrugh's lay-figure. If she had not so reverenced his genius, she
+certainly would not have altogether liked the man. But her hero-worship
+was so intense, and her womanly patience so all-forgiving, that she
+bore his occasional strange humours almost as meekly as Meliora herself.
+To-day, for the hundredth time she watched the painter's brow smooth,
+and his voice soften, as upon him grew the influence of his beautiful
+creation. "Alcestis," calmly smiling from the canvas, shed balm into his
+vexed soul.
+
+But beneath the purple chlamys poor little Olive still trembled and
+grieved. Not until her hope was thus crushed, did she know how near her
+heart it had been. She thought of Michael Vanbrugh's scornful rebuke,
+and bitter shame possessed her. She stood--patient model!--her fingers
+stiffening over the rich drapery, her eyes weariedly fixed on the one
+corner of the room, in the direction of which she was obliged to turn
+her head. The monotonous attitude contributed to plunge her mind into
+that dull despair which produces immobility--Michael Vanbrugh had never
+had so steady a model.
+
+As Olive was placed, he could not see her face unless he moved. When he
+did so, he quite startled her out of a reverie by exclaiming--
+
+"Exquisite! Stay just as you are. Don't change your expression. That's
+the very face I want for the Mother of Alcestis. A little older I must
+make it--but the look of passive misery, the depressed eyelids and
+mouth. Ah, beautiful--beautiful! Do, pray, let me have that expression
+again, just for three minutes!" cried the eager painter.
+
+He accomplished his end; for Olive's features, from long habit, had had
+good practice in that line;--and she would willingly have fixed them
+into all Le Bran's Passions, if necessary for artistic purposes.
+Delighted at his success, Mr. Vanbrugh suddenly thought of his model,
+not _as_ a model, but as a human being. He wondered what had produced
+the look which, now faithfully transferred to the canvas, completed "a
+bit" that had troubled him for weeks. He then thought of the drawings,
+and of his roughness concerning them. Usually he hated amateurs and
+their productions, but perhaps these might not be so bad. He would not
+condescend to lift them, but fidgeting with his mahl-stick, he stirred
+them about once or twice--accidentally as it seemed--until he had a
+very good notion of what they were. Then, after half-an-hour's silent
+painting, he thus addressed Olive.
+
+"Miss Rothesay, what put it into your head that you wanted to be an
+artist?"
+
+Olive answered nothing. She was ashamed to speak of her girlish
+aspirations, such as they had been; and she could not tell the other
+motive--the secret about Mr. Gwynne. Besides, Vanbrugh would have
+scorned the bare idea of her entering on the great career of Art for
+money! So she was silent.
+
+He did not seem to mind it at all, but went on talking, as he sometimes
+did, in a sort of declamatory monologue.
+
+"I am not such a fool as to say that genius is of either sex; but it is
+an acknowledged fact that no woman ever was a great painter, poet, or
+musician. Genius, the mighty one, scorns to exist in weak female nature;
+and even if it did, custom and education would certainly stunt its
+growth. Look here, child,"--and, to Olive's astonishment, he snatched up
+one of her drawings, and began lecturing thereupon--"here you have
+made a design of some originality. I hate your young lady copyists of
+landscapes and flowers, and Jullien's paltry heads. Come, let us see
+this epigraph, 'Laon's Vision of Cythna,'
+
+     _Upon the mountain's dizzy brink she stood._
+
+Good! Bold enough, too!"
+
+And the painter settled himself into a long, silent examination of the
+sketch. Then he said--
+
+"Well, this is tolerable; a woman standing on a rock, a man a little
+distance below looking at her--both drawn with decent correctness, only
+overlaid with drapery to hide ignorance of anatomy. A very respectable
+design. But, when one compares it with the poem!" And, in his deep,
+sonorous voice, he repeated the stanzas from the "Revolt of Islam."
+
+     She stood alone.
+     Above, the heavens were spread; below, the flood
+     Was murmuring in its caves; the wind had blown
+     Her hair apart, through which her eyes and forehead shone.
+     A cloud was hanging o'er the western mountains;
+     Before its blue and moveless depths were flying
+     Grey mists, poured forth from the unresting fountains
+     Of darkness in the north--the day was dying.
+     Sudden the sun shone forth; its beams were lying
+     Like boiling gold on Ocean, strange to see;
+     And on the shattered vapours which defying
+     The power of light in vain, tossed restlessly
+     In the red heaven, like wrecks in a tempestuous sea.
+
+     It was a stream of living beams, whose bank
+     On either side by the cloud's cleft was made;
+     And where its chasms that flood of glory drank,
+     Its waves gushed forth like fire, and, as if swayed
+     By some mute tempest, rolled on her. The shade
+     Of her bright image floated on the river
+     Of liquid light, which then did end and fade.
+     Her radiant shape upon its verge did shiver
+     Aloft, her flowing hair like strings of flames did quiver.
+
+"There!" cried Vanbrugh, his countenance glowing with a fierce
+inspiration that made it grand through all its ugliness--"there! what
+woman could paint _that_?--or rather, what man! Alas! how feeble we
+are--we, the boldest followers of an Art which is divine.--Truly there
+was but one among us who was himself above humanity, Michael the angel!"
+
+He gazed reverently at the majestic head of Buonarotti, which loomed out
+from the shadowy corner of the studio.
+
+Olive experienced--as she often did when brought into contact with this
+man's enthusiasm--a delight almost like terror; for it made her shudder
+and tremble as though within her own poor frame was that Pythian
+effluence, felt, not understood--the spirit of Genius.
+
+Vanbrugh came back, and continued his painting, talking all the while.
+
+"I said that it was impossible for a woman to become an artist--I mean a
+_great_ artist. Have you ever thought what that term implies? Not only
+a painter, but a poet; a man of learning, of reading, of observation. A
+gentleman--we artists have been the friends of kings. A man of stainless
+virtue, or how can he reach the pure ideal? A man of iron will,
+indomitable daring, and passions strong, yet kept always leashed in
+his hand. Last and greatest, a man who, feeling within him the divine
+spirit, with his whole soul worships God!"
+
+Vanbrugh lifted off his velvet cap and reverently bared his head; then
+he continued:
+
+"This is what an artist should _be_, by nature. I have not spoken of
+what he has to make himself. Years of study incessant lie before him;
+no life of a carpet-knight, no easy play-work of scraping colours on
+canvas. Why, these hands of mine have wielded not only the pencil but
+the scalpel; these eyes have rested on scenes of horror, misery--crime,
+I glory in it; for it was all for Art. At times I have almost felt like
+Parrhasius of old, who exulted in his captive's dying throes, since
+upon them his hand of genius would confer immortality. But I beg your
+pardon--you are but a woman--a mere girl," added Vanbrugh, seeing Olive
+shudder. Yet he had not been unmindful of the ardent enthusiasm which
+had dilated her whole frame while listening. It touched him like the
+memory of his own youth. Some likeness, too, there seemed between
+himself and this young creature to whom nature had been so niggardly.
+She might also be one of those who, shut out from human ties, are the
+more free to work the glorious work of genius.
+
+After a few minutes of thought, Michael again burst forth.
+
+"They who embrace Art must embrace her with heart and soul, as their one
+only bride. And she will be a loving bride to them--she will stand in
+the place of all other joy. Is it not triumph for him to whom fate has
+denied personal beauty, that his hand--his flesh and blood hand--has
+power ta create it? What cares he for worldly splendour, when in dreams
+he can summon up a fairy-land so gorgeous that in limning it even his
+own rainbow-dyed pencil fails? What need has he for home, to whom the
+wide world is full of treasures of study--for which life itself is too
+short? And what to him are earthly and domestic ties? For friendship,
+he exchanges the world's worship, which _may_ be his in life, _must_ be,
+after death. For love"----
+
+Here the old artist paused a moment, and there was something heavenly in
+the melody of his voice as he continued--
+
+"For love--frail human love--the poison-flower of youth, which only
+lasts an hour, he has his own divine ideal It flits continually before
+him, sometimes all but clasped; it inspires his manhood with purity,
+and pours celestial passion into his age. His heart, though dead to
+all human ties, is not cold, but burning. For he worships the ideal of
+beauty, he loves the ideal of love."
+
+Olive listened, her mind reeling before these impetuous words.--One
+moment she looked at Vanbrugh where he stood, his age transfigured into
+youth, his ugliness into majesty, by the radiance of the immortal fire
+that dwelt within him. Then she dropped almost at his feet crying.
+
+"I, too, am one of these outcasts; give me then this inner life which
+atones for all! Friend, counsel me--master, teach me! Woman as I am, I
+will dare all things--endure all things. Let me be an artist."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+
+Olive Rothesay's desire,
+
+     Like all strongest hopes,
+     By its own energy fulfilled itself.
+
+She became an artist--not in a week, a month, a year--Art exacts of its
+votaries no less service than a lifetime. But in her girl's soul
+the right chord had been touched, which began to vibrate unto noble
+music--the true seed had been sown, which day by day grew into a goodly
+plant.
+
+Vanbrugh had said truly, that genius is of no sex; and he had said
+likewise truly, that no woman can be an artist--that is, a great artist.
+The hierarchies of the soul's dominion belong only to man, and it is
+right they should. He it was whom God created first, let him take the
+preeminence. But among those stars of lesser glory, which are given to
+lighten the nations, among sweet-voiced poets, earnest prose writers,
+who, by the lofty truth that lies hid beneath legend and parable, purify
+the world, graceful painters and beautiful musicians, each brightening
+their generation--among these, let woman shine!
+
+But her sphere is, and ever must be, bounded; because, however fine her
+genius may be, it always dwells in a woman's breast. Nature, which gave
+to man the dominion of the intellect, gave to her that of the heart and
+affections. These bind her with everlasting links from which she cannot
+free herself,--nay, she would not if she could. Herein man has the
+advantage. He, strong in his might of intellect, can make it his all in
+all, his life's sole aim and reward. A Brutus, for that ambition which
+is misnamed patriotism, can trample on all human ties. A Michael Angelo
+can stand alone with his work, and so go sternly down unto a desolate
+old age. But there scarcely ever lived the woman who would not rather
+sit meekly by her own hearth, with her husband at her side, and her
+children at her knee, than be the crowned Corinne of the Capitol.
+
+Thus woman, seeking to strive with man, is made feebler by the very
+spirit of love which in her own sphere is her chiefest strength. But
+sometimes chance or circumstance or wrong, sealing up her woman's
+nature, converts her into a self-dependent human soul. Instead of life's
+sweetnesses, she has before her life's greatnesses. The struggle passed,
+her genius may lift itself upward, expand, and grow; though never to
+the stature of man's. Then, even while she walks with scarce-healed
+feet over the world's rough pathway, heaven's glory may rest upon her
+upturned brow, and she may become a light unto her generation.
+
+Such a destiny lay open before Olive Rothesay.
+
+She welcomed it as one who has girded himself with steadfast but
+mournful patience unto a long and weary journey, welcomes the faint ray
+that promises to guide him through the desolation. No more she uttered,
+as was her custom in melancholy moods, the bitter complaint, "Why was
+I born?" but she said to herself, "I will live so as to leave the world
+better when I die. Then I shall not have lived in vain."
+
+It was long before Michael Vanbrugh could thoroughly reconcile himself
+to the idea of a girl's becoming a painter. But by degrees he learned to
+view his young pupil _as_ a pupil, and never thought of her sex at
+all. Under his guidance, Olive passed from the mere prettiness of most
+woman-painters to the grandeur of true Art. Strengthened by her almost
+masculine power of mind, she learned to comprehend and to reverence
+the mighty masters whom Vanbrugh loved. He led her to those heights and
+depths which are rarely opened to a woman's ken. And she, following,
+applied herself to the most abstruse of Art-studies. Still, as he had
+said, there were bounds that she could not pass; but as far as in her
+lay, she sought to lift herself above her sex's weakness and want of
+perseverance; and by labour from which most women would have shrunk, to
+make herself worthy of being ranked among those painters who are "not
+for an age, but for all time."
+
+That personal deformity which she thought excluded her from a woman's
+natural destiny, gave her freedom in her own. Brought into contact
+with the world, she scarcely felt like a young and timid girl, but as
+a being--isolated, yet strong in her isolation; who mingles, and must
+mingle among men, not as a woman, but as one who, like themselves,
+pursues her own calling, has her own aim; and can therefore step aside
+for no vain fear, nor sink beneath any foolish shame. And wherever she
+went, her own perfect innocence wrapped her round as with a shield.
+
+Still, little quiet Olive could do many things with an independence that
+would have been impossible to a girl lively and beautiful Oftentimes
+Mrs. Rothesay trembled and murmured at days of solitary study in the
+British Museum, and in various picture-galleries; long lonely walks,
+sometimes in winter-time extending far into the dusk of evening. But
+Olive always answered, with a pensive smile,
+
+"Nay, mother; I am quite safe everywhere. Remember, I am not like other
+girls. Who would notice _me_?"
+
+But she always accompanied any painful allusion of this kind by saying
+how happy she was in being so free, and how fortunate it seemed that
+there could be nothing to hinder her from following her heart's
+desire. She was growing as great an optimist as Miss Meliora herself,
+who--cheerful little soul--was in the seventh heaven of delight whenever
+she heard her brother acknowledge Olive's progress.
+
+"And don't you see, my dear Miss Rothesay," she said sometimes, "that
+everything always turns out for the best; and that if you had not been
+so unhappy, and I had not come in and found you crying, you might have
+gone on pining in secret, instead of growing up to be an artist."
+
+Olive assented, and confessed it was rather strange that out of her
+chiefest trouble should have arisen her chiefest joy.
+
+"It almost seems," said she to her mother, laughing, "as if that
+hard-hearted Mr. Harold Gwynne had held the threads of my destiny, and
+helped to make me an artist."
+
+"Don't let us talk about Mr. Gwynne; it is a disagreeable subject, my
+child," was Mrs. Rothesay's answer.
+
+Olive did not talk about him, but she thought the more. And--though had
+he known it, the pelf-despising Mr. Vanbrugh would never have forgiven
+such a desecration of Art--it was not her lightest spur in the
+attainment of excellence, to feel that as soon as her pictures were good
+enough to sell, she might earn money enough to discharge the claim of
+this harsh creditor, whose very name sent a pang to her heart.
+
+Day by day, as her mind strengthened and her genius developed, Olive's
+existence seemed to brighten. Her domestic life was full of many dear
+ties, the chief of which was that devotion, less a sentiment than a
+passion, which she felt for her mother. Her intellectual fife grew more
+intense; while she felt the stay and solace of having a fixed pursuit
+to occupy her whole future. Also, it was good for her to live with
+the enthusiastic painter and his meek contented little sister; for she
+learnt thereby, that life might pass not merely in endurance, but in
+peace, without either of those blessings which in her early romance
+she deemed the chief of all--beauty and love. There was a greatness and
+happiness beyond them both.
+
+The lesson was impressed more deeply by a little incident that chanced
+about this time.
+
+Miss Vanbrugh sometimes took Olive with her on those little errands of
+charity which were not unfrequent with the gentle Meliora.
+
+"I wish you would come with me to-day," she said once, "because, to tell
+the truth, I hardly like to go alone."
+
+"Indeed!" said Olive, smiling, for the little old maid was as brave as a
+lion among these gloomiest of all gloomy lanes, familiar to her even in
+dark nights, and this was a sunny spring morning.
+
+"I am not going to see an ordinary poor person, but that Quadroon
+woman--Mrs. Manners, who is one of my brother's models sometimes--you
+know her?"
+
+"Scarcely; but I have seen her pass through the hall. Oh, she was a
+grand, beautiful woman, like an Eastern queen. You remember it was she
+from whom Mr. Vanbrugh painted the 'Cleopatra.' What an eye she had, and
+what a glorious mouth!" cried Olive, waxing enthusiastic.
+
+"Poor thing! Her beauty is sadly wasting now," said Meliora. "She
+seems to be slowly dying, and I shouldn't wonder if it were of sheer
+starvation; those models earn so little. Yesterday she fainted as she
+stood--Michael is so thoughtless. He had to call me to give her some
+wine, and then we sent the maid home with her. She lives in a poor
+place, Hannah says, but quite decent and respectable. I shall surely go
+and see the poor creature; but she looks such a desperate sort of woman,
+her eyes glare quite ferociously sometimes. She might be angry--so I had
+rather not be alone, if you will come, Miss Rothesay?"
+
+Olive consented at once; there was in her a certain romance which,
+putting all sympathy aside, quite gloried in such an adventure.
+
+They walked for a mile or two until they reached a miserable street by
+the river-side; but Miss Meliora had forgotten the number. They must
+have returned, their quest unsatisfied, had not Olive seen a little
+girl leaning out of an upper window,--her ragged elbows on the sill, her
+elf-like black eyes watching the boats up and down the Thames.
+
+"I know that child," Olive said; "it is the poor woman's. She left it
+in the hall one day at Woodford Cottage, and I noticed it from its black
+eyes and fair hair. I remember, too--for I asked--its singular and very
+pretty name, _Christal_."
+
+Talking thus, they mounted the rickety staircase, and inquired for Mrs.
+Manners. The door of the room was flung open from without, with a noise
+that would have broken any torpor less deep than that into which its
+wretched occupant had fallen.
+
+"_Ma mie_ is asleep; don't wake her or she'll scold," said Christal
+jumping down from the window, and interposing between Miss Vanbrugh and
+the woman who was called Mrs. Manners.
+
+She was indeed a very beautiful woman, though her beauty was on a grand
+scale. She had flung herself, half-dressed, upon what seemed a heap of
+straw, with a blanket thrown over. As she lay there, sleeping heavily,
+her arm tossed above her head, the large but perfect proportions of her
+form reminded Olive of the reclining figure in the group of the "Three
+Fates."
+
+But there was in the prematurely old and wasted face something that told
+of a wrecked life. Olive, prone to romance-weaving, wondered whether
+nature had in a mere freak invested an ordinary low-born woman with the
+form of the ancient queens of the world, or whether within that grand
+body lay ruined an equally grand soul.
+
+Miss Meliora did not think about anything of the sort; but merely
+that her brother's dinner-hour was drawing near, and that if poor Mrs.
+Manners did not wake, they must go back without speaking to her.
+
+But she did wake soon--and the paroxysm of anger which seized her on
+discovering that she had intruding guests, caused Olive to retire almost
+to the staircase. But brave little Miss Vanbrugh did not so easily give
+up her charitable purpose.
+
+"Indeed, my good woman, I only meant to offer you sympathy, or any help
+you might need in your illness."
+
+The woman refused both. "I tell you we want for nothing."
+
+"_Ma mie_, I am so hungry!" said little Christal, in a tone between
+complaint and effrontery. "I will have something to eat."
+
+"You should not speak so rudely to your mother, little girl," interposed
+Miss Meliora.
+
+"My mother! No, indeed; she is only _ma mie_. My mother was a rich lady,
+and my father a noble gentleman."
+
+"Hear her, Heaven! oh, hear her!" groaned the woman on the floor.
+
+"But I love _ma mie_ very much--that's when she's kind to me," said
+Christal; "and as for my own father and mother, who cares for them,
+for, as _ma mie_ says, they were drowned together in the deep sea, years
+ago."
+
+"Ay, ay," was the muttered answer, as Mrs. Manners clutched the child--a
+little, thin-limbed, cunning-eyed girl, of eight or ten years old--and
+pressed her to her breast, with a strain more like the gripe of a
+lioness than a tender woman's clasp.
+
+Then she fell back exhausted, and took no more notice of anybody.
+Meliora forgot Mr. Vanbrugh's dinner, and all things else, in making
+a few charitable arrangements, which resulted in a comfortable tea for
+little Christal and "_ma mie_."
+
+Sleep had again overpowered the sick woman, who appeared to be slowly
+dying of that anomalous disease called decline, in which the mind is the
+chief agent of the body's decay. Meanwhile, Miss Vanbrugh talked in an
+undertone to little Christal, who, her hunger satisfied, stood, finger
+in mouth, watching the two ladies with her fierce black eyes--the very
+image of a half-tamed gipsy. Indeed, Miss Meliora seemed rather uneasy,
+and desirous to learn more of her companions, for she questioned the
+child closely.
+
+"And is the person you call _ma mie_ any relation to you?"
+
+"The neighbours say she is my aunt, from the likeness. I don't know."
+
+"And her name is Mrs. Manners--a widow, no doubt; for I remember she was
+in very respectable mourning when she first came to Woodford Cottage."
+
+"Poor young creature!" she continued, sitting down beside the object
+of her compassion, who was, or seemed, asleep. "How hard to loose her
+husband so soon! and I dare say she has gone through great poverty--sold
+one thing after another to keep her alive. Why, I declare," added the
+simple and unworldly Meliora, who could make a story to fit anything,
+"poor soul! she has even been forced to part with her wedding-ring."
+
+"I never had one--I scorned it!" cried the woman, leaping up with a
+violence that quite confounded the painter's sister. "Do you come to
+insult me, you smooth-tongued English lady? Ah, you shrink away. What do
+you know about me?"
+
+"I don't know anything about you, indeed," said Meliora, creeping to
+the door; while Olive, who could not understand the cause of half she
+witnessed, stood simply looking on in wonder--almost in admiration,--for
+there was a strange beauty, like that of a Pythoness, in the woman's
+attitude and mien.
+
+"You know nothing of me? Then you shall know. I come from a country
+where are thousands of young girls, whose mixed blood is too pure for
+slavery, too tainted for freedom. Lovely, accomplished, brought up
+delicately, they yet have no higher future than to be the white man's
+passing toy--cherished, wearied of, and spurned."
+
+She paused, and Miss Vanbrugh, astonished at this sudden outburst, in
+language so vehement, and so above her apparent rank, had not a word to
+say. The woman continued:
+
+"I but fulfilled my destiny. How could such as I hope to bear an honest
+man's honest name? So, when my fate came upon me, I cast all shame to
+the winds, and lived out my life. I followed my lover across the seas; I
+clung to him, faithful in my degradation; and when his child slept on my
+bosom, I looked at it, and was almost happy. Now what think you of me,
+virtuous English ladies?" cried the outcast, as she tossed back her
+cloud of dark crisped hair, and fixed her eyes sternly, yet mockingly,
+upon her visitors.
+
+Poor Miss Vanbrugh was conscious of but one thing, that this scene was
+most unfit for a young girl; and that if she once could get Olive away,
+all future visits to the miserable woman should be paid by herself
+alone.
+
+"I will see you another day, Mrs. Manners, but we cannot really stay
+now. Come, my dear Miss Rothesay."
+
+And she and her|charge quitted the room. Apparently, their precipitate
+departure still further irritated the poor creature they had come to
+succour; for as they descended the stairs, they heard her repeatedly
+shriek out Olive's surname, in tones so wild, that whether it was meant
+for rage or entreaty they could not tell.
+
+Olive wanted to return.
+
+"No, my dear, she would only insult you. Besides, I will _go_ myself
+to-morrow. Poor wretch! she is plainly near her end. We must be merciful
+to the dying."
+
+Olive walked home thoughtfully, not speaking much. When they passed out
+of the squalid, noisy streets, into the quiet lane that led to Woodford
+Cottage, she had never felt so keenly the blessing of a pure and
+peaceful home. She mounted to the pretty bedchamber which she and her
+mother occupied, and stood at the open window, drinking in the fresh
+odour of the bursting leaves. Scarcely a breath stirred the soft spring
+evening--the sky was like one calm blue lake, and therein floated, close
+to the western verge, "the new moon's silver boat."
+
+She remembered how it had been one of her childish superstitions always
+"to wish at the new moon." How often, her desire seeming perversely to
+lift itself towards things unattainable, had she framed one sole wish
+that she might be beautiful and beloved!
+
+Beautiful and beloved! She thought of the poor creature whose fierce
+words yet rang in her ear. Beautiful and beloved! _She_ had been both,
+and what was she now?
+
+And Olive rejoiced that her own childish longings had passed into the
+better wisdom of subdued and patient womanhood. Had she now a wish,
+it was for that pure heart and lowly mind which are more precious than
+beauty; for that serene peace of virtue, which is more to be desired
+than love.
+
+Now her fate seemed plain before her--within her home she saw the vista
+of a life of filial devotion blest in
+
+     "A constant stream of love that knew no fall."
+
+As she looked forth into the world without, there rose the hope of her
+Art, under shadow of which the lonely woman might go down to the grave
+not unhonoured in her day. Remembering all this, Olive murmured no
+longer at her destiny. She thanked God, for she felt that she was not
+unhappy.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+
+Perhaps, ere following Olive's fortunes, it may be as well to set the
+reader's mind at rest concerning the incident narrated in the preceding
+chapter. It turned out the olden tale of passion, misery, and death. No
+more could be made of it, even by the imaginative Miss Meliora.
+
+A few words will comprise all that she discovered. Returning faithfully
+next day, the kind little woman found that the object of her charity
+needed it no more. In the night, suddenly, it was thought, the spirit
+had departed. There was no friend to arrange anything; so Miss Vanbrugh
+undertook it all. Her own unobtrusive benevolence prevented a pauper
+funeral. But in examining the few relics of the deceased, she was
+surprised to find papers which clearly explained the fact, that some
+years before there had been placed in a London bank, to the credit of
+Celia Manners, a sum sufficient to produce a moderate annuity. The woman
+had rejected it, and starved.
+
+But she had not died without leaving a written injunction, that it
+should be claimed by the child Christal, since it was "her right." This
+was accomplished, to the great satisfaction of Miss Vanbrugh and of
+the honest banker, who knew that the man--what sort of man he had quite
+forgotten--who deposited the money, had enjoined that it should be paid
+whenever claimed by Celia or by Christal Manners.
+
+Christal Manners was then the child's name. Miss Vanbrugh might have
+thought that this discovery implied the heritage of shame, but for the
+little girl's obstinate persistence in the tale respecting her unknown
+father and mother, who were "a noble gentleman and grand lady," and had
+both been drowned at sea. The circumstance was by no means improbable,
+and it had evidently been strongly impressed on Christal by the woman
+she called _ma mie_. Whatever relationship there was between them, it
+could not be the maternal one. Miss Vanbrugh could not believe in the
+possibility of a mother thus voluntarily renouncing her own child.
+
+Miss Meliora put Christal to board with an old servant of hers for a
+few weeks. But there came such reports of the child's daring and unruly
+temper, that, quaking under her responsibility, she decided to send
+her _protegee_ away to school The only place she could think of was an
+old-fashioned _pension_ in Paris, where, during her brother's studies
+there, her own slender education had been acquired. Thither the little
+stranger was despatched, by means of a succession of contrivances which
+almost drove the simple Meliora crazy. For--lest her little adventure of
+benevolence should come to Michael's ears--she dared to take no one into
+her confidence, not even the Rothesays. Madame Blandin, the mistress
+of the _pension_, was furnished with no explanations; indeed there
+were none to give. The orphan appeared there under the character she so
+steadily sustained, as Miss Christal Manners, the child of illustrious
+parents lost at sea; and so she vanished altogether from the atmosphere
+of Woodford Cottage.
+
+Olive Rothesay was now straining every nerve towards the completion of
+her first exhibited picture--a momentous crisis in every young artist's
+life. It was March: always a pleasant month in this mild, sheltered,
+neighbourhood, where she had made her home. There, of all the regions
+about London, the leaves come earliest, the larks soonest begin to sing,
+and the first soft spring breezes blow. But nothing could allure Olive
+from that corner of their large drawing-room which she had made her
+studio, and where she sat painting from early morning until daylight was
+spent. The artist herself formed no unpleasing picture--at least so her
+fond mother often thought--as Olive stood before her easel, the light
+from the half-closed-up window slanting downwards on her long curls, of
+that rare pale gold, the delight of the ancient painters, and now the
+especial admiration of Michael Vanbrugh To please her master, Olive,
+though now a woman grown, wore her hair still in childish fashion,
+falling in most artistic confusion over her neck and shoulders. It
+seemed that nature had bestowed on her this great beauty, in order to
+veil that defect which, though made far less apparent by her maturer
+growth, and a certain art in dress, could never be removed. Still there
+was an inexpressible charm in her purely-outlined features to which the
+complexion always accompanying pale-gold hair imparted such a delicate,
+spiritual colouring. Oftentimes her mother sat and looked at her,
+thinking she beheld the very likeness of the angel in her dream.
+
+March was nearly passed. Olive's anxiety that the picture should be
+finished, and worthily finished, amounted almost to torture. At last,
+when there was but one week left--a week whose every hour of daylight
+must be spent in work, the hope and fear were at once terminated by
+her mother's sudden illness. Passing it was, and not dangerous; but to
+Olive's picture it brought a fatal interruption.
+
+The tender mother more than once begged her to neglect everything but
+the picture. But Olive refused. Yet it cost her somewhat--ay, more than
+Mrs. Rothesay could understand, to give up a year's hopes. She felt this
+the more when came the Monday and Tuesday for sending in pictures to the
+Academy.
+
+Heavily these days passed, for there was not now the attendance on the
+invalid to occupy Olive's mind. She was called hither and thither all
+over the house; since on these two days, for the only time in the
+year, there was at Woodford Cottage a _levee_ of artists, patrons,
+and connoisseurs. Miss Rothesay was needed everywhere; first in the
+painting-room, to assist in arranging its various treasures, her taste
+and tact assisting Mr. Vanbrugh's artistic skill. For the thousandth
+time she helped to move the easel that sustained the small purchaseable
+picture with which Michael this year condescended to favour the
+Academy; and admired, to the painter's heart's content, the beloved and
+long-to-be-unsold "Alcestis," which extended in solitary grandeur over
+one whole side of the studio. Then she flitted to Miss Vanbrugh's room,
+to help her to dress for this important occasion. Never was there such
+a proud, happy little woman as Meliora Vanbrugh on the first Monday and
+Tuesday in April, when at least a dozen carriages usually rolled
+down the muddy lane, and the great surly dog, kennelled under the
+mulberry-tree, was never silent "from morn till dewy eve." All, thought
+the delighted Meliora, was an ovation to her brother. Each year she
+fully expected that these visiting patrons would buy up every work
+of Art in the studio, to say nothing of those adorning the hall--the
+cartoons and frescoes of Michael's long-past youth. And each year,
+when the carriages rolled away, and the visitants admiration remained
+nothing _but_ admiration, she consoled herself with the thought that
+Michael Vanbrugh was "a man before his age," but that his time for
+appreciation would surely come. So she hoped on till the next April.
+Happy Meliora!
+
+"Yes, you do seem happy, Miss Vanbrugh," said Olive, when she had
+coaxed the stiff grizzled hair under a neat cap of her own skilful
+manufacturing; and the painter's little sister was about to mount guard
+in the bay-window of the parlour, from whence she could see the guests
+walk down the garden, and be also ready to mark the expression of their
+faces as they came out of the studio.
+
+"Happy! to be sure I am! Everybody must confess that this last is
+the best picture Michael ever painted"--(his sister had made the same
+observation every April for twenty years). "But, my dear Miss Rothesay,
+how wrong I am to talk so cheerfully to you, when _your_ picture is not
+finished. Never mind, love. You have been a good, attentive daughter,
+and it will end all for the best."
+
+Olive smiled faintly, and said she knew it would.
+
+"Perhaps," continued Meliora, as a new and consolatory idea struck
+her, "perhaps even if you had sent in the picture, it might have been
+returned, or put in the octagon room, or among the miniatures, where
+nobody could see it; and that would have been much worse, would it not?"
+
+"I suppose so; and, indeed, I will be quite patient and content."
+
+Patient she was, but not content. It was scarcely possible. Nevertheless
+she quitted Miss Vanbrugh with smiles; and when she again sought her
+mother's chamber, it was with smiles too--or, at least, with that
+soft sweetness which was in Olive like a smile. When she had left Mrs.
+Rothesay to take her afternoon's sleep, she thought what she was to do
+to pass away the hours that, in spite of herself, dragged very wearily.
+This day was so different to what she had hoped. No eager delighted
+"last touches" to her beloved picture; no exhibiting it in its best
+light, in all the glory of the frame. It lay neglected below--she could
+not bear to look at it. The day was clear and bright--just the sort of
+day for painting; but Olive felt that the very sight of the poor picture
+would be more than she could bear. She did not go near it, but put on
+her bonnet and walked out.
+
+"Courage! hope!" sang the larks to her, high up above the green lanes;
+but her heart was too sad to hear them. A year, a whole year, lost!--a
+whole year to wait for the next hope! And a year seems so long when one
+has scarcely counted twenty. Afterwards, how fast it flies!
+
+"Perhaps," she said, her thoughts taking their colour from the general
+weariness of her spirits, "perhaps Miss Vanbrugh was right, and I might
+have had the picture returned. It cannot be very good, or it would
+not have taken such long and constant labour. Genius, they say, never
+toils--all comes by inspiration. It may be that I have no genius; well,
+then, where is the use of my labouring to excel!--indeed, where is the
+use of my living at all?"
+
+"Alas! how little is known of the struggles of young, half-formed
+genius! struggles not only with the world, but with itself; a hopeless,
+miserable bearing-down; a sense of utter unworthiness and self-contempt.
+At times, when the inner life, the soul's lamp, burns dimly, there rises
+the piteous moan, 'Fool, fool! why strivest thou in vain? Thou hast
+deceived thyself: thou art no better than any brainless ass that plods
+through life.' And then the world grows so dull, and one's life seems so
+worthless, that one would fain blot it out at once."
+
+Olive walked beneath this bitter cloud. She said to herself that if her
+picture had been a work of genius, it would have been finished long ere
+the time; and that if she were destined to be an artist, there would
+not have come this cross. No! all fates were against her. She must be
+patient and submit, but she felt as if she should never have courage to
+paint again. And now, when her work had become the chief aim and joy of
+her life, how hard this seemed!
+
+She came home, drearily enough; for the sunny day had changed to rain,
+and she was thoroughly wet. But even this was, as Meliora would have
+expressed it, "for the best," since it made her feel the sweetness of
+having a tender mother to take off her dripping garments, and smooth her
+hair, and make her sit down before the bright fire. And then Olive laid
+her head in her mother's lap, and thought how wrong--nay, wicked--she
+had been. She was thinking thus, even with a few quiet tears, when Miss
+Meliora burst, like a stream of sunshine, into the room.
+
+"Good news--good news!"
+
+"What? Mr. Vanbrugh has sold his picture, as you hoped to Mr.----."
+
+"No, not yet!" and the least possible shadow troubled the sister's face:
+"but perhaps he will. And, meanwhile, what think you? Something has
+happened quite as good; at least for somebody else. Guess!"
+
+"Indeed, I cannot!"
+
+"He has sold _yours!_"
+
+Olive's face flushed, grew white, and then she welcomed this first
+success, as many another young aspirant to fame has done, by bursting
+into tears. So did the easily-touched Mrs. Rothesay, and so did the kind
+Miss Meliora, from pure sympathy. Never was good fortune hailed in a
+more lachrymose fashion.
+
+But soon Miss Vanbrugh, resuming her smiles, explained how she had
+placed Olive's nearly-finished picture in her brother's studio, where
+all the visitors had admired it; and one, a good friend to Art, and to
+young, struggling artists, had bought it.
+
+"My brother managed all, even to the payment. The full price you will
+have when you have completed the picture. And, meanwhile, look here!"
+
+She had filled one hand with golden guineas, and now poured a
+Danaee-stream into Olive's lap. Then, laughing and skipping about like
+a child, she vanished--the beneficent little fairy!--as swiftly as
+Cinderella's godmother.
+
+Olive sat mute, her eyes fixed on the "bits of shining gold," which
+seemed to look different to all other pieces of gold that she had ever
+seen. She touched them, as if half-fearing they would melt away, or,
+like elfin money, change into withered leaves. Then, brightly smiling,
+she took them up, one by one and told them into her mother's lap.
+
+"Take them, darling--my first earnings; and kiss me: kiss your happy
+little girl!"
+
+How sweet was that moment--worth whole years of after-fame! Olive
+Rothesay might live to bathe in the sunshine of renown, to hear behind
+her the murmur of a world's praise, but she never could know again the
+bliss of laying at her mother's feet the first-fruits of her genius,
+and winning, as its first and best reward, her mother's proud and happy
+kiss.
+
+"You will be quite rich now, my child."
+
+"_We_ will be," said Olive, softly.
+
+"And to think that such a great connoisseur as Mr.------ should choose
+my Olive's picture. Ah! she will be a celebrated woman some time: I
+always thought she would."
+
+"_I will!_" said the firm voice in Olive's heart, as, roused to
+enthusiasm by this sweet first success, she felt stirring within her the
+spirit whose pulses she could not mistake--woman, nay, girl as she was.
+Thinking on her future, the future that, with Heaven's blessing, she
+would nobly work out, her eye dilated and her breast heaved. And then
+on that wildly-heaving bosom strayed a soft, warm hand: a tender voice
+whispered, "My child!"
+
+And Olive, flinging her arms round her mother's neck, hid her face
+there, and was a simple, trembling child once more.
+
+It was a very happy evening for them both, almost the happiest in their
+lives. The mother formed a score of plans of expending this newly-won
+wealth, always to the winner's benefit solely; but Olive began to look
+grave, and at last said, timidly:
+
+"Mamma, indeed I want for nothing; and for this money, let us spend it
+in a way that will make us both most content. O mother! I can know no
+rest until we have paid Mr. Gwynne."
+
+The mother sighed.
+
+"Well, love, as you will. It is yours, you know; only, a little it pains
+me that my child's precious earnings should go to pay that cruel debt."
+
+"But not that they should go to redeem my father's honour?" said Olive,
+still gently. She had her will.
+
+When her picture was finished, and its price received, Olive, with a
+joyful heart, enclosed the sum to their long-silent creditor.
+
+"His name does not look quite so fearful now," she said, smiling,
+when she was addressing the letter. "I can positively write it without
+trembling, and perhaps I may not have to write it many times. If I grow
+very rich, mamma, we shall soon pay off this debt, and then we shall
+never hear any more of Harold Gwynne. Oh! how happy that would be!"
+
+The letter went, and an answer arrived in due form, not to Mrs., but to
+Miss Rothesay:
+
+     "Madam,--I thank you for your letter, and have pleasure in
+     cancelling a portion of my claim. I would fain cancel the
+     whole of it, but I must not sacrifice my own household to
+     that of strangers.
+
+     "Allow me to express my deep respect for a child so
+     honourably jealous over a father's memory, and to subscribe
+     myself,
+
+     "Your very obedient,
+
+     "Harold Gwynne."
+
+"He is not so stony-hearted after all, mamma," said Olive, smiling.
+"Shall I put this letter with the other; we had better keep them both?"
+
+"Certainly, my dear."
+
+"Look, the envelope is edged and sealed with black."
+
+"Is it? Oh, perhaps he has lost his mother. I think I once heard your
+poor papa say he knew her once. She must be now an old woman; still her
+loss has probably been a grief to her son."
+
+"Most likely," said Olive, hastily. She never could bear to hear of any
+one's mother dying; it made her feel compassionately even towards Mr.
+Gwynne; and then she quickly changed the subject.
+
+The two letters were put by in her desk; and thus, for a season at
+least, the Harbury correspondence closed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+
+Seven summers more the grand old mulberry-tree at Woodford Cottage has
+borne leaf, flower, and fruit; the old dog that used to lie snarling
+under its branches, lies there still, but snarls no more. Between him
+and the upper air are two feet of earth, together with an elegant canine
+tombstone, on which Miss Rothesay, by the entreaty of the disconsolate
+Meliora, has modelled in clay a very good likeness of the departed.
+
+Snap is the only individual who has passed away at Woodford Cottage; in
+all things else there has been an increase, not a decrease. The peaches
+and nectarines cover two walls instead of one, and the clematis has
+mounted in white virgin beauty even to the roof. Altogether, the garden
+is changed for the better. Trim it is not, and never would be--thanks
+to Olive, who, a true lover of the picturesque, hated trim gardens,--but
+its luxuriance is that of flowers, not weeds; and luxuriant it is,
+so that every day you might pull for a friend that pleasantest of all
+pleasant gifts, a nosegay; yea, and afterwards find, that, like charity,
+the more you gave the richer was your store.
+
+Enter from the garden into the drawing-room, and you will perceive a
+change, too. Its dreariness has been softened by many a graceful adjunct
+of comfort and luxury. Half of it, by means of a crimson screen, is
+transformed into a painting-room. Olive would have it so; for several
+reasons, the chief of which was, that whether the young paintress was
+working or not, Mrs. Rothesay might never be out of the sound of her
+daughter's voice. For, alas! this same sweet love-toned voice was all
+the mother now knew of Olive!
+
+Gradually there had come over Mrs. Rothesay the misfortune which she
+feared. She was now blind. Relating this, it may seem though we
+were about to picture a scene of grief and desolation: but not so. A
+misfortune that steals on year by year, slowly, inevitably, often comes
+with so light a footstep that we scarcely hear it. In this manner had
+come Mrs. Rothesay's blindness. Her sight faded so gradually, that its
+deprivation caused no despondency; and the more helpless she grew, the
+closer she was clasped by those supporting arms of filial love, which
+softened all pain, supplied all need, and were to her instead of
+strength, youth, eyesight!
+
+One only bitterness did she know--that she could not see Olive's
+pictures. Not that she understood Art at all; but everything that Olive
+did _must_ be beautiful. She missed nought else, not even her daughter's
+face, for she saw it continually in her heart Perhaps in the grey shadow
+of a form, which she said her eyes could still trace in the dim haze,
+she pictured the likeness of an Olive ten times fairer than the real
+one: an Olive whose cheek never grew pale with toil, whose brow was
+never crossed by that cloud of heart-weariness which all who labour in
+an intellectual pursuit must know at times. If so, the mother was saved
+from many of the pangs which visit those who see their beloved ones
+staggering under a burden which they themselves have no power either to
+bear or to take away.
+
+And so, in spite of this affliction, the mother and daughter were happy,
+even quite cheerful sometimes. For cheerfulness, originally foreign to
+Olive's nature, had sprung up there--one of those heart-flowers which
+Love, passing by, sows according as they are needed, until they bloom as
+though indigenous to the soil. To hear Miss Rothesay laugh, as she was
+laughing just now, you would have thought she was the merriest creature
+in the world, and had been so all her life. Moreover, from this blithe
+laugh, as well as from her happy face, you might have taken her for a
+young maiden of nineteen, instead of a woman of six-and-twenty, which
+she really was. But with some, after youth's first sufferings are
+passed, life's dial seems to run backward.
+
+"My child, how very merry you are, you and Miss Vanbrugh!" said Mrs.
+Rothesay, from her corner.
+
+"Well, mamma, and how can we help it,--talking of my 'Charity,' and the
+lady who bought it. Would you believe, darling, she told Miss Vanbrugh
+that she did so because the background was like a view in their
+park, and the two little children resembled the two young Masters
+Fludyer--fortunate likeness for me!"
+
+"Ay," said Miss Meliora, "only my brother would say you were very wrong
+to sell your picture to such stupid people, who know nothing about Art."
+
+"Perhaps I was; but," she added whisperingly, "you know I have not
+sold my Academy picture yet, and mamma _must_ go into the country this
+autumn."
+
+"Mrs. Fludyer is a very nice chatty woman," observed the mother; "and
+she talked of her beautiful country-seat at Farnwood Hall. I think it
+would do me good to go there, Olive."
+
+"Well, you know she asked you, dear mamma."
+
+"Yes; but only for courtesy. She would scarcely be troubled with a guest
+so helpless as I," said Mrs. Rothesay, half sighing.
+
+In a moment Olive was by her side, talking away, at first softly, and
+then luring her on to smiles with a merry tale,--how Mr. Fludyer, when
+the picture came home, wanted to have the three elder Fludyers painted
+in a row behind "Charity," that thus the allegorical picture might make
+a complete family group. "He also sent to know if I couldn't paint his
+horse 'Beauty,' and one or two greyhounds also, in the same picture.
+What a comical idea of Art this country squire must have!"
+
+"My dear, every one is not so clever as you," said the mother. "I like
+Mrs. Fludyer very much, because, whenever she came to Woodford Cottage
+about the picture, she used to talk to me so kindly."
+
+"And she has asked after you in all her letters since she went home. So
+she must be a good creature: and I, too, will like her very much indeed,
+because she likes my sweet mamma."
+
+The determination was soon called into exercise; for the next half-hour,
+to the surprise of all parties, Mrs. Fludyer appeared.
+
+She assigned no reason for her visit, except that being again in
+town, she had chosen to drive down to Woodford Cottage. She talked for
+half-an-hour in her mild, limpid way; and then, when the arrival of
+one of Olive's models broke the quiet leisure of the painting-room, she
+rose.
+
+"Nay, Miss Rothesay, do not quit your easel; Miss Van-brugh will
+accompany me through the garden, and besides, I wish to speak to her
+about her clematis. We cannot make them grow in S--shire; the Hall is
+perhaps too cold and bleak."
+
+"Ah, how I love a clear bracing air!" said Mrs. Rothesay, with the
+restlessness peculiar to all invalids--and she had been a greater
+invalid than usual this summer.
+
+"Then you must come down, as I said--you and Miss Rothesay--to S--shire;
+our part of the country is very beautiful. I should be most happy to see
+you at Farnwood."
+
+She urged the invitation with an easy grace, even cordiality, which
+charmed Mrs. Rothesay, to whom it brought back the faint reflex of her
+olden life--the life at Merivale Hall.
+
+"I should like to go, Olive," she said, appealingly. "I feel dull, and
+want a change."
+
+"You shall have a change, darling," was the soothing but evasive answer.
+For Olive had a tincture of the old Rothesay pride, and had formed a
+somewhat disagreeable idea of the position the struggling artist and her
+blind mother would fill as charity-guests at Farnwood Hall. So, after a
+little conversation with Mrs. Fludyer, she contrived that the first
+plan should melt into one more feasible. There was a pretty cottage,
+the squire's lady said, on the Farnwood estate; Miss Fludyer's daily
+governess had lived there; it was all fitted up. What if Miss Rothesay
+would bring her mother there for the summer months? It would be pleasant
+for all parties.
+
+And so, very quickly, the thing was decided--decided as suddenly and
+unexpectedly as things are, when it seems as though not human will, but
+destiny held the balance.
+
+Mrs. Fludyer seemed really pleased and interested; she talked to Miss
+Meliora less about her clematis than about her two inmates--a subject
+equally grateful to the painter's sister.
+
+"There is something quite charming about Miss Rothesay--the air and
+manner of one who has always moved in good society. Do you know who she
+was? I should apologise for the question, but that a friend of mine,
+looking at her picture, was struck by the name, and desired me to
+inquire."
+
+Meliora explained that she believed Olive's family was Scottish, and
+that her father was a Captain Angus Rothesay.
+
+"Captain Angus Rothesay! I think that was the name mentioned by my
+friend."
+
+"Shall I call Olive? Perhaps she knows your friend," observed Meliora.
+
+"Oh no! Mrs.--that is, the lady I allude to, said they were entire
+strangers, and it was needless to mention her name. Do not trouble Miss
+Rothesay with my idle inquiry. Many thanks for the clematis; and good
+morning, my dear Miss Vanbrugh."
+
+She ascended her carriage with the easy, smiling grace of one born to
+fortune, marrying fortune, and dwelling hand-in-hand with fortune all
+her life. Miss Meliora gazed in intense admiration after her departing
+wheels, and forthwith retired to plan out of the few words she had let
+fall a glorious future for her dear Miss Rothesay. There was certainly
+some unknown wealthy relative who would probably appear next week, and
+carry off Olive and her mother to affluence--in a carriage as grand as
+Mrs. Fludyer's.
+
+She would have rushed at once to communicate the news to her friends,
+had it not been that she was stopped in the garden-walk by the
+apparition of her brother escorting two gentlemen from his studio--a
+rare courtesy with him. Meliora accounted for it when, from behind a
+sheltering espalier, she heard him address one of them as "my lord."
+
+But when she told this to Olive, the young paintress was of a different
+opinion. She had heard the name of Lord Arundale, and recognised it as
+that of a nobleman on whom his love of Art and science shed more honour
+than his title. That was why Mr. Vanbrugh showed him respect, she knew.
+
+"Certainly, certainly!" said Meliora, a little ashamed. "But to think
+that such a clever man, and a nobleman, should be so ordinary in
+appearance. Why, he was not half so remarkable-looking as the gentleman
+who accompanied him."
+
+"What was _he_ like?" said Olive smiling.
+
+"You would have admired him greatly. His was just the sort of head
+you painted for your 'Aristides the Just'--your favourite style of
+beauty--dark, cold, proud, with such piercing, eagle eyes; they went
+right through me!"
+
+Olive laughed merrily.
+
+"Do you hear, mamma, how she runs on? What a bewitching young hero!"
+
+"A hero, perhaps, but not exactly young; and as for bewitching, that he
+certainly might be, but it was in the fashion of a wizard or a magician.
+I never felt so nervous at the sight of any one in the whole course of
+my life." Here there was a knock at the drawing-room door.
+
+"Come in," said Olive; and Mr. Vanbrugh entered.
+
+For a moment he stood on the threshold without speaking; but there was a
+radiance in his face, a triumphant dignity in his whole carriage, which
+struck Olive and his sister with surprise.
+
+"Brother--dear Michael, you are pleased with something; you have had
+good news."
+
+He passed Meliora by, and walked up to Miss Rothesay.
+
+"My pupil, rejoice with me; I have found at length appreciation, my
+life's aim has won success--I have sold my 'Alcestis.'"
+
+Miss Vanbrugh rushed towards her brother. Olive Rothesay, full of
+delight, would have clasped her master's hand, but there was something
+in his look that repelled them both. His was the triumph of a man who
+exulted only in and for his Art, neither asking nor heeding any human
+sympathies. Such a look might have been on the face of the great
+Florentine, when he beheld the multitude gaze half in rapture, half
+in awe, on his work in the Sistine Chapel; then, folding his coarse
+garments round him, walked through the streets of Rome to his hermit
+dwelling, and sat himself down under the shadow of his desolate renown.
+
+Michael Vanbrugh continued,
+
+"Yes, I have sold my grand picture; the dream--the joy of a lifetime.
+Sold it, too, to a man who is worthy to possess it. I shall see it in
+Lord Arundale's noble gallery; I shall know that it, at least, will
+remain where, after my death, it will keep from oblivion the name of
+Michael Vanbrugh. Glorious indeed is this my triumph--yet less mine,
+than the triumph of high Art. Do you not rejoice, my pupil!"
+
+"I do, indeed, my dear and noble master."
+
+"And, brother, brother--you will be very rich. The price you asked for
+the 'Alcestis' was a thousand pounds," said Meliora.
+
+He smiled bitterly.
+
+"You women always think of money."
+
+"But for your sake only, dear Michael," cried his sister; and her
+tearful eyes spoke the truth. Poor little soul! she could but go as far
+as her gifts went, and they extended no farther than to the thought of
+what comforts would this sum procure for Michael--a richer velvet gown
+and cap, like one of the old Italian painters--perhaps a journey to
+refresh his wearied eyes among lovely scenes of nature. She explained
+this, looking, not angry but just a little hurt.
+
+"A journey! yes, I will take a journey--one which I have longed for
+these thirty years--I will go to Rome! Once again I will lie on the
+floor of the Sistine, and look up worshipingly to Michael the angel."
+(He always called him so.)
+
+"And how long shall you stay, brother?"
+
+"Stay?--Until my heart grows pulseless, and my brain dull. Why should I
+ever come back to this cold England?
+
+"No: let me grow old, die, and be buried under the shadow of the eternal
+City."
+
+"He will never come back again--never," said Miss Vanbrugh, looking at
+Olive with a vague bewilderment. "He will leave this pretty cottage, and
+me, and everything."
+
+There was a dead silence, during which poor 'Meliora sat plaiting
+her white apron in fold after fold, as was her habit when in deep and
+perplexed thought. Then she went up to her brother.
+
+"Michael, if you will take me, I should like to go too."
+
+"What!" cried Mrs. Rothesay, "you, my dear Miss Vanbrugh, who are so
+thoroughly English--who always said you hated moving from place to
+place, and would live and die at Woodford Cottage!
+
+"Hush--hush! we'll not talk about that, lest he should hear," said
+Meliora glancing half frightened at her brother. But he stood absorbed
+by the window, looking out apparently on the sky, though his eyes saw
+nothing--nothing! "Michael, do you quite understand--may I go with you
+to Rome?"
+
+"Very well--very well, sister," he answered, in the tone of a man who is
+indifferent to the subject, except that consent gives less trouble than
+refusal. Then he turned towards Olive, and asked her to go with him to
+his painting-room; he wanted to consult with her as to the sort of
+frame that would suit the "Alcestis." Indeed, his pupil had now grown
+associated with all his pursuits, and had penetrated further in the
+depths of his inward life than any one else had been ever suffered to
+do. Olive gradually became to him his cherished pupil--the child of his
+soul, to whom he would fain transmit the mantle of his fame. He had but
+one regret, sometimes earnestly, and comically expressed--that she was a
+woman--only a woman.
+
+They went and stood before the picture, he and Olive; Meliora stealing
+after her brother's footsteps, noiseless but constant as his shadow. And
+this ever-following, faithful love clung so closely to its object that,
+shadow-like, what all others beheld, by him was never seen.
+
+Michael Vanbrugh cast on his picture a look such as no living face ever
+had won, or ever would win, from his cold eyes. It was the gaze of
+a parent on his child, a lover on his mistress, an idolator on his
+self-created god. Then he took his palette, and began to paint,
+lingeringly and lovingly, on slight portions of background or
+drapery--less as though he thought this needed, than as if loth to give
+the last, the very last, touch to a work so precious. He talked all the
+while, seemingly to hide the emotion which he would not show.
+
+"Lord Arundale is an honour to his rank, a _noble man_ indeed. One does
+not often meet such, Miss Rothesay. It was a pleasure to receive him in
+my studio. It did me good to talk with him, and with his friend."
+
+Here Olive looked at Meliora and smiled. "Was his friend, then, as
+agreeable as himself?"
+
+"Not so brilliant in conversation, but far the higher nature of the two,
+or I have read the human countenance in vain. He said frankly, that he
+was no artist, and no connoisseur, like Lord Arundale; but I saw from
+his eye, that, if he did not understand, he felt my picture."
+
+"How so?" said Olive, with growing interest.
+
+"He looked at Alcestis,--the 'Alcestis' I have painted,--sitting on her
+golden throne, waiting for death to call her from her kingdom and her
+lord; waiting solemnly, yet without fear. 'See,' said Lord Arundale to
+his friend, 'how love makes this feeble woman stronger than a hero! See
+how fearlessly a noble wife can die!'--'A wife who loves her husband,'
+was the answer, given so bitterly, that I turned to look at him. Oh,
+that I could have painted his head at that instant! It would have made a
+Heraclitus--a Timon!"
+
+"And do you know his name? Will he come here again?"
+
+"No: for he was leaving London to-day. I wish it had not been so, for I
+would have asked him to sit to me. That grand, iron, rigid head of his,
+with the close curling hair, would be a treasure indeed!"
+
+"But who is he, brother?" inquired Meliora.
+
+"A man of science; well known in the world, too, Lord Arundale said.
+He told me his name, but I forgot it. However, you may find a card
+somewhere about."
+
+Meliora ran to the mantelpiece, and brought one to her brother. "Is this
+it?" He nodded. She ran for the light, and read aloud--
+
+"_The Reverend Harold Gwynne_."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+
+The subject of Harold Gwynne served Olive-and her mother for a full
+half-hour's conversation during that idle twilight season which they
+always devoted to pleasant talk. It was a curious coincidence which thus
+revived in their memories a name now almost forgotten. For, the debt
+once paid, Mr. Gwynne and all things connected with him had passed into
+complete oblivion, save that Olive carefully kept his letters.
+
+These she had the curiosity to take from their hiding-place, and examine
+once more--partly for her mother's amusement, partly for her own; for it
+was a whim of hers to judge of character by hand-writing, and she really
+had been quite interested in the character which both Miss Vanbrugh and
+her brother had drawn.
+
+"How strange that he should have been so near us, and we not know the
+fact! He seems quite to haunt us--to be our evil genius--our Daimon!"
+
+"Hush, my dear! it is wrong to talk so. Remember, too, that he is Sara's
+husband."
+
+Olive did remember it. Jestingly though she spoke, there was in her
+a remembrance, as mournful as a thing so long ended could be, of that
+early friendship, whose falseness had been her loving, heart's first
+blight. She had never formed another. There was a unity in her nature
+which made it impossible to build the shrine of a second affection on
+the ruins of the first. She found it so, even in life's ordinary ties.
+What would it have been with her had she ever known the great mystery of
+love?
+
+She never had known it. She had lived all these years with a heart as
+virgin as mountain snows. When the one sweet dream which comes to most
+in early maidenhood--the dream of loving and being loved--was crushed,
+her heart drew back within itself, and, after a time of suffering almost
+as deep as if for the loss of a real object instead of a mere ideal, she
+prepared herself for her destiny. She went out into society, and there
+saw men, as they are _in society_--feeble, fluttering coxcombs, hard,
+grovelling men of business, some few men of pleasure, or of vice; and,
+floating around all, the race of ordinary mankind, neither good nor bad.
+Out of these classes, the first she merely laughed at, the second she
+turned from with distaste, the third she abhorred and despised, the
+fourth she looked upon with a calm indifference. Some good and clever
+men she had met occasionally, towards whom she had felt herself drawn
+with a friendly inclination; but they had always been drifted from her
+by the ever-shifting currents of society.
+
+And these, the exceptions, were chiefly old, or at least elderly
+persons; men of long-acknowledged talent, wise and respected heads of
+families. The "new generation," the young men out of whose community her
+female acquaintances were continually choosing lovers and husbands, were
+much disliked by Olive Rothesay. Gradually, when she saw how mean
+was the general standard of perfection, how ineffably beneath her own
+ideal--the man she could have worshiped--she grew quite happy in her own
+certain lot. She saw her companions wedded to men who from herself would
+never have won a single thought. So she put aside for ever the half-sad
+dream of her youth, and married herself unto her Art.
+
+She indulged in some of her sage reflections on men and women, courtship
+and wedlock, in general, when she sat at her mother's feet talking of
+Harold Gwynne and of his wife. "It could not have been a happy marriage,
+mamma,--if Mr. Gwynne be really the man that Miss Vanbrugh and her
+brother describe." And all day there recurred to Olive's fancy the
+words, "_A wife who loved her husband_." She, at least, knew too
+well that Sara Derwent, when she married, could not have loved hers.
+Wonderings as to what was Sara's present fate, occupied her mind for a
+long, long time. She had full opportunity for thought, as her mother,
+oppressed by the sultry August evening, had fallen asleep with her hand
+on her daughter's neck, and Olive could not stir for fear of waking her.
+
+Slowly she watched the twilight darken into a deeper shadow--that of
+a gathering thunderstorm. The trees beyond the garden began to sway
+restlessly about, and then, with a sudden flash, and distant thunder
+growl, down came the rain in torrents. Mrs. Rothesay started and woke;
+like most timid women, she had a great dread of thunder, and it took
+all Olive's powers of soothing to quiet her nervous alarms. These
+were increased by another sound that broke through the pouring rain--a
+violent ringing of the garden-bell, which, in Mrs. Rothesay's excited
+state, seemed a warning of all sorts of horrors.
+
+"The house is on fire--the bolt has struck it Oh Olive, Olive, save me!"
+she cried.
+
+"Hush, darling! You are quite safe with me." And Olive rose up, folding
+her arms closely round her mother, who hid her head in her daughter's
+bosom. They stood--Mrs. Rothesay trembling and cowering--Olive with her
+pale brow lifted fearlessly, as though she would face all terror, all
+danger, for her mother's sake. Thus they showed, in the faint glimmer
+of the lightning, a beautiful picture of filial love--to the eyes of
+a stranger, who that moment opened the door. She was a woman, whom the
+storm had apparently driven in for shelter.
+
+"Is this Miss Vanbrugh's house--is there any one here?" she asked; her
+accent being slightly foreign.
+
+Olive invited her to enter.
+
+"Thank you; forgive my intrusion, but I am frightened--half drowned. The
+thunder is awful; will you take me in till Miss Vanbrugh returns?"
+
+A light was quickly procured, and Olive came to divest the stranger of
+her dripping garments.
+
+"Thank you, no! I can assist myself--I always do."
+
+And she tried to unfasten her shawl--a rich heavy fabric, and of gaudy
+colours, when her trembling fingers failed; she knitted her brows, and
+muttered some sharp exclamation in French.
+
+"You had better let me help you," said Olive, gently, as, with a firm
+hand, she took hold of the shivering woman, or girl, for she did not
+look above seventeen, drew her to a seat, and there disrobed her of her
+drenched shawl.
+
+Not until then did Miss Rothesay pause to consider further about this
+incognita, arrived in such a singular manner. But when, recovered
+from her alarm the young stranger subsided into the very unromantic
+occupation of drying her wet frock by the kitchen fire, Olive regarded
+her with no small curiosity.
+
+She stood, a picture less of girlish grace, than of such grace as
+French fashion dictates. Her tall, well-rounded form struggled through
+a painful compression into slimness; her whole attire had that peculiar
+_tournure_ which we islanders term Frenchified. Nay, there was something
+in the very tie of her neck-ribbon which showed it never could have
+been done by English fingers. She appeared, all over, "a young lady from
+abroad."
+
+We have noticed her dress first, because that was most noticeable.
+She herself was a fine, tall, well-modelled girl, who would have been
+graceful had fashion allowed her. She had one beauty--a column-like neck
+and well-set head, which she carried very loftily. Her features were
+somewhat large, not pretty, and yet not plain. She had a good mouth and
+chin; her eyes were very dark and silken-fringed; but her hair was fair.
+
+This peculiarity caught Olive's eye at once; so much so, that she almost
+fancied she had seen the face before, she could not tell where. She
+puzzled about the matter, until the young guest, who seemed to make
+herself quite at home, had dried her garments, and voluntarily proposed
+that they should return to the drawing-room.
+
+They did so, the stranger leading the way, and much to Olive's surprise,
+seeming to thread with perfect ease the queer labyrinths of the house.
+
+By this time the storm was over, and they found Mrs. Rothesay sitting
+quietly waiting for tea. The young lady again apologised in her easy,
+foreign manner, and asked if she might stay with them until Miss
+Vanbrugh's return? Of course her hostess assented, and she talked for
+above an hour; chiefly of Paris, which she said she had just left; of
+French customs; music, and literature.
+
+In the midst of this, Miss Vanbrugh's voice was heard in the hall. The
+girl started, as one does at the sound of some old tune, heard in youth,
+and forgotten for years; her gaiety ceased; she put her hand before her
+eyes; but when the door opened, she was her old self again.
+
+No child "frayed with a sprite" could have looked more alarmed than Miss
+Meliora at the sudden vision of this elegant young damsel, who advanced
+towards her. The little old maid was quite overpowered with her stylish
+bend; her salute, French fashion, cheek to cheek; and her anxious
+inquiries after Miss Vanbrugh's health.
+
+"I am quite well, thank you, madam. A friend of Mrs. Rothesay's I
+suppose?" was poor Meliora's bewildered reply.
+
+"No, indeed; I have not till now had the pleasure of hearing Mrs.
+Rothesay's name. My visit was to yourself," said the stranger, evidently
+enjoying the _incognito_ she had kept, for her black eyes sparkled with
+fun.
+
+"I am happy to see you, madam," again stammered the troubled Meliora.
+
+"I thought you would be--I came to surprise you. My dear Miss Vanbrugh,
+have you really forgotten me? Then allow me to re-introduce myself. My
+name is Christal Manners."
+
+Miss Meliora looked as if she could have sunk into the earth! Year after
+year, from the sum left in the bank, she had paid the school-bill of her
+self-assumed charge; but that was all. After-thoughts, and a few prudish
+hints given by good-natured friends, had made her feel both ashamed
+and frightened at having taken such a doubtful _protegee_. Whenever she
+chanced to think of Christal's growing up, and coming back a woman, she
+drove the subject from her mind in absolute alarm. Now the very thing
+she dreaded had come upon her. Here was the desolate child returned,
+a stylish young woman, with no home in the world but that of her sole
+friend and protectress.
+
+Poor Miss Vanbrugh was quite overwhelmed. She sank on a chair, "Dear me!
+I am so frightened--that is, so startled. Oh, Miss Rothesay, what shall
+I do?" and she looked appealingly to Olive.
+
+But between her and Miss Rothesay glided the young stranger. The bright
+colour paled from Christa's face--her smile passed into a frown.
+
+"Then you are not glad to see me--you, the sole friend I have in the
+world, whom I have travelled a thousand miles to meet--travelled alone
+and unprotected--you are not glad to see me? I will turn and go back
+again--I will leave the house--I will--I"----
+
+Her rapid speech ended in a burst of tears. Poor Meliora felt like a
+guilty thing. "Miss Manners--Christal--my poor child! I didn't mean
+that! Don't cry--don't cry! I am very glad to see you--so are we
+all--are we not, Olive?"
+
+Olive was almost as much puzzled as herself. She had a passing
+recollection of the death of Mrs. Manners, and of the child's being sent
+to school; but since then she had heard no more of her. She could hardly
+believe that the elegant creature before her was the little ragged imp
+of a child whom she had once seen staring idly down the river. However,
+she asked no questions, but helped to soothe the girl, and to restore,
+as far as possible, peace and composure to the household.
+
+They all spent the evening together without any reference to the past.
+Only once, Christal--in relating how, as soon as ever her term of
+education expired, she had almost compelled her governess to let her
+come to England, and to Miss Vanbrugh,--said, in her proud way,
+
+"It was not to ask a maintenance--for you know my parents left me
+independent; but I wanted to see you because I believed that, besides
+taking charge of my fortune, you had been kind to me when a child. How,
+or in what way, I cannot clearly remember; for I think," she added,
+laughing, "that I must have been a very stupid little girl: all seems so
+dim to me until I went to school. Can you enlighten me, Miss Vanbrugh?"
+
+"Another time, another time, my dear," said the painter's sister,
+growing very much confused.
+
+"Well! I thank you all the same,'and you shall not find me ungrateful,"
+said the young lady, kissing Miss Meliora's hand, and speaking in a tone
+of real feeling, which would have moved any woman. It quite overpowered
+Miss Van-brugh--the softest-hearted little woman in the world. She
+embraced her _protegee_, declaring that she would never part with her.
+
+"But," she added, with a sudden thought, a thought of intense alarm,
+"what will Michael say?"
+
+"Do not think of that to-night," interposed Olive. "Miss Manners is
+tired; let us get her to bed quickly, and we will see what morning
+brings."
+
+The advice was followed, and Christal disappeared; not, however, without
+lavishing on Mrs. and Miss Rothesay a thousand gracious thanks and
+apologies, with an air and deportment that did infinite honour to the
+polite instruction of her _pension_.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay, confused with all that had happened, did not ask many
+questions, but only said as she retired,
+
+"I don't quite like her, Olive--I don't like the tone of her voice; and
+yet there was something that struck me in the touch of her hand--which
+is so different in different people."
+
+"Hers is a very pretty hand, mamma. It is quite classic in shape--like
+poor papa's--which I remember so well!"
+
+"There never was such a beautiful hand as your papa's. He said it
+descended in the Rothesay family. You have it, you know, my child,"
+observed Mrs. Rothesay. She sighed, but softly; for, after all these
+years, the widow and the fatherless had learned to speak of their loss
+without pain, though with tender remembrance.
+
+Thinking of him and of her mother, Olive thought, likewise, how much
+happier was her own lot than that of the orphan-girl, who, by her own
+confession, had never known what it was to remember the love of the
+dead, or to rejoice in the love of the living. And her heart was moved
+with the pity--nay, even tenderness, for Christal Manners.
+
+When she had assisted her mother to bed--as she always did--Olive, in
+passing down stairs, moved by some feeling of interest, listened at the
+door of the young stranger. She was apparently walking up and down her
+room with a quick, hurried step. Olive knocked.
+
+"Are you quite comfortable?--do you want anything?"
+
+"Who's there? Oh! come in, Miss Rothesay."
+
+Olive entered, and found, to her surprise, that the candle was
+extinguished.
+
+"I thought I heard you moving about, Miss Manners."
+
+"So I was. I felt restless and could not sleep. I am very tired with my
+journey, I suppose, and the room is strange to me. Come here--give me
+your hand."
+
+"You are not afraid, my dear child?" said Olive, remembering that she
+was, indeed, little more than a child, though she looked so womanly.
+"You are not frightening yourself in this gloomy old house, nor thinking
+of ghosts and goblins?"
+
+"No--no! I was thinking, if I must tell the truth," said the girl, with
+something very like a suppressed sob--"I was thinking of you and your
+mother, as I saw you standing when I first came in. No one ever clasped
+me so, or ever will! Not that I have any one to blame; my father and
+mother died; they could not help dying. But if they had just brought me
+into the world and left me, as I have heard some parents have done, then
+I should cry out, 'Wicked parents! if I grow up heartless, because I
+have no one to love me; and vile, because I have none to guide me,--my
+sin be upon your head!'"
+
+She said these words with vehement passion. But Olive answered calmy,
+"Hush, Christal!--let me call you Christal; for I am much older than
+you. Lie down and rest. Be loving, and you will never want for love; be
+humble, and you will never want for guiding. You have good friends here,
+who will care for you very much, I doubt not. Be content, my poor, tired
+child!"
+
+She spoke very softly; for the darkness quite obliterated the vision
+of that stylish damsel who had exhibited her airs and graces in the
+drawing-room. As she sat by Christal's bedside, Olive only felt the
+presence of a desolate orphan.
+
+She said in her heart, "Please God, I will do her all the good that
+lies in my feeble power. Who knows but that, in some way or other, I may
+comfort and help this child!" So she stooped down and kissed Christal
+on the forehead, a tenderness that the girl passionately returned. Then
+Olive went and lay down by her blind mother's side, with a quiet and a
+happy heart.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+
+In a week's time Christal Manners was fairly domiciled at Woodford
+Cottage. In what capacity it would be hard to say--certainly not as Miss
+Vanbrugh's _protegee_--for she assumed toward the little old maid a most
+benignant air of superiority. Mr. Vanbrugh she privately christened "the
+old Ogre," and kept as much out of his way as possible. This was not
+difficult, for the artist was too much wrapped up in himself to meddle
+with any domestic affairs. He seemed to be under some mystification that
+the lively French girl was a guest of Miss Rothesay's, and his sister
+ventured not to break this delusion. Christal's surname created no
+suspicions; the very name of his former model, Celia Manners, had long
+since passed from his memory.
+
+So the young visitor made herself quite at home--amused the whole
+household with her vivacity, clinging especially to the Rothesay portion
+of the establishment. She served Olive as general assistant in her
+studio, model included--or, at least, as lay figure: for she was too
+strictly fashionable to be graceful in form, and not quite beautiful
+enough in face to attract an artist's notice. But she did very well;
+and she amused Mrs. Rothesay all the while with her gay French songs, so
+that Olive was glad to have her near.
+
+The day after Christal's arrival, Miss Vanbrugh had summoned her chief
+state-councillor, Olive Rothesay, to talk over the matter. Then and
+there, Meliora unfolded all she knew and all she guessed of the girl's
+history. How much of this was to be communicated to Christal she wished
+Olive to decide: and Olive, remembering what had passed between them
+on the first night of her coming, advised that, unless Christal herself
+imperatively demanded to know, there should be maintained on the subject
+a kindly silence.
+
+"Her parents are dead, of that she is persuaded," Olive urged. "Whoever
+they were, they have carefully provided for her. If they erred or
+suffered, let neither their sin nor their sorrow go down to their
+child."
+
+"It shall be so," said the good Meliora. And since Christal asked no
+further questions--and, indeed, her lively nature seemed unable to
+receive any impressions save of the present--the subject was not again
+referred to.
+
+But the time came when the little household must be broken up. Mr.
+Vanbrugh announced that in one fortnight he must leave Woodford Cottage,
+on his journey to Rome. He never thought of such mundane matters as
+letting the house, or disposing of the furniture; he left all those
+things to his active little sister, who was busy from morning till
+night--ay, often again from night till morning. When Michael commanded
+anything, it must be done, if within human possibility; and there never
+was any one to do it but Meliora. She did it, always;--how, he never
+asked or thought. He was so accustomed to her ministrations that he
+no more noticed them than he did the daylight. Had the light suddenly
+gone--then--Michael Vanbrugh would have known what it once had been.
+
+Ere the prescribed time had quite expired, Miss Vanbrugh announced that
+all was arranged for their leaving Woodford Cottage. Her brother had
+nothing to do but to pack up his easels and his pictures; and this
+duty was quite absorbing enough to one who had no existence beyond his
+painting-room.
+
+There was one insuperable difficulty, which perplexed Meliora. What was
+to be done with Christal Manners? She troubled herself about the matter
+night and day. At last she hinted something of it to the girl herself.
+And 'Miss Manners at once decided the question by saying, "I will not go
+to Rome."
+
+She was of a strange disposition, as they had already found out. With
+all her volatile gaiety, when she chose to say, "I will!" she was as firm
+as a rock. No persuasions--no commands--could move her. In this case
+none were tried. Her fortunes seemed to arrange themselves; for Mrs.
+Fludyer, coming in one day to make the final arrangements for the
+Rothesays' arrival at Farnwood, took a vehement liking to the young
+French lady, as Miss Manners was generally considered, and requested
+that Mrs. Rothesay would bring her down to Farnwood, Olive demurred a
+little, lest the intrusion of a constant inmate might burden her mother:
+but the plan was at last decided upon--Christal's own entreaties having
+no small influence in turning the scale.
+
+Thus, all things settled, there came the final parting of the two little
+families who for so many years had lived together in peace and harmony.
+The Rothesays were to leave one day, the Vanbrughs the next. Olive and
+Meliora were both very busy--too busy to have time for regrets. They
+did not meet until evening, when Olive saw Miss Vanbrugh quietly
+and sorrowfully watering her flowers, with a sort of mechanical
+interest--the interest of a mother, who meekly goes on arranging all
+things for the comfort and adornment of the child from whom she is about
+to separate. It made Olive sad; she went into the garden, and joined
+Meliora.
+
+"Let me help you, dear Miss Vanbrugh. Why should you tire yourself thus,
+after all the fatigues of the day?"
+
+Meliora looked up.--"Ah! true, true! I shall never do this any more, I
+know. But the poor flowers must not suffer; I'll take care of them while
+I can. Those dahlias, that I have watched all the year, want watering
+every night, and will do for a month to come. A month! Oh! Miss
+Rothesay, I am very foolish, I know, but it almost breaks my heart to
+say good-bye to my poor little garden!"
+
+Her voice faltered, and at last her tears began to fall--not bitterly,
+but in a quiet, gentle way, like the dropping of evening rain. However,
+she soon recovered herself, and began to talk of her brother and
+of Rome. She was quite sure that there his genius would find due
+recognition, and that he would rival the old masters in honour and
+prosperity. She was content to go with him, she said; perhaps the
+warm climate would suit her better than England, now that she was
+growing--not exactly old, for she was much younger than Michael, and he
+had half a lifetime of fame before him--but still, older than she
+had been. The language would be a trouble; but then she was already
+beginning to learn it, and she had always been used to accommodate
+herself to everything. She was quite certain that this plan of Michael's
+would turn out for the good of both.
+
+"And as for the poor old cottage, when you return to London you will
+come and see it sometimes, and write me word how it looks. You can send
+a bit of the clematis in a letter, too; and who knows, but if you get
+a very rich lady, you may take the whole cottage yourself some day, and
+live here again."
+
+"Perhaps; if you will come back from Rome, and visit me here?" said
+Olive, smiling; for she was glad to encourage any cheerful hope.
+
+"No, no, I shall never leave Michael--I shall never leave Michael!"
+She said these words over to herself many times, and then took up her
+watering-pot and went on with her task.
+
+Her affectionate companion followed her for some time; but Miss Vanbrugh
+did not seem disposed to talk, so Olive returned to the house.
+
+She felt in that unquiet, dreary state of mind which precedes a great
+change, when all preparations are complete, and there is nothing left
+to be done but to ponder on the coming parting. She could not rest
+anywhere, or compose herself to anything; but wandered about the house,
+thinking of that last day at Oldchurch, and vaguely speculating when or
+what the next change would be. She passed into the drawing-room, where
+Christal was amusing Mrs. Rothesay with her foreign ditties; and then
+she went to Mr. Vanbrugh's studio to have a last talk about Art with her
+old master.
+
+He was busily engaged in packing up his casts and remaining pictures. He
+just acknowledged his pupil's presence and received her assistance, as
+he always did with perfect indifference. For, from mere carelessness,
+Vanbrugh had reduced the womankind about him to the condition of perfect
+slaves.
+
+"There, that will do. Now bring me the great treasure of all--the bust
+of Michael the Angel."
+
+She climbed on a chair, and lifted it down, carefully and reverentially,
+so as greatly to please the artist.
+
+"Thank you, my pupil; you are very useful; I cannot tell what I should
+do without you."
+
+"You will have to do without me very soon," was Olive's gentle and
+somewhat sorrowful answer. "This is my last evening in this dear old
+studio--my last talk with you, my good and kind master."
+
+He looked surprised and annoyed. "Nonsense, child! If I am going to
+Rome, you are going too. I thought Meliora would arrange all that."
+
+Olive shook her head.
+
+"No, Mr. Vanbrugh; indeed, it is impossible."
+
+"What, not go with me to Rome!--you my pupil, unto whom I meant to
+unfold all the glorious secrets of my art! Olive Rothesay, are you
+dreaming?" he cried, angrily.
+
+She only answered him softly, that all her plans were settled, and
+that much as she should delight in seeing Rome, she could not think of
+leaving her mother.
+
+"Your mother! What right have we artists to think of any ties of
+kindred, or to allow them for one moment to weigh in the balance with
+our noble calling?--I say _ours_, for I tell you now what I never told
+you before, that, though you are a woman, you have a man's soul. I am
+proud of you; I design to make for you a glorious future. Even in this
+scheme I mingled you--how we should go together to the City of Art,
+dwell together, work together, master and pupil. What great things we
+should execute! We should be like the brothers Caracci--like Titian with
+his scholar and adopted son. Would that you had not been a woman! that I
+could have made you my son in Art, and given you my name, and then died,
+bequeathing to you the mantle of my glory!"
+
+[Illustration: Page 205 His anger had vanished]
+
+His rapid and excited language softened into something very like
+emotion; he threw himself into his painting-chair, and waited for
+Olive's answer.
+
+It came brokenly--almost with tears.
+
+"My dear, my noble master, to whom I owe so much, what can I say to
+you?"
+
+"That you will go with me--that when my failing age needs your young
+hand, it shall be ready; and that so the master's waning powers may be
+forgotten in the scholar's rising fame."
+
+Olive answered nothing but, "My mother, my mother--she would not quit
+England; I could not part from her."
+
+"Fool!" said Vanbrugh, roughly; "does a child never leave a mother? It
+is a thing that happens every day; girls do it always when they marry."
+He stopped suddenly, and pondered; then he said, hastily, "Child, go
+away; you have made me angry. I would be alone--I will call you when I
+want you."
+
+She disappeared, and for an hour she heard him walking up and down his
+studio with heavy strides. Soon after, there was a pause; Olive heard
+him call her name, and quickly answered the summons.
+
+His anger had vanished; he stood calmly, leaning his arm on the
+mantelpiece, the lamp-light falling on the long unbroken lines of his
+velvet gown, and casting a softened shadow over his rugged features.
+There was majesty, even grace, in his attitude; and his aspect bore a
+certain dignified serenity, that well became him.
+
+He motioned young pupil to sit down, and then said to her,
+
+"Miss Rothesay, I wish to talk to you as to a sensible and noble woman
+(there are such I know, and such I believe you to be). I also speak as
+to one like myself--a true follower of our divine Art, who to that one
+great aim would bend all life's purposes, as I have done."
+
+He paused a moment, and seeing that no answer came, continued,
+
+"All these years you have been my pupil, and have become necessary to me
+and to my Art. To part with you is impossible; it would disorganise all
+my plans and hopes. There is but one way to prevent this. You are a
+woman; I cannot take you for my son, but I can take you for--my wife."
+
+Utterly astounded, Olive heard. "Your wife--I--your wife!" was all she
+murmured.
+
+"Yes. I ask you--not for my own sake, but for that of our noble Art. I
+am a man long past my youth--perhaps even a stern, rude man. I cannot
+give you love, but I can give you glory. Living, I can make of you such
+an artist as no woman ever was before; dying, I can bequeath to you the
+immortality of my fame. Answer me--is this nothing?"
+
+"I cannot answer--I am bewildered."
+
+"Then listen. You are not one of those foolish girls who would make
+sport of my grey hairs. I will be very tender over you, for you have
+been good to me. I will learn how to treat you with the mildness that
+women need. You shall be like a child to my old age. You will marry me,
+then, Olive Rothesay?"
+
+He walked up to her, and took her hand, gravely, though not without
+gentleness; but she shrank away.
+
+"I cannot, I cannot; it is impossible."
+
+He looked at her one moment, neither in angry reproach, nor in wounded
+tenderness, but with a stern, cold pride. "I have been mistaken--pardon
+me." Then he quitted her, walked back to his position near the hearth,
+and resumed his former attitude.
+
+There was silence. Afterwards Michael Vanbrugh felt his sleeve touched,
+and saw beside him the small, delicate figure of his pupil.
+
+"Mr. Vanbrugh, my dear master and friend, look at me, and listen to what
+I have to say."
+
+He moved his head assentingly, without turning round.
+
+"I have lived," Olive continued, "for six-and-twenty years, and no one
+has ever spoken to me of marriage. I did not dream that any one ever
+would. But, since you have thus spoken, I can only answer as I have
+answered."
+
+"And you are in the same mind still?"
+
+"I am. Not because of your age, or of my youth; but because you have, as
+you say, no love to give me, nor have I love to bring to you; therefore
+for me to marry you would be a sin."
+
+"As you will, as you will. I thought you a kindred genius--I find you
+a mere _woman_. Jest on at the old fool with his grey hairs--go and wed
+some young, gay"----
+
+"Look at me?" said Olive, with a mournful meaning in her tone; "am I
+likely to marry?"
+
+"I have spoken ill," said Vanbrugh, in a touched and humbled voice.
+"Nature has been hard to us both; we ought to deal gently with one
+another. Forgive me, Olive."
+
+He offered her his hand; she took it, and pressed it to her heart. "Oh
+that I could be still your pupil--your daughter! My dear, dear master! I
+will never forget you while I live."
+
+"Be it so!" He moved away, and sat down, leaning his head upon his hand.
+Who knows what thoughts might have passed through his mind--regretful,
+almost remorseful thoughts of that bliss which he had lost or
+scorned--life's crowning sweetness, woman's love.
+
+Olive went up to him.
+
+"I must go now. You will bid me good-bye--will you not, gently, kindly?
+You will not think the worse of me for what has passed this night?" And
+she knelt down beside him, pressing her lips to his hand.
+
+He stooped and kissed her forehead. It was the first and last kiss that,
+since boyhood, Michael Vanbrugh ever gave to woman.
+
+Then he stood up--the great artist only. In his eye was no softness,
+but the pride of genius--genius, the mighty, the daring, the eternally
+alone.
+
+"Go, my pupil! and remember my parting words. Fame is sweeter than all
+pleasure, stronger than all pain. We give unto Art our life, and she
+gives us immortality."
+
+As Olive went out, she saw him still standing, stern, motionless, with
+folded arms and majestic eyes; like a solitary rock whereon no flowers
+grow, but on whose summit heaven's light continually shines.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI.
+
+"Well, darling, how do you feel in our new home?" said Olive to her
+mother, when, after a long and weary journey, the night came down upon
+them at Farnwood, the dark, gusty, autumn night, made wildly musical by
+the neighbourhood of dense woods.
+
+"I feel quite content, my child: I am always content everywhere with
+you. And I like the wind; it helps me to imagine the sort of country we
+are in."
+
+"A forest country, hilly and bleak. We drove through miles of
+forest-land, over roads carpeted with fallen leaves. The woods will look
+glorious this autumn time."
+
+"That will be very pleasant, my child," said Mrs. Rothesay, who was
+so accustomed to see with Olive's eyes, and to delight in the vivid
+pictures painted by Olive's eloquent tongue, that she never spoke like
+a person who is blind. Even the outward world was to her no blank of
+desolation. Wherever they went, every beautiful place, or thing, or
+person, that Olive saw, she treasured in memory. "I must tell mamma of
+this," or "I must bring mamma here, and paint the view for her." And so
+she did, in words so rich and clear, that the blind mother often said
+she enjoyed such scenes infinitely more than when the whole wide earth
+lay open to her unregardful eyes.
+
+"I wonder," said Olive, "what part of S----shire we are in. We really
+might have been fairy-guided hither; we seem only aware that our journey
+began in London and ended at Farnwood. I don't know anything about the
+neighbourhood."
+
+"Never mind the neighbourhood, dear, since we are settled, you say, in
+such a pretty house. Tell me, is it like Woodford Cottage?"
+
+"Not at all! It is quite modern and comfortable. And they have made
+it all ready for us, just as if we were come to a friend's house on a
+visit. How kind of Mrs. Fludyer!"
+
+"Nay! I'm sure Mrs. Fludyer never knew how to arrange a house in
+her life. She had no hand in the matter, trust me!" observed the
+sharply-observant Christal.
+
+"Well, then, it is certainly the same guiding-fairy who has done this
+for us, too. And I am very thankful to have such a quiet, pleasant
+coming-home."
+
+"I, too, feel it like coming home," said Mrs. Rothesay, in a soft weary
+voice. "Olive, love, I am glad the journey is over; it has been almost
+too much for me. We will not go back to London yet awhile; we will stay
+here a long time."
+
+"As long as ever you like, darling. And now shall I show you the house?"
+
+"Showing" the house implied a long description of it, in Olive's
+blithest language, as they passed from room to room. It was a pretty,
+commodious dwelling, perhaps the prettiest portion of which was the
+chamber which Miss Rothesay appropriated as her mother's and her own.
+
+"It is a charming sleeping-room, with its white draperies, and its old
+oak furniture; and the quaint pier-glass, stuck round with peacocks'
+feathers, country fashion. And there, mamma, are some prints, a 'Raising
+of Lazarus,' though not quite so grand as my beloved 'Sebastian del
+Piombo.' And here are views from my own beautiful Scotland--a 'Highland
+Loch,' and 'Edinburgh Castle;' and, oh, mamma! there is grand old
+'Stirling,' the place where I was born! Our good fairy might have known
+the important fact; for, lo! she has adorned the mantelpiece with two
+great bunches of heather, in honour of me, I suppose. How pleasant!"
+
+"Yes. But I am weary, love. I wish I were in bed, and at rest."
+
+This was soon accomplished; and Olive sat down by her mother's side, as
+she often did, waiting until Mrs. Rothesay fell asleep.
+
+She sat, looking about her mechanically, as one does when taking
+possession of a strange room. Curiously her eye marked every quaint
+angle in the furniture, which would in time become so familiar. Then she
+thought, as one of dreamy mood is apt to do under such circumstances, of
+how many times she should lay her head down on the pillow in this same
+room, and when, and how would be the _last time_. For to all things on
+earth must come a last time.
+
+But, waking herself out of such pondering, she turned to look at her
+mother. The delicate placid face lay in the stillness of deep sleep--a
+stillness that sometimes startles one, from its resemblance to another
+and more solemn repose. While she looked, a pain entered the daughter's
+heart. To chase it thence, she stooped and softly kissed the face which
+to her was, and ever had been, the most beautiful in the world; and
+then, following the train of her former musings, came the thought that
+one day--it might be far distant, but still, in all human probability,
+it must come--she would kiss her mother's brow for the _last time_.
+
+A moment's shiver, a faint prayer, and the thought passed. But long
+afterwards she remembered it, and marvelled that it should have first
+come to her then and there.
+
+The morning that rose at Farnwood Dell--so the little house was
+called--was one of the brightest that ever shone from September skies.
+Olive felt cheerful as the day; and as for Christal, she was perpetually
+running in and out, making the wonderful discoveries of a young damsel
+who had never in all her life seen the real country. She longed for a
+ramble, and would not let Olive rest until the exploit was determined
+on. It was to be a long walk, the appointed goal being a beacon that
+could be seen for miles, a church on the top of a hill.
+
+Olive quite longed to go thither, because it had been the first sight
+at Farnwood on which her eyes had rested. Looking out from her
+chamber-window, at the early morning, she had seen it gleaming goldenly
+in the sunrise. All was so new, so lovely! It had made her feel quite
+happy, just as though with that first sunrise at Farnwood had dawned a
+new era in her life. Many times during the day she looked at the hill
+church; she would have asked about it had there been any one to ask, so
+she determined that her first walk should be thither.
+
+The graceful spire rose before them, guiding them all the way, which
+did not seem long to Olive, who revelled in the beauties unfolded along
+their lonely walk--a winding road, bounding the forest, on whose verge
+the hill stood. But Christal's Parisian feet soon grew wearied, and
+when they came to the ascent of the hill, she fairly sat down by the
+roadside.
+
+"I will go into this cottage, and rest until you come back, Miss
+Rothesay; and you need not hurry, for I shall not be able to walk home
+for an hour," said the wilful young lady, as she quickly vanished, and
+left her companion to proceed to the church alone.
+
+Slowly Olive wound up the hill, and through a green lane that led to the
+churchyard. There seemed a pretty little village close by, but she was
+too tired to proceed further. She entered the churchyard, intending to
+sit down and rest on one of the gravestones; but at the wicket-gate she
+paused to look around at the wide expanse of country that lay beneath
+the afternoon sunshine--a peaceful earth, smiling back the smile of
+heaven. The old grey church, with its circle of gigantic trees, shut
+out all signs of human habitation; and there was no sound, not even the
+singing of birds, to break the perfect quiet that brooded around.
+
+Olive had scarcely ever seen so sweet a spot. Its sweetness passed into
+her soul, moving her even to tears. From the hill-top she looked on the
+wide verdant plain, then up into the sky, and wished for doves' wings to
+sail out into the blue. Never had she so deeply felt how beautiful was
+earth, and how happy it might be made. And was Olive not happy? She
+thought of all those whose forms had moved through her life's picture;
+very beautiful to her heart they were: beautiful and dearly loved: but
+now it seemed as though there was one great want, one glorious image
+that should have arisen above them all, melting them into a grand
+harmonious whole.
+
+Half conscious of this want, Olive thought, "I wonder how it would have
+been with me had I ever penetrated that great mystery which crowns all
+life: had I ever known love!"
+
+The thought brought back many of her conversations with Michael,--and
+his belief that the life of the heart and that of the brain--one so warm
+and rich--the other so solitary and cold--can rarely exist together.
+Towards the latter her whole destiny seemed now turning.
+
+"It may be true; perchance all is well Let me think so. If on earth I
+must ever feel this void, may it be filled at last in the after-life
+with God!"
+
+She pondered thus, but the meditations oppressed her. She was rather
+glad to have them broken by the appearance of a little girl, who entered
+from a wicket-gate at the other end of the churchyard, and walked, very
+slowly and quietly, to a grave-stone near where Miss Rothesay stood.
+
+Olive approached, but the child, a thoughtful-looking little creature of
+about eight years old, did not see her until she came quite close.
+
+"Do not let me disturb you, my dear," said she gently, as the little
+girl seemed shy and frightened, and about to run away. But Miss
+Rothesay, who loved all children, began to talk to her, and very soon
+succeeded in conquering the timidity of the pretty little maiden. For
+she was a pretty creature. Olive especially admired her eyes, which were
+large and dark, the sort of eyes she had always loved for the sake of
+Sara Derwent. Looking into them now, she seemed carried back once more
+to the days of her early youth, and of that long-vanished dream.
+
+"Are you fond of coming here, my child?"
+
+"Yes; whenever I can steal quietly away, out of sight of papa and
+grandmamma. They do not forbid me; else, you know, I ought not to do it;
+but they say it is not good for me to stay thinking here, and send me to
+go and play."
+
+"And why had you rather come and sit here than play?"
+
+"Because there is a secret, and I want to try and find it out. I dare
+not tell you, for you might tell papa and grandmamma, and they would be
+angry."
+
+"But your mamma--you could surely tell mamma; I always tell everything
+to mine."
+
+"Do you? and have you got a mamma? Then, perhaps you could help me in
+finding out all about mine. You must know," added the child, lifting up
+her eager face with an air of mystery, "when I was very little, I lived
+away from here--I never saw my mamma, and my nurse always told me that
+she had 'gone away.' A little while since, when I came home--my home is
+there," and she pointed to what seemed the vicarage-house, glimmering
+whitely through the trees--"they told me mamma was here, under this
+stone, but they would tell me nothing more. Now, what does it all mean?"
+
+Olive perceived by these words, that the child was playing upon her
+mother's grave. Only it seemed strange that she should have been left
+so entirely ignorant with regard to the great mysteries of death and
+immortality. Miss Rothesay was puzzled what to answer.
+
+"My child, if your mamma be here, it is her body only." And Olive
+paused, startled at the difficulty she found in explaining in the
+simplest terms the doctrine of the soul's immortality. At last she
+continued, "When you go to sleep do you not often dream of walking in
+beautiful places and seeing beautiful things, and the dreams are so
+happy that you would not mind whether you slept on your soft bed or on
+the hard ground? Well, so it is with your mamma; her body has been laid
+down to sleep, but her mind--her spirit, is flying far away in beautiful
+dreams. She never feels at all that she is lying in her grave under the
+ground."
+
+"But how long will her body lie there? and will it ever wake?"
+
+"Yes, it will surely wake, though how soon we know not, and be taken up
+to heaven and to God."
+
+The child looked earnestly in Olive's face. "What is heaven, and what is
+God?"
+
+Miss Rothesay's amazement was not unmingled with horror. Her own
+religious faith had dawned so imperceptibly--at once an instinct and a
+lesson--that there seemed something awful in this question of an utterly
+untaught mind.
+
+"My poor child," she said, "do you not know who is God?--has no one told
+you?"
+
+"No one."
+
+"Then I will."
+
+"Pardon me, madam," said a man's voice behind, calm, cold, but not
+unmusical; "but it seems to me that a father is the best teacher of his
+child's faith."
+
+"Papa--it is papa." With a look of shyness almost amounting to fear, the
+child slid from the tombstone and ran away.
+
+Olive stood face to face with the father.
+
+He was a gentleman--a true _gentleman_; at the first glance any one
+would have given him that honourable and rarely-earned name. His age
+might be about thirty-five, but his face was cast in the firm rigid
+mould over which years pass and leave no trace. He might have looked
+as old as now at twenty; at fifty he would probably look little older.
+Handsome he was, as Olive discerned at a glance, but there was something
+in him that controlled her much more than mere beauty would have done.
+It was a grave dignity of presence, which indicated that mental sway
+which some men are born to hold, first over themselves, and then over
+their kind. Wherever he came, he seemed to say, "I rule--I am master
+here!"
+
+Olive Rothesay, innocent as she was of any harm to this gentleman or
+to his child, felt as cowed and humbled as if she had done wrong. She
+wished she could have fled like the little girl--fled out of reach of
+his searching glance.
+
+He waited for her to speak first, but she was silent; her colour rose
+to her very temples; she knew not whether she ought to apologise, or to
+summon her woman's dignity and meet the stranger with a demeanour like
+his own.
+
+She was relieved when the sound of his voice broke the pause.
+
+"I fear I startled you, madam; but I was not at first aware who was
+talking to my little girl. Afterwards, the few words of yours which I
+overheard induced me to pause."
+
+"What words?"
+
+"About sleep, and dreams, and immortality. Your way of putting the case
+was graceful--poetical Whether a child would apprehend it or not, is
+another question."
+
+Olive was surprised at the half-sarcastic, half-earnest way in which he
+said this. She longed to ask what motive he could have had in bringing
+the child up in such total ignorance of the first principles of
+Christianity. The stranger seemed to divine her question, and answer it.
+
+"No doubt you think it strange that my little daughter is so
+ill-informed in some theological points, and still more that I should
+have stopped you when you were kind enough to instruct her thereon. But,
+being a father--to say nothing of a clergyman"--(Olive looked at him in
+some surprise, and found that her interlocutor bore, in dress at least,
+a clerical appearance)--"I choose to judge for myself in some things;
+and I deem it very inexpedient that the feeble mind of a child should be
+led to dwell on subjects which are beyond the grasp of the profoundest
+philosopher."
+
+"But not beyond the reverent faith of a Christian," Olive ventured to
+say.
+
+He looked at her with his piercing eyes, and said eagerly, "You think
+so, you feel so?" then recovering his old manner, "Certainly--of
+course--that is the great beauty of a woman's religion. She pauses not
+to reason,--she is always ready to believe; therefore you women are a
+great deal happier than the philosophers."
+
+It was doubtful, from his tone, whether he meant this in compliment or
+in sarcasm. But Olive replied as her own true and pious spirit prompted.
+
+"It seems to me that while the intellect comprehends, the heart, or
+rather the soul, is the only fountain of belief. Without that, could
+a man dive into the infinite until he became as an angel in power
+and wisdom--could he 'by searching find out God '--still he could not
+believe."
+
+"_Do you_ believe in God?"
+
+"I love Him!" She said no more; but her countenance spoke the rest; and
+her companion saw it He stood as silently gazing as a man who in the
+desert comes face to face with an angel.
+
+Olive recollecting herself blushed deeply. "I ought to apologise for
+speaking so freely of these things to a stranger and a clergyman--in
+this place too."
+
+"Can there be a fitter place, or one that so sanctifies, and at the
+same time justifies this conversation?" was the answer, as the speaker
+glanced round the quiet domain of the dead. Then Olive remembered where
+they stood--that she was talking to the husband over his lost wife's
+tomb. The thought touched her with sympathy for this man, whose words,
+though so earnest, were yet so piercing. He seemed as though it were
+his habit to tear away every flimsy veil, in order to behold the shining
+image of Truth.
+
+They were silent for a moment, and then he resumed, with a smile,--the
+first that had yet lightened his face, and which now cast on it an
+inexpressible sweetness--
+
+"Let me thank you for talking so kindly to my little daughter. I trust I
+have sufficiently explained why I interrupted your lessons."
+
+"Still, it seems strange," said Olive. And strong interest conquering
+her diffidence, she asked how he, a clergyman, had possibly contrived to
+keep the child in such utter ignorance?
+
+"She has not lived much with me," he answered; "my little Ailie has been
+brought up in complete solitude. It was best for a child, whose birth
+was soon followed by her mother's death."
+
+Olive trembled lest she had opened a wound; but his words and manner had
+the grave composure of one who speaks of any ordinary event. Whatever
+grief he had felt, it evidently was healed. An awkward pause, during
+which Miss Rothesay tried to think in what way she could best end the
+conversation. It was broken at last by little Ailie, who crept timidly
+across the churchyard to her father.
+
+"Please, papa, grandmamma wants to see you before she goes out. She is
+going to John Dent's, and to Farnwood, and"----
+
+"Hush, little chatterbox! this lady cannot be interested in our family
+revelations. Bid her 'good-afternoon' and come!"
+
+He tried to speak playfully, but it was a rigid playfulness. Though a
+father, it was evident he did not understand children. Bowing to Olive
+with a stately acknowledgment, he walked on alone towards the little
+wicket-gate. She noticed that his eye never turned back, either to his
+dead wife's grave or to his living child. Ailie, while his shadow was
+upon her, had been very quiet; when he walked away, she sprang up, gave
+Olive one of those rough, sudden, childish embraces which are so sweet,
+and then bounded away after her father.
+
+Miss Rothesay watched them both disappear, and then was seized with an
+eager impulse to know who were this strange father and daughter. She
+remembered the tombstone, the inscription of which she had not yet seen:
+for it was half-hidden by an overhanging cornice, and by the tall grass
+that grew close by. Olive had to kneel down in order to decipher it. She
+did so, and read:
+
+                  "SARA,
+     Wife of the Reverend Harold Gwynne,
+             Died--, Aged 21."
+
+Then, the turf she knelt on covered Sara! the kiss, yet warm on her
+lips, was given by Sara's child! Olive bowed her face in the grass,
+trembling violently. Far, far through long-divided years, her heart
+fled back to its olden tenderness. She saw again the thorn-tree and the
+garden-walk, the beautiful girlish face, with its frank and constant
+smile. She sat down and wept over Sara's grave.
+
+Then she thought of little Ailie. Oh! would that she had known this
+sooner! that she might have closer clasped the motherless child, and
+have seen poor Sara's likeness shining from her daughter's eyes! With
+a yearning impulse Olive rose up to follow the little girl. But she
+remembered the father.
+
+How strange--how passing strange, that he with whom she had been
+talking, towards whom she had felt such an awe, and yet a vague
+attraction, should have been Sara's husband, and the man whose influence
+had curiously threaded her own life for many years.
+
+She felt glad that the mystery was now solved--that she had at last seen
+Harold Gwynne.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVII.
+
+Miss Rothesay was very silent during the walk home. She accounted for it
+to Christal by telling the simple truth--that in the churchyard she had
+found the grave of an early and dear friend. Her young companion looked
+serious, condoled in set fashion; and then became absorbed in the
+hateful labyrinths of the muddy road. Certainly, Miss Manners was never
+born for a simple rustic. Olive could not help remarking this.
+
+"No; I was born for what I am," answered the girl, proudly. "My parents
+were aristocrats; so am I. Don't lecture me! Wrong or right, I always
+felt thus, and always shall. If I have neither friends nor relatives, I
+have at least my family and my name."
+
+She talked thus, as she did sometimes, until they came to the
+garden-gate of Farnwood Dell. There stood an elegant carriage. Christars
+eyes brightened at the sight, and she trod with a more patrician air.
+
+The maid--a parting bequest of Miss Meliora's, and who had long and
+faithfully served at Woodford Cottage--came anxiously to communicate
+that there were two ladies waiting. One of them she did not know; the
+other was Mrs. Fludyer. "The latter would have disturbed Mrs. Rothesay,"
+Hannah added, "but the other lady said, 'No; they would wait.'" Whereat
+Olive's heart inclined towards "the other lady."
+
+She went in and found, with Mrs. Fludyer, an ancient dame of large and
+goodly presence. Aged though she seemed, her tall figure was not bent;
+and dignity is to the old what grace is to the young. She stood a little
+aside, and did not speak, but Olive, labouring under the weight of
+Mrs. Mudyer's gracious inquiries, felt that the old lady's eyes were
+carefully reading her face. At last Mrs. Fludyer made a motion of
+introduction.
+
+"No, I thank you," said the stranger, in the unmistakable northern
+tongue, which, falling from poor Elspie's lips, had made the music
+of Olive's childhood, and to which her heart yearned evermore. "Miss
+Rothesay, will you, for your father's sake, let me shake hands with his
+child? I am Mrs. Gwynne."
+
+Thus it was that Olive received the first greeting of Harold's mother.
+
+It startled--overpowered her; she had been so much agitated that day.
+She was surprised into that rare weakness, a hearty, even childish burst
+of tears. Mrs. Gwynne came up to her, with a softness almost motherly.
+
+"You are pained, Miss Rothesay; you remember the past But I have now
+come to hope that everything may be forgotten, save that I was your
+father's old friend. For our Scottish friendship, like our pride,
+descends from generation to generation. Fortune has made us neighbours,
+let us then be friends. It is my earnest wish, and that of my son
+Harold."
+
+"Your son!" echoed Olive; and then, half-bewildered by all these
+adventures, coincidences, and _eclaircissements_, she told how she
+had already met him, and how that meeting had shown to her her old
+companion's grave.
+
+"That is strange, too. Never while she lived did Mrs. Harold Gwynne
+mention your name. And you loved her so! Well! 'twas like her--like
+her!" muttered Harold's mother; "but peace be with the dead!"
+
+She walked up, and laid her hand on Olive's shoulder.
+
+"My dear, I am an old woman; excuse my speaking plainly. You know
+nothing of me and of my son, save what is harsh and painful. Forget all
+this, and remember only that I loved your father when he was quite a
+child, and that I am prepared to love his daughter, if she so choose.
+You must not think I am taking a hasty fancy--we Scottish folk rarely do
+that. But I have learnt much about you lately--more than you guess--and
+have recognised in you the 'little Olive' of whom Angus Rothesay told me
+so much only a few days before his death."
+
+"Did you see my dear father then?--did he talk of me?" cried Olive,
+eagerly, as, forgetting all the painful remembrances attached to
+the Gwynne family, she began to look at Harold's mother almost with
+affection.
+
+But Mrs. Gwynne, who had unfolded herself in a way most unusual, now
+was relapsing into reserve. "We will talk of this another time, my dear.
+Now, I should much desire to see Mrs. Rothesay."
+
+Olive went to fetch her. How she contrived to explain all that had
+transpired, she never clearly knew herself. However, she succeeded, and
+shortly re-appeared, with her mother leaning on her arm.
+
+And, beholding the pale, worn, but still graceful woman, who, with
+her sightless eyes cast down, clung to her sole stay--her devoted
+child--Mrs. Gwynne seemed deeply moved. There was even a sort of
+deprecatory hesitation in her manner, but it soon passed.--She clasped
+the widow's hands, and spoke to her in a voice so sweet, so winning,
+that all pain vanished from Mrs. Rothesay's mind.
+
+In a little while she was sitting calmly by Mrs. Gwynne's side,
+listening to her talking. It went into the blind woman's heart. Soft
+the voice was, and kind; and above all, there were in it the remembered,
+long unheard accents of the northern tongue. She felt again like
+young Sybilla Hyde, creeping along in the moonlight by the side of her
+stalwart Highland lover, listening to his whispers, and thinking that
+there was in the wide world no one like her own Angus Rothesay--so
+beautiful and so brave!
+
+When Mrs. Gwynne quitted the Dell, she left on the hearts of both mother
+and daughter a pleasure which they sought not to repress. They were
+quite glad that the next day was Sunday, when they would go to Harbury,
+and hear Harold Gwynne preach. Olive told her mother all that had passed
+in the churchyard, and they agreed that he must be a very peculiar,
+though a very clever man. As for Christal, she had gone off with her
+friend, Mrs. Fludyer, and did not interfere in the conversation at all.
+
+When Sunday morning came, Mrs. Rothesay's feeble strength was found
+unequal to a walk of two miles. Christal, apparently not sorry for the
+excuse, volunteered to remain with her, and Olive went to church alone.
+She was loth to leave her mother; but then she did so long to hear Mr.
+Gwynne preach! She thought, all the way, what kind of minister he would
+make. Not at all like any other, she was quite sure.
+
+She entered the grey, still, village church, and knelt down to pray in a
+retired corner-pew. There was a great quietness over her--a repose like
+that of the morning before sunrise. She felt a meek happiness, a
+hopeful looking forth into life; and yet a touch would have awakened the
+fountain of tears.
+
+She saw Mrs. Gwynne walk up the aisle alone, with her firm, stately
+step, and then the service began. Olive glanced one instant at the
+officiating minister;--it was the same stern face that she had seen
+by Sara's grave; nay, perhaps even more stern. Nor did she like his
+reading, for there was in it the same iron coldness. He repeated
+the touching liturgy of the English Church with the tone of a judge
+delivering sentence--an orator pronouncing his well-written, formal
+harangue. Olive had to shut her ears before she herself could heartily
+pray. This pained her; there was something so noble in Mr. Gwynne's
+face, so musical in his voice, that any shortcoming gave her a sense of
+disappointment. She felt troubled to think that he was the clergyman of
+the parish, and she must necessarily hear him every Sunday.
+
+Harold Gwynne mounted his pulpit, and Olive listened intently. From
+what she had heard of him as a highly intellectual man, from the
+faint indications of character which she had herself noticed in their
+conversation, Miss Rothesay expected that he would have dived deeply
+into theological disquisition. She had too much penetration to look to
+him for the Christianity of a St. John--it was evident that such was not
+his nature; but she thought he would surely employ his powerful mind
+in wrestling with those knotty points of theology which might furnish
+arguments for a modern St. Paul.
+
+But Harold Gwynne did neither. His sermon was a plain moral
+discourse--an essay such as Locke or Bacon might have written; save that
+he took care to translate it into language suitable to his hearers--the
+generality of whom were of the labouring class. Olive liked him for
+this, believing she recognised therein the strong sense of duty, the
+wish to do good, which overpowered all desire of intellectual display.
+And when she had once succeeded in ignoring the fact that his sermon was
+of a character more suited to the professor's chair than the pulpit,
+she listened with deep interest to his teaching of a lofty, but somewhat
+stern morality. Yet, despite his strong, clear arguments, and his
+evident earnestness, there was about him a repellent atmosphere,
+which prevented her inclining towards _the man_, even while she was
+constrained to respect the intellect of the preacher.
+
+Nevertheless, when Mr. Gwynne ended his brief discourse with the usual
+prayer, that it might be "grafted inwardly" in his hearers' minds, it
+sounded very like a mockery--at least to Olive, who for the moment had
+almost forgotten that she was in a church. During the silent pause
+of the kneeling congregation, she raised her eyes and looked at the
+minister. He, too, knelt like the rest, with covered face, but his
+hands were not folded in prayer--they were clenched like those of a
+man writhing under some strong and secret agony; and when he lifted his
+head, his rigid features were more rigid than ever. The organ awoke,
+pealing forth Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus," and still the pastor sat
+motionless in his pulpit, his stern face showing white in the sunshine.
+The heavenly music rolled round him its angelic waves--they never
+touched his soul. Beneath, his simple congregation passed out,
+exchanging with one another demure Sunday greetings, and kindly Sunday
+smiles; he saw them not. He sat alone, like one who has no sympathy
+either with heaven or earth.
+
+But there watched him from the hidden corner eyes he knew not of--the
+wondering, half-pitying eyes of Olive Rothesay. And while she gazed,
+there came into her heart--involuntarily, as if whispered by an unseen
+angel at her side--the words from the Litany--words which he himself had
+coldly read an hoar before:--
+
+"_That it may please Thee to lead into the way of truth all such as have
+erred and are deceived. We beseech Thee to hear us, O Lord!_"
+
+Scarcely conscious was she why she thus felt, or for whom she prayed;
+but, years after, it seemed to her that there had been a solemn import
+in these words.
+
+Miss Rothesay was late in quitting the church. As she did so, she felt
+her arm lightly touched, and saw beside her Mrs. Gwynne.
+
+"My dear, I am glad to meet you--we scarcely expected to have seen
+you at church to-day. Alone, too! then you must come with me to the
+Parsonage to lunch. You say nay? What! are we still so far enemies that
+you refuse our bread and salt?"
+
+Olive coloured with sensitive fear lest she might have given pain.
+Besides, she felt a strong attraction towards Mrs. Gwynne--a sense of
+looking up, such as she had never before experienced towards any woman.
+For, it is needless to say, Olive's affection for her mother was the
+passionate, protecting tenderness of a nurse for a beloved charge--nay,
+even of a lover towards an idolised mistress; but there was nothing of
+reverential awe in it at all. Now Mrs. Gwynne carried with her dignity,
+influence, command. Olive, almost against her will, found herself
+passing down the green alley that led to the Parsonage. As she walked
+along--her slight small figure pressed close to her companion, who had
+taken her "under her arm,"--she felt almost like a child beside Harold's
+mother.
+
+At the door sat little Ailie, amusing herself with a great dog. She
+looked restless and wearied, as a child does, kept in the house under
+the restrictions of "Sunday play." At the sight of her grandmother,
+the little girl seemed half-pleased, half-frightened, and tried to calm
+Rover's frolics within the bounds of Sabbatic propriety. This being
+impossible, Mrs. Gwynne's severe voice ordered both the offenders away
+in different directions. Then she apologised to Miss Rothesay.
+
+"Perhaps," she continued, "you are surprised that Ailie was not with me
+this morning. But such is her father's will. My son Harold is peculiar
+in his opinions, and has a great hatred of cant, especially infantile
+cant."
+
+"And does Ailie never go to church?"
+
+"No! but I take care that she keeps Sunday properly and reverently at
+home. I remove her playthings and her baby-books, and teach her a few of
+Dr. Watt's moral hymns."
+
+Olive sighed. She felt that this was not the way to teach the faith of
+Him who smiled with benign tenderness on the little child "set in the
+midst." And it grieved her to think what a wide gulf there was between
+the untaught Ailie, and that sincere, but stern piety over which had
+gathered the formality of advancing years.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne and her guest had sat talking for some minutes, when Harold
+was seen crossing the lawn. His mother called him, and he came to the
+window with the quick response of one who in all his life had never
+heard that summons unheeded. It was a slight thing, but Olive noticed
+it, and the loving daughter felt more kindly towards the duteous son.
+
+"Harold, Miss Rothesay is here."
+
+He glanced in at the open window with a surprised half-confused air,
+which was not remarkable, considering the awkwardness of this second
+meeting, after their first rencontre. Remembering it, Olive heard his
+steps down the long hall with some trepidation. But entering, he walked
+up to her with graceful ease, took her hand, and expressed his pleasure
+in meeting her. He did not make the slightest allusion either to their
+former correspondence, or to their late conversation in the churchyard.
+
+Olive's sudden colour paled beneath his unconcerned air; her
+faintly-quickened pulses sank into quietness; it seemed childish to
+have been so nervously sensitive in meeting Harold Gwynne. She felt
+thoroughly ashamed of herself, and was afraid lest her shyness might
+have conveyed to him and to his mother the impression, which she would
+not for worlds have given,--that she bore any painful or uncharitable
+remembrance of the past.
+
+Soon the conversation glided naturally into ease and pleasantness. Mrs.
+Gwynne had the gift of talking well--a rare quality among women,
+whose conversation mostly consists of disjointed chatter, long-winded
+repetitions, or a commonplace remark, and--silence. But Alison Gwynne
+had none of these feminine peculiarities. To listen to her was like
+reading a pleasant book. Her terse, well-chosen sentences had all the
+grace of easy chat, and yet were so unaffected that not until you paused
+to think them over, did you discover that you might have "put them all
+down in a book;" and made an excellent book too.
+
+Her son had not this gift; or, if he had, he left it unemployed. It was
+a great moment that could draw more than ordinary words from the lips
+of Harold Gwynne; and such moments seemed to have been rare indeed
+with him. Generally he appeared--as he did now to Olive Rothesay--the
+dignified, but rather silent master of the household--in whose most
+winning grace there was reserve, and whose very courtesy implied
+command.
+
+He showed this when, after an hour's pleasant visit, Miss Rothesay moved
+to depart. Harold requested her to remain a few minutes longer.
+
+"I have occasion to go to the Hall before evening service, and I
+shall be happy to accompany you on the way, if you do not object to my
+escort."
+
+If Olive had been quite free, probably she would have answered that she
+did; for her independent habits made her greatly enjoy a long quiet walk
+alone, especially through a beautiful country. She almost felt that the
+company of her redoubtable pastor would be a restraint. But in all that
+Harold Gwynne did or said there lurked an inexplicable sway, to which
+every one seemed to bend. Almost against her will, she remained; and in
+a few minutes was walking beside him to the little wicket-gate.
+
+Here they were interrupted by some one on clerical business. Mr. Gwynne
+desired her to proceed; he would overtake her ere she had descended the
+hill. Thither Olive went, half hoping that she might after all take her
+walk alone. But very soon she heard behind her footsteps, quick, firm,
+manly, less seeming to tread than to crush the ground. Such footsteps
+give one a feeling of being haunted--as they did to Olive. It was a
+relief when they came up with her, and she was once more joined by
+Harold Gwynne.
+
+"You are exact in keeping your word," observed Miss Rothesay, by way of
+saying something.
+
+"Yes, always; when I say _I will_, it is generally done. The road is
+uneven and rough, will my arm aid you, Miss Rothesay?"
+
+She accepted it, perhaps the more readily because it was offered less
+as a courtesy than a support, and one not unneeded, for Olive was rather
+tired with her morning's exertions, and with the excitement of
+talking to strangers. As she walked, there came across her mind the
+thought--what a new thing it was for her to have a strong kindly arm
+to lean on! But it seemed rather pleasant than otherwise, and she felt
+gratefully towards Mr. Gwynne.
+
+They conversed on the ordinary topics, natural to such a recent
+acquaintance--the beauty of the country around, the peculiarities
+of forest scenery, etc. etc. Never once did Harold's conversation
+assimilate to that which had so struck Olive when they stood beside poor
+Sara's grave. It seemed as though the former Harold Gwynne--the object
+of her girlhood's dislike, her father's enemy, her friend's husband--had
+vanished for ever, and in his stead was a man whose strong individuality
+of character already interested her. He was unlike all other men she had
+ever known. This fact, together with the slight mystery that hung over
+him, attracted the lingering romance of Olive's nature, and made her
+observe his manner and his words with a vigilant curiosity, as if to
+seek some new revelation of humanity in his character or his history.
+Therefore, every little incident of conversation in that first walk
+was carefully put by in her hidden nooks of memory, to amuse her mother
+with,--and perhaps also to speculate thereupon herself.
+
+They reached Farnwood Dell, and Olive's conscience began to accuse her
+of having left her mother for so many hours. Therefore her adieux and
+thanks to Mr. Gwynne were somewhat abrupt. Mechanically she invited him
+in, and, to her surprise, he entered.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay was sitting out of doors, in her garden chair. A beautiful
+picture she made, leaning back with-a mild sweetness, scarce a smile
+hovering on her lips. Her pale little hands were folded on her black
+dress; her soft braids of hair, already silver-grey, and her complexion,
+lovely as that of a young girl, showing delicately in contrast with her
+crimson garden-hood, the triumph of her daughter's skilful fingers.
+
+Olive crossed the grass with a quick and noiseless step,--Harold
+following. "Mamma, darling!"
+
+A light, bright as a sunburst, shone over Mrs. Rothesay's face--"My
+child! how long you have been away. Did Mrs. Gwynne"--
+
+"Hush, darling!"--in a whisper--"I have been at the Parsonage, and Mr.
+Gwynne has kindly brought me home. He is here now."
+
+Harold stood at a distance and bowed.
+
+Olive came to him, saying, in a low tone, "Take her hand, she cannot see
+you, she is blind."
+
+He started with surprise. "I did not know--my mother told me
+nothing."--And then, advancing to Mrs. Rothesay, he pressed her hand in
+both his, with such an air of reverent tenderness and gentle compassion,
+that it made his face grow softened--beautiful, divine!
+
+Olive Rothesay, turning, beheld that look. It never afterwards faded
+from her memory.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay arose, and said in her own sweet manner, "I am happy to
+meet Mr. Gwynne, and to thank him for taking care of my child." They
+talked for a few minutes, and then Olive persuaded her mother to return
+to the house.
+
+"You will come, Mr. Gwynne?" said Mrs. Rothesay. He answered,
+hesitating, that the afternoon would close soon, and he must go on to
+Farnwood Hall. Mrs. Rothesay rose from her chair with the touching,
+helpless movement of one who is blind.
+
+"Permit me," said Harold Gwynne, as, stepping quickly forward, he drew
+her arm through his, arranging her shawl with a care like a woman's. And
+so he led her into the house, with a tenderness beautiful to see.
+
+Olive, as she followed silently after, felt her whole heart melted
+towards him. She never forgot Harold's first meeting with, and his
+kindness to, her mother.
+
+He went away, promising to pay another visit soon.
+
+"I am quite charmed with Mr. Gwynne," said Mrs. Rothesay. "Tell me,
+Olive, what he is like."
+
+Olive described him, though not enthusiastically at all. Nevertheless,
+her mother answered, smiling, "He must, indeed, be a remarkable
+person. He is such a perfect gentleman, and his voice is so kind and
+pleasant;--like his mother, too, he has a little of the sweet Scottish
+tongue. Truly, I did not think there had been in the world such a man as
+Harold Gwynne."
+
+"Nor I," answered Olive, in a soft, quiet, happy voice. She hung over
+her mother with a deeper tenderness--she looked out into the lovely
+autumn sunset with a keener sense of beauty and of joy. The sun was
+setting, the year was waning; but on Olive Rothesay's life had risen a
+new season and a new day.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVIII.
+
+"Well, I never in my life knew such a change as Farnwood has made in
+Miss Manners," observed old Hannah, the Woodford Cottage maid; who,
+though carefully kept in ignorance of any facts that could betray the
+secret of Christal's history, yet seemed at times to bear a secret
+grudge against her, as an interloper. "There she comes, riding across
+the country like some wild thing--she who used to be so prim and
+precise!"
+
+"Poor young creature, she is like a bird just let out of a cage," said
+Mrs. Rothesay, kindly. "It is often so with girls brought up as she has
+been. Olive, I am glad you never went to school."
+
+Olive's answer was stopped by the appearance of Christal, followed by
+one of the young Fludyer boys, with whom she had become a first-rate
+favourite. Her fearless frankness, her exuberant spirits, tempered only
+by her anxiety to appear always "the grand lady," made her a welcome
+guest at Farnwood Hall. Indeed, she was rarely at home, save when
+appearing, as now, on a hasty visit, which quite disturbed Mrs.
+Rothesay's placidity, and almost drove old Hannah crazy.
+
+"He is not come yet, you see," Christal said, with a mysterious nod to
+Charley Fludyer. "I thought we should outride him--a parson never can
+manage a pony. But he will surely be here soon?"
+
+"_Who_ will be here soon?" asked Olive, considerably surprised. "Are you
+speaking of Mr. Gwynne?"
+
+"Mr. Gwynne, no! Far better fun than that, isn't it, Charley? Shall we
+tell the secret or not? Or else shall we tell half of it, and let her
+puzzle it out till he comes?" The boy nodded assent "Well, then, there
+is coming to see you to-day a friend of Charley's, who only arrived at
+Farnwood last night, and since then has been talking of nothing else but
+his old idol, Miss Olive Rothesay. So I told him to meet me here, and,
+lo! he comes."
+
+There was a hurried knock at the door, and immediately the little
+parlour was graced by the presence of an individual,--whom Olive did not
+recognise in the least. He seemed about twenty, slight and tall, of a
+complexion red and white; his features pretty, though rather girlish.
+
+Olive bowed to him in undisguised surprise; but the moment he saw her
+his face became "celestial rosy red," apparently from a habit he had, in
+common with other bashful youths, of blushing on all occasions.
+
+"I see you do not remember me, Miss Rothesay. Of course I could not
+expect it. But I have not forgotten you."
+
+Olive, though still doubtful, instinctively offered him her hand. The
+tall youth took it eagerly, and as he looked down upon her, something in
+his expression reminded her of a face she had herself once looked down
+upon--her little knight of the garden at Oldchurch. In the impulse of
+the moment she called him again by his old name--"Lyle! Lyle Derwent!"
+
+"Yes, it is indeed I!" cried the young man. "Oh, Miss Rothesay, you
+can't tell how glad I am to meet you again."
+
+"I am glad, too." And Olive regarded him with that half-mournful
+curiosity with which we trace the lineaments of some long-forgotten
+face, belonging to that olden time, between which and now a whole
+lifetime seems to have intervened.
+
+"Is that little Lyle Derwent?" cried Mrs. Rothesay, catching the name.
+"How very strange! Come hither, my dear boy! Alas, I cannot see you. Let
+me put my hand on your head."
+
+But she could not reach it, he was grown so tall. She seemed startled to
+think how time had flown.
+
+"He is quite a man now, mamma," said Olive; "you know we have not seen
+him for many years"----
+
+Lyle added, blushing deeper than before--"The last time--I remember it
+well--was in the garden, one Sunday in spring--nine years ago."
+
+"Nine years ago! Is it then nine years since my Angus died?" murmured
+the widow; and a grave silence spread itself over them all. In the
+midst of it Christal and Charley, seeing this meeting was not likely to
+produce the "fun" they expected, took the opportunity of escaping.
+
+Then came the questions, which after so long a period one shrinks from
+asking, afraid of answer. Olive learnt that old Mr. Derwent had ceased
+to scold, and poor Bob played his mischievous pranks no more. Both lay
+quiet in Oldchurch churchyard. Worldly losses, too, had chanced, until
+the sole survivor of the family found himself very poor.
+
+"I should not even have gone to college," said Lyle, "but for the
+kindness of my brother-in-law, Harold Gwynne."
+
+Olive started. "Oh, true--I forgot all about that. Then he has been
+a good brother to you?" added she, with a feeling of pleasure and
+interest.
+
+"He has indeed. When my father died, I had not a relative in the world,
+save a rich old uncle who wanted to put me in his counting-house; but
+Harold stood between us, and saved me from a calling I hated. And when
+my uncle turned me off, he took me home. Yes! I am not ashamed to say
+that I owe everything in the world to my brother Harold. I feel this the
+more, because he was not quite happy in his marriage. She did not suit
+him--my sister Sara."
+
+"Indeed?" said Olive, and changed the conversation. After tea, Lyle, who
+appeared rather a sentimental young gentleman, proposed a moonlight walk
+in the garden. Miss Christal, after eyeing Olive and her cavalier with
+a mixture of amusement and vexation, as if she did not like to miss
+so excellent a chance of fun and flirtation, consoled herself with
+ball-playing and Charley Fludyer.
+
+As their conversation grew more familiar, Olive was rather disappointed
+in Lyle. In his boyhood, she had thought him quite a little genius;
+but the bud had given more promise than the flower was ever likely to
+fulfil. Now she saw in him one of those not uncommon characters, who
+with sensitive feeling, and some graceful talent, yet never rise to the
+standard of genius. Strength, daring, and, above all, originality were
+wanting in his mind. With all his dreamy sentiment--his lip-library of
+perpetually quoted poets--and his own numberless scribblings (of which
+he took care to inform Miss Rothesay)--Lyle Der-went would probably
+remain to his life's end a mere "poetical gentleman."
+
+Olive soon divined all this, and she began to weary a little of her
+companion and his vague sentimentalities, "in linked sweetness long
+drawn out." Besides, thoughts much deeper had haunted her at times,
+during the evening--thoughts of the marriage which had been "not quite
+happy." This fact scarcely surprised her. The more she began to know of
+Mr. Gwynne--and she had seen a great deal of him, considering the few
+weeks of their acquaintance--the more she marvelled that he had ever
+chosen Sara Derwent for his wife. Their union must have been like that
+of night and day, fierce fire and unstable water. Olive longed to fathom
+the mystery, and could not resist saying.
+
+"You were talking of your sister a-while ago. I stopped you, for I saw
+it pained mamma. But now I should so like to hear something about my
+poor Sara."
+
+"I can tell you little, for I was a boy when she died. But things I then
+little noticed, I put together afterwards. It must have been quite a
+romance, I think. You know my sister had a former lover--Charles Geddes.
+Do you remember him?"
+
+"I do--well!" and Olive sighed--perhaps over the remembrance of the
+dream born in that fairy time--her first girlish dream of ideal love.
+
+"He was at sea when Sara married. On his return the news almost drove
+him wild. I remember his coming in the garden--our old garden, you
+know--where he and Sara used to walk. He seemed half mad, and I went to
+him, and comforted him as well as I could, though little I understood
+his grief. Perhaps I should now!" said Lyle, lifting his eyes with
+rather a doleful, sentimental air; which, alas! was all lost upon his
+companion.
+
+"Poor Charles!" she murmured. "But tell me more."
+
+"He persuaded me to take back all her letters, together with one from
+himself, and give them to my sister the next time I went to Harbury. I
+did so. Well I remember that night! Harold came in, and found his wife
+crying over the letters. In a fit of jealousy he took them and read them
+all through--together with that of Charles. He did not see me, or know
+the part I had in the matter, but I shall never forget _him_."
+
+"What did he do?" asked Olive, eagerly. Strange that her question and
+her thoughts were not of Sara, but of Harold.
+
+"Do? nothing! But his words--I remember them distinctly, they were so
+freezing, so stern. He grasped her arm, and said, 'Sara, when you said
+you loved me, you uttered _a lie!_ When you took your marriage oath,
+you vowed _a lie!_ Every day since, that you have smiled in my face, you
+have looked _a lie!_ Henceforth I will never trust you--or any woman. '"
+
+"And what followed?" cried Olive, now so strongly interested that she
+never paused to think if she had any right to ask these questions.
+
+"Soon after, Sara came home to us. She did not stay long, and then
+returned to Harbury. Harold was never unkind to her--that I know. But,
+somehow, she pined away; the more so after she heard of Charles Geddes's
+sudden death."
+
+"Alas! he died too."
+
+"Yes; by an accident his own recklessness caused. But he was weary of
+his life, poor fellow! Well--Sara never quite recovered that shock.
+After little Ailie was born, she lingered a few weeks, and then died. It
+was almost a relief to us all."
+
+"What! did you not love your sister?"
+
+"Of course I did; but then she was older than I, and had never cared for
+me much. Now, as to Harold, I owe him everything. He has been to me less
+like a brother than a father; not in affection, perhaps that is scarcely
+in his nature, but in kindness and in counsel. There is not in the world
+a better man than Harold Gwynne."
+
+Olive replied warmly. "I am sure of it, and I like you the more for
+acknowledging it." Then, in some confusion, she added, "Pardon me, but
+I had quite gone back to the old times, when you were my little pet. I
+really must learn to show more formality and respect to Mr. Derwent."
+
+"Don't say _Mr. Derwent_. Pray call me Lyle, as you used to do."
+
+"That I will, with pleasure. Only," she continued, smiling, "when I look
+up at you, I shall begin to feel quite an ancient dame, since I am so
+much older than you."
+
+"Not at all," Lyle answered, with an eagerness somewhat deeper than the
+mannish pride of youths who have just crossed the Rubicon that divides
+them from their much-scorned '_teens_.' "I have advanced, and you seem to
+have stood still; there is scarcely any difference between us now." And
+Olive, somewhat amused, let her old favourite have his way.
+
+They spoke on trivial subjects, until it was time to return to the
+house. Just as they were entering, Lyle said:
+
+"Look! there is my brother-in-law standing at the gate. Oh, Miss
+Rothesay, be sure you never tell him of the things we have been talking
+about."
+
+"It is not likely I shall ever have the opportunity. Mr. Gwynne seems a
+very reserved man."
+
+"He is so; and of these matters he now never speaks at all."
+
+"Hush! he is here;" and with a feeling of unwonted nervousness, as if
+she feared he had been aware of how much she had thought and conversed
+about him, Olive met Harold Gwynne.
+
+"I am afraid I am an intruder, Miss Rothesay," said the latter, with a
+half-suspicious glance at the tall, dark figure which stood near her in
+the moonlight.
+
+"What! did you not know me, brother Harold? How funny!" And he laughed:
+his laugh was something like Sara's.
+
+It seemed to ring jarringly on Mr. Gwynne's ear. "I was not aware, Miss
+Rothesay, that you knew my brother-in-law."
+
+"Oh, Miss Rothesay and I were friends almost ten years ago. She was our
+neighbour at Oldchurch."
+
+"Indeed." And Olive thought she discerned in his face, which she had
+already begun to read, some slight pain or annoyance. Perhaps it wounded
+him to know any one who had known Sara. Perhaps--but conjectures were
+vain.
+
+"I am glad you are come," she said to Harold. "Mamma has been wishing
+for you all day. Lyle, will you go and tell her who is here. Nay, Mr.
+Gwynne, surely you will come back with me to the house?"
+
+He seemed half-inclined to resist, but at last yielded. So he made one
+of the little circle, and "assisted" well at this, the first of many
+social evenings, at Farnwood Dell But at times, Olive caught some of
+his terse, keen, and somewhat sarcastic sayings, and thought she could
+imagine the look and tone with which he had said the bitter words about
+"never trusting woman more."
+
+He and Lyle went away together, and Christal, who had at last succeeded
+in apparently involving the light-hearted young collegian within the
+meshes of her smiles, took consolation in a little quiet drollery with
+Charley Fludyer; but even this resource failed when Charley spoke of
+returning home.
+
+"I shall not go back with you to-night," said Christal. "I shall stay
+at the Dell. You may come and fetch me to-morrow, with the pony you lent
+me; and bring Mr. Derwent, too, to lead it. To see him so employed would
+be excellent fun."
+
+"You seem to have taken a sudden passion for riding, Christal," said
+Olive, with a smile, when they were alone.
+
+"Yes, it suits me. I like dashing along across the country--it is
+excitement; and I like, too, to have a horse obeying me--'tis so
+delicious to rule! To think that Madame Blandin should consider riding
+unfeminine, and that I should have missed that pleasure for so many
+years! But I am my own mistress now. By the way," she added, carelessly,
+"I wanted to have a few words with you, Miss Rothesay." She had rarely
+called her _Olive_ of late.
+
+"Nay, my dears," interposed Mrs. Rothesay, "do not begin to talk just
+yet--not until I am gone to bed; for I am very, very tired" And so,
+until Olive came downstairs again, Christal sat in dignified solitude by
+the parlour fire.
+
+"Well," said Miss Rothesay, when she entered, "what have you to say to
+me, my dear child?"
+
+Christal drew back a little at the familiar word and manner, as though
+she did not quite like it. But she only said, "Oh, it is a mere trifle;
+I am obliged to mention it, because I understand Miss Vanbrugh left my
+money matters under your care until I came of age."
+
+"Certainly; you know it was by your consent, Christal."
+
+"O yes, because it will save me trouble. Well, all I wanted to say was,
+that I wish to keep a horse."
+
+"To keep a horse!"
+
+"Certainly; what harm can there be in that? I long to ride about at my
+own will; go to the meets in the forest; even to follow the hounds. I am
+my own mistress, and I choose to do it," said Christal in rather a high
+tone.
+
+"You cannot, indeed, my dear," answered Olive mildly. "Think of all the
+expenses it would entail--expenses far beyond your income."
+
+"I myself am the best judge of that."
+
+"Not quite. Because, Christal, you are still very young, and have little
+knowledge of the world. Besides, to tell you the plain truth--must I?"
+
+"Certainly; of all things I hate deceit and concealment." Here Christal
+stopped, blushed a little; and half-turning aside, hid further in her
+bosom a little ornament which occasionally peeped out--a silver cross
+and beads. Then she said in a somewhat less angry tone, "You are right;
+tell me all your mind."
+
+"I think, then, that though your income is sufficient to give you
+independence, it cannot provide you with luxuries. Also," she continued,
+speaking very gently, "it seems to me scarcely right, that a young girl
+like you, without father or brother, should go riding and hunting in the
+way you purpose."
+
+"That still is my own affair--no one has a right to control me." Olive
+was silent. "Do you mean to say _you_ have? Because you are in some sort
+my guardian, are you to thwart me in this manner? I will not endure it."
+
+And there rose in her the same fierce spirit which had startled Olive
+on the first night of the girl's arrival at Woodford Cottage, and which,
+something to her surprise, had lain dormant ever since, covered
+over with the light-hearted trifling which formed Christal's outward
+character. "What am I to do?" thought Olive, much troubled. "How am I to
+wrestle with this girl? But I will do it--if only for Meliora's sake.
+Christal," she said affectionately, "we have never talked together
+seriously for a long time; not since the first night we met."
+
+"I remember, you were good to me then," answered Christal, a little
+subdued.
+
+"Because I was grieved for you--I pitied you." "Pitied!" and the angry
+demon again rose. Olive saw she must not touch that chord again.
+
+"My dear," she said, still more kindly; "indeed I have neither the wish
+nor the right to rule you; I only advise." "And to advice I am ready to
+listen. Don't mistake me, Miss Rothesay. I liked you--I do still--very
+much indeed; but you don't quite understand or sympathise with me now."
+
+"Why not, dear? Is it because I have little time to be with you, being
+so much occupied with my mother, and with my profession?"
+
+"Ay, that is it," said Christal, loftily. "My dear Miss Rothesay, I
+am much obliged to you for all your kindness; but we do not suit one
+another. I have found that out since I visited at Farnwood Hall. There
+is a difference between a mere artist working for a livelihood, and an
+independent lady."
+
+Even Christal, abrupt as her anger had made her, blushed for the
+rudeness of this speech. But false shame kept her from offering any
+atonement.
+
+Olive's slight figure expressed unwonted dignity. In her arose something
+of the old Rothesay pride, but still more of pride in her Art. "There is
+a difference; but, to my way of thinking, it is often on the side of the
+artist."
+
+Christal made no answer, and Olive continued, resuming her usual manner.
+"Come, we will not discuss this matter. All that need be decided now,
+is, whether or not I shall draw the sum you will require to buy your
+horse. I will, if you desire it; because, as you say, I have indeed
+no control over you. But, my dear Christal, I entreat you to pause and
+consider; at least till morning."
+
+Olive rose, for she was unequal to further conversation. Deeply it
+pained her that this girl, whom she wished so to love, should
+evidently turn from her, not in dislike, but in a sort of contemptuous
+indifference. Still she made one effort more. As she was retiring, she
+went up, bade her good-night, and kissed her as usual.
+
+"Do not let this conversation make any division between us, Christal."
+
+"Oh no," said Christal, rather coldly. "Only," she added, in the
+passionate, yet mournful tone, which she had before used when at
+Woodford Cottage; "only, you must not interfere with me, Olive.
+Remember, I was not brought up like you. I had no one to control me, no
+one to teach me to control myself. It could not be helped! and it is too
+late now."
+
+"It is never too late," cried Olive. But Christal's emotion had passed,
+and she resumed her lofty manner.
+
+"Excuse me, but I am a little too old to be lectured; and, I have no
+doubt, shall be able to guide my own conduct. For the future, we will
+not have quite such serious conversations as this. Good-night!"
+
+Olive went away, heavy at heart. She had long been unaccustomed to
+wrestle with an angry spirit. Indeed, she lived in an atmosphere so
+pure and full of love, that on it never gloomed one domestic storm. She
+almost wished that Christal had not come with them to Farnwood. But then
+it seemed such an awful thing for this young and headstrong creature
+to be adrift on the wide world. She determined that, whether Christal
+desired it or no, she would never lose sight of her, but try to guide
+her with so light a hand, that the girl might never even feel the sway.
+
+Next morning Miss Manners abruptly communicated her determination not to
+have the horse, and the matter was never again referred to. But it had
+placed a chasm between Olive and Christal, which the one could not, the
+other would not pass. And as various other interests grew up in Miss
+Rothesay's life, her anxiety over this wayward girl a little ceased.
+Christal stayed almost wholly at Farnwood Hall; and in humble, happy,
+Farnwood Dell, Olive abode, devoted to her Art and to her mother.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIX.
+
+Weeks glided into months; and within the three-mile circle of the Hall,
+the Parsonage, and the Dell, was as pleasant a little society as could
+be found, anywhere. Frequent meetings, usually confined to themselves
+alone, produced the necessary intimacy of a country neighbourhood.
+
+As it sometimes happens that persons, or families taught to love each
+other unknown, when well known learn to hate; so, on the contrary, it is
+no unfrequent circumstance for those who have lived for years in enmity,
+when suddenly brought together, to become closer friends than if there
+had been no former antipathy between them. So it was with the Rothesays
+and the Gwynnes.
+
+Once after Mrs. Gwynne and her son had spent a long pleasant evening at
+the Dell, Olive chanced to light upon the packet of Harold's letters,
+which, years before, she had put by, with the sincere wish that she
+might never hear anything of him more.
+
+"You would not wish so now, Olive--nor would I," said Mrs. Rothesay,
+when her daughter had smilingly referred to the fact. "The society of
+the Gwynnes has really proved a great addition to our happiness. How
+kind and warmhearted Mrs. Gwynne is--so earnest in her friendship for
+us, too!"
+
+"Yes, indeed. Do you know, it struck me that it must have been from her
+report of us, that aunt Flora Rothesay sent the kind message which
+the Gwynnes brought to-day. I own, it made me happy! To think that my
+long-past romantic dream should be likely to come true, and that next
+year we should go to Scotland and see papa's dear old aunt."
+
+"_You_ will go, my child."
+
+"And you too, darling. Think how much you would like it, when the summer
+comes. You will be quite strong then; and how pleasant it will be to
+know that good aunt Flora, of whom the Gwynnes talk so much. She must
+be a very, very old lady now, though Mrs. Gwynne says she is quite
+beautiful still. But she can't be so beautiful as my own mamma. O,
+darling, there never will be seen such a wondrous old lady as you, when
+you are seventy or eighty, Then, I shall be quite elderly myself. We
+shall seem just like two sisters--growing old together."
+
+Olive never spoke, never dreamed of any other possibility than this.
+
+Calmly, cheerfully, passed the winter, Miss Rothesay devoting herself,
+as heretofore, to the two great interests of her life; but she had other
+minor interests gathering up around her, which in some respects were of
+much service. They prevented that engrossing study, which was often more
+than her health could bear. Once when reading letters from Rome, from
+Mr. Vanbrugh and Meliora, Olive said,
+
+"Mamma, I think on the whole I am happier here than I was at Woodford
+Cottage. I feel less of an artist and more of a woman."
+
+"And, Olive, I am happy too--happy to think that my child is safe with
+me, and not carried off to Rome." For Olive had of course told her
+mother of that circumstance in her life, which might have changed its
+current so entirely. "My daughter, I would not have you leave me to
+marry any man in the world!"
+
+"I never shall, darling!" she answered. And she felt that this was true.
+Her heart was absorbed in her mother.
+
+Nevertheless, the other interests before mentioned, though quite
+external, filled up many little crevices in that loving heart which had
+room for so many affections. Among these was one which, in Olive's whole
+lifetime, had been an impulse, strong, but ever unfulfilled--love for a
+child. She took to her heart Harold's little daughter, less regarding
+it as his, than as poor Sara's. The more so, because, though a good and
+careful, he was not a very loving father. But he seemed gratified by
+the kindness that Miss Rothesay showed to little Ailie; and frequently
+suffered the child to stay with her, and be taught by her all things,
+save those in which it was his pleasure that his daughter should remain
+ignorant--the doctrines of the Church of England.
+
+Sometimes in her visiting of the poor, Olive saw the frightful
+profanities of that cant knowledge which young or ignorant minds
+acquire, and by which the greatest mysteries of Christianity are lowered
+to a burlesque. Then she inclined to think that Harold Gwynne was right,
+and that in this temporary prohibition he acted as became a wise father
+and "a discreet and learned minister of God's Word." As such she
+ever considered him; though she sometimes thought he received and
+communicated that Word less through his heart than through his
+intellect. His moral character and doctrines were irreproachable, but
+it seemed to her as if the dew of Christian love had never fallen on his
+soul.
+
+This feeling gave her, in spite of herself, a sort of awe for him, which
+she would not willingly have felt towards her pastor, and one whom she
+so much regarded and respected. Especially as on any other subject she
+ever held with him full and free communion, and he seemed gradually
+to unbend his somewhat hard nature, as a man will do who inclines in
+friendship towards a truly good woman.
+
+Perhaps here it would be as well to observe, that, close and intimate
+friends as they were, the tie was such that none of their two
+households, no, not even the most tattling gossips of Farnwood and
+Harbury, ever dreamed of saying that Harold Gwynne was "in love" with
+Miss Rothesay. The good folks did chatter now and then, as country
+gossips will, about him and Christal Manners; and perhaps they would
+have chattered more, if the young lady had not been almost constantly at
+the Hall, whither Mr. Gwynne rarely went. But they left the bond between
+him and Olive Rothesay untouched, untroubled by their idle jests.
+Perhaps those who remembered the beautiful Mrs. Harold Gwynne, imagined
+the widower would never choose a second wife so _different_ from his
+first; or perhaps there was cast about the daughter, so devotedly
+tending her blind mother, a sanctity which their unholy and foolish
+tongues dared not to violate.
+
+Thus Olive went on her way, showing great tenderness to little Ailie,
+and, as it seemed, being gradually drawn by the child to the father.
+Besides, there was another sympathy between them, caused by the early
+associations of both, and by their common Scottish blood. For Harold
+had inherited from his father nothing but his name; from his mother
+everything besides. Born in Scotland, he was a Scotsman to the very
+core. His influence awakened once more every feeling that bound Olive
+Rothesay to the land of her birth--her father's land. All things
+connected therewith took, in her eyes, a new romance. She was happy, she
+knew not why--happy as she had been in her dreamy girlhood. It seemed as
+though in her life had dawned a second spring.
+
+Perhaps there was but one thing which really troubled her; and that was
+the prohibition in her teaching of little Ailie. She talked the matter
+over with her mother; that is, she uttered aloud her own thoughts, to
+which Mrs. Rothesay meekly assented; saying, as usual, that Olive was
+quite right. And at last, after much hesitation, she made up her mind to
+speak openly on the subject with Mr. Gwynne.
+
+For this arduous undertaking, at which in spite of herself she
+trembled a little, she chose a time when he had met her in one of her
+forest-walks, which she had undertaken, as she often did, to fulfil
+some charitable duty, usually that of the clergyman or the clergyman's
+family.
+
+"How kind you are, Miss Rothesay; and to come all through the wintry
+forest, too! It was scarcely fit for you.".
+
+"Then it certainly was not for Mrs. Gwynne. I was quite glad to relieve
+her; and it gives me real pleasure to read and talk with John Dent's
+sick mother. Much as she suffers, she is the happiest old woman I ever
+saw in my life."
+
+"What makes her happy, think you?" said Harold continuing the
+conversation as if he wished it to be continued, and so falling
+naturally into a quiet arm-in-arm walk.
+
+Olive answered, responding to his evident intention, and passing
+at once, as in their conversations they always did, to a subject of
+interest, "She is happy, because she has a meek and trusting faith in
+God; and though she knows little she loves much."
+
+"Can one love Him whom one does not fully know?" It was one of the sharp
+searching questions that Mr. Gwynne sometimes put, which never failed to
+startle Olive, and to which she could not always reply; but she made an
+effort to do so now.
+
+"Yes, when what we do know of Him commands love. Does Ailie, even Ailie,
+thoroughly know her father? And yet she loves him."
+
+"That I cannot judge; but most true it is, we know as little of God as
+Ailie knows of her father--ay, and look up to Heaven with as blindfold
+ignorance as Ailie looks up to me.
+
+"Alas! Ailie's is indeed blindfold ignorance!" said Olive, not quite
+understanding his half-muttered words, but thinking they offered a good
+opportunity for fulfilling her purpose. "Mr. Gwynne, may I speak to you
+about something which has long troubled me?"
+
+"Troubled you, Miss Rothesay? Surely that is not my fault? I would not
+for the world do aught that would give pain to one so good as you."
+
+He said this very kindly, pressing her arm with a brotherly gentleness,
+which passed into her heart; imparting to her not only a quick sense of
+pleasure, but likewise courage.
+
+"Thank you, Mr. Gwynne. This does really pain me. It is the subject on
+which we talked the first time that ever you and I met, and of which
+we have never since spoken--your determination with respect to little
+Ailie's religious instruction."
+
+"Ah!" A start, and a dark look. "Well, Miss Rothesay, what have you to
+say?"
+
+"That I think you are not quite right--nay, quite wrong," said Olive,
+gathering resolution. "You are taking from your child her only strength
+in life--her only comfort in death. You keep from her the true faith;
+she will soon make to herself a false one."
+
+"Nay, what is more false than the idle traditions taught by ranting
+parents to their offspring--the Bible travestied into a nursery
+talc--heaven transformed into a pretty pleasure-house--and hell and its
+horrors brought as bugbears to frighten children in the dark. Do you
+think I would have my child turned into a baby saint, to patter glibly
+over parrot prayers, exchange pet sweetmeats for missionary pennies, and
+so learn to keep up a debtor and creditor account with Heaven? No, Miss
+Rothesay, I would rather see her grow up a heathen."
+
+Olive, awed by his language, which was bitter even to fierceness, at
+first made him no answer. At length, however, she ventured, not without
+trembling, to touch another chord.
+
+"But--suppose that your child should be taken away, would you have her
+die as she lives now, utterly ignorant of all holy things?"
+
+"Would I have her die an infant bigot--prattling blindly of subjects
+which in the common course of nature no child can comprehend? Would I
+have her chronicled in some penny tract as a 'remarkable instance
+of infant piety' a small 'vessel of mercy,' to whom the Gospel was
+miraculously revealed at three years old?"
+
+"Do not--oh! do not speak thus," cried Olive, shrinking from him, for
+she saw in his face a look she had never seen before--an expression
+answering to the bitter, daring sarcasm of his tone.
+
+"You think me a strange specimen of a Church of England clergyman? Well,
+perhaps you are right! I believe I am rather different to my brethren."
+He said this with sharp irony. "Nevertheless, if you inquire concerning
+me in the neighbourhood, I think you will find that my moral conduct has
+never disgraced my cloth."
+
+"Never!" cried Olive warmly. "Mr. Gwynne, pardon me if I have
+overstepped the deference due to yourself and your opinions. In some
+things I cannot fathom them or you; but that you are a good, sincere,
+and pious man, I most earnestly believe."
+
+"_Do you!_"
+
+Olive started. The two words were simple, but she thought they had an
+under-meaning, as though he were mocking either himself or her, or both.
+But she thought this could only be fancy; when in a minute or two after,
+he said in his ordinary manner,
+
+"Miss Rothesay, we have been talking earnestly, and you have
+unconsciously betrayed me into speaking more warmly than I ought to
+speak. Do not misjudge me. All men's faith is free; and in some minor
+points of Christianity, I perhaps hold peculiar opinions. As regards
+little Ailie, I thank you for your kind interest in this matter, which
+we will discuss again another time."
+
+They had now reached John Dent's cottage. Olive asked if he would not
+enter with her.
+
+"No, no; you are a far better apostle than your clergyman. Besides, I
+have business at home, and must return. Good morning, Miss Rothesay."
+
+He lifted his hat with a courtly grace, but his eyes showed that
+reverence which no courts could command--the reverence of a sincere man
+for a noble-hearted woman. And so he walked back into the forest.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXX.
+
+The dwelling which Miss Rothesay entered was one of the keeper's
+cottages, built within the forest. The door stood open, for the place
+was too lowly, even for robbers; and, besides, its inmates had nothing
+to lose. Still, Olive thought it was wrong to leave a poor bedridden old
+woman in a state of such unprotected desolation. As her step was heard
+crossing the threshold, there was a shrill cry from the inner room.
+
+"John, John--the lad!--hast thee found the lad?"
+
+"It is not your son--'tis I. Why, what has happened, my good Margery?"
+But the poor old creature fell back and wrung her hands, sobbing
+bitterly.
+
+"The lad!--dun ye know aught o' the lad? Poor Reuben!--he wunnot come
+back no more! Alack! alack!"
+
+And with some difficulty Olive learnt that Margery's grandson, the
+keeper's only child, had gone into the forest some days before, and had
+never returned. It was no rare thing for even practised woodsmen to be
+lost in this wild, wide forest; and at night, in the winter time there
+was no hope. John Dent had gone out with his fellows, less to find the
+living than to bring back the dead.
+
+Filled with deep pity Olive sat down by the miserable grandmother; but
+the poor soul refused to be comforted.
+
+"John'll go mad--clean mad! There beant nowheres such a good lad as our
+Reuben; and to be clemmed to death, and froze! O Lord, tak' pity on us,
+miserable sinners!"
+
+For hours Olive sat by the old woman's bedside. The murky winter day
+soon closed in, and the snow began to fall; but still there was nothing
+heard save the wind howling in the forest. Often Margery started up,
+crying out that there were footsteps at the door, and then sank back in
+dumb despair.
+
+At last there was a tramp of many feet on the frozen ground, the latch
+was lifted, and John Dent burst in.
+
+He was a sturdy woodsman, of a race that are often seen in this forest
+region, almost giant-like in height and bulk. The snow lay thick on his
+uncovered head and naked breast, for he had stripped off all his upper
+garments to wrap round something that was clasped tightly in his arms.
+He spoke to no one, looked at no one, but laid his burden before the
+hearth supported on his knees. It was the corpse of a boy blue and
+shrivelled, like that of one frozen to death. He tried to chafe and bend
+the fingers, but they were as stiff as iron; he wrung the melting snow
+out of the hair, and, as the locks became soft and supple under his
+hand, seemed to think there was yet a little life remaining.
+
+"Why dunnot ye stir, ye fools! Get t' blanket--pull't off the ould
+woman. I tell 'ee the lad's alive."
+
+No one moved, and then the frantic father began to curse and swear. He
+rushed into old Margery's room.
+
+"Get up wi' thee. How darest thee lie hallooing there. Come and help t'
+lad!" and then he ran back to where poor Reuben's body lay extended on
+the hearth, surrounded by the other woodsmen, most of whom were pale
+with awe, some even melting into tears. John Dent dashed them all aside,
+and took his son again in his arms. Olive, from her corner, watched the
+writhings of his rugged features, but she ventured not to approach.
+
+"Tak' heart, tak' heart, John!" said one of the men.
+
+"He didna suffer much, I reckon," said another. "My owd mother was nigh
+froze to death in t' forest, and her said 'twas just like dropping to
+sleep. An' luck ye, the poor lad's face be as quiet as a child."
+
+"John Dent, mon!" whispered one old keeper; "say thy prayers; thee
+doesna often do't, and thee'll want it now."
+
+And then John Dent broke into such a paroxysm of despair, that one
+by one his comforters quitted the cottage. They, strong bold men, who
+feared none of the evils of life, became feeble as children before the
+awful face of Death.
+
+One only remained--the old huntsman who had given the last counsel to
+the wretched father. This man, whom Olive knew, was beckoned by her to
+Margery's room to see what could be done.
+
+"I'll fetch Mr. Gwynne to manage John, poor fellow! The devil's got
+un, sure enough; and it'll tak' a parson to drive't away. But ourn be a
+queer gentleman. When I get to Harbury, what mun I say!"
+
+"Say that I am here--that I entreat him to come at once," cried Olive,
+feeling her strength sinking before this painful scene, from which in
+common charity she could not turn aside. She came once more to look at
+John Dent, who had crouched down before the hearth, with the stiff form
+of the poor dead boy extended on his knees, gazing at it with a sort of
+vacant, hopeless misery. Then she went back to the old woman, and tried
+to speak of comfort and of prayer.
+
+It was not far to Harbury, but, in less time than Olive had expected,
+Harold Gwynne appeared.
+
+"Miss Rothesay, you sent for me!"
+
+"I did--I did. Oh, thank Heaven that you are come," eagerly cried Olive,
+clasping his two hands. He regarded her with a surprised and troubled
+look, and took them away.
+
+"What do you wish me to do!"
+
+"What a minister of God is able--nay, bound to do--to speak comfort in
+this house of misery."
+
+The poor old woman echoed the same entreaty--
+
+"Oh, Mr. Gwynne, you that be a parson, a man of God, come and help us."
+
+Harold looked round, and saw he had to face the woe that no worldly
+comfort or counsel can lighten;--that he had entered into the awful
+presence of the Power, which, stripping man of all his earthly pomp,
+wisdom, and strength, leaves him poor, weak, and naked before his God.
+
+The proud, the moral, the learned Harold Gwynne, stood dumb before the
+mystery of Death. It was too mighty for him. He looked on the dead boy,
+and on the living father; then cast his eyes down to the ground, and
+muttered within himself, "What should I do here?"
+
+"Read to him--pray with him," whispered Olive. "Speak to him of God--of
+heaven--of immortality."
+
+"God--heaven--immortality," echoed Harold, vacantly, but he never
+stirred.
+
+"They say that this man has been a great sinner, and an unbeliever. Oh,
+tell him that he cannot deceive himself now. Death knells into his ear
+that there is a God--there is a hereafter. Mr. Gwynne, oh tell him that,
+at a time like this, there is no comfort, no hope, save in God and in
+His Word."
+
+Olive had spoken thus in the excitement of the moment; then recovering
+herself, she asked pardon for a speech so bold, as if she would fain
+teach the clergyman his duty.
+
+"My duty--yes, I must do my duty," muttered Harold Gwynne. And with his
+hard-set face--the face he wore in the pulpit--he went up to the father
+of the dead child, and said something about "patience," "submission to
+the decrees of Providence," and "all trials being sent for good, and by
+the will of God."
+
+"Dun ye talk to me of God? I know nought about him, parson--ye never
+learned me."
+
+Harold's rigid mouth quivered visibly, but he made no direct answer,
+only saying, in the same formal tone, "You go to church--at least, you
+used to go--you have heard there about 'God in his judgments remembering
+mercy.'"
+
+"Mercy! ye mun easy say that; why did He let the poor lad die i' the
+snow, then?"
+
+And Harold's lips hesitated over those holy words "The Lord gave and the
+Lord taketh away."
+
+"He should ha' takken th' owd mother, then. She's none wanted; but the
+dear lad--the only one left out o' six--oh, Reuben, Reuben, wunna ye
+never speak to your poor father again?"
+
+He looked on the corpse fixedly for some minutes, and then a new thought
+seemed to strike him.
+
+"That's not my lad--my merry little lad!--I say," he cried, starting up
+and catching Mr. Gwynne's arm; "I say, you parson that ought to know,
+where's my lad gone to?"
+
+Harold Gwynne's head sank upon his breast: he made no answer.
+Perhaps--ay, and looking at him, the thought smote Olive with a great
+fear--perhaps to that awful question there was no answer in his soul.
+
+John Dent passed him by, and came to the side of Olive Rothesay.
+
+"Miss, folk say you're a good woman. Dun ye know aught o' these
+things--canna ye tell me if I shall meet my poor lad again?"
+
+And then Olive, casting one glance at Mr. Gwynne, who remained
+motionless, sat down beside the childless father, and talked to him
+of God--not the Infinite Unknown, into whose mysteries the mightiest
+philosophers may pierce and find no end--but the God mercifully
+revealed, "Our Father which is in heaven"--He to whom the poor, the
+sorrowing, and the ignorant may look, and not be afraid.
+
+Long she spoke; simply, meekly, and earnestly. Her words fell like balm;
+her looks lightened the gloomy house of woe. When, at length, she left
+it, John Dent's eyes followed her, as though she had been a visible
+angel of peace.
+
+It was quite night when she and Harold wont out of the cottage. The snow
+had ceased falling, but it lay on every tree of the forest like a white
+shroud. And high above, through the opening of the branches, was
+seen the blue-black frosty sky, with its innumerable stars. The keen,
+piercing cold, the utter stirlessness, the mysterious silence, threw a
+sense of death--white death--over all things. It was a night when one
+might faintly dream what the world would be, if the infidel's boast were
+true, and _there were no God_.
+
+They walked for some time in perfect silence. Troubled thoughts were
+careering like storm-clouds over Olive's spirit. Wonder was there, and
+pity, and an indefined dread. As she leaned on Mr. Gwynne's arm, she had
+a presentiment that in the heart whose strong beating she could almost
+feel, was prisoned some great secret of woe or wrong, before which she
+herself would stand aghast. Yet such was the nameless attraction which
+drew her to this man, that the more she dreaded, the more she longed to
+discover his mystery, whatsoever it might be. She determined to break
+the silence.
+
+"Mr. Gwynne, I trust you will not think it presumption in me to have
+spoken as I did, instead of you; but I saw how shocked and overpowered
+you were, nor wondered at your silence."
+
+He answered in the low tone of one struggling under great excitement.
+"You noticed my silence, then?--that I, summoned as a clergyman to give
+religious consolation, had none to offer."
+
+"Nay, you did attempt some."
+
+"Ay, I tried to preach faith with my lips, and could not, because there
+was none in my heart. No, nor ever will be!"
+
+Olive looked at him uncomprehending, but he seemed to shrink from her
+observation. "I am indeed truly grieved," she began to say, but he
+stopped her.
+
+"Do not speak to me yet, I pray you."
+
+She obeyed; though yearning with pity over him. Hitherto, in all their
+intercourse, whatever had been his kindness towards her, towards him
+she had continually felt a sense of restraint--even of fear. That
+controlling influence, which Mr. Gwynne seemed to exercise over all with
+whom he deigned to associate, was heavy upon Olive Rothesay. Before
+him she felt more subdued than she had ever done before any one; in his
+presence she unconsciously measured her words and guarded her looks, as
+if meeting the eye of a master. And he was a master--a man born to rule
+over the wills of his brethren, swaying them at his lightest breath, as
+the wind bends the grass of the field.
+
+But now the sceptre seemed torn from his hand--he was a king no more.
+He walked along--his head drooped, his eyes fixed on the ground. And
+beholding him thus, there came to Olive, in the place of fear, a strong
+compassion, tender as strong, and pure as tender. Angel-like, it arose
+in her heart, ready to pierce his darkness with its shining eyes--to
+fold around him and all his misery its sheltering wings. He was a great
+and learned man, and she a lowly woman; in her knowledge far beneath
+him, in her faith--oh! how immeasurably above!
+
+She began very carefully. "You are not well, I fear. This painful scene
+has been too much, even for you. Death seems more horrible to men than
+to feeble women."
+
+"Death!--do you think that I fear Death?" and he clenched his hand
+as though he would battle with the great Destroyer. "No!--I have met
+him--stood and looked at him--until my eyes were blinded, and my brain
+reeled. But what am I saying? Don't heed me, Miss Rothesay; don't." And
+he began to walk on hurriedly.
+
+"You are ill, I am sure; and there is something that rests on your
+mind," said Olive, in a quiet, soft tone.
+
+"What!--have I betrayed anything? I mean, have you anything to charge
+me with! Have I left any duty unfulfilled; said any words unbecoming a
+clergyman?" asked he with a freezing haughtiness.
+
+"Not that I am aware. Forgive me, Mr. Gwynne, if I have trespassed
+beyond the bounds of our friendship. For we are friends--have you not
+often said so?"
+
+"Yes, and with truth. I respect you, Miss Rothesay. You are no
+thoughtless girl, but a woman who has, I am sure, both felt and
+suffered! I have suffered too; therefore it is no marvel we are friends.
+I am glad of it."
+
+He seldom spoke so frankly, and never had done what he now did--of
+his own accord, to take and clasp her hand with a friendly air of
+confidence. Long after the pressure passed from Olive's fingers, its
+remembrance lingered in her heart. They walked on a little farther; and
+then he said, not without some slight agitation,
+
+"Miss Rothesay, if you are indeed my friend, listen to one request I
+make;--that you will not say anything, think anything, of whatever part
+of my conduct this day may have seemed strange to you. I know not what
+fate it is that has thus placed you, a year ago a perfect stranger, in
+a position which forces me to speak to you thus. Still less can I tell
+what there is in you which draws from me much that no human being has
+ever drawn before. Accept this acknowledgment, and pardon me."
+
+"Nay, what have I to pardon? Oh, Mr. Gwynne, if I might be indeed your
+friend--if I could but do you any good!"
+
+"You do good to _me?_" he muttered bitterly. "Why, we are as far apart
+as earth from heaven, nay, as heaven from hell; that is if there be----.
+Madman that I am! Miss Rothesay, do not listen to me. Why do you lead me
+on to speak thus?"
+
+"Indeed, I do not comprehend you. Believe me, Mr. Gwynne, I know very
+well the difference between us. I am an unlearned woman, and you"----
+
+"Ay, tell me what I am--that is, what you think I am.
+
+"A wise and good man; but yet one in whom great intellect may at times
+overpower that simple Faith, which is above all knowledge; that Love,
+which, as said the great apostle of our Church"----
+
+"Silence!" His deep voice rose and fell, like the sound of a breaking
+wave. Then he stopped, turned full upon her, and said, in a fierce,
+keen, whisper, "Would you learn the truth? You shall! Know, then, that I
+believe in none of these things I teach--I am an infidel!"
+
+Olive's arm fell from him.
+
+"Do you shrink from me, then? Good and pious woman, do you think I am
+Satan standing by your side?"
+
+"Oh, no, no!" She made an effort to restrain herself; it failed, and she
+burst into tears.
+
+Harold looked at her.
+
+"Meek and gentle soul! It would, perhaps, have been good for me had
+Olive Rothesay been born my sister."
+
+"I would I had--I would I had! But, oh! this is awful to hear. You,
+an unbeliever--you, who all these years have been a minister at the
+altar--what a fearful thing!"
+
+"You say right--it is fearful. Think now what my life is, and has been.
+One long lie--a lie to man and to God. For I do believe so far,"
+he added, solemnly; "I believe in the one ruling Spirit of the
+universe--unknown, unapproachable. None but a madman would deny the
+existence of a God."
+
+He ceased, and looked upwards with his piercing eyes--piercing, yet full
+of restless sorrow. Then he approached his companion.
+
+"Shall we walk on, or do you utterly renounce me?" said he, with a
+touching, sad humility.
+
+"Renounce you!"
+
+"Ah! you would not, could you know all I have endured. To me, earth has
+been a hell--not the place of flames and torments of which your divines
+prate, but the true hell--that of the conscience and the soul. I, too,
+a man whose whole nature was athirst for truth. I sought it first among
+its professors; there I found that they who, too idle or too weak to
+demonstrate their creed, took it upon trust, did what their fathers did,
+believed what their fathers believed--were accounted orthodox and pious
+men; while those who, in their earnest eager youth, dared--not as yet
+to doubt, but meekly to ask a reason for their faith--they were at once
+condemned as impious. But I pain you: shall I go on, or cease?"
+
+"Go on."
+
+"Truth, still truth, I yearned for in another form--in domestic
+peace--in the love of woman.--My soul was famishing for any food; I
+snatched this--in my mouth it became ashes!" His voice seemed choking,
+but with an effort he continued. "After this time I gave up earth, and
+turned to interests beyond it. With straining eyes I gazed into the
+Infinite--and I was dazzled, blinded, whirled from darkness to light,
+and from light to darkness--no rest, no rest! This state lasted long,
+but its end came. Now I walk like a man in his sleep, feeling nothing,
+fearing nothing,--no, thou mighty Unknown, I do _not_ fear! But then I
+hope nothing: I believe nothing. Those pleasant dreams of yours--God,
+Heaven, Immortality--are to me meaningless words. At times I utter them,
+and they seem to shine down like pitiless stars upon the black boiling
+sea in which I am drowning."
+
+"Oh, God, have mercy!" moaned Olive Rothesay. "Give me strength that my
+own faith fail not, and that I may bring Thy light unto this perishing
+soul!" And turning to Harold, she said aloud, as calmly as she could,
+"Tell me--since you have told me thus far--how you came to take upon
+yourself the service of the Church; you who"----
+
+"Ay, well may you pause and shudder! Hear, then, how the devil--if there
+be one--can mock men's souls in the form of an angel of light. But it
+is a long history--it may drive me to utter things that you will shrink
+from."
+
+"I _will_ hear it." There was, in that soft, firm voice an influence
+which Harold perforce obeyed. She was stronger than he, even as light is
+stronger than darkness.
+
+Mr. Gwynne began, speaking quietly, even humbly. "When I was a youth
+studying for the Church, doubts came upon my mind, as they will upon
+most young minds whose strivings after truth are hedged in by a thorny
+rampart of old worn-out forms. Then there came a sudden crisis in my
+life; I must either enter on a ministry in whose creed I only half
+believed, or let my mother--my noble, self-denying mother--starve. You
+know her, Miss Rothesay, though you know not half that she is, and ever
+was to me. But you do know what it is to have a beloved mother."
+
+"Yes."
+
+Infidel as he was, she could have clung to Harold Gwynne, and called him
+brother.
+
+"Well, after a time of great inward conflict, I decided--for her sake.
+Though little more than a boy in years, struggling in a chaos of mingled
+doubt and faith, I bound myself to believe whatever the Church taught,
+and to lead souls to heaven in the Church's own road. These very
+bonds, this vow so blindly to be fulfilled, made me, in after years, an
+infidel."
+
+He paused to look at her.
+
+"I am listening, speak on," said Olive Rothesay.
+
+"As you say truly, I am one whose natural bent of mind is less to faith
+than to knowledge. Above all, I am one who hates all falsehood, all
+hypocritical show. Perchance in the desert I might have learned to serve
+God. Face to face with Him I might have worshiped His revealings. But
+when between me and the one great Truth came a thousand petty veils of
+cunning forms and blindly taught precedents; when among my brethren I
+saw wicked men preaching virtue--men without brains enough to acquire
+a mere worldly profession, such as law or physic, set to expound the
+mighty mysteries of religion--then I said to myself, 'The whole system
+is a lie!' So I cast it from me, and my soul stood forth in its naked
+strength before the Creator of all."
+
+"But why did you still keep up this awful mockery?"
+
+"Because," and his voice sounded hoarse and hollow, "just then there was
+upon me a madness which all men have in youth--love. For that I became a
+liar in the face of Heaven, of men, and of my own soul."
+
+"It was a great sin."
+
+"I know it; and, being such, it fell down upon my head in a curse.
+Since then I have been what you now see me--a very honest, painstaking
+clergyman; doing good, preaching, certainly not doctrine, but blameless
+moralities, carrying a civil face to the world, and a heart--Oh God!
+whosoever and whatsoever Thou art, Thou knowest what blackest darkness
+there is _there!_"
+
+She made no answer.
+
+After a few minutes, Mr. Gwynne said, "You must forgive me, Miss
+Rothesay."
+
+"I do. And so will He whom you do not know, but whom you will know
+yet! I will pray for you--I will comfort you. I wish I were indeed your
+sister, that I might never leave you until I brought you to faith and
+peace."
+
+He smiled very faintly. "Thank you; it is something to feel there is
+goodness in the world. I did not believe in any except my mother's.
+Perhaps if she had known all this--if I could have told her--I had not
+been the wretched man I am."
+
+"Hush; do not talk any more." And then she stood beside him for some
+minutes quite silent, until he grew calm.
+
+They were on the verge of the forest, close to Olive's home. It was
+about seven in the evening, but all things lay as in the stillness
+of midnight. They two might have been the only beings in the living
+world--all else dead and buried under the white snow. And then, lifting
+itself out of the horizon's black nothingness, arose the great red moon,
+like an immortal soul.
+
+"Look!" said Olive. He looked once, and no more. Then, with a sigh, he
+placed her arm in his, and walked with her to her own door.
+
+Arrived there, he bade her adieu, adding, "I would bid God bless you;
+but in such words from me, you would not believe. How could you?"
+
+He said this with a mournful emphasis, to which she could not reply.
+
+"But," he continued in a tone of eager anxiety, "remember that I have
+trusted you. My secret is in your hands. You will be silent, I know;
+silent as death, or eternity.--That is, as both are to me!"
+
+Olive promised; and he left her. She stood listening, until the echo of
+his footfall ceased along the frosty road; then, clasping her hands,
+she lifted once more the petition "for those who have erred and are
+deceived," the prayer which she had once uttered--unconscious how much
+and by whom it was needed. Now she said it with a yearning cry--a cry
+that would fain pierce heaven, and ringing above the loud choir of
+saints and angels, call down mercy on one perishing human soul.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXI.
+
+Never since her birth had Olive felt such a bewildering weight of pain,
+as when she awoke to the full sense of that terrible secret which she
+had learned from Harold Gwynne. This pain lasted, and would last, not
+alone for an hour or a day, but perpetually. It gathered round her like
+a mist. She seemed to walk blindfold, she knew not whither. Never to
+her, whose spiritual sense was ever so clear and strong, had come the
+possibility of such a mind as Harold's, a mind whose very eagerness for
+truth had led it into scepticism. His doubts must be wrestled with,
+not with the religion of precedent--not even with the religion of
+feeling--but by means of that clear demonstration of reason which forces
+conviction.
+
+In the dead of night, when all was still--when the frosty moon cast an
+unearthly light over her chamber, Olive lay and thought of these things.
+Ever and anon she heard the striking of the clock, and remembered
+with horror that it heralded the Sabbath morning, when she must go to
+Har-bury Church--and hear, oh, with what feelings! the service read by
+one who did not believe a single word he uttered. Not until now had she
+so thoroughly realised the horrible sacrilege of Harold's daily life.
+For a minute she felt as though to keep his secret were associating
+herself with his sin.
+
+But calmer thoughts enabled her to judge him more mercifully. She tried
+to view his case not as with her own eyes, but as it must appear to him.
+To one who disbelieved the Christian faith, the repetitions of its forms
+could seem but a mere idle mummery. He suffered, not for having
+outraged Heaven, but for having outraged his own conscience an agony of
+self-humiliation which must be to him a living death. Then again there
+awoke in Olive's heart a divine pity; and once more she dared to pray
+that this soul, in which was so much that was true and earnest, might
+not be cast out, but guided into the right way.
+
+Yet, who should do it? He was, as he had said, drowning in a black abyss
+of despair, and there was no human hand to save him--none, save that
+feeble one of hers!
+
+Feeble--but there was One who could make it strong. Suddenly she felt in
+her that consciousness which the weakest have at times felt, and
+which, however the rationalist may scoff, the Christian dare not
+disbelieve--that sense of not working, but being worked upon--by which
+truths come into one's heart, and words into one's mouth, involuntarily,
+as if some spirit, not our own, were at work within us. Such had been
+oftentimes the case with her; but never so strong as now. A voice seemed
+breathed into her soul--"Be not afraid."
+
+She arose--her determination taken. "No," she thought, as standing at
+the window she watched the sun rise gloriously--"No, Lord! _my_ Lord and
+_my_ God!--I am not afraid."
+
+Nevertheless, she suffered exceedingly. To bear the burden of this heavy
+secret; to keep it from her mother; to disguise it before Mrs. Gwynne;
+above all, to go to church, and have the ministry of such an one as
+Harold between her and heaven--this last was the most awful point of
+all; but she could not escape it without betraying him. And it seemed to
+her that the sin--if sin it were--would be forgiven; nay, her voluntary
+presence might even strike his conscience.
+
+It was so. When Harold beheld her, his cheeks grew ashen pale. All
+through the service his reading at times faltered and his eyes were
+lowered. Once, too, during the epistle for the day, which chanced to be
+the sixth Sunday after Epiphany, the plain words of St. John seemed to
+attract his notice, and his voice took an accent of keen sorrow.
+
+Yet, when Olive passed out of the church, she felt as though she had
+spent there years of torture--such torture as no earthly power should
+make her endure again. And it so chanced that she was not called upon to
+do so.
+
+Within a week from that time Mrs. Rothesay sank into a state of
+great feebleness, not indicating positive danger, but still so nearly
+resembling illness that Olive could not quit her, even for an hour. This
+painful interest, engrossing all her thoughts, shut out from them even
+Harold Gwynne. She saw little of him, though she heard that he came
+almost daily to inquire at the door. But for a long time he rarely
+crossed the threshold.
+
+"Harold is like all men--he does not understand sickness," said that
+most kind and constant friend, Mrs. Gwynne. "You must forgive him, both
+of you. I tell him often it would be an example for him, or for any
+clergyman in England, to see Olive here--the best and most pious
+daughter that ever lived. He thinks so too; for once, when I hoped
+that his own daughter might be like her, you should have heard the
+earnestness of his 'Amen!'"
+
+This circumstance touched Olive deeply, and strengthened her the more
+in that work to which she had determined to devote herself. And a secret
+hope told her that erring souls are oftentimes reclaimed less by a
+Christian's preaching than by a Christian's life.
+
+And so, though they did not meet again alone, and no words on the one
+awful subject passed between them, Harold began to come often to the
+Dell. Mrs. Rothesay's lamp of life was paling so gradually, that not
+even her child knew how soon it would cease to shine among those to whom
+its every ray was so precious and so beautiful--more beautiful as it
+drew nearer its close.
+
+Yet there was no sorrow at the Dell, but great peace--a peace so holy
+that it seemed to rest upon all who entered there. These were not a few;
+never was there any one who gained so many kindly attentions as Mrs.
+Rothesay. Even the wild young Fludyers inquired after her every day.
+Christal, who was almost domiciled at the Hall, and seemed by some
+invisible attraction most disinclined to leave it, was yet a daily
+visitor--her high spirit softened to gentleness whenever she came near
+the invalid.
+
+As to Lyle Derwent, he positively haunted them. His affectations dropped
+off, he ceased his sentimentalities, and never quoted a single line of
+poetry. To Olive he appeared in a more pleasing light, and she treated
+him with her old regard; as for him, he adored the very ground she trod
+upon. A ministering angel could not have been more hallowed in his eyes.
+He often made Mrs. Rothesay and Olive smile with his raptures; and the
+latter said sometimes that he was certainly the same enthusiastic
+little boy who had been her knight in the garden by the river. She never
+thought of him otherwise; and though he often tried, in half-jesting
+indignation, to assure her that he was quite a man now, he seemed still
+a lad to her. There was the difference of a lifetime between his
+juvenile romance and her calm reality of six-and-twenty years.
+
+She did not always feel so old though. When kneeling by her mother's
+side, amusing her, Olive still felt a very child; and there were times
+when near Harold Gwynne she grew once more a feeble, timid girl. But
+now that the secret bond between them was held in abeyance, their
+intercourse sank within its former boundary. Even his influence could
+not compete with that affection which had been the day-star of Olive's
+life. No other human tie could come between her and her mother.
+
+Beautiful it was to see them, clinging together so closely that none
+of those who loved both had the courage to tell them how soon they must
+part. Sometimes Mrs. Gwynne would watch Olive with a look that seemed
+to ask, "Child, have you strength to bear?" But she herself had not the
+strength to tell her. Besides, it seemed as though these close cords of
+love were knitted so tightly around the mother, and every breath of her
+fading life so fondly cherished, that she could not perforce depart.
+Months might pass ere that frail tabernacle was quite dissolved.
+
+As the winter glided away, Mrs. Rothesay seemed much better. One evening
+in March, when Harold Gwynne came laden with a whole basket of violets,
+he said--and truly--that she was looking as blooming as the spring
+itself. Olive coincided in this opinion--nay, declared, smiling, that
+any one would fancy her mother was only making pretence of illness, to
+win more kindness and consideration.
+
+"As if you had not enough of that from every one, mamma! I never knew
+such a spoilt darling in all my life; and yet see, Mr. Gwynne, how
+meekly she bears it, and how beautiful and content she looks!"
+
+It was true. Let us draw the picture which lived in Olive's memory
+evermore.
+
+Mrs. Rothesay sat in a little low chair--her own chair, which no one
+else ever claimed. She did not wear an invalid's shawl, but a graceful
+wrapping-gown of pale colours--such as she had always loved, and which
+suited well her delicate, fragile beauty. Closely tied over her silvery
+hair--the only sign of age--was a little cap, whose soft pink gauze lay
+against her cheek--that cheek which even now was all unwrinkled, and
+tinted with a lovely faint rose colour, like a young girl's. Her eyes
+were cast down; she had a habit of doing this lest others might see
+there the painful expression of blindness; but her mouth smiled a
+serene, cheerful, holy smile, such as is rarely seen on human face, save
+when earth's dearest happiness is beginning to melt away, dimmed in the
+coming brightness of heaven. Her little thin hands lay crossed on her
+knee, one finger playing as she often did, with her wedding-ring, now
+worn to a mere thread of gold.
+
+Her daughter looked at her with eyes of passionate yearning that threw
+into one minute's gaze the love of a whole lifetime. Harold Gwynne
+looked at her too, and then at Olive. He thought, "Can she, if she knows
+what I know--can she be resigned--nay, happy! Then, what a sublime
+faith hers must be!"
+
+Olive seemed not to see him, but only her mother. She gazed and gazed,
+then she came and knelt before Mrs. Rothesay, and wound her arms round
+her.
+
+"Darling, kiss me! or I shall fear you are growing quite an angel--an
+angel with wings."
+
+There lurked a troubled tone beneath the playfulness; she rose up
+quickly, and began to talk to Mr. Gwynne.
+
+They had a pleasant evening, all three together; for Mrs. Rothesay,
+knowing that Harold was lonely--since his mother and Ailie had gone away
+on a week's visit--prevailed upon him to stay. He read to them--Mrs.
+Rothesay was fond of hearing him read; and to Olive the world's richest
+music was in his deep, pathetic voice, more especially when reading, as
+he did now, with great earnestness and emotion. The poem was not one of
+his own choosing, but of Mrs. Rothesay's. She listened eagerly while he
+read from Tennyson's "May Queen."
+
+     Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,
+     In the early, early morning the summer sun will shine.
+     I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass,
+     With your feet above my head on the long and pleasant grass.
+     Good night, good night! When I have said, good night for evermore,
+     And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,
+     Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave is growing green:
+     She'll be a better child to you than I have ever been.
+
+Here Harold paused; for, looking at Olive, he saw her tears falling
+fast; but Mrs. Rothesay, generally so easily touched, was now quite
+unmoved. On her face was a soft calm. She said to herself, musingly,
+
+"How terrible for one's child to die first. But I shall never know that
+pang. Go on, Mr. Gwynne."
+
+He read--what words for him to read!--the concluding stanzas; and as he
+did so, the movement of Mrs. Rothesay's lips seemed silently to follow
+them.
+
+     O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done,
+     The voice which now is speaking may be beyond the sun,
+     For ever and for ever with those just souls and true,
+     And what is life that we should moan?   Why make we such ado?
+     For ever and for ever all in a blessed home,
+     And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come;
+     To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,
+     Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
+
+After he concluded, they were all three very silent. What thoughts were
+in each heart? Then Mrs. Rothesay said,
+
+"Now, my child, it is growing late. Read to us yourself, out of the
+best Book of all." And when Olive was gone to fetch it, she added, "Mr.
+Gwynne will pardon my not asking him to read the Bible, but a child's
+voice sounds so sweet in a mother's ears, especially when"---- She
+stopped, for Olive just then entered.
+
+"Where shall I read, mamma?"
+
+"Where I think we have come to--reading every night as we do--the last
+few chapters of the Revelations."
+
+Olive read them--the blessed words, the delight of her
+childhood--telling of the heavenly kingdom, and the afterlife of the
+just. And _he_ heard them: he who believed in neither. He sat in the
+shadow, covering his face with his hands, or lifting it at times with
+a blind, despairing look, like that of one who, staggering in darkness,
+sees afar a faint light, and yet cannot, dare not, believe in its
+reality.
+
+When he bade Mrs. Rothesay good night, she held his hand, and said, "God
+bless you!" with more than her usual kindness. He drew back, as if the
+words stung him. Then he wrung Olive's hand, looked at her a moment, as
+if to say something, but said it not, and quitted the house.
+
+The mother and daughter were alone. They clasped their arms round each
+other, and sat a little while listening to the wild March wind.
+
+"It is just such a night as that on which we came to Farnwood, is it
+not, darling?"
+
+"Yes, my child! And we have been very happy here; happier, I think, than
+I have ever been in my life. Remember that, love, always!"
+
+She said these words with a beautiful, life-beaming smile. Then, leaning
+on Olive's shoulder, she lifted herself rather feebly, from her little
+chair, and prepared to walk upstairs.
+
+"Tired, are you? I wish I could carry you, darling: I almost think I
+could."
+
+"You carry me in your heart, evermore, Olive! You bear all my
+feebleness, troubles, and pain. God ever bless you, my daughter!"
+
+When Olive came down once more to the little parlour, she thought it
+looked rather lonely. However, she stayed a minute or two, put her
+mother's little chair in the corner, and her mother's knitting basket
+beside it.
+
+"It will be ready for her when she comes down again." Then she went
+upstairs to bed; and mother and daughter fell asleep, as ever, closely
+clasped in each other's arms.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXII.
+
+"My child!"
+
+The feeble call startled Olive out of a dream, wherein she was walking
+through one of those lovely visionary landscapes--more glorious than any
+ever seen by day--with her mother and with Harold Gwynne.
+
+"Yes, darling," she answered, in a sleepy, happy voice, thinking it a
+continuation of the dream.
+
+"Olive, I feel ill--very ill! I have a dull pain here, near my heart. I
+cannot breathe. It is so strange--so strange!"
+
+Quickly the daughter rose, and groped through the faint dawn for a
+light: she was long accustomed to all offices of tender care by night
+and by day. This sudden illness gave her little alarm; her mother had so
+many slight ailments. But, nevertheless, she roused the household, and
+applied all the simple remedies which she so well knew how to use.
+
+But there must come a time when all physicians' arts fail: it was coming
+now. Mrs. Rothesay's illness increased, and the daylight broke upon
+a chamber where more than one anxious face bent over the poor blind
+sufferer who suffered so meekly. She did not speak much: she only
+held closely to Olive's dress, sorrowfully murmuring now and then, "My
+child--my child!" Once or twice she eagerly besought those around her
+to try all means for her restoration, and seemed anxiously to expect the
+coming of the physician. "For Olive's sake--for Olive's sake!" was all
+the reason she gave.
+
+And suddenly it entered into Olive's mind that her mother felt herself
+about to die.
+
+Her mother about to die! She paused a moment, and then flung the horror
+from her as a thing utterly impossible. So many illnesses as Mrs.
+Rothesay had passed through---so many times as her daughter had clasped
+her close, and dared Death to come nigh one who was shielded by so much
+love! It could not be--there was no cause for dread. Yet Olive waited
+restlessly during the morning, which seemed of frightful length. She
+busied herself about the room, talking constantly to her mother; and
+by degrees, when the physician still delayed, her voice took a quick,
+sharp, anxious tone.
+
+"Hush, love, hush!" was the soft reproof. "Be content, Olive; he will
+come in time. I shall recover, if it so please God."
+
+"Of course--of course you will. Don't talk in that way, mamma!"--she
+dared not trust herself to say _darling_. She spoke even less
+caressingly than usual, lest her mother might think there was any dread
+upon her mind. But gradually, when she heard the strange patience of
+Mrs. Rothesay's voice, and saw the changes in the beloved face,
+she began to tremble. Once her wild glance darted upward in almost
+threatening despair. "God! Thou wilt not--Thou canst not--do this!" And
+when, at last, she heard the ringing of hoofs, and saw the physician's
+horse at the gate, she could not stay to speak with him, but fled out of
+the room.
+
+She composed herself in time to meet him when he came downstairs. She
+was glad that he was a stranger, so that she had to be restrained, and
+to ask him in a calm, everyday voice, "What he thought of her mother?"
+
+"You are Miss Rothesay, I believe," he answered, indirectly.
+
+"I am."
+
+"Is there no one to help you in nursing your mother--are you here quite
+alone?"
+
+"Quite alone."
+
+Dr. Witherington took her hand--kindly, too. "My dear Miss Rothesay, I
+would not deceive; I never do. If your mother has any relatives to send
+for, any business to arrange"----
+
+"Ah--I see, I know! Do not say any more!" She closed her eyes faintly,
+and leaned against the wall. Had she loved her mother with a love less
+intense, less self-devoted, less utterly absorbing in its passion, at
+that moment she would have gone mad, or died.
+
+There was one little low sigh; and then upon her great height of woe she
+rose--rose to a superhuman calm.
+
+"You would tell me, then, that there is no hope?"
+
+He looked on the ground, and said nothing.
+
+"And how long--how long?"
+
+"It may be six hours--it may be twelve; I fear it cannot be more than
+twelve." And then he began to give consolation in the only way that lay
+in his poor power, explaining that in a frame so shattered the spirit
+could not have lingered long, and might have lingered in much suffering.
+"It was best as it was," he said.
+
+And Olive, knowing all, bowed her head, and answered, "Yes." She thought
+not of herself--she thought only of the enfeebled body about to be
+released from earthly pain, of the soul before whom heaven was even now
+opened.
+
+"Does _she_ know? Did you tell her?"
+
+"I did. She asked me, and I thought it right."
+
+Thus, both knew, mother and child, that a few brief hours were all that
+lay between their love and eternity. And knowing this, they again met.
+
+With a step so soft that it could have reached no ear but that of a
+dying woman, Olive re-entered the room.
+
+"Is that my child!"
+
+"My mother--my own mother!" Close, and wild, and strong--wild as love
+and strong as death--was the clasp that followed. No words passed
+between them, not one, until Mrs. Rothesay said, faintly,
+
+"My child, are you content--quite content?"
+
+Olive answered, "I am content!" And in her uplifted eyes was a silent
+voice that seemed to say, "Take, O God, this treasure, which I give out
+of my arms unto Thine! Take and keep it for me, safe until the eternal
+meeting!"
+
+Slowly the day sank, and the night came down. Very still and solemn was
+that chamber; but there was no sorrow there--no weeping, no struggle
+of life with death. After a few hours all suffering ceased, and Mrs.
+Rothesay lay quiet; sometimes in her daughter's arms, sometimes with
+Olive sitting by her side. Now and then they talked together, holding
+peaceful communion, like friends about to part for a long journey, in
+which neither wished to leave unsaid any words of love or counsel; but
+all was spoken calmly, hopefully, and without grief or fear.
+
+As midnight approached, Olive's eyes grew heavy, and a strange
+drowsiness oppressed her. Many a watcher has doubtless felt this--the
+dull stupor which comes over heart and brain, sometimes even compelling
+sleep, though some beloved one lies dying. Hannah, who sat up with
+Olive, tried to persuade her to go down and take some coffee which she
+had prepared. Mrs. Rothesay, overhearing, entreated the same. "It will
+do you good. You must keep strong, my child."
+
+"Yes, darling."
+
+Olive went down in the little parlour, and forced herself to take food
+and drink. As she sat there by herself, in the still night, with the
+wind howling round the cottage, she tried to realise the truth that her
+mother was then dying--that ere another day, in this world she would
+be alone, quite alone, for evermore. Yet there she sat, wrapped in that
+awful calm.
+
+When Olive came back, Mrs. Rothesay roused herself and asked for some
+wine. Her daughter gave it.
+
+"It is very good--all things are very good--very sweet to me from
+Olive's hand. My only daughter--my life's comfort--I bless God for
+thee!"
+
+After a while she said--passing her hand over her daughter's
+cheek--"Olive, little Olive, I wish I could see your face--just once,
+once more. It feels almost as small and soft as when you were a little
+babe at Stirling."
+
+And saying this, there came a cloud over Mrs. Rothesay's face; but soon
+it went away, as she continued, "Child! listen to something I never told
+you--never could have told you, until now. Just after you were born, I
+dreamt a strange dream--that I lost you, and there came to me in your
+stead an angel, who comforted me and guided me through a long weary way,
+until, in parting, I knew that it was indeed my Olive. All this has come
+true, save that I did not _lose_ you: I wickedly cast you from me. Ay,
+God forgive me! there was a time when I, a mother, had no love for the
+child I bore."
+
+She wept a little, and held Olive with a closer strain as she proceeded.
+"I was punished, for in forsaking my child I lost my husband's love--at
+least not all, but for a time. But God pardoned me, and sent my child
+back to me as I saw her in my dream--an angel--to guard me through many
+troubled ways; to lead me safe to the eternal shore. And now, when I
+am going away, I say with my whole soul, God bless my Olive! the most
+loving and duteous daughter that ever mother had; and God will bless her
+evermore!"
+
+One moment, with a passionate burst of anguish, Olive cried, "O mother,
+mother, stay! Do not go and leave me in this bitter world alone." It
+was the only moan she made. When she saw the anguish it caused to her
+so peacefully dying, she stilled it at once. And then God's comfort came
+down upon her; and that night of death was full of a peace so deep that
+it was most like happiness. In after years Olive thought of it as if it
+had been spent at the doors of heaven.
+
+Toward morning Mrs. Rothesay said, "My child, you are tired. Lie down
+here beside me."
+
+And so, with her head on the same pillow, and her arm thrown round her
+mother's neck, Olive lay as she had lain every night for so many years.
+Once or twice Mrs. Rothesay spoke again, as passing thoughts seemed
+to arise; but her mind was perfectly composed and clear. She mentioned
+several that she regarded--among the rest, Mrs. Gwynne, to whom she left
+"her love."
+
+"And to Christal too, Olive. She has many faults; but, remember, she was
+good to me, and I was fond of her. Always take care of Christal."
+
+"I will. And is there no one else to whom I shall give your love,
+mamma?"
+
+She thought a minute, and answered, "Yes--to Mr. Gwynne." And, as if in
+that dying hour there came to the mother's heart both clear-sightedness
+and prophecy, she said, earnestly, "I am very glad I have known Harold
+Gwynne. I wish he had been here now, that I might have blessed him,
+and begged him all his life long to show kindness and tenderness to my
+child."
+
+After this she spoke of earthly things no more, but her thoughts went,
+like heralds, far into the eternal land. Thither her daughter's followed
+likewise, until, like the martyr Stephen, Olive almost seemed to see the
+heavens opened, and the angels of God standing around the throne. Her
+heart was filled, not with anguish, but with an awful joy, which passed
+not even, when lifting her head from the pillow, she saw that over her
+mother's face was coming a change--the change that comes but once.
+
+"My child, are you still there?".
+
+"Yes, darling."
+
+"That is well. All is well now. Little Olive, kiss me."
+
+Olive bent down and kissed her. With that last kiss she received her
+mother's soul.
+
+Then she suffered the old servant to lead her from the room. She never
+wept; it would have appeared sacrilege to weep. She went to the open
+door, and stood, looking to the east, where the sun was rising. Through
+the golden clouds she almost seemed to behold, ascending, the freed
+spirit upon whom had just dawned the everlasting morning.
+
+An hour after, when she was all alone in the little parlour, lying on
+the sofa with her eyes closed, she heard entering a well-known step. It
+was Harold Gwynne's. He looked much agitated; at first he drew back,
+as though fearing to approach; then he came up, and took her hand very
+tenderly.
+
+"Alas, Miss Rothesay, what can I say to you?"
+
+She shed a few tears, less for her own sorrow than because she was
+touched by his kindness.
+
+"I would have been here yesterday," continued he, "but I was away from
+Harbury. Yet, what help, what comfort, could you have received from me?"
+
+Olive turned to him her face, in whose pale serenity yet lingered the
+light which had guided her through the valley of the shadow of death.
+
+"God," she whispered, "has helped me. He has taken from me the desire of
+my eyes, and yet I have peace--perfect peace!"
+
+Harold looked at her with astonishment.
+
+"Tell me," he muttered, involuntarily, "whence comes this peace!"
+
+"From God, as I feel him in my soul--as I read of Him in the revelation
+of his Word."
+
+Harold was silent. His aspect of hopeless misery went to Olive's heart.
+
+"Oh that I could give to you this peace--this faith!"
+
+"Alas! if I knew what _reason_ you have for yours."
+
+Olive paused. An awful thing it was, with the dead lying in the chamber
+above, to wrestle with the unbelief of the living. But it seemed as if
+the spirit of her mother had passed into her spirit, giving her strength
+to speak with words not her own. What if, in the inscrutable purposes of
+Heaven, this hour of death was to be to him an hour of new birth?
+
+So, repressing all grief and weakness, Olive said, "Let us talk a little
+of the things which in times like this come home to us as the only
+realities."
+
+"To you, not to me! You forget the gulf between us!"
+
+"Nay," Olive said, earnestly; "you believe, as I do, in one God--the
+Creator and Ruler of this world?"
+
+Harold made solemn assent.
+
+"Of this world," she continued, "wherein is so much of beauty,
+happiness, and love. And can that exist in the created which is not in
+the Creator! Must not, therefore, the great Spirit of the Universe be a
+Spirit of Love?"
+
+"Your argument contradicts itself," was the desponding answer. "Can
+_you_ speak thus--you, whose heart yet bleeds with recent suffering?"
+
+"Suffering which my faith has changed into joy. Never until this hour
+did I look so clearly from this world into the world of souls--never did
+I so strongly feel within me the presence of God's spirit, a pledge for
+the immortality of mine."
+
+"Immortality! Alas, that dream! And yet," he added, looking at her
+reverently, even with tenderness, "I could half believe that a life like
+yours--so full of purity and goodness--can never be destined to perish."
+
+"And can you believe in human goodness, yet doubt Him who alone can
+be its origin? Can you think that He would give the yearning for the
+hereafter, and yet deny its fulfilment? That he would implant in us
+love, when there was nothing to love; and faith, when there was nothing
+to believe?"
+
+Harold seemed struck. "You speak plain, reasonable words--not like the
+vain babblers of contradictory creeds. Yet you do profess a creed--you
+join in the Church's service?"
+
+"Because, though differing from many of its doctrines, I think its forms
+of worship are pure--perhaps the purest extant. But I do not set up the
+Church between myself and God. I follow no ritual, and trust no creed,
+except so far as it is conformable to the instinct of faith--the inward
+revelation of Himself which he has implanted in my soul--and to that
+outward revelation, the nearest and clearest that He has ever given of
+Himself to men, the Divine revelation of love which I find here, in the
+life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, my Lord."
+
+As she spoke, her hand rested on the Bible out of which she had last
+read to her mother. It opened at the very place, and from it there
+dropped the little book-marker which Mrs. Rothesay always used, one
+worked by Olive in her childish days. The sight drew her down to the
+helplessness of human woe.
+
+"Oh, my mother!--my mother!" She bowed her head upon her knees, and for
+some minutes wept bitterly. Then she rose somewhat calmer.
+
+"I am going upstairs"---- Her voice failed.
+
+"I know--I know," said Harold.
+
+"She spoke of you: they were almost her last words. You will come with
+me, friend?"
+
+Harold was a man who never wept--never could weep--but his face grew
+pale, and there came over him a great awe. His step faltered, even more
+than her own, as he followed Olive up-stairs.
+
+Her hand trembled a moment on the latch of the door. "No," she said, as
+if to herself,--"no, it is not my mother; my mother is not here!"
+
+Then she went in composedly, and uncovered the face of the dead; Harold
+standing beside her.
+
+Olive was the first to speak. "See," she whispered, "how very placid and
+beautiful it looks!--like her and yet unlike. I never for a moment feel
+that it is _my mother_."
+
+Harold regarded with amazement the daughter newly orphaned, who stood
+serenely beholding her dead. He took Olive's hand, softly and with
+reverence, as if there were something sacred in her touch. _His_ she
+scarcely seemed to feel, but continued, speaking in the same tranquil
+voice:
+
+"Two hours ago we were so happy, she and I, talking together of holy
+things, and of the love we had borne each other. And can such love end
+with death? Can I believe that one moment--the fleeting of a breath--has
+left of _my mother_ only this?"
+
+She turned from the bed, and met Harold's eye--intense, athirst--as if
+his soul's life were in her words.
+
+"You are calm--very calm," he murmured. "You stand here, and have no
+fear of death."
+
+"No; for I have seen my mother die. Her last breath was on my mouth. I
+_felt_ her spirit pass, and I knew that it was passing unto God."
+
+"And you can rejoice?"
+
+"Yes; since for all I lose on earth, heaven--the place of souls, which
+we call heaven, whatever or wherever that may be--grows nearer to me. It
+will seem the more my home, now I have a mother there."
+
+Harold Gwynne fell on his knees at the bedside, crying out:
+
+"Oh, God! that I could believe!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIII.
+
+It was again the season of late summer; and Time's soothing shadow had
+risen up between the daughter and her grief. The grave in the beautiful
+churchyard of Har-bury was bright with many months' growth of grass and
+flowers. It never looked dreary--nay, often seemed almost to smile. It
+was watered by no tears--it never had been. Those which Olive shed were
+only for her own loneliness, and at times she felt that even these were
+wrong. Many people, seeing how calm she was, and how, after a season,
+she fell into her old pursuits and her kindly duties to all around, used
+to say, "Who would have thought that Miss Rothesay would have forgotten
+her mother so easily?"
+
+But _she did not forget_. Selfish, worldly mourners are they, who think
+that the memory of the beloved lost can only be kept green by tears.
+Olive Rothesay was not of these. To her, her mother's departure appeared
+no more like death, than did one Divine parting--with reverence be it
+spoken!--appear to those who stood and looked upward from the hill of
+Bethany. And thus should we think upon all happy and holy deaths--if we
+fully and truly believed the faith we own.
+
+Olive did not forget her mother--she could as soon have forgotten her
+own soul. In all her actions, words, and thoughts, this most sacred
+memory abided--a continual presence, silent as sweet, and sweet as
+holy. When her many and most affectionate friends had beguiled her into
+cheerfulness, so that they fancied she had put aside her sorrow, she
+used to say in her heart, "See, mother, I can think of you and not
+grieve. I would not that it should pain you to know I suffer still!"
+
+Yet human feelings could not utterly be suppressed; and there were many
+times, when at night-time she buried her face on the now lonely pillow,
+and stretched out her arms into the empty darkness, crying, "My mother,
+oh my mother!" But then strong love came between Olive and her agony,
+whispering, that wherever her spirit abided, the mother _could not_
+forget her child.
+
+Olive looked very calm now, as she sat with Mrs. Gwynne in the
+bay-window of the little drawing-room at the Parsonage, engaged in some
+light work, with Ailie reading a lesson at her knee. It was a lesson
+too, taken from that lore--at once the most simple and most divine--the
+Gospels of the New Testament.
+
+"I thought my son would prove himself right in all his opinions,"
+observed Mrs. Gwynne, when the lesson was over and the child had run
+away. "I knew he would allow Ailie to learn everything at the right
+time."
+
+Olive made no answer. Her thoughts turned to the day--now some months
+back--when, stung by the disobedience and falsehood that lay hid in
+a young mind which knew no higher law than a human parent's command,
+Harold had come to her for counsel She remembered his almost despairing
+words, "Teach the child as you will--true or false--I care not; so that
+she becomes like yourself, and is saved from those doubts which rack her
+father's soul."
+
+Harold Gwynne was not singular in this. Scarcely ever was there an
+unbeliever who desired to see his own scepticism reflected in his child.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne continued--"I don't think I can ever sufficiently thank you,
+my dear Miss Rothesay."
+
+"Say _Olive_, as you generally do."
+
+For her Christian name sounded so sweet and homelike from Harold's
+mother; especially now.
+
+"_Olive_, then! My dear, how good you are to take Ailie so entirely
+under your care and teaching. But for that, we must have sent her to
+some school from home, and, I will not conceal from you, that would
+have been a great sacrifice, even in a worldly point of view, since our
+income is much diminished by my son's having been obliged to resign his
+duties altogether, and take a curate. But tell me, do you think Harold
+looks any better! What an anxious summer this has been!"
+
+And Olive, hearing the heavy sigh of the mother, whose whole existence
+was bound up in her son, felt that there was something holy even in
+that deceit, or rather concealment, wherein she herself was now a
+sorely-tried sharer. "You must not be too anxious," she said; "you know
+that there is nothing dangerous in Mr. Gwynne's state of health, only
+his brain has been overworked."
+
+"I suppose so; and perhaps it was the best plan for him to give up all
+clerical duties for a time. I think, too, that these frequent absences
+do him good."
+
+"I hope so too."
+
+"Besides, seeing that he is not positively disabled by illness, his
+parishioners might think it peculiar that he should continually remain
+among them, and yet abstain from preaching. But my Harold is a strange
+being; he always was. Sometimes I think his heart is not in his
+calling--that he would have been more happy as a man of science than as
+a clergyman. Yet of late he has ceased even that favourite pursuit; and
+though he spends whole days in his study, I sometimes find that he has
+not displaced one book, except the large Bible which I gave him when he
+went to college. God bless him--my dear Harold!"
+
+Olive's inmost heart echoed the blessing, and in the same words. For of
+late--perhaps with more frequently hearing him called by the familiar
+home appellation, she had thought of him less as _Mr. Gwynne_ than as
+_Harold_.
+
+"I wonder what makes your blithe Christal so late," observed Mrs.
+Gwynne, abruptly, as if disliking to betray further emotion. "Lyle
+Derwent promised to bring her himself--much against his will, though,"
+she added, smiling. "He seems quite afraid of Miss Manners; he says she
+teases him so!"
+
+"But she suffers no one else to do it. If I say a word against Lyle's
+little peculiarities, she is quite indignant. I rather think she likes
+him--that is, as much as she likes any of her friends."
+
+"There is little depth of affection in Christal's nature. She is too
+proud. She feels no need of love, and therefore cares not to win it.
+Do you know, Olive," continued Mrs. Gwynne, "if I must expose all my
+weaknesses, there was a time when I watched Miss Manners more closely
+than any one guesses. It was from a mother's jealousy over her son's
+happiness, for I often heard her name coupled with Harold's."
+
+"So have I, more than once," said Olive. "But I thought at the time how
+idle was the rumour."
+
+"It was idle, my dear; but I did not quite think so then."
+
+"Indeed!" There was a little quick gesture of surprise; and Olive,
+ceasing her work, looked inquiringly at Mrs. Gwynne.
+
+"Men cannot do without love, and having once been married, Harold's
+necessity for a good wife's sympathy and affection is the greater. I
+always expected that my son would marry again, and therefore I have
+eagerly watched every young woman whom he might meet in society, and
+be disposed to choose. All men, especially clergymen, are better
+married--at least in my opinion. Even you, yourself, as Harold's friend,
+his most valued friend, must acknowledge that he would be much happier
+with a second wife."
+
+What was there in this frank speech that smote Olive with a secret pain?
+Was it the unconscious distinction drawn between her and all other women
+on whom Harold might look with admiring eyes, so that his mother, while
+calling her his _friend_, never dreamed of her being anything more?
+
+Olive knew not whence came the pain, yet still she felt it was there.
+"Certainly he would," she answered, speaking in a slow, quiet tone.
+"Nevertheless, I should scarcely think Christal a girl whom Mr. Gwynne
+would be likely to select."
+
+"Nor I. At first, deeming her something like the first Mrs. Harold,
+I had my doubts; but they quickly vanished. My son will never marry
+Christal Manners."
+
+Olive, sitting at the window, looked up. It seemed to her as if over the
+room had come a lightness like the passing away of a cloud.
+
+"Nor, at present," pursued Mrs. Gwynne, "does it appear to me likely
+that he will marry at all. I fear that domestic love--the strong, yet
+quiet tenderness of a husband to a wife, is not in his nature. Passion
+is, or was, in his youth; but he is not young now. In his first hasty
+marriage I knew that the fire would soon burn itself out--it has left
+nothing but ashes. Once he deceived himself, and sorely he has reaped
+the fruits of his folly. The result is, that he will live to old age
+without ever having known the blessing of true love."
+
+"Is that so mournful, then?" said Olive, more as if thinking aloud than
+speaking.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne did not hear the words, for she had started up at the sound
+of a horse's hoofs at the gate. "If that should be Harold! He said he
+would be at home this week or next. It is--it is he! How glad I am--that
+is, I am glad that he should be in time to see the Fludyers and Miss
+Manners before their journey to-morrow."
+
+Thus, from long habit, trying to make excuses for her overflowing
+tenderness, she hurried out. Olive heard Mr. Gwynne's voice in the Hall,
+his anxious tender inquiry for his mother; even the quick, flying step
+of little Ailie bounding to meet "papa."
+
+She paused: her work fell, and a mist came over her eyes. She felt then,
+as she had sometimes done before, though never so strongly, that it was
+hard to be in the world alone.
+
+This thought haunted her awhile; until at last it was banished by the
+influence of one of those pleasant social evenings, such as were often
+spent at the Parsonage. The whole party, including Christal and Lyle,
+were assembled in the twilight, the two latter keeping up a sort of
+Benedick and Beatrice warfare. Harold and his mother seemed both very
+quiet--they sat close together, her hand sometimes resting caressingly
+on his shoulder or his knee. It was a new thing, this outward show of
+affection; but of late since his health had declined (and, in truth, he
+had often looked and been very ill), there had come a touching softness
+between the mother and son.
+
+Olive Rothesay sat a little apart, a single lamp lighting her at her
+work; for she was not idle. Following her old master's example, she was
+continually making studies from life for the picture on which she was
+engaged. She took a pleasure in filling it with idealised heads, of
+which the originals had place in her own warm affections. Christal was
+there, with her gracefully-turned throat, and the singular charm of her
+black eyes and fair hair. Lyle, too, with his delicate, womanish, but
+yet handsome face. Nor was Mrs. Gwynne forgotten--Olive made great use
+of her well-outlined form, and her majestic sweep of drapery. There was
+one only of the group who had not been limned by Miss Rothesay.
+
+"If I were my brother-in-law I should take it quite as an ill compliment
+that you had never asked him to sit," observed Lyle. "But," he added in
+a whisper, "I don't suppose any artist would care to paint such a hard,
+rugged-looking fellow as Gwynne."
+
+Olive looked on the pretty red and white of the boyish dabbler in
+Art--for Lyle had lately taken a fancy that way too--and then at the
+countenance he maligned. She did not say a word; but Lyle hovering
+round, found his interference somewhat sharply put aside during the
+whole evening.
+
+When assembled round the supper-table they talked of Christal's journey.
+It was undertaken by invitation of Mrs. Fludyer, to whom the young
+damsel had made herself quite indispensable. Her liveliness charmed
+away the idle lady's ennui, while her pride and love of aristocratic
+exclusiveness equally gratified the same feelings for her patroness.
+And from the mist that enwrapped her origin, the ingenious and perhaps
+self-deceived young creature had contrived to evolve such a grand fable
+of "ancient descent" and "noble but reduced family," that everybody
+regarded her in the same light as she regarded herself. And surely,
+as the quick-sighted Mrs. Gwynne often said, no daughter of a long
+illustrious line was ever prouder than Christal Manners.
+
+She indulged the party with a brilliant account of Mrs. Fludyer's
+anticipations of pleasure at Brighton, whither the whole family at the
+Hall were bound.
+
+"Really, we shall be quite desolate without a single soul left at
+Farnwood, shall we not, Olive?" observed Mrs. Gwynne.
+
+Olive answered, "Yes,--very," without much considering of the matter.
+Her thoughts were with Harold, who was leaning back in his chair,
+absorbed in one of those fits of musing, which with him were not
+unfrequent, and which no one ever regarded, save herself. How deeply
+solemn it was to her at such times to feel that she alone held the key
+of his soul--that it lay open, with all its secrets, to her, and to her
+alone. What marvel was it if this knowledge sometimes moved her with
+strange sensations; most of all, while, beholding the reserved exterior
+which he bore in society, she remembered the times when she had seen him
+goaded into terrible emotion, or softened to the weakness of a child.
+
+At Olive's mechanical affirmative, Lyle Derwent brightened up amazingly.
+"Miss Rothesay, I--I don't intend going away, believe me!"
+
+Christal turned quickly round. "What are you saying, Mr. Derwent?"
+
+He hung his head and looked foolish. "I mean that Brighton is too
+gay, and thoughtless, and noisy a place for me--I would rather stay at
+Harbury."
+
+"You fickle, changeable, sentimental creature! I wouldn't be a man like
+you for the world!" And reckless Christal burst into a fit of laughter
+much louder than seemed warranted by the occasion. Lyle seemed much
+annoyed; whereupon his friend Miss Rothesay considerately interposed,
+and passed to some other subject which lasted until the hour of
+departure.. The three walked to the Dell together, Christal jesting
+incessantly, either with or at Lyle Derwent. Olive walked beside them
+rather silent than otherwise. She had been so used to walk home with
+Harold Gwynne, that any other companionship along the old familiar road
+seemed unnatural. As she passed along, from every bush, every tree,
+every winding of the lane, seemed to start some ghostlike memory; until
+there came over her a feeling almost of fear, to find how full her
+thoughts were of this one friend, how to pass from his presence was like
+passing into gloom, and the sense of his absence seemed a heavy void.
+
+"It was not so while my mother lived," Olive murmured sorrowfully. "I
+never needed any friend but her. What am I doing! What is coming over
+me?"
+
+She trembled, and dared not answer the question.
+
+At the Dell they parted from Lyle. "I shall see you once again before
+you leave, I hope," he said to Christal.
+
+"Oh, yes; you will not get rid of your tormentor so easily."
+
+"Get rid of you, fair Cruelty! Would a man wish to put out the sun
+because it scorches him sometimes?" cried Lyle, lifted to the seventh
+heaven of poetic fervour by the influence of a balmy night and a
+glorious harvest moon. Which said luminary, shining on Christal's face,
+saw there,--she only, pale Lady Moon,--an expression fine and rare;
+quivering lips, eyes not merely bright, but flaming, as such dark eyes
+only can.
+
+As Olive was entering the hall door, Miss Manners, a little in the rear,
+fell, crying out as with pain. She was quickly assisted into the house,
+where, recovering, she complained of having sprained her ankle. Olive,
+full of compassion, laid her on the sofa, and hurried away for some
+simple medicaments, leaving Christal alone.
+
+That young lady, as soon as she heard Miss Rothesay's steps overhead,
+bounded to the half-open window, moving quite as easily on the injured
+foot as on the other. Eagerly she listened; and soon was rewarded by
+hearing Lyle's voice carolling pathetically down the road, the ditty,
+
+     "Io ti voglio ben assai,
+     Ma tu non pensi a me!"
+
+"Tis my song, mine! I taught him!" said Christal, laughing to herself.
+"He thought to stay behind and escape me and my cruelty.' But we shall
+see--we shall see!"
+
+Though in her air was a triumphant, girlish coquetry, yet something
+there was of a woman's passion, too. But she heard a descending step,
+and had only just, time to regain her invalid attitude and her doleful
+countenance, when Olive entered.
+
+"This accident is most unfortunate," said Miss Rothesay, "How will you
+manage your journey to-morrow?"
+
+"I shall not be able to go," said Christal in a piteous voice, though
+over her averted face broke a comical smile.
+
+"Are you really so much hurt, my dear?"
+
+"Do you doubt it?" was the sharp reply. "I am sorry to trouble you; but
+I really am unable to leave the Dell."
+
+Very often did she try Olive's patience thus; but the faithful daughter
+always remembered those last words, "Take care of Christal."
+
+So, excusing all, she tended the young sufferer carefully until
+midnight, and then went down-stairs secretly to perform a little act
+of self-denial, by giving up an engagement she had made for the morrow.
+While writing to renounce it, she felt, with a renewed sense of vague
+apprehension, how keen a pleasure it was she thus resigned--a whole long
+day in the forest with her pet Ailie, Ailie's grandmamma, and--Harold
+Gwynne.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIV.
+
+Midnight was long past, and yet Olive sat at her desk; she had finished
+her note to Mrs. Gwynne, and was poring over a small packet of letters
+carefully separated from the remainder of her correspondence. If she had
+been asked the reason of this, perhaps she would have made answer that
+they were unlike the rest--solemn in character, and secret withal. She
+never looked at them but her expression changed; when she touched them
+she did it softly and tremulously, as one would touch a living sacred
+thing.
+
+They were letters which at intervals during his various absences she had
+received from Harold Gwynne.
+
+Often had she read them over--so often, that, many a time waking in the
+night, whole sentences came distinctly on her memory, vivid almost as a
+spoken voice. And yet scarcely a day passed that she did not read them
+over again. Perhaps this was from their tenor, for they were letters
+such as a man rarely writes to a woman, or even a friend to a friend.
+
+Let us judge, extracting portions from them at will.
+
+The first, dated months back, began thus: "You will perhaps marvel, my
+dear Miss Rothesay, that I should write to you, when for some time we
+have met so rarely, and then apparently like ordinary acquaintance. Yet,
+who should have a better right than we to call each other _friends_? And
+like a friend you acted, when you consented that there should be between
+us for a time this total silence on the subject which first bound us
+together by a tie which we can neither of us break if we would. Alas!
+sometimes I could almost curse the weakness which had given you--a
+woman--to hold my secret in your hands. And yet so gently, so nobly
+have you held it, that I could kneel and bless you. You see I can write
+earnestly, though I speak so coldly."
+
+"I told you, after that day when we two were alone with death (the
+words are harsh, I know, but I have no smooth tongue), I told you that
+I desired entire silence for weeks, perhaps months. I must 'commune with
+my own heart and be still.' I must wrestle with this darkness alone. You
+assented; you forced on me no long argumentative homilies--you preached
+to me solely with your life, the pure beautiful life of a Christian
+woman. Sometimes I tried to read carefully the morality of Jesus, which
+I, and sceptics worse than I, must allow to be perfect of its kind, and
+it struck me how nearly you approached to that divine life which I had
+thought impossible to be realised."
+
+"I have advanced thus far into my solemn seeking. I have learned to see
+the revelation--imputedly divine--clear and distinct from the mass of
+modern creeds with which it has been overladen. I have begun to read the
+book on which--as you truly say--every form of religion is founded.
+I try to read with my own eyes, putting aside all received
+interpretations, earnestly desiring to cast from my soul all
+long-gathered prejudices, and to bring it, naked and clear, to meet the
+souls of those who are said to have written by divine inspiration."
+
+"The book is a marvellous book. The history of all ages can scarcely
+show its parallel. What diversity, yet what unity! The stream seems
+to flow through all ages, catching the lights and shadows of different
+periods, and of various human minds. Yet it is one and the same
+stream---pure and shining as truth. Is it truth?--is it divine?"
+
+"I will confess, candidly, that if the scheme of a worlds history with
+reference to its Creator, as set forth in the Bible, were true, it would
+be a scheme in many things worthy of a divine benevolence: such as that
+in which you believe. But can I imagine Infinity setting itself to work
+out such trivialities? What is even a world? A mere grain of dust in
+endless space! It cannot be. A God who could take interest in man, in
+such an atom as I, would be no God at all. What avails me to have risen
+unto more knowledge, more clearness in the sense of the divine, if it is
+to plunge me into such an abyss as this? Would I had never been awakened
+from my sleep--the dull stupor of materialism into which I was fast
+sinking. Then I might, in the end, have conquered even the last fear,
+that of 'something after death,' and have perished like a soulless clod,
+satisfied that there was no hereafter. Now, if there should be? I whirl
+and whirl; I can find no rest. I would I knew for certain that I was
+mad. But it is not so."
+
+"You answer, my kind friend, like a woman--like the sort of woman I
+believed in in my boyhood--when I longed for a sister, such a sister as
+you. It is very strange, even to myself, that I should write to any
+one as freely as I do to you. I know that I could never speak thus.
+Therefore, when I return home, you must not marvel to find me just the
+same reserved being as ever--less to you, perhaps, than to most people,
+but still reserved. Yet, never believe but that I thank you for all your
+goodness most deeply."
+
+"You say that, like most women, you have little power of keen
+philosophical argument. Perhaps not; but there is in you a spiritual
+sense that may even transcend knowledge. I once heard--was it not you
+who said so?--that the poet who 'reads God's secrets in the stars' soars
+nearer Him than the astronomer who calculates by figures and by line.
+As, even in the material universe, there are planets and systems which
+mock all human ken; so in the immaterial world there must be a boundary
+where all human reasoning fails, and we can trust to nothing but that
+inward inexplicable sense which we call faith. This seems to me
+the great argument which inclines us to receive that supernatural
+manifestation of the all-pervading Spirit which is termed 'revelation.'
+And there we go back again to the relation between the finite--humanity,
+and the infinite--Deity.'"
+
+"One of my speculations you answer by an allegory--Does not the sun make
+instinct with life not only man, but the meanest insect, the lowest form
+of vegetable existence? He shines. His light at once revivifies a blade
+of grass and illumines a world. If thus it is with the created, may not
+it be also with the Creator? There is something within me that answers
+to this reasoning.
+
+"If I have power to conceive the existence of God, to look up from my
+nothingness unto His great height, to desire nearer insight into His
+being, there must be in my soul something not unworthy of Him--something
+that, partaking His divinity, instinctively turns to the source whence
+it was derived. Shall I, suffering myself to be guided by this power,
+seek less to doubt than to believe?
+
+"I remember my first mathematical tutor once said to me, 'If you would
+know anything, begin by doubting everything.' I did begin, but I have
+never yet found an end."
+
+"I will take your advice, my dear friend; advice given so humbly, so
+womanly. Yet I think you deal with me wisely. I am a man who never could
+be preached or argued into belief. I must find out the truth for myself.
+And so, according to your counsel, I will again carefully study the
+Bible, and especially the life of Jesus of Nazareth, which you believe
+the clearest revelation which God has allowed of Himself to earth.
+Finding any contradictions or obscurities, I will remember, as you say,
+that Scripture was not, and does not pretend to be, written visibly and
+actually by the finger of God, but by His inspiration conveyed through
+many human minds, and of course always bearing to a certain extent the
+impress of the mind through which it passes. Therefore, while the letter
+is sometimes apparently contradictory, the spirit is invariably one and
+the same. I am to look to _that_, first? Above all, I am to look to
+the only earthly manifestation of Divine perfection--Jesus Christ, the
+Saviour of all men? _I will_.
+
+"You see how my mind echoes your words, my friend! I am becoming, I
+think, more like you. All human affections are growing closer and dearer
+unto me. I can look at my good and pious mother without feeling, as I
+did at times, that she is either a self-deceiver or deceived. I do not
+now shrink from my little daughter, nor think with horror that she owes
+to me that being which may lead her one day to 'curse God and die.'
+Still I cannot rest at Harbury. All things there torture me. As for
+resuming my duties as a minister, that seems all but impossible. What an
+accursed hypocrite I have been! If this search after truth should end
+in a belief anything like that of the Church of England, I shall marvel
+that Heaven's lightning has not struck me dead."
+
+... "You speak hopefully of the time when we shall hold one faith, and
+both give thanks unto the merciful God who has lightened my darkness.
+I cannot say this _yet _; but the time may come. And if it does, what
+shall I owe to you, who, by your outward life, first revived my faith
+in humanity--by your inward life, my faith in God? You have solved to
+me many of those enigmas of Providence which, in my blindness, I thought
+impugned eternal justice. Now I see that love--human and divine--is
+sufficient to itself, and that he who loves God is one with God. There
+may be a hundred varying forms of doctrine, but this one truth is above
+all and the root of all.--I hold to it, and I believe it will save my
+soul. If ever I lift up a prayer worthy to reach the ear of God, it is
+that He may bless you, my friend, and comforter."
+
+And here, reader, for a moment, we pause. Following whither our object
+led, we have gone far beyond the bounds usually prescribed to a book
+like this; After perusing the present chapter, you may turn to the
+title-page, and reading thereon, "Olive, a _Novel_" may exclaim, "Most
+incongruous--most strange!" Nay, some may even accuse us of irreverence
+in thus bringing into a fictitious story those subjects which are
+acknowledged as most vital to every human soul, but yet which most
+people are content, save at set times and places, tacitly to ignore.
+There are those who sincerely believe that in such works as this it is
+profanity even to name the Holy Name. Yet what is a novel, or, rather,
+what is it that a novel ought to be? The attempt of one earnest mind
+to show unto many what humanity is--ay, and more, what humanity might
+become; to depict what is true in essence through imaginary forms; to
+teach, counsel, and warn, by means of the silent transcript of human
+life. Human life without God! Who will dare to tell us we should paint
+_that_?
+
+Authors, who feel the solemnity of their calling, cannot suppress the
+truth that is within them. Having put their hands to the plough, they
+may not turn aside, nor look either to the right or the left. They
+must go straight on, as the inward voice impels; and He who seeth their
+hearts will guide them aright.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXV.
+
+Some days passed in quiet uniformity, broken only by the visits of
+good-natured Lyle, who came, as he said, to amuse the invalid. Whether
+that were the truth or no, he was a frequent and always welcome guest at
+the Dell. Only he made the proviso, that in all amusements which he and
+Christal shared, Miss Rothesay should be in some way united. So, morning
+after morning, the sofa whereupon the invalid gracefully reclined was
+brought into the painting-room, and there, while Olive worked, she
+listened, sometimes almost in envy, to the gay young voices that mingled
+in song, or contended in the light battle of wits. How much older,
+graver, and sadder, she seemed than they!
+
+Harold Gwynne did not come. This circumstance troubled Olive. Not that
+he was in the habit of paying long morning visits, like young Derwent;
+but still when he was at Harbury, it usually chanced that every few
+days they met somewhere. So habitual had this intercourse become, that a
+week's complete cessation of it seemed a positive pain.
+
+Ever, when Olive rose in the morning, the sun-gilded spire of Harbury
+Church brought the thought, "I wonder will he come to-day!" And at
+night, when he did not come, she could not conceal from herself, that
+looking back on the past day, over all its duties and pleasures, there
+rose a pale mist. She seemed to have only half lived. Alas, alas!
+
+Olive knew, though she hardly would acknowledge it to herself, that
+for many months this interest in Harold Gwynne had been the one great
+interest of her existence. At first it came in the form of a duty, and
+as such she had entered upon it. She was one of those women who seem
+born ever to devote themselves to some one. When her mother died, it had
+comforted Olive to think there was still a human being who stretched
+out to her entreating hands, saying, "I need thee! I need thee!" Nay,
+it even seemed as if the voice of the saint departed called upon her to
+perform this sacred task. Thereto tended her thoughts and prayers.
+And thus there came upon her the fate which has come upon many another
+woman,--while thus devoting herself she learned to love. But so gradual
+had been the change that she knew it not.
+
+"Why am I restless?" she thought. "One is too exacting in friendship;
+one should give all and ask nothing back. Still, it is not quite kind
+of him to stay away thus. But a man is not like a woman. He must have
+so many conflicting and engrossing interests, whilst I"---- Here her
+thought broke and dissolved like a rock-riven wave. She dared not yet
+confess that she had no interest in the world save what was linked with
+him.
+
+"If he comes not so often," she re-commenced her musings, "even then I
+ought to be quite content. I know he respects and esteems me; nay, that
+he has for me a warm regard. I have done him good, too; he tells me so.
+How fervently ought I to thank God if any feeble words of mine may so
+influence him, as in time to lead him from error to truth. My friend,
+my dear friend! I could not die, knowing or fearing that the abyss of
+eternity would lie between my spirit and his. Now, whatever may part us
+during life"----
+
+Here again she paused, overcome with the consciousness of great pain.
+If there was gloom in the silence of a week, what would a whole life's
+silence be? Something whispered that even in this world it would be very
+bitter to part with Harold Gwynne.
+
+"You are not painting, Miss Rothesay; you are thinking," suddenly cried
+Lyle Derwent.
+
+Olive started almost with a sense of shame. "Has not an artist a right
+to dream a little?" she said. Yet she blushed deeply. Were her thoughts
+wrong, that they needed to be thus glossed over? Was there stealing into
+her heart a secret that taught her to feign?
+
+"What! are you, always the idlest of the idle, reproving Miss Rothesay
+for being idle too?" said Christal, somewhat sharply. "No wonder she is
+dull, and I likewise. You are getting as solemn as Mr. Gwynne himself. I
+almost wish he would come in your place."
+
+"Do you? Then 'reap the misery of a granted prayer' for there is a knock
+It may be my worthy brother-in-law himself."
+
+"If so, for charity's sake, give me your arm and help me into the next
+room. I cannot abide his gloomy face."
+
+"O woman!--changeful--fickle--vain!" laughed the young man, as he
+performed the duty of supporting the not very fragile form of the fair
+Christal.
+
+Olive was left alone. Why did she tremble? Why did her pulse
+sink, slower and slower? She asked herself this question, even in
+self-disdain. But there was no answer.
+
+Harold entered.
+
+"I am come with a message from my mother," said he; but added anxiously,
+"How is this, Miss Rothesay? You look as if you had been ill?"
+
+"Oh, no! only weary with a long morning's work. But will you sit!"
+
+He received, as usual, the quiet smile--the greeting gentle and
+friendly. He was deceived by them as heretofore.
+
+"Are you better than when last I was at the Parsonage? I have seen
+nothing of you for a week, you know."
+
+"Is it so long? I did not note the time." He "did not note the time."
+And she had told every day by hours--every hour by minutes!
+
+"I should have come before," he continued, "but I have had so many
+things to occupy me. Besides, I am such poor company. I should only
+trouble you."
+
+"You never trouble me."
+
+"It is kind of you to say so. Well, let that pass. Will you now return
+with me and spend the day? My mother is longing to see you."
+
+"I will come," said Olive, cheerfully. There was a little demur about
+Christars being left alone, but it was soon terminated by the incursion
+of a tribe of the young lady's "friends," whom she had made at Farnwood
+Hall.
+
+Soon Olive was walking with Mr. Gwynne along the well-known road. The
+sunshine of the morning seemed to gather and float around her. She
+remembered no more the pain--the doubt--the weary waiting. She was
+satisfied now!
+
+Gradually they fell into their old way of conversing. "How beautiful all
+seems," said Harold, as he stood still, bared his head, and drank in,
+with a long sighing breath, the sunshine and the soft air. "Would that I
+could be happy in this happy world!"
+
+"It is God's world, and as He made it--good; but I often doubt whether
+He meant it to be altogether happy."
+
+"Why so?"
+
+"Because life is our time of education--our school-days. Our holidays, I
+fancy, are to come. We should be thankful," she added, smiling, "when we
+get our brief play-hours--our pleasant Saturday afternoons--as now. Do
+you not think so?"
+
+"I cannot tell; I am in a great labyrinth, from which I must work my
+way out alone. Nevertheless, my friend, keep near me." Unconsciously she
+pressed his arm. He started, and turned his head away. The next moment
+he added, in a somewhat constrained voice, "I mean--let me have your
+friendship--your silent comforting--your prayers-Yes! thus far I
+believe. I can say, 'Pray God for me,' doubting not that He will
+hear--you, at least, if not me. Therefore, let me go on and struggle
+through this darkness."
+
+"Until comes the light! It will come--I know it will!" Olive looked up
+at him, and their eyes met. In hers was the fulness of joy, in his a
+doubt--a contest. He removed them, and walked on in silence. The very
+arm on which Olive leaned seemed to grow rigid--like a bar of severance
+between them.
+
+"I would to Heaven!" Harold suddenly exclaimed as they approached
+Harbury--"I would to Heaven I could get away from this place altogether.
+I think I shall do so. My knowledge and reputation in science is not
+small. I might begin a new life--a life of active exertion. In fact, I
+have nearly decided it all."
+
+"Decided what? It is so sudden. I do not quite understand," said Olive,
+faintly.
+
+"To leave England for ever. What do you think of the plan?"
+
+What thought she? Nothing. There was a dull sound in her ears as of
+a myriad waters--the ground whereon she stood seemed reeling to and
+fro--yet she did not fall. One minute, and she answered.
+
+"You know best. If good for you, it is a good plan."
+
+He seemed relieved and yet disappointed. "I am glad you say so. I
+imagined, perhaps, you might have thought it wrong."
+
+"Why wrong?"
+
+"Women have peculiar feelings about home, and country, and friends.
+I shall leave all these. I would not care ever to see England more. I
+would put off this black gown, and with it every remembrance of the life
+of vile hypocrisy which I have led here. I would drown the past in new
+plans--new energies--new hopes. And, to do this, I must break all ties,
+and go alone. My poor mother! I have not dared yet to tell her. To her,
+the thought of parting would be like death, so dearly does she love me."
+
+He spoke all this rapidly, never looking towards his silent companion.
+When he ceased, Olive feebly stretched out her hand, as if to grasp
+something for support, then drew it back again, and, hid under her
+mantle, pressed it tightly against her heart. On that heart Harold's
+words fell, tearing away all its disguises, laying it bare to the bitter
+truth. "To me," she thought--"to me, also, this parting is like death.
+And why? Because I, too, love him--dearer than ever mother loved son, or
+sister brother; ay, dearer than my own soul. Oh miserable me!"
+
+"You are silent," said Harold. "You think I am acting cruelly towards
+one who loves me so well Human affections are to us secondary things.
+We scarcely need them; or, when our will demands, we can crush them
+altogether."
+
+"I--I have heard so," said she, slowly.
+
+"Well, Miss Rothesay?" he asked, when they had nearly reached the
+Parsonage, "what are you thinking of?"
+
+"I think that, wherever you go, you ought to take your mother with you;
+and little Ailie, too. With them your home will be complete."
+
+"Yet I have friends to leave--one friend at least--_yourself_."
+
+"I, like others, shall miss you; but all true friends should desire,
+above all things, each other's welfare. I shall be satisfied if I hear
+at times of yours."
+
+He made no reply, and they went in at the hall door.
+
+There was much to be done and talked of that afternoon at the Parsonage.
+First, there was a long lesson to be given to little Ailie; then, at
+least an hour was spent in following Mrs. Gwynne round the garden, and
+hearing her dilate on the beauty of her hollyhocks and dahlias.
+
+"I shall have the finest dahlias in the country next year," said the
+delighted old lady.
+
+Next year! It seemed to Olive as if she were talking of the next world.
+
+In some way or other the hours went by; how, Olive could not tell. She
+did not see, hear, or feel anything, save that she had to make an
+effort to appear in the eyes of Harold, and of Harold's mother, just
+as usual--the same quiet little creature--gently smiling, gently
+speaking--who had already begun to be called "an old maid"--whom no one
+in the world suspected of any human passion--least of all, the passion
+of _love_.
+
+After this early dinner Harold went out. He did not return even when
+the misty autumn night had begun to fall. As the daylight waned and the
+firelight brightened, Olive felt terrified at herself. One hour of
+that quiet evening commune, so sweet of old, and her strength and
+self-control would have failed. Making some excuse about Christal, she
+asked Mrs. Gwynne to let her go home.
+
+"But not alone, my dear. You will surely wait until Harold comes in?"
+
+"No, no! It will be late, and the mist is rising. Do not fear for me;
+the road is quite safe; and you know I am used to walking alone," said
+Olive, feebly smiling.
+
+"You are a brave little creature, my dear. Well, do as you will."
+
+So, ere long, Olive found herself on her solitary homeward road. It lay
+through the churchyard. Closing the Parsonage-gate, the first thing she
+did was to creep across the long grass to her mother's grave.
+
+"Oh, mother, mother! why did you go and leave me? I should never have
+loved any one if my mother had not died!"
+
+And burning tears fell, and burning blushes came. With these came also
+the horrible sense of self-degradation which smites a woman when she
+knows that, unsought, she has dared to love.
+
+"What have I done," she cried, "O earth, take me in and cover me! Hide
+me from myself--from my misery--my shame." Suddenly she started up.
+"What if he should pass and find me here! I must go. I must go home."
+
+She fled out of the churchyard and down the road. For a little way she
+walked rapidly, then gradually slower and slower. A white mist arose
+from the meadows; it folded round her like a shroud; it seemed to creep
+even into her heart, and make its beatings grow still. Down the long
+road, where she and Harold had so often passed together, she walked
+alone. Alone--as once had seemed her doom through life--and must now be
+so unto the end.
+
+It might be the _certainty_ of this which calmed her. She had no maiden
+doubts or hopes; not one. The possibility of Harold's loving her, or
+choosing her as his wife, never entered her mind.
+
+Since the days of her early girlhood, when she wove such a bright
+romance around Sara and Charles, and created for herself a beautiful
+ideal for future worship, Olive had ceased to dream about love at all.
+Feeling that its happiness was for ever denied her, she had altogether
+relinquished those fancies in which young maidens indulge. In their
+place had come the intense devotion to her Art, which, together with her
+passionate, love for her mother, had absorbed all the interests of her
+secluded life. Scarcely was she even conscious of the happiness that she
+lost; for she had read few of those books which foster sentiment; and in
+the wooings and weddings she heard of were none that aroused either her
+sympathy or her envy. Coldly and purely she had moved in her sphere,
+superior to both love's joy and love's pain.
+
+Reaching home, Olive sought not to enter the house, where she knew there
+could be no solitude. She went into the little arbour--her mother's
+favourite spot--and there, hidden in the shadows of the mild autumn
+night, she sat down, to gather up her strength, and calmly to think over
+her mournful lot.
+
+She said to herself, "There has come upon me that which I have heard is,
+soon or late, every woman's destiny. I cannot beguile myself any longer.
+It is not friendship I feel: it is love. My whole life is threaded by
+one thought--the thought of him. It comes between me and everything else
+on earth--almost between me and Heaven. I never wake at morning but his
+name rises to my heart--the first hope of the day; I never kneel down
+at night but in my prayer, whether in thought or speech, that name is
+mingled too. If I have sinned, God forgive me; He knows how lonely and
+desolate I was--how, when that one best love was taken away, my heart
+ached and yearned for some other human love. And this has come to fill
+it. Alas for me!
+
+"Let me think. Will it ever pass away? There are feelings which come and
+go--light girlish fancies. But I am six-and-twenty years old. All this
+while I have lived without loving any man. And no one has ever wooed me
+except my master, Vanbrugh, whose feeling for me was not love at all.
+No, no! I am, as they call me, 'an old maid,' destined to pass through
+life alone and unloved.
+
+"Perhaps, though I have long ceased to think on the subject--perhaps
+my first girlish misery was true, and there is in me something
+repulsive--something that would prevent any man's seeking me as a wife.
+Therefore, even if my own feelings could change, it is unlikely there
+will ever come any soothing after-tie to take away the memory of this
+utterly hopeless love.
+
+"Hopeless I know it is. He admires beauty and grace--I have neither. Yet
+I will not do him the injustice to believe he would despise me for this.
+Even once I overheard him say, there was such sweetness in my face, that
+he had never noticed my being 'slightly deformed.' Therefore, did he but
+love me, perhaps--O fool!--dreaming fool that I am! It is impossible!
+
+"Let me think calmly once more. He has given me all he could--kindness,
+friendship, brotherly regard; and I have given him love--a woman's whole
+and entire love, such as she can give but once, and be beggared all her
+life after. I to him am like any other friend--he to me is all my world.
+Oh, but it is a fearful difference!
+
+"I will look my doom in the face--I will consider how I am to bear it.
+No hope is there for me of being loved as I love. I shall never be his
+wife: never be more to him than I am now; in time, perhaps even less.
+He will go out into the world, and leave me, as brothers leave sisters
+(even supposing he regards me as such). He will form new ties; perhaps
+he will marry; and then my love for him would be sin!"
+
+Olive pressed her hands tightly together, and crushed her hot brow upon
+them, bending it even to her knees. Thus bowed, she lay until the fierce
+struggle passed.
+
+"I do not think that misery will come. His mother, who knows him best,
+was surely right when she said he would never take a second wife.
+Therefore I may be his friend still. Neither he nor any one will ever
+know that I loved him otherwise than as a sister might love a brother.
+Who would dream there could be any other thought in me--a pale, unlovely
+thing--a woman past her youth (for I seem very old now)? It ought not to
+be so; many women are counted young at six-and-twenty; but it is those
+who have been nurtured tenderly in joyous homes. While I have been
+struggling with the hard world these many years. No wonder I am not
+as they--that I am quiet and silent, without mirth or winning grace, a
+creature worn out before her time, pale, joyless, _deformed_. Yes, let
+me teach myself that word, with all other truths that 'can quench this
+mad dream. Then, perhaps knowing all hope vain, I may be able to endure.
+
+"What am I to do? Am I to try and cleanse my heart of this love, as if
+it were some pollution? Not so. Sorrow it is--deep, abiding sorrow;
+but it is not sin. If I thought it so, I would crush it out, though I
+crushed my life out with it. But I need not. My heart is pure--O God,
+Thou knowest!
+
+"Another comfort I have. He has not deceived me, as men sometimes
+deceive, with wooing that seems like love, and yet is only idle, cruel
+sport. He has ever treated me as a friend--a sister--nothing more!
+Therefore, no bitterness is there in my sorrow, since he has done no
+wrong.
+
+"I will not cease from loving--I would not if I could. Better this
+suffering than the utter void which must otherwise be in my heart
+eternally, seeing I have neither father, mother, brother, nor sister,
+and shall never know any nearer tie than the chance friendships which
+spring up on the world's wayside, and wither where they spring. I know
+there are those who would bid me cast off this love as it were a serpent
+from my bosom. No! Rather let it creep in there, and fold itself close
+and secret. What matter, even if its sweet sting be death?
+
+"But I shall not die. How could I, while he lived, and might need any
+comfort that I could give? Did he not say, 'Keep near me!' Ay, I will!
+Though a world lay between us, my spirit shall follow him all his life
+long. Distance shall be nothing--years nothing! Whenever he calls,
+'Friend I need thee.' I will answer, 'I am here!' If I could condense
+my whole life's current of joy into one drop of peace for him, I would
+pour it out at his feet, smile content, and die. And when I am dead--he
+will know how I loved him--Harold--my Harold."
+
+Such were her thoughts--though no words passed her lips--except the
+last. As she rose and went towards the house, she might even have met
+him and not trembled--she had grown so calm.
+
+It was already night--but the mist had quite gone--there was only the
+sky and its stars.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVI.
+
+I know that I am promulgating a new theory of love; I know that in Olive
+Rothesay I dare to paint a woman full of all maidenly virtues, who has
+yet given her heart away unrequited--given it to a man who knows not of
+the treasure he has never sought to win. The case, I grant, is rare. I
+believe that a woman seldom bestows her love save in return for other
+love--be it silent or spoken--real or imaginary. If it is not so, either
+she has deceived herself, or has been deceived.
+
+But the thing is quite possible--ay, and happens sometimes--that a woman
+unselfish, unexacting in all her affections, more prone to give than
+to receive, thinking perhaps very little of love or marriage, may be
+unconsciously attracted by some imagined perfection in the other sex,
+and be thus led on through the worship of abstract goodness until she
+wakes to find that she has learned to love _the man_. For what is
+love in its purest and divinest sense, but that innate yearning after
+perfection which we vainly hope to find in some other human soul; this
+is as likely to be felt by a woman as by a man--ay, and by one most pure
+from every thought of unfeminine boldness, vanity, or sin.
+
+I know, too, that from many a sage and worthy matron my Olive has for
+ever earned her condemnation, because, at last discovering her mournful
+secret, she did not strive in horror and shame to root out this
+misplaced attachment. Then, after years of self-martyrdom, she might at
+last have pointed to her heart's trampled garden, and said, "Look what I
+have had strength to do!" But from such a wrecked and blasted soil what
+aftergrowth could ever spring?
+
+Better, a thousand times, that a woman to whom this doom has come
+unwittingly, without her seeking--as inevitably and inexorably as
+fate--should pause, stand steadfast, and look it in the face, without
+fear. She cannot disguise it, or wrestle with it, or fly from it Let her
+meet it as she would meet death--solemnly, calmly, patiently. Let her
+draw nigh and look upon the bier of her life's dead hope, until the
+pale image grows beautiful as sleep; then cover it--bury it--if she can.
+Perhaps it may one day rise from the grave, wearing a likeness no longer
+human, but divine.
+
+It is time that we women should begin to teach and to think thus. It is
+meet that we--maidens, wives, mothers, to whom the lines have fallen in
+more pleasant places--should turn and look on that pale sisterhood--some
+carrying meekly to the grave their heavy unuttered secret, some living
+unto old age, to bear the world's smile of pity, even of derision,
+over an "unfortunate attachment." Others, perhaps, furnishing a text
+whereupon prudent mothers may lesson romantic daughters, saying, "See
+that you be not like these 'foolish virgins;' give not _your_ heart
+away in requital of fancied love; or, madder still, in worship of
+ideal goodness--give it for nothing but the safe barter of a speedy
+settlement, a comfortable income, a husband, and a ring."
+
+Olive Rothesay, be not ashamed, nor afraid. Hide the arrow close in thy
+soul--lay over it thy folded hands and look upwards. Far purer art thou
+than many a young creature, married without love, living on in decent
+dignity as the mother of her husband's children, the convenient mistress
+of his household, and so sinking down into the grave, a pattern of all
+matronly virtue. Envy her not! A thousand times holier and happier than
+such a destiny is that silent lot of thine.
+
+With meekness, yet with courage, Olive Rothesay prepared to live her
+appointed life. At first it seemed very bitter, as must needs be. Youth,
+while it is still youth, cannot at once and altogether be content to
+resign love. It will yearn for that tie which Heaven ordained to make
+its nature's completeness; it will shrink before the long dull vista
+of a solitary, aimless existence. Sometimes, wildly as she struggled
+against such thoughts, there would come to Olive's fancy dreams of what
+her life might have been. The holiness of lovers' love, of wedded love,
+of mother-love, would at times flit before her imagination; and her
+heart, still warm, still young, trembled to picture the lonely old age,
+the hearth blank and silent, the utter isolation from all those natural
+ties whose place not even the dearest bonds of adopted affection can.
+ever entirely fill. But, whenever these murmurings arose, Olive checked
+them; often with a feeling of intolerable shame.
+
+She devoted herself more than ever to her Art, trying to make it as once
+before the chief interest and enjoyment of her life. It would become the
+same again, she hoped. Often and often in the world's history had been
+noted that of brave men who rose from the wreck of love, and found
+happiness in fame. But Olive had yet to learn that, with women, it is
+rarely so.
+
+She felt more than ever the mournful change which had come over
+her, when it happened that great success was won by one of her later
+pictures--a picture unconsciously created from the inspiration of that
+sweet love-dream. When the news came--tidings which a year ago would
+have thrilled her with pleasure--Olive only smiled faintly, and a few
+minutes after went into her chamber, locked the door, and wept.
+
+There was not, and there could not be, any difference made in her
+ordinary way of life. She still went to the Parsonage, and walked and
+talked with Harold, as he seemed always to expect. She listened to all
+his projects for the future--a future wherein she, alas! had no part
+Eagerly she strove to impress this fact upon her mind--to forget
+herself entirely, to think only of him, and what would be best for his
+happiness. Knowing him so well, and having over him an influence which
+he seemed rather to like, and which, at least, he never repelled, she
+was able continually to reason, to cheer him, and sympathise with him.
+He often thanked her for this, little knowing how every quiet word of
+hers was torn from a bleeding heart.
+
+Walking home with her at nights, as usual, he never saw the white face
+turned upwards to the stars--the eyes wherein tears burned, but would
+not fall; the lips compressed in a choking agony, or opened to utter
+ordinary words in which his ear detected not one tremulous or discordant
+tone. When he sat in the house, absorbed in anxious thought, little he
+knew what looks were secretly fastened on his face, to learn by heart
+every beloved lineament, against the time when his visible likeness
+would be beheld no more.
+
+Thus miserably did Olive struggle. The record of that time, its every
+day, its every hour, was seared on her heart as with a burning brand.
+Afterwards she never thought of it but with a shudder, marvelling how
+she had been able to endure all and live.
+
+At last the inward suffering began to be outwardly written on her face.
+Some people said--Lyle Derwent first--that Miss Rothesay did not look
+so well as she used to do. But indeed it was no wonder, she was so
+engrossed in her painting, and worked far too much for her strength.
+Olive neither dissented nor denied: but she never complained, and still
+went painting on. Harold himself saw she was ill, and sometimes treated
+her with almost brotherly tenderness. Often he noticed her pale face,
+paler than ever beneath his eye, or, in wrapping her from the cold,
+observed how she shivered and trembled. And then Olive would go home and
+cry out in her misery,
+
+"How long? how long? Oh, that this would cease, or else I die!"
+
+She was quite alone at the Dell now, for Mrs. Fludyer had paid a flying
+visit home, and had taken back with her both Christal and the somewhat
+unwilling Lyle. Solitude, once sweet and profitable, now grew fearful
+unto Olive's tortured mind. And to escape it she had no resource, but
+that which she knew was to her like a poison-draught, and for which she
+yet thirsted evermore--the daily welcome at the Parsonage. But the web
+of circumstances, which she herself seemed to have no power to break,
+was at length apparently broken for her. One day she received a
+letter from her father's aunt, Miss Flora Rothesay, inviting--nay,
+entreating--her to visit Edinburgh, that the old lady might look upon
+the last of her race.
+
+For a moment Olive blessed this chance of quitting the scenes now become
+so painful. But then, Harold might need her. In his present conflict of
+feeling and of purpose he had no confidant save herself. She would
+have braved years of suffering if her presence could have given him one
+hour's relief from care. But of this she must judge, so she set off at
+once to the Parsonage.
+
+"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Gwynne, with a smiling and mysterious face,
+"of course you will go at once! It will do your health a world of good.
+Harold said so only this morning."
+
+"Then he knew of the letter?"
+
+"Why, to tell the truth, I believe he originated the plan. He saw you
+wanted change--he has such a regard for you, Olive."
+
+Then _he_ had done it all! He could let her part from him, easily,
+as friend from friend. Yet, what marvel! they were nothing more. She
+answered, quietly, "I will go."
+
+She told him so when he came in. He seemed much pleased; and said, with
+more than his usual frankness,
+
+"I should like you to know aunt Flora. You see, I call her _my_ aunt
+Flora, too, for she is of some distant kin, and I have dearly loved her
+ever since I was a boy."
+
+It was something to be going to one whom Harold "dearly loved." Olive
+felt a little comfort in her proposed journey.
+
+"Besides, she knows you quite well already, my dear," observed Mrs.
+Gwynne. "She tells me Harold used often to talk about you during his
+visit with her this summer."
+
+"I had a reason," said Harold, his dark cheek changing a little. "I
+wished her to know and love her niece, and I was sure her niece would
+soon learn to love _her_."
+
+"Why, that is kind, and like yourself, my son. How thoughtfully you have
+been planning everything for Olive."
+
+"Olive will not be angry with me for that?" he said, and stopped. It was
+the first time she had ever heard him utter her Christian name. At the
+sound her heart leaped wildly, but only for an instant. The next, Harold
+had corrected himself, and said, "_Miss Rothesay_" in a distinct, cold,
+and formal tone. Very soon afterwards he went away.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne persuaded Olive to spend the day at the Parsonage. They two
+were alone together, for Harold did not return. But in the afternoon
+their quietness was broken by the sudden appearance of Lyle Derwent.
+
+"So soon back from Brighton! Who would have thought it!" said Mrs.
+Gwynne, smiling.
+
+Lyle put on his favourite sentimental air, and muttered something about
+"not liking gaiety, and never being happy away from Farnwood."
+
+"Miss Rothesay is scarcely of your opinion; at all events, she is going
+to try the experiment by leaving us for a while."
+
+"Miss Rothesay leaving us!"
+
+"It is indeed true, Lyle. You see I have not been well of late, and my
+kind friends here are over-anxious for me; and I want to see my aunt in
+Scotland."
+
+"It is to Scotland you are going?--all that long dreary way? You may
+stay there weeks, months! and that while what will become of me--I mean
+of us all at Farnwood?"
+
+His evident regret touched Olive deeply. It was something to be missed,
+even by this boy: he always seemed a boy to her, partly because of olden
+times, partly because he was so boy-like and unsophisticated in mind and
+manner.
+
+"My dear Lyle, how good of you to think of me in this manner! But indeed
+I will not forget you when I am away."
+
+"You promise that?" cried Lyle, eagerly.
+
+Olive promised; with a sorrowful thought that none asked this
+pledge--none needed it--save the affectionate Lyle!
+
+He was still inconsolable, poor youth! He looked so drearily pathetic,
+and quoted such doleful poetry, that Mrs. Gwynne, who, in her
+matter-of-fact plainness, had no patience with any of Lyle's "romantic
+vagaries," as she called them, began to exert the dormant humour
+by which she always quenched his little ebullitions. Olive at last
+considerately came to the rescue, and proposed an evening stroll about
+the garden, to which Lyle gladly assented.
+
+There he still talked of her departure, but his affectations were now
+broken by real feeling.
+
+"I shall miss you bitterly," he said, in a low tone; "but if your health
+needs change, and this journey is for your good, of course I would not
+think of myself at all."
+
+--The very expressions she had herself used to Harold! This coincidence
+touched her, and she half reproached herself for feeling so coldly
+to all her kind friends, and chiefly to Lyle Derwent, who evidently
+regarded her with much affection. But all other affections grew pale
+before the one great love. Every lesser tie that would fain come in the
+place of that which was unattainable, smote her with only a keener pain.
+
+Still, half remorsefully, she looked on her old favourite, and wished
+that she could care for him more. So thinking, her manner became gentler
+than usual, while that of Lyle grew more earnest and less dreamy.
+
+"I wish you would write to me while you are away, Miss Rothesay; or, at
+all events, let me write to you."
+
+"That you may; and I shall be so glad to hear all about Harbury and
+Farnwood." Here she paused, half-shaming to confess to herself that for
+this reason chiefly would she welcome the letters of poor Lyle.
+
+"Is that all? Will you not care to hear about _me_? Oh, Miss Rothesay,"
+cried Lyle, "I often wish I was again a little boy in the dear old
+garden at Oldchurch."
+
+"Why so?"
+
+"Because--because"--and the quick blood rose in his cheek. "No, no, I
+cannot tell you now; but perhaps I may, some time."
+
+"Just as you like," answered Olive, absently. Her thoughts, wakened by
+the long-silent name, were travelling over many years; back to her old
+home, her happy girlhood. She almost wished she had died then, while she
+was young. But her mother!
+
+"No, I am glad I lived to comfort _her._" she mused. "Perhaps it may be
+true that none ever leave earth until they are no longer needed there.
+So I will even patiently live on."
+
+Unable to talk more with Lyle, Olive re-entered the Parsonage. Harold
+sat reading.
+
+"Have you long come in?" she asked in a somewhat trembling voice.
+
+He answered, "About an hour."
+
+"I did not see you enter."
+
+"It was not likely; you were engaged with my brother-in-law. Therefore I
+would not disturb you, but took my book."
+
+He spoke in the abrupt, cold manner he sometimes used. Olive thought
+something had happened to annoy him. She sat down and talked with him
+until the cloud passed away.
+
+Many times during the evening Lyle renewed his lamentations over Miss
+Rothesay's journey; but Harold never uttered one word of regret. When
+Olive departed, however, he offered to accompany her home.
+
+"Nay--it is such a rainy night--perhaps"----
+
+"Very well, since you choose it so," and he sat down again. But Olive
+saw she had wounded his pride, _only_ his pride; she said this to her
+heart, to keep down its unconscious thrill. She replied, hesitatingly:
+
+"Still, as we shall not have many more walks together, if"----
+
+"I will come," he said, smiling.
+
+And he came. Moreover, he contrived to keep her beside him. Lyle, poor
+fellow, went whistling in solitude down the other side of the road,
+until at the Dell he said goodnight, and vanished.
+
+Harold had talked all the way on indifferent subjects, never once
+alluding to Olive's departure. He did so now, however, but carelessly,
+as if with an accidental thought.
+
+"I wonder whether you will return before I leave Har-bury--that is, if I
+should really go. I should like to see you once again. Well, chance must
+decide."
+
+Chance! when she would have controlled all accidents, provided against
+all hindrances, woven together all purposes, to be with him for one
+single day!
+
+At once the thought broke through the happy spell which, for the time,
+his kindness had laid upon her. She felt that it was _only_ kindness;
+and as such he meant it, no more! In his feelings was not the faintest
+echo of her own. A sense of womanly pride arose, and with it a cruel
+pang of womanly shame. These lasted while she bade him good-night,
+somewhat coldly; then both sank at once, and there remained to her
+nothing but helpless sorrow.
+
+She listened for the last sound of his footsteps down the road. But
+she heard them not; and thought, half-sighing, how quickly he must have
+walked away!
+
+A very few days intervened between Miss Rothesay's final decision and
+her departure. During this time, she only once saw Harold Gwynne. She
+thought he might have met her a little oftener, seeing they were so soon
+to part. But he did not; and the pain it gave warned her that all was
+happening for the best. Her health failing, her cheerful spirit broken,
+even her temper growing embittered with this mournful struggle, she saw
+that in some way or other it must be ended. She was thankful that all
+things had arranged themselves so plainly before her.
+
+There was planned no farewell meeting at the Parsonage; but Mrs. Gwynne
+spent at the Dell the evening before Olive's departure. Harold would
+have come, his mother said, but he had some important matters to
+arrange; he would, however, appear some time that evening. However, it
+grew late, and still his welcome knock was not heard. At last one came;
+it was only Lyle, who called to bid Miss Rothesay good-bye. He did so
+dolorously enough, but Olive scarcely felt any pain.
+
+"It is of no use waiting," said Mrs. Gwynne. "I think I will go home
+with Lyle--that is, if he will take my son's place for the occasion. It
+is not quite right of Harold; he does not usually forget his mother."
+
+Olive instinctively hinted some excuse. She was ever prone to do so,
+when any shadow of blame fell on Harold.
+
+"You are always good, my dear. But still he might have come, even for
+the sake of proper courtesy to you."
+
+Courtesy!
+
+Mrs. Gwynne entreated Olive to call at the Parsonage on her journey next
+morning. It would not hinder her a minute. Little Ailie was longing for
+one good-bye, and perhaps she might likewise see Harold. Miss Rothesay
+assented. It would have been hard to go away without one more look at
+him--one more clasp of his hand.
+
+Yet both seemed denied her. When Olive reached the Parsonage, he was not
+there. He had gone out riding, little Ailie thought; no one else knew
+anything about him.
+
+"It was very wrong and unkind," said Mrs. Gwynne in real annoyance.
+
+"Oh, no, not at all," was all that Olive murmured. She took Ailie on her
+knee, and hid her face upon the child's curls.
+
+"Ah, dear Miss Rothesay, you must come back soon," whispered the little
+girl. "We can't do without you. We have all been much happier since you
+came to Harbury; papa said so, last night."
+
+"Did he?"
+
+"Yes; when I was crying at the thought of your going away, and he came
+to my little bed, and comforted me, and kissed me. Oh, you don't know
+how sweet papa's kisses are! Now, I get so many of them. Before he rode
+out this morning he gave me half-a-dozen here, upon my eyes, and said I
+must learn all you taught me, and grow up a good woman, just like you.
+What! are you crying? Then I will cry too."
+
+Olive laid her thin cheek to the rosy one of Harold's daughter; she
+wept, but could not speak.
+
+"What kisses you are giving me, dear Miss Rothesay, and just where papa
+gives me them, too. How kind! Ah, I love you--I love you dearly."
+
+"God bless and take care of you, my dear child--almost as dear as though
+you had been born my own," was Mrs. Gwynne's farewell, as she bestowed
+on Olive one of her rare embraces. And then the parting was over.
+
+Closing her eyes--her heart;--striving to make her thoughts a blank, and
+to shut out everything save the welcome sense of blind exhaustion that
+was creeping over her, Olive lay back in the carriage, and was whirled
+from Harbury.
+
+She had a long way to go across the forest-country until she reached the
+nearest railway-station. When she arrived, it was already late, and she
+had barely time to take her seat ere the carriages started. That moment
+her quick ear caught the ringing of a horse's hoofs, and as the rider
+leaped on the platform she saw it was Harold Gwynne. He looked round
+eagerly--more eagerly than she had ever seen him look before. The train
+was already moving, but they momently recognised each other, and Harold
+smiled--his own frank affectionate smile. It fell like a sunburst upon
+Olive Rothesay.
+
+Her last sight of him was as he stood with folded arms, intently
+watching the winding northward line. Then, feeling that this had taken
+away half her pain, she was borne upon her solitary journey.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVII.
+
+There is not in the world a more exquisite sight than a beautiful old
+age. It is almost better than a beautiful youth. Early loveliness
+passes away with its generation, and becomes at best only a melancholy
+tradition recounted by younger lips with a half-incredulous smile. But
+if one must live to be the last relic of a past race, one would desire
+in departing to leave behind the memory of a graceful old age. And since
+there is only one kind of beauty which so endures, it ought to be a
+consolation to those whom fate has denied the personal loveliness which
+charms at eighteen, to know that we all have it in our power to be
+beautiful at eighty.
+
+Miss, or rather Mrs. Flora Rothesay--for so she was always
+called--appeared to Olive the most beautiful old lady she had ever
+beheld. It was a little after dusk on a dull wet day, when she reached
+her journey's end. Entering, she saw around her the dazzle of a rich
+warm fire-light, her cloak was removed by light hands, and she felt on
+both cheeks the kiss of peace and salutation.
+
+"Is that Olive Rothesay, Angus Rothesay's only child? Welcome to
+Scotland--welcome, my dear lassie!"
+
+The voice lost none of its sweetness for bearing, strongly and
+unmistakably, the ".accents of the mountain tongue." Though more in
+tone than phrase, for Mrs. Flora Rothesay spoke with all the purity of a
+Highland woman.
+
+Surely the breezes that rocked Olive's cradle had sung in her memory for
+twenty years, for she felt like coming home the moment she set foot
+in her native land. She expressed this to Mrs. Flora, and then, quite
+overpowered, she knelt and hid her face in the old lady's lap, and her
+excitement melted away in a soft dew--too sweet to seem like tears.
+
+"The poor lassie! she's just wearied out!" said Mrs. Flora, laying her
+hands on Olive's hair. "Jean, get her some tea. Now, my bairn, lift
+up your face. Ay, there it is--a Rothesay's, every line! and with the
+golden hair too. Ye have heard tell of the weird saying, about the
+Rothesays with yellow hair? No? We will not talk of it now." And the
+old lady suddenly looked thoughtful--even somewhat grave. When Olive
+rose up, she made her bring a seat opposite to her own arm-chair, and
+there watched her very intently.
+
+Olive herself noticed her aunt with curious eyes. Mrs. Flora's attire
+was quite a picture, with the ruffled elbow-sleeves and the long, square
+boddice, over which a close white kerchief hid the once lovely neck and
+throat of her whom old Elspie had chronicled--and truly--as "the Flower
+of Perth." The face, Olive thought, was as she could have imagined Mary
+Queen of Scots grown old. But age could never obliterate the charm of
+the soft languishing eyes, the almost infantile sweetness of the mouth.
+Therein sat a spirit, ever lovely, because ever loving; smiling away all
+natural wrinkles--softening down all harsh lines. You regarded them no
+more than the faint shadows in a twilight landscape, over which the
+soul of peace is everywhere diffused. There was peace, too, in the very
+attitude--leaning back, the head a little raised, the hands crossed,
+each folded round the other's wrist. Olive particularly noticed these
+hands. On the right was a marriage-ring which had outlasted two lives,
+mother and daughter; on the left, at the wedding-finger, was another,
+a hoop of gold with a single diamond. Both seemed less ornaments
+than tokens--gazed on, perhaps, as the faint landmarks of a long past
+journey, which now, with its joys and pains alike, was all fading into
+shadow before the dawn of another world.
+
+"So they called you 'Olive,' my dear," said Mrs. Flora. "A strange name!
+the like of it is not in our family."
+
+"My mother gave it me from a dream she had."
+
+Olive.
+
+"Now, my bairn, lift up your face."
+
+[Illustration: Page 314, Now, my bairn, lift up your face]
+
+"Ay, I mind it; Harold Gwynne told me, saying that Mrs. Rothesay had
+told _him_. Was she, then, so sweet and dainty a creature--your mother?
+Once Angus spoke to me of her--little Sybilla Hyde. She was his
+wife then, though we did not know it. Poor Angus, we loved him very
+much--better than he thought. Tears again, my dearie!"
+
+"They do not harm me, Aunt Flora."
+
+"And so you know my dear Alison Balfour? She was younger than I, and yet
+you see we have both grown auld wives together. Little Olive, ye
+have come to me in a birthday gift, my dear. I am eighty years old
+to-day--just eighty years, thank the Lord!"
+
+The old lady reverently raised her blue eyes--true Scottish eyes--limpid
+and clear as the dew on Scottish heather. Cheerful they were withal,
+for they soon began to flit hither and thither, following the motions
+of Jean's "eident hand" with most housewifely care. And Jean herself, a
+handmaid prim and ancient, but youthful compared to her mistress,
+seemed to watch the latter's faintest gesture with most affectionate
+observance. Of all the light traits which reveal character, none is more
+suggestive than the sight of a mistress whom her servants love.
+
+After tea Mrs. Mora insisted on Olive's retiring for the night. "Your
+room has a grand view over the Braid Hills. They call them hills here;
+but oh! if ye had seen the blue mountains sweeping in waves from the old
+house at home. Night and day I was wearying for them, for years after I
+came to live at Morningside. But one must e'en dree one's weird!"
+
+She always spoke in this rambling way, wandering from the subject, after
+the fashion of old age. Olive could have listened long to the pleasant
+stream of talk, which seemed murmuring round her, wrapping her in a
+soft dream of peace. She laid down her tired head on the pillow, with an
+unwonted feeling of calmness and rest. Even the one weary pain that
+ever pursued her sank into momentary repose. Her last waking thought
+was still of Harold; but it was more like the yearning of a spirit from
+beyond the grave.
+
+Just between waking and sleeping Olive was roused by music. Her door had
+been left ajar, and the sound she heard was the voices of the household,
+engaged in their evening devotion. The tune was that sweetest of all
+Presbyterian psalmody, "plaintive Martyrs." Olive caught some words
+of the hymn--it was one with which she had often, often been lulled to
+sleep in poor old Elspie's arms. Distinct and clear its quaint rhymes
+came back upon her memory now:
+
+     The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want,
+        He makes me down to lie
+     In pastures green, He leadeth me
+        The quiet waters by.
+
+     Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale,
+        Yet will I fear none ill;
+     For Thou art with me, and Thy rod
+        And staff me comfort still.
+
+Poor lonely Olive lay and listened. Then rest, deep and placid, came
+over her, as over one who, escaped from a stormy wrack and tempest,
+falls asleep amid the murmur of "quiet waters," in a pleasant land.
+
+She awoke in the morning, as if waking in another world. The clear cold
+air, thrilled with sunshine, filled her room. It was the "best room,"
+furnished with a curious mingling of the ancient and the modern. The
+pretty chintz couch laughed at the oaken, high-backed chair, stiff with
+a century of worm-eaten state. On either side the fireplace hung two
+ancient engravings, of Mary Stuart and "bonnie Prince Charlie," both
+garnished with verses, at once remarkable for devoted loyalty and
+eccentric rhythm. Between the two was Sir William Ross's sweet, maidenly
+portrait of our own Victoria. Opposite, on a shadowed wall, with one
+sunbeam kissing the face, was a large well-painted likeness, which Olive
+at once recognised. It was Mrs. Flora Rothesay, at eighteen. No wonder,
+Olive thought, that she was called "the Flower of Perth." But strange it
+was, that the fair flower had been planted in no good man's bosom; that
+this lovely and winning creature had lived, bloomed, withered--"an
+old maid." Olive, looking into the sweet eyes that followed her
+everywhere--as those of some portraits do--tried to read therein the
+foreshadowing of a life-history of eighty years. It made her dreamy
+and sad, so she arose and looked out upon the sunny slopes of the
+Braid Hills until her cheerfulness returned. Then she descended to the
+breakfast-table.
+
+It was too early for the old lady to appear, but there were waiting
+three or four young damsels--invited, they said, to welcome Miss
+Rothesay, and show her the beauties of Edinburgh. They talked
+continually of "dear Auntie Mora," and were most anxious to "call
+cousins" with Olive herself, who, though she could not at all make out
+the relationship, was quite ready to take it upon faith. She tried
+very hard properly to distinguish between the three Miss M'Gillivrays,
+daughters of Sir Andrew Rothesay's half-sister's son, and Miss Flora
+Anstruther, the old lady's third cousin and name-child, and especially
+little twelve-years-old Maggie Oliphant, whose grandfather was Mrs.
+Flora's nephew on the mother's side, and first cousin ta Alison Balfour.
+
+All these conflicting relationships wrapped Olive in an inexplicable
+net; but it was woven of such friendly arms that she had no wish to
+get free. Her heart opened to the loving welcome; and when she took
+her first walk on Scottish ground, it was with a sensation more akin to
+happiness than she had felt for many a long month.
+
+"And so you have never before seen your aunt," said one of the
+M'Gillivrays;--for her life, Olive could not tell whether it was Miss
+Jane, Miss Janet, or Miss Marion, though she had tried for half-an-hour
+to learn the difference. "You like her of course--our dear old Auntie
+Flora?"
+
+"Aunt to which of you?" said Olive, smiling.
+
+"Oh, she is everybody's Auntie Flora; no one ever calls her anything
+else," observed little Maggie Oliphant, who, during all their walk clung
+tenaciously to Miss Rothesay's hand, as most children were prone to do.
+
+"I think," said the quiet Miss Anstruther, lifting up her brown eyes,
+"that in all _our_ lives put together, we will never do half the good
+that Aunt Flora has done in hers. Papa says, every one of her friends
+ought to be thankful that she has lived an old maid!"
+
+"Yes, indeed, for who else would have had patience with her cross old
+brother Sir Andrew, until he died?" said Janet M'Gillivray.
+
+"And who," added her sister, "would have come and been a mother to us
+when we lost our own, living with us, and taking care of us for seven
+long years?"
+
+"I am sure," cried blithe Maggie, "my brothers and I used often to say,
+that if Auntie Flora had been young, and any disagreeable husband
+had come to steal her from us, we would have hooted him away down the
+street, and pelted him with stones."
+
+Olive laughed; and afterwards said, thoughtfully, "She has then lived a
+happy life--has this good Aunt Flora!"
+
+"Not always happy," answered the eldest and gravest of the M'Gillivrays.
+"My mother once heard that she had some great trouble in her youth. But
+she has outlived it, and conquered it in time. People say such things
+are possible: I cannot tell," added the girl, with a faint sigh.
+
+There was no more said of Mrs. Flora, but oftentimes during the day,
+when some passing memory stung poor Olive, causing her to turn wearily
+from the mirth of her young companions, there came before her in gentle
+reproof the likeness of the aged woman who had lived down her one great
+woe--lived, not only to feel but to impart cheerfulness.
+
+A few hours after, Olive saw her aunt sitting smiling amidst a little
+party which she had gathered together, playing with the children,
+sympathising with those of elder growth, and looked up to by old and
+young with an affection passing that of mere kindred. And then there
+came a balm of hope to the wounded spirit that had felt life's burden
+too heavy to be borne.
+
+"How happy you are, and how much everyone loves you!" said Olive, when
+Mrs. Flora and herself were left alone, and their hearts inclined each
+to each with a vague sympathy.
+
+"Yours must have been a noble woman's life."
+
+"I have tried to make it so, as far as I could, my dear bairn; and the
+little good I have done has come back upon me fourfold. It is always
+so."
+
+"And you have been content--nay happy!"
+
+"Ay, I have! God quenched the fire on my own hearth, that I might learn
+to make that of others bright My dear, one's life never need be empty of
+love, even though, after seeing all near kindred drop away, one lingers
+to be an old maid of eighty years."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXVIII.
+
+"No letters to-day from Harbury!" observed Mrs. Mora, as, some weeks
+after Olive's arrival, they were taking their usual morning airing along
+the Queen's Drive. "My dear, are you not wearying for news from home?"
+
+"Aunt Flora's house has grown quite home-like to me," said Olive,
+affectionately. It was true. She had sunk down, nestling into its peace
+like a tired broken-winged dove. As she sat beside the old lady, and
+drank in the delicious breezes that swept across from the Lothians, she
+was quite another creature from the pale drooping Olive Rothesay who had
+crept wearily up Harbury Hill. Still, the mention of the place even now
+took a little of the faint roses from her cheek.
+
+"I am glad you are happy, my dear niece," answered Mrs. Flora; "yet
+others should not forget you."
+
+"They do not. Christal writes now and then from Brighton, and Lyle
+Derwent indulges me with a long letter every week," said Olive, trying
+to smile. She did not mention Harold. She had hardly expected him
+to write; yet his silence grieved her. It felt like a mist of cold
+estrangement rising up between them. Yet--as sometimes she tried to
+think--perhaps it was best so!
+
+"Alison Gwynne was aye the worst of all correspondents," pursued the old
+lady, "but Harold might write to you: I think he did so once or twice
+when he was living with me here, this summer."
+
+"Yes;" said Olive, "we have always been good friends."
+
+"I know that. It was not little that we talked about you. He told me all
+that happened long ago between your _father_ and himself. Ah, that was a
+strange, strange thing!"
+
+"We have never once spoken of it--neither I nor Mr. Gwynne."
+
+"Harold could not. He was sair grieved, and bitterly he repented having
+'robbed' you. But he was no the same man then that he is now. Ah, that
+gay young wife of his--fair and fause, fair and fause! It's ill for a
+man that loves such a woman. I would like well to see my dear Harold wed
+to some leal-hearted lassie. But I fear me it will never be."
+
+Thus the old lady's talk gently wandered on. Olive listened in silence,
+her eyes vacantly turned towards the wide open country that sweeps
+down from Duddingston Loch. The yellow harvest-clad valley smiled; but
+beneath the same bright sky the loch lay quiet, dark, and still. The
+sunshine passed over it, and entered it not. Olive wistfully regarded
+the scene, which seemed a symbol of her own fate. She did not murmur at
+it, for day by day her peace was returning. She tried to respond with
+cheerfulness to the new affections that greeted her on every side; to
+fill each day with those duties, that by the alchemy of a pious nature
+are so often transmuted into pleasures. She was already beginning
+to learn the blessed and heaven-sent truth, that no life ought to be
+wrecked for the love of one human being, and that no sinless sorrow is
+altogether incurable.
+
+The rest of the drive was rather dull, for Mrs. Flora, usually the most
+talkative, cheerful old lady in the world, seemed disposed to be silent
+and thoughtful. Not sad--sadness rarely comes to old age. All strong
+feelings, whether of joy or pain, belong to youth alone.
+
+"Ye will ride with Marion M'Gillivray the day?" said Mrs. Flora, after
+a somewhat protracted silence. "You bairns will not want an auld wifie
+like me."
+
+Olive disclaimed this, affirming, and with her whole heart, that she was
+never so happy as when with her good Aunt Flora.
+
+"'Tis pleasant to hear ye say the like of that. But it must be even
+so--for this night I would fain bide alone at home."
+
+The carriage stopped in Abercromby Place.
+
+"I will see ye again the morn," the old lady observed, as her niece
+descended. And then, after looking up pleasantly to the window, that was
+filled with a whole host of juvenile M'Gillivrays vehemently nodding and
+smiling, Aunt Flora pulled down her veil and drove away.
+
+"I thought you would be given up to us for to-day," said Marion, as she
+and Olive, now grown almost into friends, strolled out arm-in-arm along
+the shady walks of Morning-side.
+
+"Indeed! Did Aunt Flora say"----
+
+"She said nothing--she never does. But for years I have noticed this
+20th of September; because, when she lived with us, on this day, after
+teaching us in the morning, she used to go to her own room, or take a
+long, lonely walk,--come back very pale and quiet, and we never saw
+her again that night. It was the only day in the year that she seemed
+wishful to keep away from us. Afterwards, when I grew a woman, I found
+out why this was."
+
+"Did she tell you?"
+
+"No; Aunt Flora never talks about herself. But from her maid and
+foster-sister, an old woman who died a while ago, I heard a little of
+the story, and guessed the rest--one easily can," added quiet Marion.
+
+"I think I guess, too. But let me hear, that is, if I _may_ hear?"
+
+"Oh yes. 'Tis many, many years ago. Aunt Flora was quite a girl then,
+and lived with Sir Andrew, her elder brother. She had 'braw wooers' in
+plenty, according to Isbel Graeme (you should have seen old Isbel, cousin
+Olive). However, she cared for nobody; and some said it was for the sake
+of a far-away cousin of her own, one of the 'gay Gordons.' But he was
+anything but 'gay'--delicate in health, plain to look at, and poor
+besides. While he lived he never said to her a word of love; but after
+he died,--and that was not until both were past their youth,--there came
+to Aunt Flora a letter and a ring. She wears it on her wedding finger to
+this day."
+
+"And this 20th of September must have been the day _he_ died," said
+Olive.
+
+"I believe so. But she never says a word, and never did."
+
+The two walked on silently. Olive was thinking of the long woe-wasted
+youth--the knowledge of love requited came too late--and then of her who
+after this great blow could gird up her strength and endure for nearly
+fifty years. Ay, so as to find in life not merely peace, but sweetness.
+Olive's own path looked less gloomy to the view. From the depths of her
+forlorn heart uprose a feeble-winged hope; it came and fluttered about
+her pale lips, bringing to them
+
+     The smile of one, God-satisfied; and earth-undone.
+
+Marion turned round and saw it. "Cousin Olive, how very mild, and calm,
+and beautiful you look! Before you came, Aunt Flora told us she had
+heard you were 'like a dove.' I can understand that now. I think, if I
+were a man, I should fall in love with you."
+
+"With me; surely you forget! Oh no, Marion, not with me; that would be
+impossible!"
+
+Marion coloured a little, but then earnestly continued, "I don't mean
+any one who was young and thoughtless, but some grave, wise man, who saw
+your soul in your face, and learned, slowly and quietly, to love you for
+your goodness. Ay, in spite of--of"----(here the frank, plain-speaking
+Marion again hesitated a little, but continued boldly) "any little
+imperfection which may make you fancy yourself different to other
+people. If that is your sole reason for saying, as you did the other
+day, that"----
+
+"Nay, Marion, you have talked quite enough of me."
+
+"But you will forgive me! I could hate myself if I have pained you,
+seeing how much I love you, how much every one learns to love you."
+
+"Is it so? Then I am very happy!" And the smile sat long upon her face.
+
+"Can you guess whither I am taking you?" said Marion, as they paused
+before a large and handsome gateway. "Here is the Roman Catholic
+convent--beautiful St. Margaret's, the sweetest spot at Morningside.
+Shall we enter?"
+
+Olive assented. Of late she had often thought of those old tales of
+forlorn women, who, sick of life, had hidden themselves from the world
+in solitudes like this. Sometimes she had almost wished she could do the
+same. A feeling deeper than curiosity attracted her to the convent of
+St. Margaret's.
+
+It was indeed a sweet place; one that a weary heart might well long
+after. The whole atmosphere was filled with a soft calm--a silence like
+death, and yet a freshness as of new-born life. When the heavy door
+closed, it seemed to shut out the world; and without any sense of regret
+or loss, you passed, like a passing soul, into another existence.
+
+They entered the little convent-parlour. There, on the plain, ungamished
+walls, hung the two favourite pictures of Catholic worship; one,
+thorn-crowned, ensanguined, but still Divine; the other, the Mother
+lifted above all mothers in blessedness and suffering. Olive gazed long
+upon both. They seemed meet for the place. Looking at them, one felt as
+if all trivial earthly sorrows must crumble into dust before these two
+grand images of sublime woe.
+
+"I think," said Miss Rothesay, "if I were a nun, and had known ever so
+great misery, I should grow calm by looking at these pictures."
+
+"The nuns don't pass their time in that way I assure you," answered
+Marion M'Gillivray. "They spend it in making such things as these." And
+she pointed to a case of babyish ornaments, pin-cushions, and artificial
+flowers.
+
+"How very strange," said Olive, "to think that the interests and duties
+of a woman's life should sink down into such trifles as these. I wonder
+if the nuns are happy?"
+
+"Stay and judge, for here comes one, my chief friend here, Sister
+Ignatia." And Sister Ignatia--who was, despite her quaint dress, the
+most bright-eyed, cheerful-looking little Scotchwoman imaginable--stole
+in, kissed Marion on both cheeks, smiled a pleasant welcome on the
+stranger, and began talking in a manner so simple and hearty, that
+Olive's previous notions of a "nun" were cast to the winds. But, after
+a while, there seemed to her something painfully solemn in looking upon
+the sister's, where not one outward line marked the inward current which
+had run on for forty years--how, who could tell? All was silence now.
+
+They went all over the convent. There was a still pureness pervading
+every room. Now and then a black-stoled figure crossed their way, and
+vanished like a ghost. Sister Ignatia chattered merrily about their
+work, their beautiful flowers, and their pupils of the convent school.
+Happy, very happy, she said they all were at St. Margaret's; but it
+seemed to Olive like the aimless, thoughtless happiness of a child.
+Still, when there came across her mind the remembrance of herself--a
+woman, all alone, struggling with the world, and with her own heart;
+looking forward to a life's toil for bread and for fame, with which she
+must try to quench one undying thirst--when she thus thought, she almost
+longed for such an existence as this quiet monotony, without pleasure
+and without pain.
+
+"You must come and see our chapel, our beautiful chapel," said
+Sister Ignatia. "We have got pictures of our St. Margaret and all
+her children." And when they reached the spot--a gilded, decorated,
+flower-garden temple, she pointed out with great interest the various
+memorials of the sainted Scottish Queen.
+
+Olive thought, though she did not then say, that noble Margaret, the
+mother of her people, the softener of her half-savage lord, the teacher
+and guide of her children, was more near the ideal of womanhood than the
+simple, kind-hearted, but childish worshippers, who spent their lives in
+the harmless baby-play of decking her shrine with flowers.
+
+"Yet these are excellent women," said Marion M'Gillivray, when, on their
+departure, Olive expressed her thoughts aloud. "You cannot imagine the
+good they do in their restricted way. But still, if one must lead a
+solitary life I would rather be Aunt Flora!"
+
+"Yes, a thousand, thousand times! There is something far higher in a
+woman who goes about the world, keeping her heart consecrated to Heaven,
+and to some human memories; not shrinking from her appointed work, but
+doing it meekly and diligently, hour by hour through, life's long
+day; waiting until at eve God lifts the burden off, saying, 'Faithful
+handmaid, sleep!'"
+
+Olive spoke softly, but earnestly. Marion did not quite understand her.
+But she thought everything Miss Rothesay said must be true and good, and
+was always pleased to watch her the while, declaring that whenever she
+talked thus her face became "like an angels."
+
+Miss Rothesay spent the evening very happily, though in the noisy
+household of the M'Gillivrays. She listened to the elder girls' music,
+and let the younger tribe of "wee toddling bairnies" climb on her knee
+and pull her curls. Finally, she began to think that some of these days
+there would be great pleasure in becoming an universal "Aunt Olive" to
+the rising generation.
+
+She walked home, escorted valiantly by three stout boys, who guided her
+by a most circuitous route across Bruntsfield Links, that she might gain
+a moonlight view of the couchant lion of Arthur's Seat. They amused her
+the whole way home with tales of High-school warfare. On reaching the
+garden-gate she was half surprised to hear the unwonted cheerfulness
+of her own laugh. The sunshine she daily strove to cast around her was
+falling faintly back upon her own heart.
+
+"Good-night, good-night, Allan, and Charlie, and James. We must have
+another merry walk soon," was her gay adieu as the boys departed,
+leaving her in the garden-walk, where Mrs. Flora's tall hollyhocks cast
+a heavy shadow up to the hall-door.
+
+"You seem very happy, Miss Rothesay." The voice came from some one
+standing close by. The next instant her hand was taken in that of Harold
+Gwynne.
+
+But the pressure was very cold. Olive's heart, which had leaped up
+within her, sank down heavily, so heavily, that her greeting was only
+the chilling words,
+
+"I did not expect to see you here!"
+
+"Possibly not; but I--I had business in Edinburgh. However, it will not,
+I think, detain me long." He said this sharply even bitterly.
+
+Olive, startled by the suddenness of this meeting, could make no answer,
+but as they stood beneath the lamp she glanced at the face, whose every
+change she knew so well. She saw that something troubled him. Forgetful
+of all besides, her heart turned to him in sympathy and tenderness.
+
+"There is nothing wrong, surely! Tell me, are you quite well, quite
+happy? You do not know how glad I am to see you, my dear friend."
+
+And her hand alighted softly on his arm like a bird of peace. Harold
+pressed it and kept it there, as he often did; they were used to that
+kind of friendly familiarity.
+
+"You are very good, Miss Rothesay. Yes, all is well at Harbury. Pray, be
+quite easy on that account But I thought, hearing how merry you were at
+the garden-gate, that amidst your pleasures here you scarcely remembered
+us at all."
+
+His somewhat vexed tone went to Olive's heart. But she only answered,
+
+"You were not quite right there. I never forget my friends."
+
+"No, no! I ought to have known that. Forgive me; I speak rudely,
+unkindly; but I have so many things to embitter me just now. Let us
+go in, and you shall talk my ill-humour away, as you have done many a
+time."
+
+There was a repentant accent in his voice as he drew Olive's arm in his.
+And she--she looked, and spoke, and smiled, as she had long learned to
+do. In the little quiet face, the soft, subdued manner, was no trace of
+any passion or emotion.
+
+"Have you seen Aunt Flora?" said Olive, as they stood together in the
+parlour.
+
+"No. When I came she had already retired. I have only been here an hour.
+I passed that time in walking about the garden. Jean told me you would
+come in soon."
+
+"I would have come sooner had I known. How weary you must be after your
+journey! Come, take Aunt Flora's chair here, and rest."
+
+He did indeed seem to need rest. As he leaned back with closed eyes on
+the cushions she had placed, Olive stood and looked at him a moment. She
+thought, "Oh, that I were dead, and become an invisible spirit, that
+I might comfort and help him. But I shall never do it. Never in this
+world!"
+
+She pressed back two burning tears, and then began to move about the
+room, arranging little household matters for his comfort. She had never
+done so before, and now the duties seemed sweet and homelike, like those
+of a sister, or--a wife. Once she thought thus--but she dared not
+think again. And Harold was watching her, too; following her--as she
+deemed--with the listless gaze of weariness. But soon he turned his face
+from her, and whatever was written thereon Olive read no more.
+
+He was to stay that night, for Mrs. Flora's house was always his home in
+Edinburgh. But he seemed disinclined to talk. One or two questions
+Olive put about himself and his plans, but they seemed to increase his
+restlessness.
+
+"I cannot tell; perhaps I shall go; perhaps not at all. We will talk the
+matter over to-morrow--that is, if you are still kind enough to listen."
+
+She smiled. "Little doubt of that, I think."
+
+"Thank you! And now I will say good-night," observed Harold, rising.
+
+Ere he went, however, he looked down curiously into Olive's face.
+
+"You seem quite strong and well now, Miss Rothesay. You have been happy
+here?"
+
+"Happy--oh, yes! quite happy."
+
+"I thought it would be so--I was right! Though still--But I am glad,
+very glad to hear it. Good-night."
+
+He shook her hand--an easy, careless shake; not the close, lingering
+clasp--how different they were! Then he went quickly up-stairs to his
+chamber.
+
+But hour after hour sped; the darkness changed to dawn, the dawn to
+light, and still Olive lay sleepless. Her heart, stirred from its
+serenity, again swayed miserably to and fro. Vainly she argued with
+herself on her folly in giving way to these emotions; counting over,
+even in pitiful scorn, the years that she had past her youth.
+
+"Three more, and I shall be a woman of thirty. Yet here I lie, drowning
+my pillow with tears, like a love-sick girl. Oh that this trouble had
+visited me long ago, that I might have risen up from it like the young
+grass after rain! But now it falls on me like an autumn storm--it tears
+me, it crushes me; I shall never, never rise."
+
+When it was broad daylight, she roused herself, bathed her brow in
+water, shut out the sunbeams from her hot, aching eyes, and then lay
+down again and slept.
+
+Sleeping, she dreamed that she was walking with Harold Gwynne,
+hand-in-hand, as if they were little children. Suddenly he took her in
+his arms, clasping her close as a lover his betrothed; and in so doing
+pressed a bright steel into her heart. Yet it was such sweet death,
+that, waking, she would fain have wished it true.
+
+But she lifted her head, saw the sunlight dancing on the floor, and knew
+that the morning was come--that she must rise once more to renew her
+life's bitter strife.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXXIX.
+
+Olive dressed herself carefully in her delicate-coloured morning-gown.
+She was one of those women who take pains to appear freshest and fairest
+in the early hours of the day; to greet the sun as the flowers greet
+him--rich "in the dew of youth." Despite her weary vigil, the balmy
+morning brought colour to her cheek and a faint sweetness to her heart.
+It was a new and pleasant thing to wake beneath the same roof as Harold
+Gwynne; to know that his face would meet her when she descended--that
+she would walk and talk with him the whole day long.
+
+Never did any woman think less of herself than Olive Rothesay. Yet as
+she stood twisting up her beautiful hair, she felt glad that it _was_
+beautiful. Once she thought of what Marion had told her about some
+one saying she was "like a dove." Who said it? Not Harold--that was
+impossible. Arranging her dress, she looked a moment, with half-mournful
+curiosity, at the pale, small face reflected in the mirror.
+
+"Ah, no! There is no beauty in me. Even did he care for me, I could give
+him nothing but my poor heart. I can give him that still. It can do him
+no harm to love him--the very act of loving is blessedness to me."
+
+So thinking, she left her chamber.
+
+It was long before the old lady's time for rising. There was no one in
+the breakfast-room, but she saw Harold walking on the garden terrace.
+Very soon he came in with some heliotrope in his hand. He did not give
+it to Olive, but laid it by her plate, observing, half-carelessly,
+
+"You were always fond of heliotropes, Miss Rothesay."
+
+"Thank you for remembering my likings;" and Olive put the flowers in her
+bosom. She fancied he looked pleased; and suddenly she remembered the
+meaning given to the flower, "I love you!" At the thought, she began to
+tremble all over, though contemning her own folly the while. Even
+had the words been true, she and Harold were both too old for such
+sentimentalities.
+
+They breakfasted alone. Harold still looked pale and weary, nor did he
+deny the fact that he had scarcely slept. He told her all the Harbury
+news, but spoke little of himself or of his plans. "They were yet
+uncertain," he said, "but a few more days would decide all." And then he
+remained silent until, a little time after, they were standing together
+at the window. From thence it was a pleasant view. Close beneath, a
+little fountain rose in slender diamond threads, and fell again with a
+soft trickling, like a Naiad's sigh. Bees were humming over the richest
+of autumn flower-gardens, which sloped down, terrace after terrace,
+until its boundary was hid in the little valley below. Beyond--looking
+in the clear September air so close that you could almost see the purple
+of the heather--lay the Braid Hills, a horizon-line soft as that which
+enclosed the Happy Valley of Prince Rasselas.
+
+Harold stood and gazed.
+
+"How beautiful and calm this is! It looks like a quiet nest--a _home_
+for a man's tired heart and brain. Tell me, friend, do you think one
+could ever find such in this world?"
+
+"A home!" she repeated, somewhat confusedly, for his voice had startled
+her.--"You have often said that man needed none; that his life was in
+himself--the life of intellect and of power. It is only we women who
+have a longing after rest and home."
+
+Harold made no immediate reply; but after a while he said,
+
+"I want to have a quiet talk with you, Miss Rothesay. And I long to
+see once more my favourite haunt, the Hermitage of Braid. 'Tis a sweet
+place, and we can walk and converse there at our leisure. You will
+come?"
+
+She rarely said him nay in anything, and he somehow unconsciously used a
+tone of command, like an elder brother;--but there was such sweetness in
+being ruled by him! Olive obeyed at once; and soon, for the thousandth
+time, she and Harold were walking out together arm-in-arm.
+
+If ever there was a "lover's walk," it is that which winds along the
+burn-side in the Hermitage of Braid. On either side
+
+     The braes ascend like lofty wa's,
+
+shutting out all but the small blue rift of sky above. Even the sun
+seems slow to peep in, as if his brightness were not needed by those who
+walk in the light of their own hearts. And the little birds warble
+and the little burnie runs, as if neither knew there was a weary world
+outside, where many a heart, pure as either, grows dumb amidst its
+singing, and freezes slowly as it flows.
+
+Olive walked along by Harold's side in a happy dream. He looked so
+cheerful, so "good"--a word she had often used, and he had smiled
+at--meaning those times when, beneath her influence, the bitterness
+melted from him. Such times there were--else she could never have
+learned to love him as she did. Then, as now, his eyes were wont to
+lighten, and his lips to smile, and there came an almost angelic beauty
+over his face.
+
+"I think," he said, "that my spirit is changing within me. I feel as if
+I had never known life until now. In vain I say unto myself that this
+must be a mere fantasy of mine; I, who am marked with the 'frost of
+eild,' who will soon be--let me see--seven-and-thirty years old. What
+think you of that age?"
+
+His eyes, bent on her, spoke more than mere curiosity; but Olive,
+unaware, looked up and smiled.
+
+"Why, I am getting elderly myself; but I heed it not. One need mind
+nothing if one's heart does not grow old."
+
+"Does yours?"
+
+"I hope not. I would like to lead a life like Aunt Flora's--a quiet
+stream that goes on singing to the end."
+
+"Look me in the face, Olive Rothesay," said Harold, abruptly.
+"Nay--pardon me, but I speak like one athirst, who would fain know if
+any other human thirst is ever satisfied. Tell me, do you look back on
+your life with content, and forward with hope? Are you happy?"
+
+Olive's eyes sank on the ground.
+
+"Do not question me so." she said trembling. "In life there is nothing
+perfect; but I have peace, great peace. And for you there might be not
+only peace, but happiness."
+
+Again there fell between them one of those pauses which rarely come
+save between two friends or lovers, who know thoroughly--in words or in
+silence--each other's hearts. Then Harold, guiding the conversation as
+he always did, changed it suddenly.
+
+"I am thinking of the last time I walked here--when I came to Edinburgh
+this summer. There was with me one whom I regarded highly, and we
+talked--as gravely as you and I do now, though on a far different
+theme."
+
+"What was it?"
+
+"One suited to the season and the place, and my friend's ardent youth.
+He was in love, poor fellow, and he asked me about his wooing. Perhaps
+you may think he chose an adviser ill fitted to the task?"
+
+Harold spoke carelessly--and waiting Olive's reply, he pulled a handful
+of red-brown leaves from a tree that overhung the path, and began
+playing with them.
+
+"You do not answer, Miss Rothesay. Come, there is scarcely a subject
+that we have not discussed at some time or other, save this. Let us,
+just for amusement, take my friend's melancholy case as a text, and
+argue concerning what young people call 'love.'"
+
+"As you will."
+
+"A cold acquiescence. You think, perhaps, the matter is either above
+or beneath _me_--that I can have no interest therein?" And his eyes,
+bright, piercing, commanding, seemed to force an answer.
+
+It came, very quietly and coldly.
+
+"I have heard you say that love was the brief madness of a man's life;
+if fulfilled, a burden--if unfulfilled or deceived, a curse."
+
+"I said so, did I? Well, you give my opinions--what think you _of me_?
+Answer truly--like a friend."
+
+She did so. She never could look in Harold's eyes and tell him what was
+not true.
+
+"I think you are one of those men in whom strong intellect prevents
+the need of love. Youthful passion you may have felt; but true, deep,
+earnest love you never did know, and, as I believe, never will! Nay,
+forgive me if I err; I only take you on your own showing."
+
+"Thank you, thank you! You speak honestly and frankly--that is something
+for a woman," muttered Harold; and then there was a long, awkward pause.
+How one poor heart ached the while!
+
+At last, fearing that her silence annoyed him, Olive took courage to
+say, "You were going to talk to me about your plans. Do so now; that
+is, if you are not angry with me," she added, with a little deprecatory
+soothing.
+
+It seemed to touch him. "Angry! How could you think so? I am never angry
+with you. But what do you desire to hear about? Whither I am going, and
+when? Do you, then, wish--I mean, advise me to go?"
+
+"Yes, if it is for your good. If leaving Harbury would give you rest on
+that one subject of which we never speak."
+
+"But of which I, at least, think night and day, and never without a
+prayer--(I can pray now)--for the good angel who brought light into my
+darkness," said Harold, solemnly. "That comfort is with me, whatever
+else may--But you wanted to hear about my going abroad?"
+
+"Yes, tell me all. You know I like to hear."
+
+"Well, then, I have only to decide, and I might depart immediately; to
+America, I think. I should engage in science and literature. Mine would
+be a safe, sure course; but, at the beginning, I might have a hard
+struggle. I do not like to take any one to share it."
+
+"Not your mother, who loves you so?"
+
+"No, because her love would be sorely tried. We should be strangers in a
+strange land; perhaps poverty would be added to our endurance; I should
+have to labour unceasingly, and my temper might fail. These are hard
+things for a woman to bear."
+
+"You do not know what a woman's affection is!" said Olive earnestly.
+"How could she be desolate when she had you with her! Little would
+she care for being poor! And if, when sorely tried, you were bitter at
+times, the more need for her to soothe you. We can bear all things for
+those we love."
+
+"Is it so?" Harold said, thoughtfully, his countenance changing, and
+his voice becoming soft as he looked upon her. "Do you think that any
+woman--I mean my mother, of course--would love _me_ with this love?"
+
+And once more Olive taught herself to answer calmly, "I do think so."
+
+Again there was a silence. Harold broke it by saying, "You would smile
+to know how childishly my last walk here haunts me; I really must go
+and see that love-stricken friend of mine. But you, I suppose, take no
+interest in his wooing?"
+
+"O yes! I like to hear of young people's happiness."
+
+"But he was not quite happy. He did not know whether the woman he loved
+loved him. He had never asked her the question."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"There were several reasons. First, because he was a proud man, and,
+like many others, had been deceived _once_. He would not again let a
+girl mock his peace. And he was right. Do you not think so?"
+
+"Yes, if she were one who would act so cruelly. But no true woman ever
+mocked at true love. Rarely, _knowingly_, would she give cause for it to
+be cast before her in vain. If your friend be worthy, how knows he but
+that she may love him all the while?"
+
+"Well, well, let that pass. He has other reasons." He paused and
+looked towards her, but Olive's face was drooped out of sight. He
+continued,--"Reasons such as men only feel. You know not what an awful
+thing it is to cast one's pride, one's hope--perhaps the weal or woe
+of one's whole life--upon a woman's light 'Yes' or 'No.' I speak," he
+added, abruptly, "as my friend, the youth in love, would speak."
+
+"Yes, I know--I understand. Tell me more. That is, if I may hear."
+
+"Oh, certainly. His other reasons were,--that he was poor; that, if
+betrothed, it might be years before they could marry; or, perhaps, as
+his health was feeble, he might die, and never call her wife at all.
+Therefore, though he loved her as dearly as ever man loved woman, he
+held it right, and good, and just, to keep silence."
+
+"Did he imagine, even in his lightest thought, that she loved him?"
+
+"He could not tell. Sometimes it almost seemed so."
+
+"Then he was wrong--cruelly wrong! He thought of his own pride, not of
+_her_. Little he knew the long, silent agony she must bear--the doubt
+of being loved causing shame for loving. Little he saw of the daily
+struggle: the poor heart frozen sometimes into dull endurance, and then
+wakened into miserable throbbing life by the shining of some hope, which
+passes and leaves it darker and colder than before. Poor thing! Poor
+thing!"
+
+And utterly forgetting herself, forgetting all but the compassion learnt
+from sorrow, Olive spoke with strong agitation.
+
+Harold watched her intently. "Your words are sympathising and kind. Say
+on! What should he, this lover, do?"
+
+"Let him tell her that he loves her--let him save her from the misery
+that wears away youth, and strength, and hope."
+
+"What! and bind her by a promise which it may take years to fulfil?"
+
+"If he has won her heart, she is already bound. It is mockery to talk as
+the world talks, of the sense of honour that leaves a woman 'free.' She
+is not free. She is as much bound as if she were married to him. Tell
+him so! Bid him take her to his heart, that, come what will, she may
+feel she has a place there. Let him not insult her by the doubt that
+she dreads poverty or long delay. If she loves him truly, she will wait
+years, a whole lifetime, until he claim her. If he labour, she will
+strengthen him; if he suffer, she will comfort him; in the world's
+fierce battle, her faithfulness will be to him rest, and help, and
+balm."
+
+"But," said Harold, his voice hoarse and trembling, "what if they should
+live on thus for years, and never marry? What if he should die?"
+
+"Die!"
+
+"Yes. If so, far better that he should never have spoken--that his
+secret should go down with him to the grave."
+
+"What, you mean that he should die, and she never know that he loved
+her! O Heaven! what misery could equal that!"
+
+As Olive spoke, the tears sprang into her eyes, and, utterly subdued,
+she stood still and let them flow.
+
+Harold, too, seemed strangely moved, but only for a moment. Then he
+said, very softly and quietly, "Miss Rothesay, you speak like one who
+feels every word. These are things we learn in but one school. Tell
+me--as a friend, who night and day prays for your happiness--are you not
+speaking from your own heart? You love, or you have loved?"
+
+For a moment Olive's senses seemed to reel. But his eyes were upon
+her--those truthful, truth-searching eyes.
+
+"Must I look in his face and tell him a lie?" was her half-frenzied
+thought. "I cannot, I cannot! And the whole truth he will never, never
+know."
+
+Dropping her head, she answered, in one word--"Yes!"
+
+"And, with a woman like you, to love once is to love for evermore?"
+
+Again Olive bent her head, and that was all. There was a sound as
+of crushed leaves, and those with which Harold had been playing fell
+scattered on the ground. He gave no other sign of emotion or sympathy.
+
+For many minutes they walked on slowly, the little laughing brook beside
+them seeming to rise like a thunder-voice upon the dead silence. Olive
+listened to every ripple, that fell as it were like the boom of an
+engulphing wave. Nothing else she heard, or felt, or thought, until
+Harold spoke.
+
+His tone was soft and very kind, and he took her hand the while. "I
+thank you for this confidence. You must forgive me if I did wrong in
+asking it. Henceforth I shall ask no more. If your life be happy, as I
+pray God it may, you will have no need of me. If not, hold me ever to
+your service as a true friend and brother."
+
+She stooped, she leaned her brow upon the two clasped hands--her own and
+his--and wept as if her heart were breaking.
+
+But very soon all this ceased, and she felt a calmness like death. Upon
+it broke Harold's cold, clear voice--as cold and clear as ever.
+
+"Once more, let me tell you all I owe you--friendship, counsel,
+patience,--for I have tried your patience much. I pray you pardon me!
+From you I have learned to have faith in Heaven, peace towards man,
+reverence for women. Your friendship has blessed me--may God bless you."
+
+His words ceased, somewhat tremulously; and she felt, for the first
+time, Harold's lips touch her hand.
+
+Quietly and mutely they walked home; quietly and mutely, nay, even
+coldly, they parted. The time had come and passed; and between their two
+hearts now rose the silence of an existence.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XL.
+
+Olive and Harold parted at Mrs. Flora's gate. He had business in town,
+he said, but would return to dinner. So he walked quickly away, and
+Olive went in and crept upstairs. There, she bolted her door, groped her
+way to the bed, and lay down. Life and strength, hope and love, seemed
+to have ebbed from her at once. She felt no power or desire to weep.
+Once or twice, she caught herself murmuring, half aloud,
+
+"It is all over--quite over. There can be no doubt now."
+
+And then she knew, by this utter death of hope, that it must have lived
+_once_--a feeble, half-unconscious life, but life it was. Despite her
+reason, and the settled conviction to which she had tutored herself, she
+must have had some faint thought that Harold loved her. Now, this dream
+gone, she might perhaps rise, as a soul rises from the death of the
+body, into a new existence. But of that she could not yet think. She
+only lay, motionless as a corpse, with hands folded, and eyes firmly
+closed. Sometimes, with a strange wandering of fancy, she seemed to
+see herself thus, looking down, as a spirit might do upon its own olden
+self, with a vague compassion. Once she even muttered, in a sort of
+childish way,
+
+"Poor little Olive! Poor, crushed, broken thing!"
+
+Thus she lay for many hours, sometimes passing into what was either a
+swoon or a sleep. At last she roused herself, and saw by the shadows
+that it was quite late in the day. There is great mournfulness in waking
+thus of one's own accord, and alone; hearing the various noises of the
+busy mid-day household, and feeling as if all would go on just the same
+without thought of us, even if we had died in that weary sleep.
+
+Olive wished she had!--that is, had Heaven willed it. She could so
+easily have crept out of the bitter world, and no one would have missed
+her. Still, if it must be, she would try once more to lift her burden,
+and pursue her way.
+
+There was a little comfort for her the minute she went downstairs.
+Entering the drawing-room, she met Mrs. Flora's brightest smile.
+
+"My dear lassie, welcome! Have you been sleeping after your weary walk
+this morning?"
+
+"This morning!" echoed poor Olive. She had half forgotten what had
+happened then, there had come such a death-like cloud between.
+
+"Ye were both away at the Hermitage, Harold said. Ah! poor Harold!"
+
+Olive stood waiting to hear some horrible tidings. All misfortunes
+seemed to come so naturally now; she felt as though she would scarcely
+have wondered had they told her Harold was dead.
+
+"My dear Harold is gone away."
+
+"Gone away," repeated Olive, slowly, as her cold hands fell heavily on
+her lap. She gave no other sign.
+
+"Ah," continued the unconscious old lady, "something has gone ill with
+the lad. He came in here, troubled like, and said he must just depart at
+once."
+
+"He was here, then?"
+
+"Only for a wee while. I would have sent for ye, my dearie, but Jean
+said you were sleeping, and Harold said we had best not waken you, for
+you had seemed wearied. He could not wait longer, so he bade me bid you
+farewell, Lassie--lassie, stay!" But Olive had already crept out of the
+room.
+
+He was gone then. That last clasp of his hand was indeed the last. O
+miserable parting! Not as between two who love, and loving can murmur
+the farewell, heart to heart, until its sweetness lingers there
+long after its sound has ceased; but a parting that has no voice--no
+hope--wherein one soul follows the other in a wild despair, crying,
+"Give me back my life that is gone after thee;" and from the void
+silence there comes no answer, until the whole earth grows blank and
+dark like an universal grave.
+
+For many days after _that_ day, Olive scarcely lifted her head. There
+came to her some friendly physical ailment, cold or fever, so that she
+had an excuse to comply with Mrs. Flora's affectionate orders, and take
+refuge in the quietness of a sick-chamber. There, such showers of love
+poured down upon her, that she rose refreshed and calmed. After a few
+weeks, her spirit came to her again like a little child's, and she was
+once more the quiet Olive Rothesay, rich in all social affections, and
+even content, save for the one never ceasing pain.
+
+After a season of rest, she began earnestly to consider her future,
+especially with respect to her Art. She longed to go back to it, and
+drink again at its wells of peace. For dearly, dearly she loved it
+still. Half-smiling, she began to call her pictures her children, and to
+think of the time when they, a goodly race, would live, and tell no tale
+of their creator's woe. This Art-life--all the life she had, and all she
+would leave behind--must not be sacrificed by any miserable contest
+with an utterly hopeless human love. Therefore she determined to quit
+Harbury, and at once, before she began to paint her next picture. Her
+first plan had been to go and live in London, but this was overruled by
+Mrs. Flora Rothesay.
+
+"Bide here with me, my dear niece. Come and dwell among your ain folk,
+your father's kin."
+
+And so it was at last fixed to be. But first Olive must go back to
+Farnwood, to wind up the affairs of her little household, and to arrange
+about Christal. She had lately thought a good deal of this young girl;
+chiefly, perhaps, because she was now so eagerly clinging to every
+interest that could occupy her future life. She remembered, with a
+little compunction, how her heart had sprung to Christal on her first
+coming, and how that sympathy had slowly died away, possibly from its
+being so lightly reciprocated. Though nominally one of the household at
+the Dell, Miss Manners had gradually seceded from it; so that by degrees
+the interest with which Olive had once regarded her melted down into
+the mere liking of duty. Whether this should be continued, became now
+a matter of question. Olive felt almost indifferent on the subject, but
+determined that Christal herself should decide. She never would give up
+the girl, not even to go and live in the dear quiet household of Aunt
+Flora. Having thus far made up her mind, Miss Rothesay fixed the day
+for her return to Farnwood--a return looked forward to with a mixture
+of fear and yearning. But the trial must be borne. It could not be for
+long.
+
+Ever since his departure Olive had never heard the sound of Harold's
+name. Mrs. Flora did not talk of him at all. This, her niece thought,
+sprang from the natural forgetfulness of old age, which, even when least
+selfish, seems unconsciously to narrow its interest to the small circle
+of its own daily life. But perhaps the old lady was more quick-sighted
+than Olive dreamed; for such a true and tried heart could hardly be
+quite frozen, even with the apathy of eighty years.
+
+A few days before Olive's journey Mrs. Flora called her into her own
+room.
+
+"I have something to say to ye, lassie. Ye'll listen to the auld wife?"
+
+"Aunt Flora!" said Olive, in affectionate reproach, and, sitting down at
+her feet, she took the withered hand, and laid it on her neck.
+
+"My sweet wee lassie--my bonnie, bonnie birdie!" said the tender-hearted
+old lady, who often treated her grand-niece as if she were a child. "If
+I had known sooner that poor Angus had left a daughter! My dearie, come
+back soon."
+
+"In a month, Auntie Flora."
+
+"A month seems long. At eighty years one should not boast of the morrow.
+That is why I will tell ye now what rests on my mind."
+
+"Well, dear aunt, let me hear it."
+
+"'Tis anent the worldly gear that I will leave behind me. I have been
+aye careful of the good things Heaven lent me."
+
+--She paused; but Olive, not quite knowing what to say, said nothing at
+all Mrs. Flora continued:
+
+"God has given me great length of days--I have seen the young grow auld,
+and the auld perish. Some I would fain have chosen to come after me,
+have gone away before me; some have enough, and need no more. Of all my
+kith and kin there is none to whom the bit siller can do good, but my
+niece Olive, and Harold Gwynne. Does that grieve ye, lassie? Nay, his
+right is no like yours. But he comes of blood that was sib to ours.
+Alison Balfour was a Gordon by the mother's side."
+
+As Mrs. Flora uttered the name, Olive felt a movement in the left hand
+that lay on her neck; the aged fingers were fluttering to and fro over
+the diamond ring. She looked up, but there was perfect serenity on the
+face. And, turning back, she prayed that the like peace might come to
+_her_ in time.
+
+"Before ye came," continued Mrs. Flora, "I thought to make Harold my
+heir, and that he should take the name of Gordon--for dearly I loved
+that name in auld lang syne. Ah, lassie! even in this world God can wipe
+away all tears from our eyes, so that we may look clearly forth unto the
+eternal land."
+
+"Amen, amen!" murmured Olive Rothesay--ay, though while she uttered the
+prayer, her own tears blindingly rose. But her aunt's soft cold hand
+glided silently on her drooped head, pressing its throbbings into peace.
+
+"I am wae to think," continued the old lady, "that ye are the last of
+the Rothesay line. The _name_ must end, even should Olive marry."
+
+"I shall never marry, Aunt Flora! I shall live as you have done--God
+make my life equally worthy!"
+
+"Is it so? I thought it was different. Then, Olive, my child! may God
+comfort thee with his peace."
+
+Mrs. Flora kissed her on the forehead, and asked no more. Shortly
+afterwards, she again began to speak about her will. She wished to
+be just, she said, and to leave her property where it would be most
+required. Her heart inclined chiefly to her niece, as being a woman,
+struggling alone through the world; whereas Harold, firmly settled in
+his curacy, would not need additional fortune.
+
+"Oh, but he does need it; you little know how sorely!" cried Olive.
+
+"Eh, my dear? He, a minister!"
+
+Olive drew back, afraid lest she had betrayed too much of the-secret so
+painfully shared between her and Harold Gwynne. She trembled and blushed
+beneath the old lady's keen eyes. At last she said, beseechingly,
+
+"Aunt Flora, do not question me--I cannot, ought not, to tell you any
+more than this--that there may come a time when this money might save
+him from great misery."
+
+"Misery aye follows sin," said Mrs. Flora, almost sternly, "Am I
+deceived in him, my dear Harold--poor Alison's son?"
+
+"No, no, no! He is noble, just, and true. There is no one like him in
+the whole world," cried Olive; and then stopped, covered with blushes.
+But soon the weakness passed. "Listen to me, Aunt Flora, for this once.
+Harold Gwynne,"--she faltered not over the name,--"Harold Gwynne is, and
+will be always, my dear friend and brother. I know more of his affairs
+than any one else; and I know, too, that he may be in great poverty one
+day. For me, I have only myself to work for, and work I must, since it
+is the comfort of my life. As to this fortune, I need it not--how should
+I? I entreat you, leave all to him."
+
+Mrs. Flora wrapped her arms round her niece without speaking--nor did
+she again refer to the subject.
+
+But the night before Olive left Edinburgh, she bade her farewell with a
+solemn blessing--the more solemn, as it was given in words taken out of
+the Holy Book which she had just closed--words never used lightly by the
+aged Presbyterian.
+
+     "The Lord bless thee and keep thee!
+     The Lord cause His face to shine upon thee!
+     _The Lord give thee thy heart's desire, and fulfil all thy mind_."
+
+Olive rose with an indescribable sense of hope and peace. As she left
+the room she looked once more at her aunt.
+
+Mrs. Flora sat in her crimson chair, her hands laid on her knee, her
+face grave, but serene, and half-lifted, like one who hearkens to some
+unseen call A secret consciousness struck Olive that in this world she
+should never more hear the voice, or see the face, of one who had been
+truly a saint on earth.
+
+It was indeed so.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLI.
+
+Coming home!--coming home! In different ears how differently sound
+the words! They who in all their wanderings have still the little,
+well-filled, love-expectant nest whereto they may wing their way, should
+think sometimes of the many there are to whom the whole wide world is
+all alike; whose sole rest must be in themselves; who never can truly
+say, "I am going home," until they say it with eyes turned longingly
+towards a Home unseen.
+
+Something of this mournfulness felt Olive Rothesay. It was dreary enough
+to reach her journey's end alone, and have to wait some hours at the
+small railway station; and then, tired and worn, to be driven for miles
+across the country through the gloomiest of all gloomy November days.
+Still, the dreariness passed, when she saw, shining from afar, the
+light from the windows of Farnwood Dell. As the chaise stopped, out came
+running old Hannah, the maid, with little Ailie too; while awaiting her
+in the parlour, were Christal and Mrs. Gwynne. _No one else!_ Olive saw
+that in one moment, and blamed herself for having wished--what she had
+no right to hope--what had best not be.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne embraced her warmly--Christal with dignified grace. The
+young lady looked gay and pleased, and there was a subdued light in her
+black eyes which almost softened them into sweetness. The quick restless
+manner in which she had indulged at times since she came to Farnwood
+seemed melting into a becoming womanliness, Altogether, Christal was
+improved.
+
+"Well, now, I suppose you will be wanting to hear the news of all your
+friends," said Miss Manners, with smiles bubbling round her pretty
+mouth. "We are not all quite the same as you left us. To begin with--let
+me see--Mr. Harold Gwynne"----
+
+"Of that, Miss Christal, I will beg you not to speak. It is a painful
+subject to me," observed Mrs. Gwynne, with a vexed air. "You need not
+look at me so earnestly, dear, kind Olive! All is well with me and with
+my son; but he has done what I think is not exactly good for him, and it
+somewhat troubles me. However, we will talk of this another time."
+
+"More news do you want, Olive?" (Christal now sometimes called her so.)
+"Well, then, Dame Fortune is in the giving mood. She has given your
+favourite Mr. Lyle Derwent a fortune of L1000 a year, and a little
+estate to match!"
+
+"I am so glad! for his sake, good dear Lyle!"
+
+"_Dear_ Lyle!" repeated Christal, turning round with a sparkle either of
+pleasure or anger in her glittering eyes; but it was quenched before
+it reached those of Olive. "Well, winning is one thing, deserving is
+another!" she continued, merrily. "I could have picked out a dozen
+worthy, excellent young men, who would have better merited the blessing
+of a rich uncle, ay, and made a better use of his money too."
+
+"Lyle would thank you if he knew."
+
+"That he ought, and that he does, and that he shall do, every day of
+his life!" cried Christal, lifting up her tall figure with a sudden
+haughtiness, not the less real because she laughed the while; then with
+one light bound she vanished from the room.
+
+Olive, left alone with Mrs. Gwynne, would fain have taken her hands,
+and said as she had oft done before. "Friend, tell me all that troubles
+you--all that concerns you and _him._" But now a faint fear repelled
+her. However, Harold's mother, understanding her looks, observed,
+
+"You are anxious, my dear. Never was there such a faithful friend to me
+and to my son! I wish you had been here a week ago, and then you might
+have helped me to persuade him not to go away."
+
+"He is gone, then, to America?"
+
+"America!--who mentioned America?" said Mrs. Gwynne, sharply. "Has he
+told you more than he told me?"
+
+Olive, sorely repentant, tried to soothe the natural jealousy she had
+aroused. "You know well Mr. Gwynne would be sure to tell his plans to
+his mother; only I have heard him talk of liking America--of wishing to
+go thither."
+
+"He has not gone then. He has started with his friend Lord Arundale, to
+travel all through Europe. It is a pity, I think, for one of his cloth,
+and it shows a wandering and restless mind. I know not what has come
+over my dear Harold."
+
+"Was it a sudden journey?--is it long since he went?" said Olive,
+shading her eyes from the fire-light.
+
+"Only yesterday. I told him you were coming to-day; and he desired me to
+say how grieved he was that he thus missed you, but it was unavoidable.
+He had kept Lord Arundale waiting already, and it would not be courteous
+to delay another day. You will not mind?"
+
+"Oh no! oh no!" The hand was pressed down closer over the eyes.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne pursued. "Though I have all confidence in my son, yet I own
+this sudden scheme has troubled me. His health is better;--why could he
+not stay at Harbury?"
+
+Olive, wishing to discover if she knew anything of her son's sad secret,
+observed, "It is a monotonous life that Mr. Gwynne leads here--one
+hardly suited for him."
+
+"Ah, I know," said the mother, sighing. "His heart is little in his
+calling. I feared so, long ago. But it is not that which drives him
+abroad; for I told him if he still wished to resign his duties to his
+curate, we would give up the Parsonage, and he should take pupils. There
+is a charming little house in the neighbouring village that would suit
+us. But no; he seemed to shrink from this plan too. He said he must go
+entirely away from Harbury."
+
+"And for how long?"
+
+"I cannot tell--he did not say. I should think, not above a year--his
+mother may not have many more years to spend with him;" and there was a
+little trembling of Mrs. Gwynne's mouth; but she continued with dignity:
+"Do not imagine, Olive, that I mean to blame my son. He has done what he
+thought right. Against my wish, or my happiness, he would not have done
+it at all. So I did not let him see any little pain it might have given
+me. 'Twas best not. Now we will let the subject rest."
+
+But, though they spoke no more, Olive speculated vainly on what had
+induced Harold to take this precipitate journey. She thought she had
+known him so thoroughly--better than any one else could. But in him lay
+mysteries beyond her ken. She could only still rest on that which had
+comforted her in all she suffered;--an entire faith in him and in his
+goodness.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne sat an hour or two, and then rose to return to the
+Parsonage. "We must be home before it is dark, little Ailie and I. We
+have no one to take care of us now."
+
+Some pain was visible as she said this. When she took her grandchild by
+the hand, and walked down the garden, it seemed to Olive that the old
+lady's step was less firm than usual. Her heart sprang to Harold's
+mother.
+
+"Let me walk with you a little way, Mrs. Gwynne. I am thoroughly rested
+now; and as for coming back alone, I shall not mind it."
+
+"What a little trembling arm it is for me to lean on!" said Mrs. Gwynne,
+smiling, when, after some faint resistance, she had taken Olive for a
+companion. "'Tis nothing like my Harold's, and yet I am glad to have it.
+I am afraid I shall often have to look to it now Harold is away. Are you
+willing, Olive?"
+
+"Quite, quite willing;--nay, very glad!"
+
+Olive went nearly all the way to Harbury. She was almost happy, walking
+between Harold's mother and Harold's child. But when she parted from
+them she felt alone, bitterly alone. Then first she began to realise the
+truth, that the dream of so many months was now altogether ended! It
+had been something, even after her sorrow began, to feel that Harold was
+near! that, although days might pass without her seeing him, still
+he _was_ there--within a few miles. Any time, sitting wearily in her
+painting room, she might hear his knock at the door; or in any walk,
+however lonely and sad, there was at least the possibility of his
+crossing her path, and, despite her will, causing her heart to bound
+with joy. Now, all these things could not be again. She went homeward
+along the dear old Harbury road, knowing that no possible chance could
+make his image appear to brighten its loneliness; that where they had
+so often walked, taking sweet counsel together as familiar friends, she
+must learn to walk alone. Perhaps, neither there nor elsewhere, would
+she ever walk with Harold more.
+
+In her first suffering, in her brave resolve to quit Harbury, she had
+not thought how she should feel when all was indeed over. She had not
+pictured the utter blankness of a world wherein Harold was not. The
+snare broken and her soul escaped, she knew not how it would beat its
+broken wings in the dun air, meeting nothing but the black, silent
+waste, ready once more to flutter helplessly down into the alluring
+death.
+
+Olive walked along with feet heavy and slow. In her eyes were no
+tears--she had wept them all away long since. She did not look up much;
+but still she saw, as one sees in a dream, all that was around her--the
+white, glittering grass, the spectral hedges, the trees laden with a
+light snow, silent, motionless, stretching their bare arms up to the
+dull sky. No, not the sky, that seemed far, far off; between it and
+earth interposed a mist, so thick and cold that it blinded sight and
+stifled breath. She could not look up at God's dear heaven--she almost
+felt that through the gloom the pitying Heaven could not look at her.
+But after a while the mist changed a little, and then Olive drew her
+breath, and her thoughts began to form themselves as she went along.
+
+"I am now alone, quite alone. I must shut my life up in myself--look
+to no one's help, yearn for no one's love. What I receive I will take
+thankfully; but I have no claim upon any one in this wide world. Many
+pleasant friendships I have, many tender ties, but none close enough to
+fill the void in my heart--none to love as I could love--as I did
+love for many years. Oh, mother, why did you go away? Why did I love
+again--lose again? Always loving only to lose."
+
+Many times she said to herself, "I am alone--quite alone in the world;"
+and at last the words seemed to strike the echo of some old remembrance.
+But it was one so very dim, that for a long time Olive could not give it
+any distinct form. At last she recollected the letter which, ten years
+ago, she had put away in a secret drawer of her father's desk. Strange
+to say, she had never thought of it since. Perhaps this was because, at
+the time, she had instinctively shuddered at the suggestions it gave,
+and so determined to banish them. And then the quick, changing scenes of
+life had prevented her ever recurring to the subject Now, when all had
+come true, when on that desert land which, still distant, had seemed so
+fearful to the girl's eyes, the woman's feet already stood, she turned
+with an eager desire to the words which her father had written--"_To his
+daughter Olive when she was quite alone in the world_."
+
+Reaching home, and hearing Christal warbling some Italian song, Olive
+went at once to her own apartment, half parlour, half studio. There was
+a fire lit, and candles. She fastened the door, that she might not be
+interrupted, and sat down before her desk.
+
+She found some difficulty in opening the secret drawer, for the spring
+was rusty from long disuse, and her own fingers trembled much. When at
+last she held the letter in her hand, its yellow paper and faded ink
+struck her painfully. It seemed like suddenly coming face to face with
+the dead.
+
+A solemn, anxious feeling stole over her. Ere breaking the seal,
+she lingered long; she tried to call up all she remembered of her
+father--his face--his voice--his manners. Very dim everything was! She
+had been such a mere child until he died, and the ten following years
+were so full of action, passion, and endurance, that they made the old
+time look pale and distant. She could hardly remember how she used to
+feel then, least of all how she used to feel towards her father. She had
+loved him, she knew, and her mother had loved him, ay, long after love
+became only memory. He had loved them, too, in his quiet way. Olive
+thought, with tender remembrance, of his kiss, on that early morning
+when, for the last time, he had left his home. And for her mother!
+Often, during Mrs. Rothesay's declining days, had she delighted to talk
+of the time when she was a young, happy wife, and of the dear love that
+Angus bore her. Something, too, she hinted of her own faults, which had
+once taken away that love, and something in Olive's own childish memory
+told her that this was true. But she repelled the thought, remembering
+that her father and mother were now together before God.
+
+At length with an effort she opened the letter. She started to see its
+date--the last night Captain Rothesay ever spent at home--the night,
+which of all others, she had striven to remember clearly, because they
+were all three so happy together, and he had been so kind, so loving, to
+her mother and to her. Thinking of him on this wise, with a most tender
+sadness, she began to read:
+
+"Olive Rothesay--My dear Child!--It may be many--many years--(I pray
+so, God knows!) before you open this letter. If so, think of me as I sit
+writing it now--or rather as I sat an hour ago--by your mother's side,
+with your arms round my neck. And, thus thinking of me, consider what a
+fierce struggle I must have had to write as I am going to do--to confess
+what I never would have confessed while I lived, or while your mother
+lived. I do it, because remorse is strong upon me; because I would fain
+that my Olive--the daughter who may comfort me, if I live--should, if I
+die, make atonement for her father's sins. Ay, sins. Think how I must be
+driven, thus to humble myself before my own child--to unfold to my pure
+daughter that--But I will tell the tale plainly, without any exculpation
+or reserve.
+
+"I was very young when I married Sybilla Hyde. God be my witness,
+I loved her then, and in my inmost heart I have loved her evermore.
+Remember, I say this--hear it as if I were speaking from my
+grave--Olive, _I did love your mother_. Would to Heaven she had loved
+me, or shown her love, only a little more!
+
+"Soon after our marriage I was parted from my wife for some years. You,
+a girl, ought not to know--and I pray may never know--the temptations of
+the world and of man's own nature. I knew both, and I withstood both.
+I came back, and clasped my wife to the most loving and faithful heart
+that ever beat in a husband's breast. I write this even with tears--I,
+who have been so cold. But in this letter--which no eye will ever see
+until I and your mother have lain together long years in our grave--I
+write as if I were speaking, not as now, but as I should speak then.
+
+"Well, between my wife and me there came a cloud. I know not whose was
+the fault--perhaps mine, perhaps hers; or, it might be, both. But there
+the cloud was--it hung over my home, so that I could find therein
+no peace, no refuge. It drove me to money-getting, excitement,
+amusement--at last to crime!
+
+"In the West Indies there was one who had loved me, in vain,--mark you,
+I said _in vain_,--but with the vehemence of her southern blood. She was
+a Quadroon lady--one of that miserable race, the children of planters
+and slaves, whose beauty is their curse, whose passion knows no law
+except a blind fidelity. And, God forgive me! that poor wretch was
+faithful unto me.
+
+"She followed me to England without my knowledge. Little she had ever
+heard of marriage; she found no sacred-ness in mine. I did not love
+her--not with a pure heart as I loved Sybilla. But I pitied her.
+Sometimes I turned from my dreary home--where no eye brightened at mine,
+where myself and my interests were nothing--and I thought of this woman,
+to whom I was all the world. My daughter Olive, if ever you be a wife,
+and would keep your husband's love, never let these thoughts enter and
+pollute his mind. Give him your whole heart, and he will ask no other.
+Make his home sweet and pleasant to him, and he will not stray from it.
+Bind him round with cords of love--fast--fast. Oh, that my wife had had
+strength so to encircle me!
+
+"But she had not; and so the end came! Olive, you are not my _only_
+child.
+
+"I have no desire to palliate my sin. Sin, I know it was, heavy and
+deadly; against God's law, against my trusting wife, and against that
+hapless creature on whom I brought a whole lifetime of misery. Ay,
+not on her alone, but on that innocent being who has received from me
+nothing but the heritage of shame, and to whom in this world I can never
+make atonement. No man can! I felt this when she was born. It was a
+girl, too--a helpless girl. I looked on the little face, sleeping
+so purely, and remembered that on her brow would rest through life a
+perpetual stain; and that I, her father, had fixed it there. Then there
+awoke in me a remorse which can never die. For, alas, Olive, I have more
+to unfold! My remorse, like my crimes, was selfish at the root, and I
+wreaked it on her, who, if guilty, was less guilty than I.
+
+"One day I came to her, restless and angry, unable to hide the worm that
+was continually gnawing at my heart. She saw it there, and her proud
+spirit rose; she poured on me a torrent of reproachful words. I answered
+them as one who had erred like me was sure to answer. Poor wretch! I
+reviled her as having been the cause of my misery. When I saw her in her
+fury, I contrasted her image with that of the pale, patient, trusting
+creature I had left that morning--my wife, my poor Sybilla--until,
+hating myself, I absolutely loathed _her_--the enchantress who had been
+my undoing. With her shrill voice yet pursuing me, I precipitately left
+the house. Next day mother and child had disappeared! Whither, I knew
+not; and I never have known, though I left no effort untried to solve a
+mystery which made me feel like a _murderer_.
+
+"Nevertheless, I believe that they are still alive--these wretched two.
+If I did not, I should almost go mad at times.
+
+"Olive, have pity on your father, and hearken to what I implore. Whilst
+I live, I shall continue this search--but I may die without having had
+the chance of making atonement. In that case I entreat of my daughter
+Olive to stand between her father and his sin. If you have no other
+ties--if you never marry, but live alone in the world--seek out and
+protect that child! Remember, she is of your own blood--_she_, at
+least, never wronged you. In showing mercy to her, you do so to me,
+your father; who, when you read this, will have been for years among the
+dead, though the evil that he caused may still remain unexpiated. Oh!
+think that this is his voice crying out from the dust, beseeching you to
+absolve his memory. Save me from the horrible thought, now haunting me
+evermore, that the being who owes me life may one day heap curses on her
+father's name!
+
+"Herewith enclosed you will find instructions respecting an annuity I
+wish paid to--to the woman. It was placed in----'s bank by Mr. Wyld,
+whom, however, I deceived concerning it--I am now old enough in the
+school of hypocrisy. Hitherto the amount has never been claimed.
+
+"Olive, my daughter, forgive me! Judge me not harshly. I never would
+have asked this of you while your mother lived--your mother, whom _I
+loved_, though I wronged her so grievously. In some things, perhaps, she
+erred towards me; but I ought to have shown her more sympathy, and have
+dealt gently with her tender nature, so unlike my own. May God forgive
+us both!--God, in whose presence we shall both be, when you, our
+daughter, read this record. And may He bless you evermore, prays your
+loving father,
+
+"Angus Rothesay.
+
+"Celia Manners was her name. Her child she called _Christal_."
+
+
+It ceased--this voice from the ten years' silent grave of Angus
+Rothesay. His daughter sat motionless, her fixed eyes blindly
+out-gazing, her whole frame cold and rigid, frozen into a statue of
+stone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLII.
+
+Rivetted by an inexplicable influence, Olive had read the letter
+through, without once pausing or blenching;--read it as though it had
+been some strange romance of misery, not relating to herself at all.
+She felt unable to comprehend or realise it, until she came to the
+name--"Christal." Then the whole truth burst upon her, wrapping
+her round with a cold horror, and, for the time, paralysing all her
+faculties. When she awoke, the letter was still in her hand, and from
+it still there stood out clear the name, which had long been a familiar
+word. Therefore, all this while, destiny had been leading her to work
+out her father's desire. The girl who had dwelt in her household for
+months, whom she had tried to love, and generously sought to guide,
+was--_her sister_.
+
+But what a chaos of horror was revealed by this discovery! Olive's first
+thought was of her mother, who had showered kindness on this child
+of shame; who, dying, had unconsciously charged her to "take care of
+Christal."
+
+With a natural revulsion of feeling, Olive thrust the letter from her.
+Its touch seemed to pollute her fingers.
+
+"Oh, my mother--my poor, wronged mother!--well for you that you
+never lived to see this day. You--so good, so loving, so faithfully
+remembering him even to the last. But I--I have lived to shrink with
+abhorrence from the memory of my own father."
+
+Suddenly she stopped, aghast at thinking that she was thus speaking of
+the dead--the dead from whom her own life had sprung.
+
+"I am bewildered," she murmured. "Heaven help me! I know not what I say
+or do." And Olive fell on her knees.
+
+She had no words to pray with; but, in such time of agony, all her
+thoughts were prayers. After a while these calmed her, and made her
+strong to endure one more trial--different from, perhaps even more awful
+than, all the rest.
+
+Much sorrow had been her life's portion; but never until this hour had
+Olive Rothesay stood face to face with crime. She had now to learn the
+crowning lesson of virtue--how to deal with vice. Not by turning away
+in saintly pride, but by boldly confronting it, with an eye stern in
+purity, yet melting in compassion; remembering ever--
+
+How all the souls that were, were forfeit once; And He who might the
+vantage best have took Found out the remedy.
+
+Angus Rothesay's daughter read over once more the record of his sin. In
+so doing, she was struck with the depth of that remorse which, to secure
+a future expiation, threw aside pride, reserve, and shame. How awful
+must have been the repentance which had impelled such a confession, and
+driven a father to humble himself in the dust before his own child!
+She seemed to hear, rising from the long-closed grave, that mournful,
+beseeching cry, "Atone my sin!" It silenced even the voice of her
+mother's wrongs.
+
+This duty then remained, to fulfil which--as it would appear--Olive had
+been left alone on earth. The call seemed like that of fate; nay, she
+half-shuddered to think of the almost supernatural chance, which had
+arranged everything before her, and made her course so plain. But it had
+often happened so. Her life appeared as some lives do, all woven about
+with mysteries; threads of guidance, first unseen, and then distinctly
+traced, forcing on the mind that sweet sense of invisible ministry which
+soothes all suffering, and causes a childlike rest on the Omnipotence
+which out of all evil continually evolves good.
+
+With this thought there dawned upon Olive a solemn sense of calm. To lay
+down this world's crown of joys, and to take up its cross--no longer
+to be ministered unto, but to minister,--this was to be her portion
+henceforth, and with this holy work was her lonely life to be filled.
+
+"I will do it," she cried. "O my poor father, may God have forgiven you,
+as my mother would, and as I now do! It is not mine to judge your sin;
+enough for me is the duty to atone it. How can this be best fulfilled?"
+
+She sat long in silence, mournfully pondering. She tried to collect
+every scattered link of memory respecting what she had heard of
+Christal's mother. For such, she now knew, was the woman who, for the
+time, had once strongly excited her girlish imagination. That visit
+and its incidents now came vividly back upon her memory. Much there
+was which made her naturally revolt from the thought of this unhappy
+creature. How could it be otherwise with her mother's child? Still,
+amidst all, she was touched by the love of this other most wretched
+mother, who--living and dying--had renounced her maternal claim; and
+impressed upon her daughter's mind a feigned story, rather than let the
+brand of illegitimate birth rest upon the poor innocent.
+
+Suddenly she heard from the next room Christal's happy, unconscious
+voice, singing merrily.
+
+"My sister!" Olive gasped. "She is my sister--my father's child."
+
+And there came upon her, in a flood of mingled compassion and fear, all
+that Christal would feel when she came to know the truth! Christal--so
+proud of her birth--her position--whose haughty nature, inherited from
+both father and mother, had once struggled wrathfully against Olive's
+mild control. Such a blow as this would either crush her to the earth,
+or, rousing up the demon in her, drive her to desperation. Thinking
+thus, Olive forgot everything in pity for the hapless girl;--everything,
+save an awe-struck sense of the crime, which, as its necessary
+consequence, entailed such misery from generation to generation.
+
+It seemed most strange that Christal had lived for so many years,
+cherishing her blind belief, nay, not even seeking to investigate it
+when it lay in her power. For since the day she returned from France,
+she had never questioned Miss Vanbrugh, nor alluded to the subject of
+her parentage. Such indifference seemed incredible, and could only be
+accounted for by Christal's light, careless nature, her haughtiness, or
+her utter ignorance of the world.
+
+What was Olive to do? Was she to reveal the truth, and thus blast for
+ever this dawning life, so full of hope? Was her hand to place the
+stigma of shame on the brow of this young creature?--a girl too! There
+might come a time when some proud, honourable man, however loving, would
+scruple to take to his bosom as a wife, one--whose mother had never
+owned that name. But then--was Olive to fix on herself the perpetual
+burden of this secret--the continual dread of its betrayal--the doubt,
+lest one day, chance might bring it to Christal's knowledge, perhaps
+when the girl would no longer be shielded by a sister's protection, or
+comforted by a sister's love?
+
+While she struggled in this conflict, she heard a voice at the door.
+
+"Olive--Olive!"--the tone was more affectionate than usual. "Are you
+never coming? I am quite tired of being alone. Do let me into the
+studio!"
+
+Olive sprang to her desk and hid the letter therein. Then, without
+speaking--she had no power to speak--she mechanically unlocked the door.
+
+"Well, I am glad to get at you at last," cried Christal, merrily. "I
+thought you were going to spend the night here. But what is the matter?
+You are as white as a ghost. You can't look me in the face. Why, one
+would almost imagine you had been planning a murder, and I was the
+'innocent, unconscious victim,' as the novels have it."
+
+"You--a victim!" cried Olive, in great agitation. But by an almost
+superhuman effort she repressed it, and added, quietly, "Christal, my
+dear, don't mind me. It is nothing--only I feel ill--excited."
+
+"Why, what have you been doing?"
+
+Olive instinctively answered the truth. "I have been sitting here
+alone--thinking of old times--reading old letters."
+
+"Whose? nay, but I will know," answered Christal, half playfully, half
+in earnest, as though there was some distrust in her mind.
+
+"It was my father's--my poor father's."
+
+"Is that all? Oh, then don't vex yourself about any old father dead and
+gone. I wouldn't! Though, to be sure, I never had the chance. Little I
+ever knew or cared about mine."
+
+Olive turned away, and was silent; but Christal, who seemed, for some
+reason best known to herself, to be in a particularly unreserved and
+benignant humour, said kindly, "You poor little trembling thing, how ill
+you have made yourself! You can scarcely stand alone; give me your hand,
+and I'll help you to the sofa."
+
+But Olive shrank as if there had been a sting in the slender fingers
+which lay on her arm. She looked at them, and a slight circumstance,
+long forgotten, rushed back upon her memory,--something she had noticed
+to her mother the first night that the girl came home. Tracing the
+beautiful hereditary mould of the Rothesay line, she now knew why
+Christal's hand was like her own father's.
+
+A shiver of instinctive repugnance came over her, and then the
+mysterious voice of kindred blood awoke in her heart. She took and
+passionately clasped that hand--the hand of _her sister_.
+
+"O Christal! let us love one another--we two, who have no other tie left
+to us on earth."
+
+But Christal was rarely in a pathetic mood. She only shrugged her
+shoulders, and then stroked Olive's arm with a patronising air. "Come,
+your journey has been too much for you, and you had no business to
+wander off that way with Mrs. Gwynne; you shall lie down and rest a
+little and then go to bed."
+
+But Olive was afraid of night and its solitude. She knew there was no
+slumber for her. When she was a little recovered, feeling unable to
+talk, she asked Christal to read aloud.
+
+The other looked annoyed. "Pleasant! to be a mere lady's companion and
+reader! Miss Rothesay forgets who I am, I think," muttered she, though
+apparently not meaning Olive to hear her.
+
+But Olive did hear, and shuddered at the hearing.
+
+Miss Manners carelessly took up the newspaper, and read the first
+paragraph which caught her eye. It was one of those mournful episodes
+which are sometimes revealed at the London police-courts. A young
+girl--a lady swindler--had been brought up for trial there. In her
+defence came out the story of a life, cradled in shame, nurtured in
+vice, and only working out its helpless destiny--that of a rich man's
+deserted illegitimate child. The report added, that "The convict was led
+from the dock in a state of violent excitement, calling down curses on
+her parents, but especially on her father, who, she said, had cruelly
+forsaken her mother. She ended by exclaiming that it was to him she
+herself owed all her life of misery, and that her blood was upon his
+head."
+
+"It _was_ upon his head," burst forth Christal, whose sympathies, as
+by some fatal instinct, seemed attracted by a case like this. "If I had
+been that girl, I would have hunted my vile father through the world.
+While he lived, I would have heaped my miseries in his path, that
+everywhere they might torture and shame him. When he died, I would have
+trampled on his grave and cursed him!"
+
+She stood up, her eyes flashing, her hands clenched in one of those
+paroxysms which to her came so rarely, but, when roused, were terrible
+to witness. Her mother's soul was in the girl. Olive saw it, and from
+that hour knew that, whatever it cost her, the secret of Christal's
+birth must be buried in her own breast for evermore.
+
+Most faithfully Miss Rothesay kept her vow. But it entailed upon her
+the necessity of changing her whole plans for the future. For some
+inexplicable reason, Christal refused to go and live with her in
+Edinburgh, or, in fact, to leave Farnwood at all. Therefore Olive's
+despairing wish to escape from Harbury, and all its bitter associations,
+was entirely frustrated. It would be hard to say whether she lamented or
+rejoiced at this. The brave resolve had cost her much, yet she scarcely
+regretted that it would not be fulfilled. There was a secret sweetness
+in living near Harbury--in stealing, as it were, into a daughter's place
+beside the mother of him she still so fervently loved. But, thinking
+of him, she did not suffer now. For all great trials there is an unseen
+compensation; and this last shock, with the change it had wrought, made
+her past sorrows grow dim. Life became sweeter to her, for it was filled
+with a new and holy interest. It could be so filled, she found, even
+when love had come and vanished, and only duty remained.
+
+She turned from all repining thoughts, and tried to make for herself a
+peaceful nest in her little home. And thither, above all, she desired
+to allure and to keep, with all gentle wiles of love, her sister.
+_Her sister_! Often, yearning for kindred ties, she longed to fall on
+Christal's neck, and call her by that tender name! But she knew it could
+never be, and her heart had been too long schooled into patience, to
+murmur because in every human tie this seemed to be perpetually her
+doom--that--save one who was gone--none upon earth had ever loved her as
+much as she loved them.
+
+Harold Gwynne wrote frequently from Rome, but only to his mother.
+However, he always mentioned Miss Rothesay, and kindly. Once, when Mrs.
+Gwynne was unable to write herself, she asked Olive to take her place,
+and indulge Harold with a letter.
+
+"He will be so glad, you know. I think of all his friends there is none
+whom my son regards more warmly than you," said the mother. And Olive
+could not refuse. Why, indeed, should she feel reluctance? He had
+never been her lover; she had no right to feel wounded, or angry at his
+silence. Certainly, she would write.
+
+She did so. It was a quiet, friendly letter, making no reference to the
+past--expressing no regret, no pain. It was scarcely like the earnest
+letters which she had once written to him--that time was past. She
+tried to make it an epistle as from any ordinary acquaintance--easy
+and pleasant, full of everything likely to amuse him. She knew he
+would never dream how it was written--with a cold, trembling hand
+and throbbing heart, its smooth sentences broken by pauses of burning
+blinding tears.
+
+She said little about herself or her own affairs, save to ask that,
+being in Rome, he would contrive to find out the Vanbrughs, of whom she
+had heard nothing for a long time. Writing, she paused a moment to think
+whether she should not apologise for giving him this trouble. But then
+she remembered his words--almost the last she had heard him utter--that
+she must always consider him "as a friend and brother."
+
+"I will do so," she murmured. "I will not doubt him, or his true regard
+for me. It is all he can give; and while he gives me that, I shall
+endure life contentedly, even unto the end."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIII
+
+It was mid-winter before the inhabitants of the Dell were visited by
+their friend, Lyle Derwent, now grown a rich and important personage.
+Olive rather regretted his apparent neglect, for it grieved her to
+suspect a change in any one whom she regarded. Christal only mocked the
+while, at least in outside show. Miss Rothesay did not see with what
+eagerness the girl listened to every sound, nor how every morning, fair
+and foul, she would restlessly start to walk up the Harbury road and
+meet the daily post.
+
+It was during one of these absences of hers that Lyle made his
+appearance. Olive was sitting in her painting-room, arranging the
+contents of her desk. She was just musing, for the hundredth time, over
+her father's letter, considering whether or not she should destroy it,
+lest any unforeseen chance--her own death, for instance--might bring the
+awful secret to Christars knowledge. Lyle's entrance startled her, and
+she hastily thrust the letter within the desk. Consequently her manner
+was rather fluttered, and her greeting scarcely so cordial as she would
+have wished it to be. The infection apparently communicated itself to
+her visitor, for he sat down, looking agitated and uncomfortable.
+
+"You are not angry with me for staying so long away, are you, Miss
+Rothesay?" said Lyle, when he had received her congratulations on his
+recent acquisitions. "You don't think this change in fortune will make
+any change in my heart towards you?"
+
+Olive half smiled at his sentimental way of putting the matter, but it
+was the young man's peculiarity. So she frankly assured him that she
+had never doubted his regard towards her. At which poor Lyle fell into
+ecstasies of delight.
+
+They had a long talk together about his prospects, in all of which
+Olive took a warm and lively interest. He told her of his new house and
+grounds; of his plan of life, which seemed very Arcadian and poetical
+indeed. But he was a simple-minded, warm-hearted youth, and Miss
+Rothesay listened with pleasure to all he said. It did her good to see
+that there was a little happiness to be found in the world.
+
+"You have drawn the sweetest possible picture of rural felicity," she
+said, smiling; "I earnestly hope you may realise it, my dear Lyle--But
+I suppose one must not call you so any more, since you are now Mr.
+Derwent, of Hollywood."
+
+"Oh, no; call me Lyle, nothing but Lyle. It sounds so sweet from your
+lips--it always did, even when I was a little boy."
+
+"I am afraid I have treated you quite like a boy until now. But you must
+not mind it, for the sake of old times."
+
+"Do you remember them still?" asked Lyle, a tone of deeper earnestness
+stealing through his affectations of sentiment. "Do you remember how I
+was your little knight, and used to say I loved you better than all the
+world?"
+
+"I do indeed. It was an amusing rehearsal of what you will begin to
+enact in reality some of these days. You will make a most poetical
+lover."
+
+"Do you think so? O Miss Rothesay, do you really think so?" And then his
+eagerness subsided into vivid blushes, which really caused Olive pain.
+She began to fear that, unwittingly, she had been playing on some tender
+string, and that there was more earnest feeling in Lyle than she had
+ever dreamed of. She would not for the world have jested thus, had
+she thought there was any real attachment in the case. So, a good deal
+touched and interested, she began to talk to him in her own quiet,
+affectionate way.
+
+"You must not mistake me, Lyle; you must not think I am laughing at you.
+But I did not know that you had ever considered these things. Though
+there is plenty of time--as you are only just twenty-one. Tell me
+candidly--you know you may--do you think you were ever seriously in
+love?"
+
+"It is very strange for you to ask me these questions."
+
+"Then do not answer them. Forgive me, I only spoke from the desire I
+have to see you happy: you, who are so mingled with many recollections;
+you, poor Sara's brother, and my own little favourite in olden time."
+And speaking in a subdued and tender voice, Olive held out her hand to
+Lyle.
+
+He snatched it eagerly. "How I love to hear you speak thus! Oh, if I
+could but tell you all."
+
+"You may, indeed," said Olive, gently. "I am sure, my dear Lyle, you can
+trust me. Tell me the whole story."
+
+--"The story of a dream I had, all my boyhood through, of a beautiful,
+noble creature, whom I reverenced, admired, and at last have dared to
+love," Lyle answered, in much agitation.
+
+Olive felt quite sorry for him. "I did not expect this," she said. "You
+poetic dreamers have so many light fancies. My poor Lyle, is it indeed
+so? You, whom I should have thought would choose a new idol every month,
+have you all this while been seriously and heartily in love, and with
+one girl only? Are you quite sure it was but one?" And she half smiled.
+
+He seemed now more confused than ever. "One cannot but speak truth to
+you," he murmured. "You make me tell you everything, whether I will or
+no. And if I did not, you might hear it from some one else, and that
+would make me very miserable."
+
+"Well, what was it?"
+
+"That though I never loved but this my beautiful lady, once,--only once,
+for a very little while, I assure you,--I was half disposed to like some
+one else whom you know."
+
+Olive thought a minute, and then said, very seriously, "Was it Christal
+Manners?"
+
+"It was. She led me into it, and then she teased me out of it. But
+indeed it was not love--only a mere passing fancy."
+
+"Did you tell her of your feelings?"
+
+"Only in some foolish verses, which she laughed at."
+
+"You should not have done that. It is very wicked to make any pretence
+about love."
+
+"O! dearest Miss Rothesay, you are not angry with me? Whatever my folly,
+you must know well that there is but one woman in the world whom I ever
+truly loved--whom I do love, most passionately! It is _yourself_."
+
+Olive looked up in blank astonishment. She almost thought that sentiment
+had driven him crazy. But he went on with an earnestness that could not
+be mistaken, though it was mingled with some extravagance.
+
+"All the good that is in me I learned from you when I was a little boy.
+I thought you an angel even then, and used to dream about you for hours.
+When I grew older, I made you an idol. All the poetry I ever wrote was
+about you--your golden hair, and your sweet eyes. You seemed to me then,
+and you seem now, the most beautiful creature in the whole world."
+
+"Lyle, you are mocking me," said Olive, sadly.
+
+"Mocking you! It is very cruel to tell me so," and he turned away with
+an expression of deep pain.
+
+Olive began to wake from the bewilderment into which his words had
+thrown her. But she could not realise the possibility of Lyle Derwent's
+loving _her_, his senior by some years, many years older than he in
+heart; pale, worn, _deformed_. For the sense of personal defect which
+had haunted her throughout her life was present still. But when she
+looked again at Lyle, she regretted having spoken to him so harshly.
+
+"Forgive me," she said. "All this is so strange; you cannot really mean
+it. It is utterly impossible that you can love me. I am old, compared
+with you; I have no beauty, nay, even more than that"---- here she
+paused, and her colour sensitively rose.
+
+"I know what you would say," quickly added the young man. "But I think
+nothing of it--nothing! To me you are, as I said, like an angel. I have
+come here to-day to tell you so; to ask you to share my riches, and
+teach me to deserve them. Dearest Miss Rothesay, be not only my friend,
+but--my wife?"
+
+There was no doubting him now. The strong passion within gave him
+dignity and manhood. Olive scarcely recognised in the earnest wooer
+before her, the poesy-raving, blushing, sentimental Lyle. Great pain
+came over her. She had never dreamed of one trial--that of being loved
+by another as hopelessly as she herself loved.
+
+"You do not answer, Miss Rothesay? What does your silence mean? That I
+have presumed too much! You think me a boy; a foolish, romantic boy; but
+I can love you, for all that, with my whole heart and soul."
+
+"Oh, Lyle, why talk to me in this way? You do not know how deeply it
+grieves me."
+
+"It grieves you--you do not love me, then? Well," he added, sighing, "I
+could hardly expect it at once; but you will grant me time, you will let
+me try to prove myself worthy of you--you will give me hope?"
+
+Olive shook her head mournfully. "Lyle, dear Lyle, forget all this.
+It is a mere dream; it will pass, I know it will. You will choose some
+young girl who is suited for you, and to whom you will make a good and
+happy husband."
+
+Lyle turned very pale. "That means to say that you think me unworthy to
+be yours."
+
+"No--no--I did not say you were unworthy; you are dear to me, you always
+were, though not in _that_ way. It goes to my very heart to inflict even
+a momentary pain; but I cannot, cannot marry you!"
+
+Much agitated, Olive hid her face. Lyle moved away to the other end of
+the room. Perhaps, with manhood's love was also dawning manhood's pride.
+
+"There must be some reason for this," he said at last. "If I am dear to
+you, though ever so little, a stronger love for me might come in time.
+Will it be so?"
+
+"No, never!"
+
+"Are you quite sure?"
+
+"Quite sure."
+
+"Perhaps I am too late," he continued, bitterly. "You may already love
+some one else. Tell me, I have a right to know."
+
+She blushed crimson, and then arose, not without dignity. "I think,
+Lyle, you go too far; we will cease this conversation."
+
+"Forgive me, forgive me!" cried Lyle, melted at once, and humbled too.
+"I will ask no more--I do not wish to hear. It is misery enough for me
+to know that you can never be mine, that I must not love you any more!"
+
+"But you may regard me tenderly still. You may learn to feel for me as
+a sister--an elder sister. That is the fittest relation between us.
+You yourself will think so, in time." And Olive truly believed what she
+said. Perhaps she judged him rightly: that this passion was indeed only
+a boyish romance, such as most men have in their youth, which fades
+painlessly in the realities of after years. But now, at least, it was
+most deep and sincere.
+
+As Miss Rothesay spoke, once more as in his childish days Lyle threw
+himself at her feet, taking both her hands, and looking up in her face
+with the wildest adoration.
+
+"I must--must worship you still; I always shall! You are so good--so
+pure; I look up to you as to some saint. I was mad to think of you in
+any other way. But you will not forget me; you will guide and counsel
+me always. Only, if you should be taken away from me--if you should
+marry"----
+
+"I shall never marry," said Olive, uttering the words she had uttered
+many a time, but never more solemnly than now.
+
+Lyle regarded her for a long and breathless space, and then laying his
+head on her knees, he wept like a child.
+
+That moment, at the suddenly-opened door there stood Christal Manners!
+Like a vision, she came--and passed. Lyle never saw her at all. But
+Olive did; and when the young man had departed, amidst all her own
+agitation, there flashed before her, as it were an omen of some woe to
+come--that livid face, lit with its eyes of fire.
+
+Not long had Olive to ponder, for the door once more opened, and
+Christal came in. Her hair had all fallen down, her eyes had the same
+intense glare, her bonnet and shawl were still hanging on her arm. She
+flung them aside, and stood in the doorway.
+
+"Miss Rothesay, I wish to speak with you; and that no one may interrupt
+us, I will do this." She bolted and locked the door, and then clenched
+her fingers over the key, as if it had been a living thing for her to
+crush.
+
+Olive sat utterly confounded. For in her sister she saw two likenesses;
+one, of the woman who had once shrieked after her the name of
+"Rothesay,"--the other, that of her own father in his rare moments
+of passion, as she had seen him the night he had called her by that
+opprobrious word which had planted the sense of personal humiliation in
+her heart for life.
+
+Christal walked up to her. "Now tell me--for I _will_ know--what has
+passed between you and--him who just now went hence."
+
+"Lyle Derwent?"
+
+"Yes. Repeat every word--every word!"
+
+"Why so? You are not acting kindly towards me," said Olive, trying to
+resume her wonted dignity, but still speaking in a placable, quiet tone.
+"My dear Christal, you are younger than I, and have scarcely a right to
+question me thus."
+
+"Right! When it comes to that, where is yours? How dare you suffer Lyle
+Derwent to kneel at your feet? How dare you, I say!"
+
+"Christal--Christal! Hush!"
+
+"I will not! I will speak. I wish every word were a dagger to stab
+you--wicked, wicked woman! who have come between me and my lover--for he
+is my lover, and I love him."
+
+"You love him?"
+
+"You stole him from me--you bewitched him with your vile flatteries. How
+else could he have turned from _me_ to _you_?"
+
+And lifting her graceful, majestic height, she looked contemptuously on
+poor shrinking Olive--ay, as her father--the father of both--had done
+before. Olive remembered the time well. For a moment a sense of cruel
+wrong pressed down her compassion, but it rose again. Who was most
+injured, most unhappy--she, or the young creature who stood before her,
+shaken by the storm of rage.
+
+She stretched out her hands entreatingly.--"Christal, do listen. Indeed,
+indeed, I am innocent. I shall never marry that poor boy--never! I have
+just told him so."
+
+"He has asked you, then?"--and the girl almost gnashed her teeth--"Then
+he has deceived me. No, I will not believe that. It is you who are
+deceiving me now. If he loved you, you were sure to love him."
+
+"What am I to do--how am I to convince you? How hard this is!"
+
+"Hard! What, then, must it be to me? You did not think this passion was
+in me, did you? You judged me by that meek cold-blooded heart of yours.
+But mine is all burning--burning! Woe be to those who kindled the fire."
+
+She began to walk to and fro, sweeping past Olive with angry strides.
+She looked, from head to foot, her mother's child. Hate and love,
+melting and mingling together, flashed from her black, southern eyes.
+But in the close mouth there was an iron will, inherited with her
+northern blood. Suddenly she stopped, and confronted Olive.
+
+"You consider me a mere girl. But I learned to be a woman early. I had
+need."
+
+"Poor child!--poor child!"
+
+"How dare you pity me? You think I am dying for love, do you? But no! It
+is pride--only pride! Why did I not always scorn that pitiful boy? I did
+once, and he knows it. And afterwards, because there was no one else
+to care for, and I was lonely, and wanted a home--haughty, and wanted a
+position--I have humbled myself thus."
+
+"Then, Christal, if you never did really love him"----
+
+"Who told you that? Not I!" she cried, her broken and contradictory
+speech revealing the chaos of her mind.
+
+"I say, I did love him--more than you, with your cold prudence, could
+ever dream of! What could such an one as you know about love? Yet you
+have taken him from me.
+
+"I tell you, no! Never till this day did he breathe one word of love to
+me. I can show you his letters."
+
+"Letters! He wrote to you, then, and I never knew it. Oh! how I hate
+you! I could kill you where you stand!"
+
+She went to the open desk, and began searching there with trembling
+hands.
+
+"What--what are you going to do?" cried Olive, with sudden terror.
+
+"To take his letters, and read them. I do it in your presence, for I
+am no dishonourable thief. But I will know everything. You are in my
+power--you need not stir or shriek."
+
+But Olive did shriek, for she saw that Christal's hand already touched
+the one fatal letter. A hope there was that she might pass it by,
+unconscious that it contained her doom! But no! her eye had been
+attracted by her own name, mentioned in the postscript.
+
+"More wicked devices against me!" cried the girl, passionately. "But I
+will find out this plot too," and she began to unfold the paper.
+
+"The letter--give me that letter. Oh, Christal! for the happiness of
+your whole life, I charge you--I implore you not to read it!" cried
+Olive, springing forward, and catching her arm. But Christal thrust her
+back with violence. "'Tis something you wish to hide from me; but I defy
+you! I _will_ read!"
+
+Nevertheless, in the confusion of her mind, she could not at once find
+the passage where she had seen her own name. She began, and read the
+letter all through, though without a change of countenance until she
+reached the end. Then the change was so awful, none could be like it,
+save that left by death on the human face. Her arms fell paralysed, and
+she staggered dizzily against the wall.
+
+Trembling, Olive crept up and touched her; Christal recoiled, and
+stamped on the ground, crying:
+
+"It is all a lie, a hideous lie! _You_ have forged it--to shame me in
+the eyes of my lover."
+
+"Not so," said Olive, most tenderly; "no one in the wide world knows
+this, but we two. No one ever shall know it! Oh, would that you had
+listened to me, then I should still have kept the secret, even from you!
+My sister--my poor sister!"
+
+"_Sister!_ And you are his child, his lawful child, while I---- But you
+shall not live to taunt me. I will kill you, that you may go to your
+father, and mine, and tell him that I cursed him in his grave!"
+
+As she spoke, she wreathed her arms round Olive's slight frame, but
+the deadly embrace was such as never sister gave. With the marvellous
+strength of fury, she lifted her from the floor, and dashed her
+down again. In falling, Olive's forehead struck against the marble
+chimney-piece, and she lay stunned and insensible on the hearth.
+
+Christal looked at her sister for a moment,--without pity or remorse,
+but in motionless horror. Then she unlocked the door and fled.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIV.
+
+When Olive returned to consciousness she was lying on her own bed, the
+same whereon her mother had died. Olive almost thought that she herself
+had died too, so still lay the shadows of the white curtains, cast by
+the one faint night-lamp that was hidden on the floor. She breathed
+heavily in a kind of sigh, and then she was aware of some watcher close
+beside, who said, softly, "Are you sleeping, my dear Olive?"
+
+In her confused fancy, the voice seemed to her like Harold's. She
+imagined that she was dead, and that he was sitting beside her
+bier--sorrowfully--perhaps even in tenderness, as he might look on her
+_then_. So strong was the delusion, that she feebly uttered his name.
+
+"It is Harold's mother, my dear. Were you dreaming about my son?"
+
+Olive was far too ill to have any feeling of self-betrayal or shame;
+nor was there any consecutive memory in her exhausted mind. She only
+stretched out her hands to Harold's mother with a sense of refuge and
+peace.
+
+"Take care of me! Oh, take care of me!" she murmured; and as she felt
+herself drawn lovingly to that warm breast--the breast where Harold
+had once lain--she could there have slept herself into painless death,
+wherein the only consciousness was this one thought of him.
+
+But, after an hour or two, the life within her grew stronger, and she
+began to consider what had happened. A horrible doubt came, of something
+she had to hide.
+
+"Tell me, do tell me, Mrs. Gwynne, have I said anything in my sleep?
+Don't mind it, whatever it be. I am ill, you know."
+
+"Yes, you have been ill for some days. I have been nursing you."
+
+"And what has happened in this house, the while? Oh, where is
+Christal,--poor Christal?"
+
+There was a frown on Mrs. Gwynne's countenance--a frown so stern that
+it brought back to Olive's memory all that had befallen. Earnestly
+regarding her, she said, "Something has happened--something awful. How
+much of it do you know?"
+
+"Everything! But, Olive, we must not talk."
+
+"_I_ must not be left to think, or I should lose my senses again.
+Therefore, let me hear all that you have found out, I entreat you!"
+
+Mrs. Gwynne saw she had best comply, for there was still a piteous
+bewilderment in Olive's look. "Lie still," she said, "and I will tell
+you. I came to this house when that miserable girl was rushing from
+it. I brought her back--I controlled her, as I have ere now controlled
+passions as wild as hers, though she is almost a demon."
+
+"Hush, hush!" murmured Olive.
+
+"She told me everything. But all is safe, for I have possession of the
+letter; and I have nursed you myself, alone."
+
+"Oh, how good, how wise, how faithful you have been!"
+
+"I would have done all and more for your sake, Olive, and for the sake
+of your unhappy father. But, oh! that ever I should hear this of Angus
+Rothesay. Alas! it is a sinful, sinful world. Never knew I one truly
+good man, save my son Harold."
+
+The mention of this name fell on Olive's wandering thoughts like balm,
+turning her mind from the horror she had passed through. Besides, from
+her state of exhaustion, everything was growing dim and indistinct to
+her mind.
+
+"You shall tell me more another time," she said; and then, sinking back
+on her pillow, still holding fast the hand of Harold's mother, she lay
+and slept till morning.
+
+When, in the daylight, she recovered a little more, Mrs. Gwynne told
+her all that had happened. From the moment that Christal saw her
+sister carried upstairs, dead, as it were, her passion ceased. But she
+exhibited neither contrition nor alarm. She went and locked herself up
+in her chamber, from whence she had never stirred. She let no one enter
+except Mrs. Gwynne, who seemed to have over her that strong rule which
+was instinctive in such a woman. She it was who brought Christal her
+meals, and compelled her to take them; or else, in her sullen misery,
+the girl would, as she threatened, have starved herself to death. And
+though many a stormy contest arose between the two, when Mrs. Gwynne,
+stern in her justice, began to reprove and condemn, still she ever
+conquered so far as to leave Christal silent, if not subdued.
+
+Subdued she was not. Night after night, when Olive was recovering, they
+heard her pacing up and down her chamber, sometimes even until dawn. A
+little her spirit had been crushed, Mrs. Gwynne thought, when there was
+hanging over her what might become the guilt of murder; but as soon as
+Olive's danger passed, it again rose. No commands, no persuasions, could
+induce Christal to visit her sister, though the latter entreated it
+daily, longing for the meeting and reconciliation.
+
+But in illness there is great peace sometimes, especially after a
+long mental struggle. In the dreamy quiet of her sick-room, all things
+belonging to the world without, all cares, all sufferings, grew dim to
+Olive. Ay, even her love. It became sanctified, as though it had been
+an affection beyond the grave. She lay for hours together, thinking of
+Harold; of all that had passed between them--of his goodness, his tender
+friendship; of hers to him, more faithful than he would ever know.
+
+It was very sweet, too, to be nursed so tenderly by Harold's mother--to
+feel that there was growing between them a bond like that of parent and
+child. Often Mrs. Gwynne even said so, wishing that in her old age she
+could have a daughter like Olive; and now and then, when Olive did not
+see, she stole a penetrating glance, as if to observe how her words were
+received.
+
+One day when Olive was just able to sit up, and looked, in her white
+drapery and close cap, so like her lost mother,--Mrs. Gwynne entered
+with letters. Olive grew pale. To her fancy every letter that came to
+Harbury could only be from Rome.
+
+"Good tidings, my dear; tidings from Harold. But you are trembling."
+
+"Everything sudden startles me now. I am very weak, I fear," murmured
+Olive. "But you look so pleased!--All is well with him?"
+
+"All is quite well. He has written me a long letter, and here is one for
+you!"
+
+"For me!" The poor pale face lighted up, and the hand was eagerly
+stretched out. But when she held the letter, she could not open it for
+trembling. In her feebleness, all power of self-control vanished. She
+looked wistfully at Harold's writing, and burst into tears.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne regarded Olive for a moment, as _his_ mother naturally
+would, jealous over her own claim, yet not blaming the one whose only
+blame was "loving where _she_ did." But she said nothing, or in any way
+betrayed the secret she had learnt. Perhaps, after all, she was proud
+that her son should be so truly loved, and by such a woman.
+
+Leaning over Olive, she soothed her with great tenderness. "You are
+indeed too weak to hear anything of the world without. I ought to have
+taken better care of you, my dear child. Nay, never mind because you
+gave way a little," she said seeing the burning blushes that rose
+one after the other in Olive's face. "It was quite natural. The most
+trifling thing must agitate one who has been so very, very ill. Come,
+will you read your letter, or shall I put it by till you are stronger?"
+
+"No, no, I should like to read it. He is very good to write to me,--very
+good indeed. I felt his kindness the more from being ill; that is why it
+made me weep," said Olive, faintly.
+
+"Certainly, my dear; but I will leave you now, for I have not yet read
+mine. I am sure Harold would be pleased to know how glad _we both_ are
+to hear from him," said Mrs. Gwynne, with a light but kindly emphasis.
+And then Olive was left alone.
+
+Oh that Harold had seen her as she sat! Oh that _he_ had heard her
+broken words of thankful joy, when she read of his welfare! Then he
+might at last have felt what blessedness it was to be so loved; to
+reign like a throned king in a pure woman's heart, where no man had ever
+reigned before, and none ever would, until that heart was dust.
+
+Harold wrote much as he had always done, perhaps a little more
+reservedly, and with a greater degree of measured kindliness. He took
+care to answer every portion of Olive's letter, but wrote little about
+himself, or his own feelings. He had not been able to find out the
+Vanbrughs, he said, though he would try every possible means of so
+doing before he left Rome for Paris. Miss Rothesay must always use his
+services in everything, when needed, he said, nor forget how much he was
+"her sincere and faithful friend."
+
+"He is that, and will be always! I am content, quite content;" and she
+gazed down, calmly smiling at the letter on her knee.
+
+This news from Rome seemed to have given her new life. Hour by hour she
+grew rapidly better, and the peace in her own heart made it the more to
+yearn over her unhappy sister, who, if sinning, had been sinned against,
+and who, if she erred much, must bitterly suffer too.
+
+"Tell Christal I long to see her," she said. "To-morrow I shall be quite
+strong, I think, and then I will go to her room myself, and never quit
+her until we are reconciled."
+
+But Christal declared no power should induce her to meet Olive more.
+
+"Alas! what are we to do?" cried Olive, sorrowfully; and the whole
+night, during which she was disturbed by the restless sounds in
+Christars room, she lay awake, planning numberless compassionate devices
+to soothe and win over this obdurate heart. Something told her they
+would not be in vain; love rarely is! When it was almost morning, she
+peacefully fell asleep.
+
+It was late when she awoke, and then the house, usually so quiet, seemed
+all astir. Hasty feet were passing in all directions, and Mrs. Gwynne's
+voice, sharpened and agitated, was heard in the next room. Very soon she
+stood by Olive's bed, and told her troubled tale.
+
+Christal had fled! Ere any one had risen, whilst the whole household
+must have been asleep, she had effected her escape. It was evidently
+done with the greatest ingenuity and forethought. Her door was still
+bolted, and she had apparently descended from the window, which was very
+low, and made accessible by an espalier. But the flight, thus secretly
+accomplished, had doubtless been long arranged and provided for, since
+all her money and ornaments, together with most of her attire, had
+likewise disappeared. In whatever way the scheme had been planned and
+executed, the fact was plain that it had thoroughly succeeded. Christal
+was gone; whither, there was at first not a single clue to tell.
+
+But when afterwards her room was searched, they found a letter addressed
+to Miss Rothesay. It ran thus:
+
+"I would have killed myself days since, but that I know in so doing, I
+should release you from a burden and a pang which I wish to last your
+life, as it must mine. Also, had I died, I might have gone to hell, and
+there met him whom I hate,--my wicked, wicked father. Therefore I would
+not die.
+
+"But I will not stay to be tyrannised over, or insulted by hypocritical
+pity. I will neither eat your bread, nor live upon the cowardly charity
+of---- the man who is dead. I intend to work for my own maintenance;
+most likely, to offer myself as a teacher in the school where I was
+brought up. I tell you this plainly; though I tell you, at the same
+time, that if you dare to seek me there, or drag me thence.---- But no!
+you will be glad to be freed from me forever.
+
+"One thing only I regret; that, in justice to my own mother, I must no
+longer think tenderly of _yours_. For yourself all is ended between us.
+Pardon I neither ask nor grant; I only say, Farewell.
+
+"Christal Manners."
+
+The letter was afterwards apparently re-opened, and a hasty postscript
+added:
+
+"Tell Lyle Derwent that I have gone for ever; or, still better, that
+I am dead. But if you dare to tell him anything more, I will hunt you
+through the world, but I will be revenged."
+
+Mrs. Gwynne read this letter aloud. It awoke in the stern, upright,
+God-fearing Scotswoman, less of pity, than a solemn sense of retributive
+justice, which she could scarcely repress, even though it involved the
+condemnation of him whose memory was mingled with the memories of her
+youth.
+
+But Olive, more gentle, tried to wash away her dead father's guilt with
+tears; and for her living sister she offered unto Heaven that beseeching
+never offered in vain, a pure heart's humble prayers.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLV.
+
+Many a consultation was held between Mrs. Gwynne and Olive, as to what
+must be done concerning that hapless child: for little more than a child
+she was in years, though her miserable destiny had nurtured in her so
+much of woman's suffering, and more than woman's sin. Yet still, when
+Olive read the reference to Mrs. Rothesay, she thought there might yet
+be a lingering angel sitting in poor Christal's heart.
+
+"Oh that some one could seek her out and save her, some one who would
+rule and yet soothe her; who, coming from us, should not be mingled with
+us in her fancy, so that no good influence might be lost."
+
+"I have thought of this," answered Mrs. Gwynne. "But, Olive, it is a
+solemn secret--your father's, too. You ought never to reveal it, except
+to one bound to you by closest ties. If you married, your husband would
+have a right to know it, or you might tell your brother."
+
+"I do not quite understand," said Olive, yet she changed colour a
+little.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne kindly dropped her eyes, and avoided looking at her
+companion, as she said, "You, my dear, are my adopted daughter;
+therefore, my son should be to you as a brother. Will you trust Harold?"
+
+"Trust him? There is nothing with which I could not trust him," said
+Olive, earnestly. She had long found out that praise of Harold was as
+sweet to his mother's heart as to her own.
+
+"Then trust him in this. I think he has almost a right--or one day he
+may have."
+
+Mrs. Gwynne's latter words sank indistinctly, and scarcely reached
+Olive. Perhaps it was well; such light falling on her darkness might
+have blinded her.
+
+Ere long the decision was made. Mrs. Gwynne wrote to her son and told
+him all. He was in Paris then, as she knew. So she charged him to
+seek out the school where Christal was. Sustained by his position as a
+clergyman, his grave dignity, and his mature years, he might well and
+ably exercise an unseen guardianship over the girl. His mother earnestly
+desired him to do this, from his natural benevolence, and for _Olive's
+sake_.
+
+"I said that, my dear," observed Mrs. Gwynne, "because I know his strong
+regard for you, and his anxiety for your happiness."
+
+These words, thrilling in her ear, made broken and trembling the few
+lines which Olive wrote to Harold, saying how entirely she trusted him,
+and how she implored him to save her sister.
+
+"I am ready to do all you wish," wrote Harold in reply. "O my dear
+friend, to whom I owe so much, most happy should I be if in any way I
+could do good to you and yours!"
+
+From that time his letters came frequently and regularly. Passages from
+them will best show how his work of mercy sped.
+
+"Paris, Jan.--I have had no difficulty in gaining admittance to the
+_pension_, for I chanced to go in Lord Arundale's carriage, and Madame
+Blandin would receive any one who came under the shadow of an English
+_milord_. Christal is there, in the situation she planned. I found out
+speedily,--as she, poor girl, will find,--how different is the position
+of a poor teacher from that of a rich pupil. I could not speak with her
+at all. Madame Blandin said she refused to see any English friends: and,
+besides, she could not be spared from the schoolroom. I must try some
+other plan... Do not speak again of this matter being 'burdensome' to
+me. How could it be so, when it is for you and your sister? Believe
+me, though the duty is somewhat new, it is most grateful to me for your
+sake, my dear friend."
+
+... "I have seen Christal. It was at mass. She goes there with some
+Catholic pupils, I suppose. I watched her closely, but secretly. Poor
+girl! a life's anguish is written in her face. How changed since I last
+saw it! Even knowing all, I could not choose but pity her. When she was
+bending before a crucifix, I saw how her whole frame trembled with sobs.
+It seemed not like devotion--it must be heart-broken misery. I came
+closer, to meet her when she rose. The moment she saw me her whole face
+blazed. But for the sanctity of the place, I think she could not
+have controlled herself. I never before saw at once such anger, such
+defiance, and yet such bitter shame. She turned away, took her little
+pupils by the hand, and walked out of the chapel. I dared not follow
+her; but many times since then I have watched her from the same spot,
+taking care that she should not see me. Who would think that haggard
+woman, sharp in manner, careless in dress--you see how closely I observe
+her--was the blithe Christal of old! But I sometimes fancied, even
+from her sporting, that there was the tigress-nature in that girl. Poor
+thing! And she had the power of passionately loving, too. Ah! we should
+all be slow to judge. We never can look into the depths of one another's
+hearts."
+
+... "Christal saw me to-day. Her eye was almost demoniacal in its
+threatening. Perhaps the pity she must have read in mine only kindled
+hers with wrath the more. I do not think she will come to the chapel
+again."
+
+... "My dear Miss Rothesay, I do not like playing this underhand
+game--it almost makes me despise myself. Yet it is with a good intent;
+and I would do anything from my friendship for you.
+
+"I have heard much about your sister to-day from a girl who is a
+_pensionnaire_ at Madame Blandin's. But fear not, I did the questioning
+skillfully, nor betrayed anything. My friend, you know me well as you
+say; but even you know not how wisely I can acquire one secret and hold
+fast another. An honourable school of hypocrisy I learnt in, truly!
+But to my subject. Little Clotilde does not love her instructress. Poor
+Christal seems to be at war with the whole household. The pupil and the
+poor teacher must be very different in Madame Blandin's eyes. No wonder
+the girl is embittered--no marvel are those storms of passion, in
+which, according to Clotilde, she indulges, 'just as if she were a great
+English _miladi_, when she is nobody at all, as I told her once,' said
+the triumphant little French girl.
+
+"'And what did she answer?' asked I.
+
+"'She went into a great fury, and shook me till I trembled all over;
+then she threw herself on her own bed, at one end of the dormitory, and
+all that night, whenever I woke, I heard her crying and moaning. I would
+have been sorry for her, except that she was _only_ the teacher--a poor
+penniless _Anglaise_.'
+
+"This, my friend, is the lesson that Christal must soon have to learn.
+It will wring her heart, and either break it or soften it. But trust me,
+I will watch over her continually. Ill fitted I may be, for the duty
+is more that of 'a woman'--such a woman as yourself. But you have put
+something of your own nature into mine. I will silently guard Christal
+as if I had been her own brother,--and yours."
+
+... "The crisis must be coming, from what the little girl tells me. Miss
+Manners and Madame Blandin have been at open war for days. Clotilde
+is in great glee since the English teacher is going away. Poor forlorn
+Christal! whither can she go? I must try and save her, before it is too
+late."
+
+... "I sit down at midnight to inform you of all that has happened this
+day, that you may at once answer and tell me what further I am to do. I
+went once more to visit Madame Blandin, who poured out upon me a whole
+stream of reproaches against Christal."
+
+--"'She was _un petit diable_ always; and now, though she has been my
+own pupil for years, I would rather turn her out to starve than keep her
+in my house for another day.'
+
+"'But,' said I, 'you might at least find her some other situation.'
+
+"'I offered, if she would only tell me who she is, and what are her
+connections. I cannot recommend as a governess a girl without friends--a
+_nobody_.'
+
+"'Yet you took her as a pupil.'
+
+"'Oh, Monsieur, that was a different matter; and then I was so liberally
+paid. Now, if you should be a relative'----
+
+"'I am not, as I told you,' said I, indignant at the woman's meanness.
+'But I will see this poor girl, nevertheless, if she will permit me.'
+
+"'Her permission is no matter. No one cares for Miss Manners's whims
+now,' was the careless reply, as Madame ushered me into the deserted
+schoolroom, and then quickly vanished. She evidently dreaded a meeting
+with her refractory teacher. Well she might, for there sat Christal--but
+I will tell you all minutely. You see how I try to note down every
+trifle, knowing your anxiety.
+
+"Christal was sitting at the window, gazing at the high, blank,
+convent-like walls. Dull, helpless misery was in every line of her face
+and attitude. But the moment she saw me she rose up, her eyes darting
+fire.
+
+"'Have you come to insult me, Mr. Gwynne? Did I not send you word I
+would see no one? What do you mean by haunting me in this way?'
+
+"I spoke to her very quietly, and begged her to remember I was a friend,
+and had parted from her as such only three months before.
+
+"'But you know what has happened since? Attempt not to deceive me--you
+do! I read it in your eyes long ago, at the chapel. You are come to pity
+the poor nameless wretch--the--Ah! you know the horrible word. Well, do
+I look like that? Can you read in my face my mother's shame?'
+
+"She was half beside herself, I saw. It was an awful thing to hear her,
+a young girl, talk thus to me, ay, and without one natural blush. I
+said to her, gently, 'that I knew the unhappy truth; but, as regarded
+herself, it could make no difference of feeling in any right-judging
+mind, nor would with those who had loved her, and who now anxiously
+wished to hear from me of her welfare.'
+
+"'You mean your mother, who hates me as I hate her; and Olive Rothesay,
+whom I tried to murder!' (Friend, you did not tell me that.)
+
+"I drew back the hand I had offered. Forgive me, Olive!--let me this
+once call you so!--forgive me that I felt a momentary abhorrence for the
+miserable creature who might have taken your precious life away. Yet you
+would not tell the fact--even to me! Remembering this, I turned again to
+your sister, who cannot be altogether evil since she is dear to you. I
+said, and solemnly I know, for I was greatly moved,
+
+"'Christal, from your own lips have I first heard of this. Your sister's
+were sealed, as they would have been on that other secret. Are you not
+softened by all this goodness?'
+
+"'No! She thinks to crush me down with it, does she? But she shall not
+do so. If I grow wicked, ay, worse than you ever dream of, I shall be
+glad. It will punish her for the wrong her father did, and so I shall be
+revenged upon his child. Remember, it is all because of him! As to his
+daughter, I could have loved her once, until she came between me and
+'----
+
+"'I know all that,' said I, heedlessly enough; but I was not thinking of
+Christal just then. She rose up in a fury, and demanded what _right_ I
+had to know? I answered her as, after a struggle with myself, I thought
+best--_how_, I will tell you one day; but I must hasten on now. She
+was calmed a little, I saw; but her passion rose again when I mentioned
+Lyle.
+
+"'Speak of that no more,' she cried. 'It is all passed and gone. There
+is no feeling in my heart but hatred and burning shame. Oh that I had
+never been born!'
+
+"I pitied her from my soul, as she crouched down, not weeping, but
+groaning out her misery. Strange that she should have let me see it; but
+she was so humbled now; and perceiving that I trusted her, perhaps she
+was the more won to trust me--I had considered this when I spoke to her
+as I did. My dear friend Olive, I myself am learning what I fain would
+teach this poor girl--that there is sometimes great evil done by that
+selfishness which we call a just pride.
+
+"While we were talking, I very earnestly, and she listening much
+subdued, there entered Madame Blandin. At sight of her the evil spirit
+awoke again in unhappy Christal. She did not speak, but I saw the
+flaming of her eyes--the haughtiness of her gesture. It was not tempered
+by the woman's half-insulting manner.
+
+"'I am come to make one last offer to Mademoiselle--who will do well to
+accept it, always with the advice of her English friend, or--whatever he
+may be,' she added, smirking.
+
+"'I have already told you, Madame, that I am a clergyman, and that this
+young lady is my mother's friend,' said I, striving hard to restrain my
+anger, by thinking of one for whom I ought and would endure all things.
+
+"'Then Monsieur can easily explain the mystery about Mademoiselle
+Christal; and she can accept the situation. For her talents I myself
+will answer. It is merely requisite that she should be of Protestant
+principles and of good parentage. Now, of course, the latter is no
+difficulty with a young lady who was once so enthusiastic about her high
+family.'
+
+"Christal looked as if she could have sprung at her tormentor, and torn
+her limb from limb. Then, turning deadly white, she gasped out, 'Take me
+away; let me hide my head anywhere.'
+
+"Madame Blandin began to make bitter guesses at the truth. I feared lest
+she would drive the girl mad, or goad her on to the perpetration of
+some horrible crime. I dared not leave her in the house another hour. A
+thought struck me. 'Come, Christal!' I said, 'I will take you home with
+me.'
+
+"'Home with you! What then would they say of me--the cruel, malicious
+world? I am beginning to be very wise in crime, you see!' and she
+laughed frightfully. 'But it matters not what is done by my mother's
+child. I will go.'
+
+"'You shall,' I said, gravely, 'to the care of my friend, Lady Arundale.
+It will be enough for her to hear that you come from Harbury, and are
+known to me.'
+
+"Christal resisted no more. I brought her to share the kindness of good
+Lady Arundale, who needed no other guarantee than that it was a kindness
+asked by me. Olive (may I begin to call you so? Acting as your brother,
+I feel to have almost a right)--Olive, be at rest. To-night, ere I sat
+down to write, I heard that your sister was quietly sleeping beneath
+this hospitable roof. It will shelter her safely until some other plan
+can be formed. I also feel at peace, since I have given peace to you.
+Peace, too, I see in both our futures, when this trouble is overpast.
+God grant it!--He to whom, as I stand at this window, and look up at the
+stars shining down into the midnight river, I cry, 'Thou art _my_ God!'"
+
+--"I have an awful tale to tell--one that I should fear to inform you,
+save that I can say, 'Thank God with me that the misery has passed--that
+He has overruled it into good.' So, reading this, do not tremble--do not
+let it startle you--feeble, as my mother tells me, you still are. '_Poor
+little Olive_.' She calls you so."
+
+"Last night, after I closed my letter, I went out to take my usual quiet
+ramble before going to rest. I went to the Pont Neuilly, near which Lord
+Arundale resides. I walked slowly, for I was thinking deeply--of what it
+matters not now. On the whole, my thoughts were happy--so happy that I
+did not see how close to me was standing Misery--misery in the shape of
+a poor wretch, a woman! When I did see her, it was with that pang, half
+shame, half pity, which must smite an honest man, to think how vile and
+cruel are some among his brethren. I went away to the other wall of the
+bridge--I could not bear that the unhappy creature should think I
+watched her crouching there. I was just departing without again looking
+round, when my eye was unconsciously caught by the glitter of white
+garments in the moonlight.
+
+"She was climbing the parapet to leap into the arms of Death!
+
+"I know not how that awful moment passed--what I said--or did, for there
+was no time for words. But I saved her. I held her fast, though she
+struggled with miraculous strength. Once she had nearly perilled both
+our lives, for we stood on the very edge of the bridge. But I saved
+her.--Olive, cry with me, 'Thank God, thank God!'
+
+"At last, half-fainting, she sank on the ground, and I saw her face. It
+was Christal's face! If I had not been kept wandering here, filled with
+these blessed thoughts (which, please Heaven! I will tell you one day),
+your sister might have perished! Say again with me--thank God! His mercy
+is about us continually.
+
+"I cannot clearly tell what I did in that first instant of horror.
+I only remember that Christal, recognising me, cried out in piteous
+reproach, 'You should have let me die! you should have let me die!' But
+she is saved--Olive, be sure that she is saved. Her right spirit will
+come into her again. It is coming even now, for she is with kind Lady
+Arundale, a woman almost like yourself. To her, when I carried Christal
+home, I was obliged to reveal something of the truth, though not much.
+How the miserable girl contrived to escape, we cannot tell; but it will
+not happen again. Do not be unhappy about your sister; take care of your
+own health. Think how precious you are to my mother and to--all your
+friends. This letter is abrupt, for my thoughts are still bewildered,
+but I will write again soon. Only let me hear that you are well, and
+that in this matter you trust to me."
+
+... "I have not seen Christal for many days until yesterday. She has
+had a severe illness; during which Lady Arundale has been almost like a
+mother to her. We thought it best that she should see no one else; but
+yesterday she sent for me, and I went. She was lying on a sofa, her high
+spirit utterly broken. She faintly smiled when I came in, but her mouth
+had a patient sunken look, such as I have seen you wear when you were
+ill last year. She reminded me of you much--I could almost have wept
+over her. Do you not think I am strangely changed? I do sometimes--but
+no more of this now.
+
+"Christal made no allusion to the past. She said, 'She desired to speak
+to me about her future--to consult me about a plan she had.' It was
+one at which I did not marvel She wished to hide herself from the world
+altogether in some life which in its eternal quiet might be most like
+death.
+
+"I said to her, 'I will see what can be done, but it is not easy. There
+are no convents or monasteries open to us Protestants.'
+
+"Christal looked for a moment like her own scornful self. '_Us
+Protestants?_' she echoed; and then she said, humbly, 'One more
+confession can be nothing to me now. I have deceived you all;--I am, and
+I have ever been--a Roman Catholic.'
+
+"She thought, perhaps, I should have blamed her for this long course of
+religious falsehood. I blame _her!_ (Olive, for God's sake do not let my
+mother read all I write to you. She shall know everything soon, but not
+now.)
+
+"'But you will not thwart me,' Christal said; 'though you are an English
+clergyman, you will find me some resting-place, some convent where I can
+hide, and no one ever hear of me any more.'
+
+"I found that to oppose her was useless: little religion she ever seemed
+to have had, so that no devoteeism urged her to this scheme: she only
+wanted rest. You will agree with me that it is best she should have her
+will, for the time at least?"
+
+... "I have just received your letter. Yes! yours is a wise and kindly
+plan; I will write at once to Aunt Flora about it. Poor Christal!
+perhaps she may find peace as a novice at St. Margaret's. Some little
+fear I had in communicating the scheme to her; for she still shudders at
+the very mention of her father's name, and she might refuse to go to
+her father's land. But she is so helpless in body and mind, that in
+everything she has at last implicitly trusted to my guidance."
+
+"I suppose you, too, have heard from Edinburgh? Dear Aunt Flora! who,
+despite her growing feebleness, is continually seeking to do good. I,
+like you, judged it better not to tell her the whole story; but only
+that Christal was an orphan who had suffered much. At St. Margaret's
+she will see no one but the good nuns, until, as your aunt proposes, you
+yourself go to Edinburgh. You may be your sister's saving angel still."
+
+"Christal is gone. Lady Arundale herself will take her safe to St.
+Margaret's, where your aunt has arranged all Olive, we must not fail
+both to go to Edinburgh soon. Something tells me this will be the last
+good deed done on earth by our noble aunt Flora. For what you say in
+your last letter, thank you! But why do you talk of gratitude? All I
+ever did was not half worthy of you. You ask of myself, and my plans?
+I have thought little of either lately, but I shall now. Tell my mother
+that all her letters came safe, and welcome--especially _the first_ she
+wrote."
+
+"Lord Arundale stays abroad until the year's close. For me, in the early
+spring, when I have finished my duties with him, I shall come home.
+_Home!_ Thank God!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVI.
+
+Night and day there rung in Olive's heart the last words of Harold's
+letter, "I shall come home!" Simple they were; but they seemed so
+strangely joyful--so full of hope. She could not tell why, but thinking
+of him now, her whole world seemed to change. He was coming back! With
+him came spring and sunshine, youth and hope!
+
+It was yet early in the year. The little crocuses peeped out--the
+violets purpled the banks. Now and then came soft west winds, sighing
+sweetness over the earth. Not a breeze passed her by--not a flower
+sprang in her sight--not one sunny day dawned to ripen the growing year,
+but Olive's heart leaped within her; for she said, "He will come with
+the spring--he will come with the spring!"
+
+How and with what mind he would come--whether he would tell her he loved
+her, or ask her to be his wife--she counted none of these things. Her
+love was too unselfish, too utterly bound up in him. She only thought
+that she would see his face, clasp his hand, and walk with him--the same
+as in the dear old time. Not quite, perhaps, for she was conscious that
+in the bond between them had come a change, a growth. How, she knew not,
+but it had come. Sometimes she sat thinking--would he tell her all those
+things which he had promised, and what could they be? And, above all,
+would he call her, as in his letters, _Olive_? Written, it looked most
+beautiful in her sight; but when spoken, it must be a music of which the
+world could hold no parallel.
+
+A little she strove to temper her happiness, for she was no love-sick
+girl, but a woman, who, giving her heart--how wholly none but herself
+could tell--had given it in the fear of God, and in all simplicity.
+Having known the sorrow of love, she was not ashamed to rejoice in
+love's joy. But she did so meekly and half-tremblingly, scarcely
+believing that it was such, lest it should overpower her. She set
+herself to all her duties, and above all, worked sedulously at a picture
+which she had begun.
+
+"It must be finished before Harold comes home," said Harold's mother. "I
+told him of it in my letters, you know."
+
+"Indeed. I do not remember that. And yet for this long while you have
+let me see all your letters, I think."
+
+"All--except one I wrote when you were ill. But never mind it, my dear,
+I can tell you what I said--or, perhaps Harold will," answered Mrs.
+Gwynne, her face brightening in its own peculiar smile of heartfelt
+benevolence and lurking humour. And then the brief conversation ceased.
+
+For a while longer these two loving hearts waited anxiously for Harold's
+coming. At last he came.
+
+It was in the sweetest month, the opening gate of the summer year--April
+Mrs. Gwynne and Olive, only they two, had spent the day together at
+Harbury; for little Ailie, a child too restless to be ruled by quiet
+age, was now sent away to school. Mrs. Gwynne sat in her armchair,
+knitting. Olive stood at the window, thinking how beautiful the garden
+looked, just freshened with an April shower; and how the same passing
+rain-cloud, melting in the west, had burst into a most gorgeous sunset
+Her happiness even took a light tone of girlish romance. Looking at
+the thorn-tree, now covered with pale green leaves, she thought with a
+pleasant fancy, that when it was white with blossoms Harold, would
+be here. And her full heart, hardly conscious why, ran over with a
+trembling joy.
+
+Nevertheless, amidst all her own hope, she remembered tenderly her poor
+sister far away. And also Lyle, whom since that day he parted from
+her she had never seen. Thinking, "How sweet it is to feel happy!" she
+thought likewise--as those who have suffered ever must--"Heaven make all
+the world happy too!"
+
+It was just after this silent aspiration, which of all others must bring
+an answering blessing down, that the long-desired one came home. His
+mother heard him first.
+
+"Hark--there's some one in the hall. Listen, Olive! It is his voice--I
+know it is! He is come home--my son!--my dear son, Harold." And with
+eager, trembling steps, she hurried out.
+
+Olive stayed behind. She had no right to go and meet him, as his mother
+did. And after one wild throb, her heart sank, so faintly that she could
+hardly stand.
+
+His voice--his long silent voice! Hearing it, the old feeling came
+over her. She shuddered, even with a sort of fear. "Heaven save me
+from myself! Heaven keep my heart at peace! Perhaps he will not suffer
+himself to love me, or does not wish me to love him. I have thought so
+sometimes. Yes! I am quite calm--quite ready to meet him now." And she
+felt herself growing all white and cold as she stood.
+
+The door opened, and Harold came in alone. Not one step could she
+advance to meet him, not one word of welcome fell from her lips,--nor
+from his, which were pale as her own. But as he clasped her hands and
+held them fast, she felt him gazing down upon her--now, for the first
+time, beginning to read her heart. Something in that fond--ay, it was
+a fond look--was drawing her closer to him--something that told her she
+was dearer than any friend. It might have happened so--that moment might
+have proved the crowning moment of life, which blends two hearts of man
+and woman into one love, making their being complete, as God meant it
+should be.
+
+But at the same instant Mrs. Gwynne came in. Their hands fell from one
+another; Harold quitted Olive's side, and began talking to his mother.
+
+Olive stood by herself in the window. She felt as if her whole destiny
+was changing--melting from cloud to glory--like the sunset she had
+watched an hour before. Whatever was the mystery that had kept him
+silent, she believed that in the secret depth of his heart Harold loved
+her. Once she had thought, that were this knowledge true, the joy would
+overpower her reason. Now, it came with such a solemnity, that all
+agitation ceased. Her hands were folded on her heart, her eyes looked
+heavenwards. Her prayer was,--"O God, if this happiness should be, make
+me worthy of it--worthy of him!--If not, keep us both safe until the
+eternal meeting!"
+
+Then, all emotion having passed away, she went back quietly to Harold
+and his mother.
+
+They were sitting together on the sofa, Harold holding his mother's
+hand in one of his. When Olive approached, he stretched out the other,
+saying, "Come to us, little Olive,--come! Shall she, mother?"
+
+"Yes," was Mrs. Gwynne's low answer. But Olive heard it. It was the
+lonely heart's first welcome home.
+
+For an hour afterwards she sat by Harold's side in the gathering
+darkness, feeling her hand safe clasped in his. Never was there any
+clasp like Harold's--so firm, yet soft--so gentle, yet so close and
+warm. It filled her with a sense of rest and protection--she, long
+tossed about in the weary world. Once or twice she moved her hand, but
+only to lay it again in his, and feel his welcoming fingers close over
+it, as if to say, "Mine--mine--always mine!"
+
+So they sat and talked together--she, and Harold, and Harold's
+mother--talked as if they were one loving household, whose every
+interest was united. Though, nevertheless, not one word was spoken that
+might break the seal upon any of their hearts.
+
+"How happy it is to come home!" said Harold. "How blessed to feel that
+one has a home! I thought so more strongly than ever I had done before,
+one day, at Home, when I was with Olive's old friend, Michael Vanbrugh."
+
+"Oh, tell me of the Vanbrughs," cried Olive eagerly. "Then you did see
+them at last, though you never said anything about it in your letters?"
+
+"No; for it was a long story, and both our thoughts were too full. Shall
+I tell it now? Yet it is sad, it will pain you, Olive." And he pressed
+her hand closer while he spoke.
+
+She answered, "Still, tell me all." And she felt that, so listening, the
+heaviest worldly sorrow would have fallen light.
+
+"I was long before I could discover Mr. Vanbrugh, and still longer
+before I found out-his abode. Day after day I met him, and talked with
+him at the Sistine, but he never spoke of his home, or asked me thither.
+He had good reason."
+
+"Were they so poor then? I feared this," said Olive compassionately.
+
+"Yes, it was the story of a shattered hope. As I think, Vanbrugh was a
+man to whom Fortune could never come. He must have hunted her from
+him all his life, with his pride, his waywardness, his fitful morose
+ambition. I soon read his character--for I had read another very like
+it, once. But that is changed now, thank God," said Harold, softly.
+"Well, so it was: the painter dreamed his dream, the little sister
+stayed at home and starved."
+
+"Starved! oh, no! you cannot mean that!"
+
+"It would have been so, save for Lord Arundale's benevolence, when we
+found them out at last. They lived in a miserable house, which had
+but one decent room--the studio. 'Michael's room must always be
+comfortable,' said Miss Meliora--I knew her at once, Olive, after all
+you had told me of her. The poor little woman! she almost wept to hear
+the sound of my English voice, and to talk with me about you. She said,
+'she was very lonely among strangers, but she would get used to it in
+time. She was not well too, but it would never do to give way--it might
+trouble Michael She would get better in the spring.'"
+
+"Poor Meliora! But you were very kind to her--you went to see her
+often?--I knew you would."
+
+"There was no time," Harold answered, sadly. "The day after this we
+sought out Michael Vanbrugh, in his old haunt, the Sistine Chapel. He
+was somewhat discomposed, because his sister had not risen in time to
+set his palette, and get all things ready in his painting-room at home.
+I went thither, and found her--dying."
+
+Harold paused--but Olive was too much moved to speak. He went on--
+
+"So sudden was the call that she would not believe it herself. She kept
+saying continually, that she must contrive to rise before Michael came
+back at night. Even when she knew she was dying, she seemed to think
+only of him; but always in her simple, humble way. I remember how she
+talked, brokenly, of some draperies she had to make for his model that
+day--asking me to get some one else to do it, or the picture would be
+delayed. Once she wept, saying, 'who would take care of Michael when
+she was gone?' She would not have him sent for--he never liked to be
+disturbed when he was at the Sistine. Towards evening she seemed to lie
+eagerly listening, but he did not come home. At last she bade me give
+her love to Michael: she wished he had come, if only to kiss her before
+she died--he had not kissed her for thirty years. Once more, just when
+she seemed passing into a death-like sleep, she half-roused herself, to
+beg some one would take care that Michael's tea was all ready for him
+against he came home. After this she never spoke again."
+
+"Poor Meliora! poor simple, loving soul!" And Olive melted into quiet
+tears. After a while she inquired in what way this blow had fallen upon
+Michael Vanbrugh.
+
+"Strangely, indeed," said Harold. "It was I who told him first of his
+sister's death. He received the news quite coldly--as a thing impossible
+to realise! He even sat down to the table, as if he expected her to come
+in and pour out his tea; but afterwards, leaving the meal untouched, he
+went and shut himself up in his painting-room, without speaking a word.
+And then I quitted the house."
+
+"But you saw him again?"
+
+"No; for I left Rome immediately. However, I had a friend who watched
+over him and constantly sent me news. So I learnt that after his
+sister's death a great change came over him. His one household stay
+gone, he seemed to sink down helpless as a child. He would wander about
+the house, as though he missed something--he knew not what; his painting
+was neglected, he became slovenly in his dress, restless in his look.
+No one could say he grieved for his sister, but he missed her--as
+one misses the habit of a lifetime. So he gradually changed, and grew
+speedily to be a worn-out, miserable old man. A week since I heard that
+his last picture had been bought by the Cardinal F----, and that Michael
+Vanbrugh slept eternally beneath the blue sky of Rome."
+
+"He had his wish--he had his wish!" said Olive, gently. "And his
+faithful little sister had hers; for nothing ever parted them. Women are
+content thus to give up their lives to some one beloved. The happiness
+is far beyond the pain."
+
+"You told me so once before," answered Harold, in a low tone. "Do you
+remember? It was at the Hermitage of Braid."
+
+He stopped, thinking she would have replied; but she was silent. Her
+silence seemed to grow over him like a cloud. When the lights came in,
+he looked the same proud, impassive Harold Gwynne, as in the old time.
+Already his clasp had melted from Olive's hand. Before she could guess
+the reason why, she found him speaking, and she answering coldly,
+indifferently. All the sweetness of that sweet hour had with it passed
+away.
+
+This sudden change so pained her, that very soon she began to talk of
+returning home. Harold rose to accompany her, but he did so with the
+formal speech of necessary courtesy--"Allow me the pleasure, Miss
+Rothesay." It stung her to the heart.
+
+"Indeed, you need not, when you are already tired. It is still early. I
+had much rather go home alone."
+
+Harold sat down again at once.
+
+She prepared to depart. She shook hands with his mother, and then with
+himself, saying in a voice that, lest it should tremble, she made very
+low, quiet, and cold, how glad she was that he had come home safe.
+However, before she reached the garden gate, Harold followed her.
+
+"Excuse me, but my mother is not easy for you to set off thus; and we
+may as well return to our old custom of walking home together--just once
+more."
+
+What could he mean? Olive would have asked him, but she dared not. Even
+yet there was a veil between their hearts. Would it ever be drawn aside?
+
+There were few words spoken on the way to Farnwood, and those few
+were of ordinary things. Once Olive talked of Michael Vanbrugh and his
+misfortunes.
+
+"You call him unfortunate; how know you that?" said Harold, quickly. "He
+needed no human affection, and so, on its loss, suffered no pain; he
+had no desire save for fame; his pride was never humbled to find himself
+dependent on mere love. The old painter was a great and a happy man."
+
+"Great he was, but not happy. I think I had rather be the poor little
+sister who spent her life for him."
+
+"Ay, in a foolish affection which was all in vain."
+
+"Affection is never in vain. I have thought sometimes that as to give
+is better than to receive, they who love are happier than they who are
+loved."
+
+Harold was silent. He remained so until they stood at Miss Rothesay's
+door. Then bidding her good-bye, he took her two hands, saying, as if
+inquiringly, "Olive?"
+
+"Yes," she answered, trembling a little--but not much--for her dream of
+happiness was fading slowly away, and she was sinking back into her old
+patient, hopeless self. That olden self alone spoke as she added, "Is
+there anything you would say to me?"
+
+"No, no--nothing--only good night." And he hastily walked away.
+
+An hour after, Olive closed her heavy eyes, that burned with long
+weeping, and lay down to sleep, thinking there was no blessing like the
+oblivion of night, after every weary day! She lay down, little knowing
+what mystery of fate that quiet night was bearing in its bosom.
+
+From her first sleep she started in the vague terror of one who has been
+suddenly awakened. There was a great noise--knocking--crashing--a sound
+of mingled voices--and, above all, her name called. Anywhere, waking or
+sleeping, she would have known _that_ voice, for it was Harold Gwynne's.
+At first, she thought she must still be dreaming some horrible dream;
+but consciousness came quick, as it often does at such a time. Before
+the next outcry was raised she had guessed its meaning. Upon her had
+come that most awful waking--the waking in a house on fire.
+
+There are some women who in moments of danger gain an almost miraculous
+composure and presence of mind. Olive was one of these. Calmly she
+answered Harold's half-frenzied call to her from without her door.
+
+"I am awake and safe; the fire is not in my room. Tell me, what must I
+do?"
+
+"Dress quickly--there is time. Think of all you can save, and come," she
+heard Harold reply. His passionate cry of "Olive!" had ceased; he was
+now as self-possessed as she.
+
+Her room was light as day, with the reflection of the flames that
+were consuming the other end of the long straggling house. She dressed
+herself, her hands never trembling--her thoughts quick, vivid, and
+painfully minute. There came into her mind everything she would
+lose--her household mementos--the unfinished picture--her well-beloved
+books. She saw herself penniless--homeless--escaping only with life.
+But that life she owed to Harold Gwynne. How everything had chanced she
+never paused to consider. There was a sweetness, even a wild gladness,
+in the thought of peril from which Harold had come to save her.
+
+She heard his voice eager with anxiety. "Miss Rothesay! hasten. The fire
+is gaining on us fast!" And added to his was the cry of her faithful old
+servant, Hannah, whom he had rescued too. He seemed to stand firm amidst
+the confusion and terror, ruling every one with the very sound of his
+voice--that knew no fear, except when it trembled with Olive's name.
+
+"Quick--quick! I cannot rest till I have you safe. Olive! for God's
+sake, come! Bring with you anything you value, only come!"
+
+She had but two chief treasures, always kept near her--her mother's
+portrait, and Harold's letters; the letters she hid in her bosom, the
+picture she carried in her arms. Thus laden, she quitted the burning
+house.
+
+It was an awful scene. The utter loneliness of the place precluded any
+hope of battling with the fire; but, the night being still and windless,
+it advanced slowly. Sometimes, mockingly, it almost seemed to die away,
+and then rose up again in a hurricane of flame.
+
+[Illustration: Page 401, Olive and Harold]
+
+Olive and Harold stood on the lawn, she clinging to his hand like a
+child. "Is there no hope of saving it--my pretty cottage--my dear home,
+where my mother died!"
+
+"Since you are safe, let the house burn--I care not," muttered Harold.
+He seemed strangely jealous even of her thoughts--her tears. "Be
+content," he said--"you see, much has been done." He pointed to the lawn
+strewn with furniture. "All is there--your picture--your mother's little
+chair--everything I thought you cared for I have saved."
+
+"And my life, too. Oh! it is so sweet to owe you all!"
+
+He quitted her for a moment to speak to some of the men whom he had
+brought with him from Harbury, then he came back, and stood beside Olive
+on the lawn--she watching the doomed house--he only watching her.
+
+"The night is cold--you shiver. I am glad I thought to bring this." He
+took off his plaid and wrapped her in it, holding his arm round her
+the while. But she scarcely felt it then. Through the yawning,
+blazing windows, she saw the fire within, lighting up in its laughing
+destruction the little parlour where her mother used to sit, twining
+round the white-curtained bed whereon her mother's last breath had been
+sighed away peacefully in her arms. She stood speechless, gazing upon
+this piteous household ruin, wherein were engulfed so many memories. But
+very soon there came the crash of the sinking roof, and then a cloud of
+dense smoke and flame arose, sweeping over where she and Harold stood,
+falling in showers of sparks around their feet.
+
+Instinctively, Olive clung to Harold, hiding her blinded eyes upon his
+arm. She felt him press her to him, for an instant only, but with the
+strong true impulse, taught by one only feeling.
+
+"You must not stay here," he said. "Come with me home!"
+
+"Home!" and she looked wistfully at the ruins of her own. 2 D
+
+"Yes--to my home--my mother's. You know for the present it must indeed
+be yours. Come!"
+
+He gave her his arm to lean on. She tried to walk, but, quite
+overpowered, staggered, fainted, and fell. When she awoke, she felt
+herself borne like a child in Harold's arms. No power had she to move or
+speak--all was a dizzy dream. Through it, she faintly heard him whisper
+as though to himself; "I have saved her--I hold her fast--little
+Olive--little Olive!"
+
+When they reached the Parsonage door, he stood still a moment,
+passionately looking down upon her face. One minute he strained her
+closer to his heart, and then placed her in his mother's arms.
+
+"She is safe--oh thank God!" cried Mrs. Gwynne. "And you, too, my
+dear son--my brave Harold!" And she turned to him as he stood, leaning
+breathless against the wall.
+
+He tried to speak, but in vain. There was one gasp; the blood poured in
+a torrent from his mouth, and he fell down at his mother's feet.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVII.
+
+"He has given his life in saving mine. Oh, would that I had died for
+thee--my Harold--my Harold!"
+
+This was evermore Olive's cry during the days of awful suspense, when
+they knew not but that every hour might be Harold's last. He had broken
+a bloodvessel in the lungs; through some violent mental emotion, the
+physician said. Nothing else could have produced such results in his
+usually strong and manly frame.
+
+"And it was for me--for me!" moaned Olive. "Yet I doubted him--I almost
+called him cruel. Oh, that I should never have known his heart until
+now!"
+
+Every feeling of womanly shame vanished before the threatening shadow
+of death. Night and day, Olive hovered about the door of Harold's room,
+listening for any sound. But there was always silence. No one passed in
+and out except his mother,--his mother, on whom Olive hardly dared to
+look, lest--innocent though she was--she might read reproach in Mrs.
+Gwynne's sorrowful eye. Once, she even ventured to hint this.
+
+"I angry, because it was in saving you that this happened to my son? No,
+Olive, no! Whatever God sends, we will bear together."
+
+Mrs. Gwynne said this kindly, but her heart seemed frozen to every
+thought except one. She rarely quitted Harold's chamber, and scarcely
+noticed any person--not even Olive.
+
+One night, or rather early morning, during the time of great crisis, she
+came out, and saw Olive standing in the passage, with a face whereon was
+written such utter woe, that before it even the mother's sorrow paled.
+It seemed to move Mrs. Gwynne deeply.
+
+"My dear, how long have you been here?"
+
+"All night."
+
+"Poor child--poor child!"
+
+"It is all I can do for him and you. If I could only"----
+
+"I guess what you would say. No, no! He must be perfectly quiet; he must
+not see or hear _you._" And the mother turned away, as though she had
+said too much. But what to Olive was it now to know that Harold loved
+her? She would have resigned all the blessing of his love to bring to
+him health and life. So crushed, so hopeless was her look, that Harold's
+mother pitied her. Thinking a moment, she said:
+
+"He is fast asleep now. If it would comfort you, poor child, to look at
+him for one moment--but it must be only one"----
+
+Olive bowed her head--she was past speaking--and followed Mrs. Gwynne.
+With a step as silent and solemn as though she were going to look on
+death, she went and looked on the beloved of her heart.
+
+Harold lay; his face perfectly blanched, his dark hair falling heavily
+on the pillow, as if never to be stirred by life or motion more. They
+stood by his bed--the mother that bore him, and the woman who loved
+him dearer than her own soul. These two--the strongest of all earthly
+loves--so blended in one object, constrained them each to each. They
+turned from gazing on Harold, and sank into one another's arms.
+
+For a few more days continued this agonised wrestling with death, during
+which they who would have given their life for Harold's could only look
+on and pray. During this time there came news to Olive from the world
+without--news that otherwise would have moved her, but which was now
+coldly received, as of no moment at all. Lyle Derwent had suddenly
+married; his heart, like many another, being "won in the rebound." And
+Mrs. Flora Rothesay had passed away; dying, in the night, peacefully,
+and without pain, for they found her in the attitude of sleep.
+
+But even for her Olive had no tears. She only shuddered over the letter,
+because it spoke of death. All the world seemed full of death. She
+walked in its shadow night and day. Her only thought and prayer was,
+"Give me his life--only his life, O God!"
+
+And Harold's life was given her. But the hope came very faintly at
+first, or it might have been too much to bear. Day by day it grew
+stronger, until all present danger was gone. But there were many chances
+to be guarded against; and so, as soon as this change for the better
+arrived, Olive came to look at him in his sleep no more. His mother was
+very cautious over his every look and word, so that Olive could not even
+learn whether he had ever given any sign that he thought of her. And
+now that his health was returning, her womanly reserve came back; she
+no longer lingered at his door; even her joy was restrained and mingled
+with a trembling doubt.
+
+At length, Harold was allowed to be moved to his mother's dressing-room.
+Very eager and joyful Mrs. Gwynne was, ransacking the house for pillows
+to make him lie easy on the sofa; and plaids to wrap him in;--full of
+that glad, even childish excitement with which we delight to hail the
+recovery of one beloved, who has been nearly lost. The pleasure extended
+itself over the whole household, to whom their master was very dear.
+Olive only sat in her own room, listening to every footstep.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne came to her at last "It is all done, my dear, and he is not
+so weak as we feared. But he is very much exhausted still. We must take
+great care even now."
+
+"Certainly," answered Olive. She knew what the anxious mother meant, and
+dared not utter the longing at her heart.
+
+"I hardly know what to do," said Mrs. Gwynne, restlessly. "He has been
+asking to see you."
+
+"To see me! And--may I!"----
+
+"I told him not to-day, and I was right. Child, look at your own face
+now! Until you can calm yourself, you shall not see my Harold." Without
+offering any opposition, Olive sat down. Mrs. Gwynne was melted. "Nay,"
+she said, "you shall do as you will, little patient one! I left him
+asleep now; you shall stay by him until he wakes. Come."
+
+She took her to the door, but quitted her there, perhaps remembering the
+days when she too was young.
+
+Olive entered noiselessly, and took her place by Harold's side. He was
+sleeping; though it was not the death-like sleep in which she had beheld
+him, that mournful night; but a quiet, healthful slumber. His whole face
+seemed softened and spiritualised, as is often the case with strong men,
+whom a long illness has brought low. With childlike helplessness there
+seems to come a childlike peace. Olive knew now why Mrs. Gwynne had
+said, a few days since, that Harold looked as he had done when he was a
+little boy--his mother's only boy.
+
+For a few minutes Olive sat silently watching. She felt how utterly she
+loved him--how, had he died, the whole world would have faded from her
+like a blank dream. And even now, should she have to part from him in
+any way----
+
+"I cannot--I cannot It would be more than I could bear." And from the
+depth of her heart rose a heavy sigh.
+
+Harold seemed to hear it. He moved a little, and said, faintly. "Who is
+there?"
+
+"It is I."
+
+"Olive--little Olive." His white cheek flushed, and he held out his
+hand.
+
+She, remembering his mother's caution, only whispered, "I am so glad--so
+glad!"
+
+"It is a long time since I saw you," he said brokenly. "Stand so that I
+can look at you, Olive!" She obeyed. He looked long and wistfully at her
+face. "You have been weeping, I see. Wherefore?"
+
+"Because I am so happy to think you are better."
+
+"Is that true? Do you think so much of me?" And a pale but most joyful
+smile broke over his face; though, leaving it, the features trembled
+with emotion. Olive was alarmed.
+
+"You must not talk now--not one word. Remember how very ill you have
+been. I will sit by you here. Oh, what can I ever do or say in gratitude
+for all you have done for me?"
+
+"Gratitude!" Harold echoed the word, as if with pain, and then lay
+still, looking up at her no more. Gradually there came a change over
+his countenance, as if some bitter thought were slowly softening into
+calmness. "Olive," he said, "you speak of gratitude, then what must
+be mine to you? In those long hours when I lay conscious, but silent,
+knowing that there might be but a breath between me and eternity, how
+should I have felt had I not learnt from you that holy faith which
+conquers death?"
+
+"Thank God! thank God! But you are weak, and must not speak."
+
+"I must, for I am stronger now; I draw strength from your very
+presence--you, who have been my life's good angel. Let me tell you so
+while I can."
+
+"While you can!"
+
+"Yes; for I sometimes think that, though I am thus far better, I shall
+never be quite myself again; but slowly, perhaps without suffering, pass
+away from this world."
+
+"Oh, no!--oh, no!" And Olive clasped his hand tighter, looking up with
+a terrified air. "You cannot--shall not die! I--I could not bear it"
+And then her face was dyed with a crimson blush--soon washed away by a
+torrent of tears.
+
+Harold turned feebly round, and laid his right hand on her head. "Little
+Olive! To think that you should weep thus, and I should be so calm!" He
+waited awhile, until her emotion had ceased. Then he said, "Lift up your
+face; let me look at you. Nay, tremble not, for I am going to speak very
+solemnly;--of things that I might never have uttered, save for such an
+hour as this. You will listen, my own dear friend, my sister, as you
+said you would be?"
+
+"Yes--yes, always!"
+
+"Ah! Olive, you thought not that you were more to me than any
+friend--any sister--that I loved you--not calmly, brotherly--but with
+all the strength and passion of my heart, as a man loves the woman he
+would choose out of all the world to be his wife."
+
+These words trembled on lips white as though they had been the lips of
+death. Olive heard; but she only pressed his hand without speaking.
+
+Harold went on. "I tell you this, because now, when I feel so changed
+that all earthly things grow dim, I am not too proud to say I love
+you. Once I was. You stole into my heart before I was aware. Oh! how
+I wrestled against this love--I, who had been once deceived, so that I
+believed in no woman's truth. At last, I resolved to trust in yours, but
+I would try to be quite sure of it first You remember how I talked to
+you, and how you answered, in the Hermitage of Braid? Then I knew you
+loved, but I thought you loved not me."
+
+"How could you think so? Oh! Harold--Harold!"
+
+As she uttered his name, tremulously as a woman breathes for the first
+time the beloved name in the beloved ear, Harold started. But still he
+answered calmly,
+
+"Whether that thought was true or not, would not change what I am about
+to say now. All my pride is gone--I only desire that you should know
+how deeply I loved you: and that, living or dying, I shall love you
+evermore."
+
+Olive tried to answer--tried to tell him the story of her one great
+love--so hopeless, yet so faithful--so passionate, yet so dumb. But she
+could utter nothing save the murmur--"Harold! Harold!" And therein he
+learnt all.
+
+Looking upon her, there came into his face an expression of unutterable
+joy. He made an effort to raise himself, but in vain. "Come," he
+murmured, "come near me, Olive--my little Olive that loves me!--is it
+not so?"
+
+"Ever--from the first, you only--none but you!"
+
+"Kiss me, then, my own faithful one," he said faintly.
+
+Olive leaned over him, and kissed him on the eyes and mouth. He tried to
+fold his arms round her, but failed.
+
+"I have no strength at all," he said, sorrowfully. "I cannot take her to
+my heart--my darling--my wife! So worn-out am I--so weak."
+
+"But I am strong," Olive answered. She put her arm under his head, and
+made him lean on her shoulder. He looked up smiling.
+
+"Oh, this is sweet, very sweet! I could sleep--I could almost
+die--thus"----
+
+"No, God will not let you die, my Harold," whispered Olive; and then
+neither spoke again.
+
+Overpowered by an emotion which was too much for his feeble strength,
+Harold lay quiet By degrees, when the room darkened--for it was
+evening--his breathing grew deeper, and he fell asleep, his head still
+resting on Olive's shoulder.
+
+She looked down upon him--his wasted face--his thin hand, that, even in
+slumber, still clung helplessly to hers. What a tide of emotion swept
+through her heart! It seemed that therein was gathered up for him every
+tenderness that woman's soul could know. She loved him at once with the
+love of mother, sister, friend, and wife--loved him as those only can
+who have no other kindred tie--nothing in the whole wide world to love
+beside. She laid her cheek against his hair--but softly, lest she should
+waken him.
+
+"I thought to have led a whole long lonely life for thy sake, Harold!
+And I would have led it, without murmuring, either against Heaven or
+thee, knowing my own un-worthiness. But since it is not to be so, I will
+give thee instead a whole life of faithful love--a wife's love--such as
+never was wife's before."
+
+And then, over long years, her fancy went back, discerning how all
+things had worked together to this end. She saw how patience had ripened
+into hope, and suffering into joy. Not one step of the whole weary way
+had been trodden in vain--not one thorn had pierced her feet, that had
+not while entering there distilled a saving balm.
+
+Travelling over many scenes, her memory beheld Harold, as in those early
+days when her influence and her prayers had changed his heart, and led
+him from darkness to light. Again, as in the first bitterness of her
+love for him; when continually he tortured her, never dreaming of the
+wounds he gave. And once more, as in the time, when knowing her fate,
+she had calmly prepared to meet it, and tried to make herself a true
+friend unto him--he so unresponsive, cold, and stern. Remembering him
+thus, she looked at him as he lay, turning for rest and comfort to
+her--only her. Once more she kissed his forehead as he slept, and then
+her lips uttered the words with which Mrs. Flora had blessed her.
+
+"O God, I thank Thee, for Thou hast given me my heart's desire!"
+
+Soon after, Mrs. Gwynne entered the room. But no blush came to Olive's
+cheek--too solemn was her joy.
+
+"Hush!" she whispered; "do not wake him. He loves me--I know it now. You
+will not be angry?--I have loved him always."
+
+"I knew it, Olive."
+
+Harold's mother stood a long time in silence. Heaven only knows what
+struggle there might have been in her heart--so bound up as it was in
+him--her only child. Ere it ended--he awoke.
+
+"Mother!--is not that my mother?"
+
+"Yes!" Mrs. Gwynne answered. She went up and kissed them both, first her
+son, and afterwards Olive. Then, without speaking, she quitted the room,
+leaving them alone together.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLVIII.
+
+It was a Sunday afternoon, not bright, but dull. All the long day the
+low clouds had been dropping freshness down;--the soft May-rain, which
+falls warm and silent, as if the spring were weeping itself away for
+very gladness. Through the open window came the faint odour which
+the earth gives forth during rain--an odour of bursting leaves and
+dew-covered flowers. On the lawn you could almost "have seen the grass
+grow." And though the sky was dull and grey, still the whole air was so
+full of summer, so rich in the promise of what the next day would be,
+that you did not marvel to hear the birds singing as merrily as if
+it had been sunshine. There was one thrush to which Olive had stood
+listening for half-an-hour. He sat sheltered in the heart of the
+great syringa bush. Though the rain kept dropping continually from its
+flowers, he poured out a song so long and merry, that he even disturbed
+his friends in the parlour--the happy silent three--mother, son, and the
+son's betrothed.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne, who sat in the far corner, put down her book--the best
+Book, for Sunday and all other days--the only one she ever read now.
+Harold, still feeble, lying back in his armchair by the window, listened
+to the happy bird.
+
+"Do you like to hear it, or shall I close the window?" said Olive,
+coming towards him.
+
+"Nay, it does me good; everything does me good now," he answered,
+smiling. And then he lay a long time, quietly looking on the garden and
+the misty view beyond. Olive sat, looking alone at him; watching him
+in that deep peace, that satisfied content with which our eyes drink in
+every lineament beloved, when, all sorrow past, the fulness of love has
+come. No need had she to seek his, as though asking restlessly, "Do you
+love me?" In her own love's completeness she desired no demonstration of
+his. To her it was perfect joy only to sit near him and to look at his
+face; the face which, whether seen or remembered, shone distinct from
+every other face in the wide world; and had done so from the first
+moment when it met her sight. Very calm and beautiful it was now; so
+beautiful, that even his mother turned round and looked at him for a
+moment with dimmed eyes.
+
+"You are sure you feel quite well to-day? I mean as well as usual. You
+are not sitting up too long, or wearying yourself too much?"
+
+"Oh, no, mother! I think I could even exert myself more; but there is
+such sweetness in this dreamy life. I am so happy! It will be almost a
+pain to go back to the troublesome world again."
+
+"Do not say so, my son. Indeed, we must have you quite well soon--the
+sooner the better--and then you will return to all your old duties. When
+I sat in church this morning, I was counting how many Sundays it would
+possibly be before I heard my son Harold's voice there again."
+
+Harold moved restlessly.
+
+"What say you, Olive, my dear?" continued Mrs. Gwynne. "Will it not be a
+pleasure to hear him in his own pulpit again? How soon, think you, will
+he be able to preach?"
+
+"I cannot tell," answered Olive, in a low voice; and she looked
+anxiously at her betrothed. For well she knew his heart, and well she
+guessed that though that heart was pure and open in the sight of God and
+in _her_ sight, it might not be so in that of every man. And although
+his faith was now the Christian faith--even, in many points, that of the
+Church--still Olive doubted whether he would ever be a Church of England
+minister again. No wonder that she watched his face in anxious love, and
+then looked from him to his mother, who, all unconscious, continued to
+speak.
+
+"In truth, all your parishioners will be glad to have you back. Even
+Mrs. Fludyer was saying so yesterday; and noticing that it was a whole
+year since you had preached in your own church. A long absence! Of
+course, it could not be helped; still it was rather a pity. Please God,
+it shall not happen again--shall it, Harold?"
+
+"Mother--mother!" His hands were crushed together, and with a look of
+pain. Olive stole to his side.
+
+"Perhaps we are talking too much. Shall we go away, Harold, and leave
+you to sleep?"
+
+"Hush, Olive! hush!" he whispered. "I have thought of this before. I
+knew I must tell it to her--all the truth."
+
+"But not now--not now. Wait till you are stronger; wait a week--a day."
+
+"No, not an hour. It is right!"
+
+"What are you talking to my son about?" said Mrs. Gwynne, with a quick
+jealousy, which even yet was not altogether stilled.
+
+Neither of the betrothed spoke.
+
+"You are not hiding anything from me, Harold; from me, your mother!"
+
+"My mother--my noble, self-denying, mother!" murmured Harold, as if
+thinking aloud. "Surely, if I sinned for her, God will forgive me!"
+
+"Sinned for me! What are you talking of, Harold? Is there anything in
+your mind--anything I do not know?" And her eyes--still tender, yet with
+a half-formed suspicion--were fixed searchingly on her son. And when,
+as if to shield him even from his mother, Olive leaned over him, Mrs.
+Gwynne's voice grew stern with reproof.
+
+"Stand aside, Olive. Let me see his face. Not even you have a right to
+interpose between me and my son."
+
+Olive moved a little aside. Very meek was she--as one had need to
+be whom Mrs. Gwynne would call daughter and Harold wife. Yet by her
+meekness she had oftentimes controlled them both. She did so now.
+
+"Olive--darling," whispered Harold, his eyes full of love; "my mother
+says right Let her come and sit by me a little. Nay, stay near, though.
+I must have you in my sight--it will strengthen me."
+
+She pressed his hand, and went away to the other end of the room.
+
+Then Harold said, tenderly, "Mother, I want to tell you something."
+
+"It is no misfortune--no sin? O, my son, I am too old to bear either!"
+she answered, as she sat down, trembling a little.
+
+"My own mother--my mother that I love, dearer now than ever in my life
+before--listen to me, and then judge me. Twelve or fourteen years ago,
+there was a son--an only son--who had a noble mother. She had sacrificed
+everything for him--the time came when he had to sacrifice something for
+her. It was a point of conscience; light, perhaps, _then_--but still it
+caused him a struggle. He must conquer it, and he did so. He stifled all
+scruples, pressed down all doubts, and became a minister of a Church in
+whose faith he did not quite believe."
+
+"Go on," said Mrs. Gwynne, hurriedly. "I had a fear once--a bitter fear.
+But no matter! Go on!"
+
+"Well, he did this sin, for sin it was, though done for his mother's
+sake. He had better have supported her by the labour of his hands, than
+have darkened his soul by a lie. But he did not think of that then. All
+the fault was his--not his mother's; mind--I say _not his mother's._"
+
+She looked at him, and then looked away again.
+
+"He could blame no one but himself--he never did--though his first faint
+doubts grew, until they prisoned him like a black mist, through which he
+could see neither earth nor heaven. Men's natures are different; his
+was not meant for that of a quiet village priest. Circumstances,
+associations, habits of mind--all were against him. And so his
+scepticism and his misery increased, until in despair of heaven, he
+plunged into the oblivion of an earthly passion. He went mad for a
+woman's beauty,--for her beauty only!"
+
+Harold pressed his hand upon his brow, as if old memories stung him
+still. His betrothed saw it, but she felt no pain. She knew that her own
+love had shone down into his heart's dark depths, removing every stain,
+binding up every wound. By that love's great might she had saved him,
+won him, and would have power to keep him evermore.
+
+"Mother," Harold pursued, "I must pass on quickly to the end. This man's
+one error seemed to cause all fate to rise against him that he might
+become an infidel to God and to man. At last he had faith in no living
+soul except his mother. This alone saved him from being the vilest
+wretch that ever crawled, as he was already the most miserable."
+
+A faint groan--only one--broke from the depth of the mother's heart, but
+she never spoke.
+
+"There was no escape--his pride shut out that. So, year after year, he
+fulfilled his calling, and lived his life, honestly, morally--towards
+man, at least; but towards Heaven it was one long, awful lie. For he--a
+minister in God's temple--was in his heart an infidel."
+
+Harold stopped. In his strong excitement he had forgotten his mother.
+She, letting go his hand, glided to her knees; there she knelt for a
+long time, her lips moving silently. At last she rose, her grand figure
+lifted to its utmost height, her face very stern, her voice without one
+tone of tremulous age, or mother's anguish.
+
+"And this hypocrite in man's sight--this blasphemer in the face of
+God--is my son Harold?"
+
+"Was, but is not--never will be more. Oh, mother, have mercy! for Heaven
+has had mercy too.--I am no sceptic now. I believe, ay, fervently and
+humbly believe."
+
+Mrs. Gwynne uttered a great cry, and fell on his neck. Never since the
+time when he was a child in her arms had he received such a passionate
+clasp--an embrace mingled with weeping that shook the whole frame of the
+aged mother. For a moment she lifted her head, murmured a thanksgiving
+for the son who "was dead, and alive again--was lost and found," and
+then she clung to him once more.
+
+"Olive kept aloof, until, seeing what a ghastly paleness was coming over
+the face of her betrothed, she came and stood beside him, saying,
+
+"Do not talk more, you are too weak. Let me tell the rest."
+
+"You there, Olive? Go! Leave my son to me; you have no part here."
+
+But Harold held his betrothed fast. "Nay, mother. Take her and bless
+her, for it was she who saved your son."
+
+And then, in a few broken words, he told the rest of the tale; told it
+so that not even his mother could be wounded by the thought of a secret
+known to Olive and concealed from her--of an influence that over her son
+was more powerful than her own. Afterwards, when Olive's arms were round
+her neck, and Olive's voice was heard imploring pardon for both, her
+whole heart melted within her. Solemnly she blessed her son's betrothed,
+and called her "daughter."
+
+"Now, my Harold!" she said, when, all trace of emotion having passed
+from either, she sat quietly by her son's side. "Now I understand
+all. Olive is right; with your love of action, and a spirit that would
+perhaps find a limitation in the best forms of belief, you never can
+be again a minister of the English Church. We must not think of it any
+more."
+
+"But, mother, how shall we live? That is what tortures me! Whither
+shall we turn if we go from Harbury? Alone, I could bear anything, but
+you"----
+
+"No matter for me! My Harold," she added, a little moved, "if you had
+trusted me, and told me your sufferings at any time all these years,--I
+would have given up everything here, and lived, as I once did, when you
+were a youth at college. It was not hard then, nor would it have been
+now. O my son, you did not half know your mother!"
+
+He looked at her, and slowly, slowly there rose in his eyes--those
+clear, proud, manly eyes!--two great crystal tears. He was not ashamed
+of them; he let them gather and fall. And Olive loved him dearer, ay,
+ten thousand times, even though these tears--the first and last she ever
+beheld him shed--were given not to her, but to his mother.
+
+Mrs. Gwynne resumed.
+
+"Let us think what we must do; for we have no time to lose. As soon as
+you are quite strong, you must give up the curacy, and we will leave
+Harbury."
+
+"Leave Harbury! your dear old home, from which you have often said you
+could never part! Oh, mother, mother!"
+
+"It is nothing--do not think of it, my son! Afterwards, what must you
+do?"
+
+"I cannot tell. Olive, think for me!" said Harold, looking helplessly
+towards her.
+
+Olive advised--timidly at first, but growing firmer as she
+proceeded--that he should carry out his old plan of going to America.
+They talked over the project for a long time, until it grew matured.
+Ere the afternoon closed, it was finally decided on--at least, so far as
+Harold's yet doubtful health permitted.
+
+"But I shall grow strong now, I know. Mother--Olive! my heart is
+lightened of the load of years!"
+
+And truly it seemed so. Nay, when tea-time came he even rose and walked
+across the room with something of his old firm step, as if the returning
+health were strong within him.
+
+After tea, Harbury bells broke out in their evening chime. Mrs. Gwynne
+rose; Olive asked if she were thinking of going to church!
+
+"Yes--to thank God!"
+
+"Go with her, Olive," said Harold, as he watched his mother from the
+room. Olive followed, but Mrs. Gwynne said she would rather go to church
+alone, and Harold must not be left. Olive stayed with her a few minutes,
+rendering all those little services which youth can so sweetly pay to
+age. And sweet too was the reward when Harold's mother kissed her,
+and once more called her "daughter." So, full of content, she went
+down-stairs to her betrothed.
+
+Harold was again sitting in his favourite arm-chair by the window. The
+rain had lately ceased, and just at the horizon there had come to the
+heavy grey sky a golden fringe--a line of watery light, so dazzling that
+the eye could scarcely bear it. It filled the whole room, and fell
+like a glory on Harold's head. Olive stood still to look at him. Coming
+closer, she saw that he was not asleep, though his eyes were cast down
+in painful thought. Something in his expression reminded her of that
+which he had worn on the night when he first came to Edinburgh, and she
+had leaned over him, longing to comfort him--as she had now a right to
+do. She did so! He felt the kiss on his brow, and smiled.
+
+"Little Olive--good little Olive, she always comes when I most need
+her," he said, fondly.
+
+"Little Olive is very happy in so doing. And now tell me what you were
+thinking of, that you pressed your lips together, and knotted your
+forehead--the broad beautiful forehead that I love? It was not good of
+you, my Harold."
+
+"Do not jest, Olive; I cannot. If I go abroad, I must go alone. What
+will become of my mother and Ailie?"
+
+"They shall stay and comfort me. Nay, you will not forbid it. How could
+I go on with my painting, living all alone?"
+
+"Ay, there is another sting," he answered. "Not one word say you;--but I
+feel it. How many years you may have still to work on alone!"
+
+"Do you think I fear that? Nay--I do not give my heart like some women I
+have known--from dread of living to be an old maid, or to gain a house,
+a name, and a husband;--I gave it for love, pure love! If I were to
+wait for years--if I were never your wife at all, but died only your
+betrothed, still I should die satisfied. Oh, Harold, you know not how
+sweet it is to love you, and be loved by you--to share all your cares,
+and rejoice in all your joys! Indeed--indeed I am content."
+
+"You might, my gentle one, but not I. Little you think how strong is
+man's pride--how stronger still is man's love. We will not look to such
+a future--I could not bear it. If I go, you shall go with me, my wife!
+Poor or not, what care I, so you are mine?"
+
+He spoke hurriedly, like the proud Harold of old--ay, the pride mingled
+with a stronger passion still. But Olive smiled both down.
+
+"Harold," she said, parting his hair with her cool soft hands, "do not
+be angry with me! You know I love you dearly. Sometimes I think I must
+have loved you before you loved me, long. Yet I am not ashamed of this."
+
+"Ah!" he muttered, "how often ignorantly I must have made you suffer,
+how often, blindly straggling with my own pride, have I tortured you.
+But still--still I loved you. Forgive me, dear!"
+
+"Nay, there is nothing to forgive. The joy has blotted out all the
+pain."
+
+"It shall do so when you are once mine. That must be soon, Olive--soon."
+
+She answered firmly, though a little blushing the while: "It should
+be to-morrow; if for your good. But it would not be. You must not be
+troubled with worldly cares. To see you so would break my heart. No--you
+must be free to work, and gain fame and success. My love shall never
+fetter you down to anxious poverty. I regard your glory even dearer than
+yourself, you see!"
+
+Gradually she led him to consent to her entreaty that they should both
+work together for their dearest ones; and that in the home which she
+with her slender means could win, there should ever be a resting-place
+for Mrs. Gwynne and for little Ailie.
+
+Then they put aside all anxious talk, and sat in the twilight, with
+clasped hands, speaking softly and brokenly; or else never speaking at
+all; only feeling that they were together--they two, who were all in
+all to each other, while the whole world of life went whirling outside,
+never touching that sweet centre of complete repose. At last, Olive's
+full heart ran over.
+
+"Oh, Harold!" she cried, "this happiness is almost more than I can bear.
+To think that you should love me thus--me poor little Olive! Sometimes I
+feel--as I once bitterly felt--how unworthy I am of you."
+
+"Darling! why?"
+
+"Because I have no beauty; and, besides--I cannot speak it, but you
+know--you know!"
+
+She hid her face burning with blushes. The words and act revealed how
+deeply in her heart lay the sting which had at times tortured her her
+whole life through--shame for that personal imperfection with which
+Nature had marked her from her birth, and which, forgotten in an hour
+by those who learned to love her, still seemed to herself a perpetual
+humiliation. The pang came, but only for the last time, ere it quitted
+her heart for ever.
+
+For, dispelling all doubts, healing all wounds, fell the words of her
+betrothed husband--tender, though grave: "Olive, if you love me, and
+believe that I love you, never grieve me by such thoughts again. To me
+you are all beautiful--in heart and mind, in form and soul."
+
+Then, as if silently to count up her beauties, he kissed her little
+hands, her soft smiling mouth, her long gold curls. And Olive hid her
+face in his breast, murmuring,
+
+"I am content, since I am fair in your sight, my Harold--my only love!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XLIX.
+
+Late autumn, that season so beautiful in Scotland, was shining into the
+house at Morningside. She, its mistress, who had there lived from middle
+life to far-extended years, and then passed from the weakness of age to
+the renewed youth of immortality, was seen no more within its walls. But
+her spirit seemed to abide there still; in the flowers which at early
+spring she had planted, for other hands to gather; in the fountain she
+had placed, which sang its song of murmuring freshness to soothe many
+an ear and heart, when _she_, walking by the streams of living waters,
+needed those of earth no more.
+
+Mrs. Flora Rothesay was dead; but she had lived one of those holy lives
+whose influence remains for generations. So, though now her name had
+gradually ceased from familiar lips, and from her house and garden
+walks, her image faded slowly in the thoughts of those who best loved
+her; still she lived, even on earth, in the good deeds she had left
+behind--in the happiness she had created wherever her own sore-wounded
+footsteps trod.
+
+In the dwelling from which she had departed there seemed little change.
+Everything looked as it had done more than a year before, when Olive had
+come thither, and found rest and peace. There were fewer flowers in the
+autumnal garden, and the Hermitage woods beyond were all brown and
+gold; but there was the same clear line of the Braid Hills, their purple
+slopes lying in the early morning sun. No one looked at them, though,
+for the breakfast-room was empty. But very soon there stole into
+it, with the soft footstep of old, with the same quiet smile,--Olive
+Rothesay.
+
+No, reader! Neither you nor any one else will ever see Olive _Rothesay_
+more. She wears on her finger a golden ring, she bears a new name--the
+well-beloved name.--She is Harold Gwynne's wife now.
+
+To their fortunes Heaven allowed, as Heaven sometimes does, the
+sweetness of a brave resolve, the joy of finding that it is not needed.
+Scarcely had Olive and her betrothed prepared to meet their future and
+go on, faithfully loving, though perhaps unwedded for years, when a
+change came. They learned that Mrs. Flora Rothesay, by a will made a
+little before her death, had devised her whole fortune to Harold, on
+condition that he should take the name of his ancestors on the mother's
+side, and be henceforth Harold Gordon Gwynne. She made no reservations,
+save that she wished her house and personal property at Morningside to
+go to her grand-niece Olive, adding in the will the following sentence:
+
+"I leave her this and _no more_, that she may understand how deeply I
+reverenced her true woman's nature, and how dearly I loved herself."
+
+And Olive did understand all; but she hid the knowledge in her rejoicing
+heart, both then and always. It was the only secret she ever kept from
+her husband.
+
+She had been married some weeks only; yet she felt as if the old life
+had been years gone by, so faint and dreamlike did it seem. Hers was a
+very quiet marriage--a quiet honeymoon; fit crowning of a love which
+had been so solemn, almost sad, from its beginning to its end. Its
+_end_?--say, rather, its new dawn;--its fulfilment in a deeper, holier
+bond than is ever dreamed of by girlish sentiment or boyish passion--the
+still, sacred love of marriage. And, however your modern infidels may
+doubt, and your free-thinking heart-desecrators scoff, _that_ is the
+true love--the tie which God created from the beginning, making man and
+woman to be one flesh, and pronouncing it "good."
+
+It is good! None can question it who sees the look of peace and full
+contentment--a look whose like one never beholds in the wide world save
+then, as it sits smiling on the face of a bride who has married for true
+love. Very rare it is, indeed--rare as such marriages ever are; but one
+sees it sometimes;--we saw it, reader, a while since, on a young
+wife's face, and it made us think of little Olive in her happy home at
+Morningside.
+
+She stood by the window for a minute or two, her artist-soul drinking
+in all that was beautiful in the scene; then she went about her little
+household duties, already grown so sweet. She took care that Mrs.
+Gwynne's easy-chair was placed in its proper angle by the fire, and
+that Harold had beside his plate the great ugly scientific book which
+he always liked to read at breakfast. Indeed, it was a saying of Marion
+M'Gillivray's--from whose bonnie face the cloud had altogether passed,
+leaving only a thoughtful gravity meet for a girl who would shortly
+leave her maiden home for one far dearer--Marion often said that Mr.
+Gwynne was trying to make his wife as learned as himself, and that his
+influence was robbing their Scottish Academy of no one knew how many
+grand pictures. Perhaps it might be--it was a natural and a womanly
+thing that in her husband's fame Olive should almost forget her own.
+
+When she had seen all things ready, Olive went away upstairs, and stood
+by a child's bed--little Ailie's. Not the least sweet of all her new
+ties was it, that Harold's daughter was now her own. And tender, like
+a mother's, was the kiss with which she wakened the child. There was in
+her hand a book--a birthday gift; for Ailie was nine years old that day.
+
+"Oh, how good you are to me, my sweet, dear, new mamma!" cried the happy
+little one, clinging round Olive's neck. "What a pretty, pretty book!
+And you have written in it my name--'Ailie.' But," she added, after
+a shy pause, "I wish, if you do not mind, that you would put there my
+whole long name, which I am just learning to write."
+
+"That I will, my pet. Come, tell me what shall I say--word for word,
+'Alison'"------
+
+"Yes, that is it--my beautiful long name--which I like so much, though
+no one ever calls me by it--_Alison Sara Gwynne._"
+
+"Sara! did they call you Sara?" said Olive, letting her pen fall. She
+took the little girl in her arms, and looked long and wistfully into the
+large oriental eyes--so like those which death had long sealed. And her
+tears rose, remembering the days of her youth. How strange--how very
+strange, had been her whole life's current, even until now! She thought
+of her who was no more--whose place she filled, whose slighted happiness
+was to herself the summit of all joy. But Heaven had so willed it, and
+to that end had made all things tend. It was best for all. One moment
+her heart melted, thinking of the garden at Oldchurch, the thorn-tree at
+the river-side, and afterwards of the long-closed grave at Harbury, over
+which the grass waved in forgotten silence. Then, pressing Ailie to
+her bosom, she resolved that while her own life lasted she would be a
+faithful and most loving mother unto poor Sara's child.
+
+A _Mother!_--The word brought back--as it often did when Harold's
+daughter called her by that name--another memory, never forgotten,
+though sealed among the holy records of the past. Even on her
+marriage-day the thought had come--"O thou, to whom in life I gave all
+love, all duty,--now needed by thee no more, both pass unto _him_. If
+souls can behold and rejoice in the happiness of those beloved on earth,
+mother, look down from heaven and bless my husband!"
+
+Nor did it wrong the dead, if this marriage-bond involved another, which
+awakened in Olive feelings that seemed almost a renewal of the love
+once buried in Mrs. Rothesay's grave. And Harold's wife inly vowed, that
+while she lived, his mother should never want the devotion and affection
+of a daughter.
+
+In the past fading memories of Olive's former life was one more, which
+now grew into a duty, over whose fulfilment, even amidst her bridal
+happiness, she pondered continually; and talked thereof to her husband,
+to whom it was scarcely less absorbing.
+
+Since they came home to Morningside, they had constantly sought at St.
+Margaret's for news of Christal Manners.
+
+Many times Olive had written to her, but no answer came. The silence
+of the convent walls seemed to fold itself over all revelations of the
+tortured spirit which had found refuge there. However, Christal had
+taken no vows. Mrs. Flora and Harold had both been rigid on that point,
+and the good nuns reverenced their order too much to admit any one who
+might have sought it from the impulse of despair, rather than from any
+pious "vocation."
+
+Olive's heart yearned over her sister. On this day she resolved to make
+one more effort to break the silence between them. So, in the afternoon,
+she went to the convent quite alone, walking through the pleasant lanes
+where she had formerly walked with Marion M'Gillivray. Strange contrast
+between the present and the past! When she stood in the little convent
+parlour, and remembered how she had stood there with a bursting heart,
+that longed for any rest--any oblivion, to deaden its cruel pain,--Olive
+trembled with her happiness now. And she felt how solemn is the portion
+of those whose cup God has thus crowned, in order that they may pour it
+out before Him continually, in offerings of thanksgiving and of fruitful
+deeds.
+
+Sister Ignatia entered--the same bright-eyed, benevolent, simple soul.
+"Ah, you are come again this week, too, my dear Mrs. Harold Gwynne--(I
+can hardly remember your new name even yet)--but I fear your coming is
+vain; though, day after day, I beseech your sister to see you."
+
+"She will not, then?" said Olive, sighing.
+
+"No. Yet she says she has no bitterness against you. How could she?
+However, I ask no questions, for the past is all forgotten here. And I
+love the poor young creature. Oh, if you knew her fasts, her vigils,
+and her prayers! God and the Holy Mother pity her, poor broken-hearted
+thing!" said the compassionate nun.
+
+"Speak to her once more. Do not tell her I am here: only speak of me
+to her," said Olive. And she waited anxiously until Sister Ignatia came
+back.
+
+"She says she is glad you are happy, and married to that good friend of
+hers, to whom she owes so much; but that she is dead to the world, and
+wishes to hear of no one any more. Still, when I told her you lived at
+Morningside, she began to tremble. I think--I hope, if she were to see
+you suddenly, before she had time to reflect--only not now--you look so
+agitated yourself."
+
+"No, no; I can always be calm at will--I have long learned that. Your
+plan is kind: let it be to-day. It may end in good, please God. Where is
+my dear sister?"
+
+"She is sitting in the dormitory of the convent-school. She stays
+a great deal with our little girls, and takes much care of them,
+especially of some orphans that we have."
+
+Olive sighed. Well she read unhappy Christal's reason. But it showed
+some softening of the stony heart. Almost hopeful she followed Sister
+Ignatia to the dormitory.
+
+It was a long, narrow room, lined with tiny white beds. Over its pure
+neatness good fairies might have continually presided. Through it swept
+the fresh air coming from the open window which overlooked the garden.
+And there, darkening it with her tall black shadow, stood the only
+present occupant of the room, Christal Manners.
+
+She wore a garb half-secular, half-religious. Her black serge dress
+betrayed no attention to fashion, scarcely even to neatness; her
+beautiful hair was all put back under a white linen veil, and her whole
+appearance showed that last bitter change in a woman's nature, when she
+ceases to have a woman's instinctive personal pride. Olive saw not her
+face, except the cheek's outline, worn to the straightness of age. Nor
+did Christal observe Olive until she had approached quite close.
+
+Then she gave a wild start, the old angry flush mounted to her temples,
+and sank.
+
+"Why did you come here?" she said hoarsely; "I sent you word I wished to
+see no one--that I was utterly dead to the world."
+
+"But not to me--oh, not to me, my sister!"
+
+"Sister!" she repeated, with flashing eyes, and then crossed herself
+humbly, muttering, "The evil spirit must not rise again. Help me,
+Blessed Mother--good saints, help me!"
+
+She told her rosary over once, twice, and then turned to Olive, subdued.
+
+"Now say what you have to say to me. I told you I had no anger in my
+heart--I even asked your forgiveness. I only desire to be left alone--to
+spend the rest of my bitter life in penance and prayer."
+
+"But I cannot leave you, my sister."
+
+"I wish you would not call me so, nor take my hand, nor look at me as
+you do now--as you did the first night I saw you, and again on that
+awful, awful day!" And Christal sank back on one of the little beds--the
+thornless pillow where some happy child slept--and there sobbed
+bitterly.
+
+More than once she motioned Olive away, but Olive would not go. "Do not
+send me away! If you knew how I suffer daily from the thought of you!"
+
+"You suffer! happy as they tell me you are--you, with your home and your
+husband!"
+
+"Ah, Christal, even my husband grieves--my husband, who would do
+anything in the whole world for your peace. You have forgotten Harold."
+
+A softness came over Christal's face. "No, I have not forgotten him. Day
+and night I pray for him who saved more than my life--my soul. For that
+deed may God bless him!--and God pardon me."
+
+She said this, shuddering, too, as at some awful memory. After a while,
+she spoke to Olive in a gentler tone, for the first time lifting her
+eyes to her sister's face.
+
+"You seem well in health, and you have a peaceful look. I am glad of
+it--I am glad you are happy, and married to Harold Gwynne. He told me of
+his love for you."
+
+"But he could not tell you all. If I am happy, I have suffered too. We
+must all suffer, some time; but suffering ends in time."
+
+"Not with me--not with me. But I desire not to talk of myself."
+
+"Shall I talk then about your friend Harold--your _brother_? He told
+me to say he would ever be so to you," said Olive, striving to awaken
+Christal's sympathies. And she partly succeeded; for her sister listened
+quietly, and with some show of interest, while she spoke of Harold and
+of their dear home.
+
+"It is so near you, too; we can hear the convent bells when we walk in
+our pretty garden. You must come and see it, Christal."
+
+"No, no; I have rest here; I will never go beyond these walls. As
+soon as I am twenty-one I shall become a nun, and then I, with all my
+sorrows, will be buried out of sight for evermore."
+
+So said she; and Olive did not contradict her at the time. But she
+thought that if there was any strength in faithful affection and earnest
+prayers, the peace of a useful life, spent, not in barren solitude, but
+in the fruitful garden of God's world, should be Christal's portion yet.
+
+One only doubt troubled her. After considering for a long time she
+ventured to say:
+
+"I have told you now nearly all that has happened among us this year.
+You have spoken of all your friends, save one." She hesitated, and at
+last uttered the name of Lyle.
+
+"Hush!" said Christal. But her cheek's paleness changed not; her heavy
+eye neither kindled nor drooped. "Hush! I do not wish to hear that name.
+It has passed out of my world for ever--blotted out by the horrors that
+followed."
+
+"Then you have forgotten"----
+
+"Forgotten all. It was but a dream of my old vain life--it troubles me
+no more."
+
+"Thank God!" murmured Olive, though in her heart she marvelled to think
+how many false reflections there were of the one true love--the only
+love that can endure--such as had been hers.
+
+She bade an affectionate farewell to her sister, who went with her to
+the outer court of the convent. Christal did not ask her to come again,
+but she kissed her when they parted, and once looked back ere she again
+passed into the quiet silent home which she had chosen as her spirit's
+grave.
+
+Olive walked on quickly, for the afternoon was closing.
+
+Very soon she heard overtaking her a footstep, whose sound quickened
+her pulse even now. "How good and thoughtful of him, my dear Harold--my
+husband!"
+
+_My husband!_ Never did she say or think the words but her heart swelled
+with inexpressible emotion, remembering the old time, the long silent
+struggle, the wasting pain. Yet she would have borne it all a thousand
+times--ay, even had the end come never in her life on earth,--rather
+than not have known the sweetness of loving--the glory of loving one
+like him.
+
+Harold met her with a smile. "I have been waiting long--I could not let
+my little Olive walk home alone."
+
+She, who had walked through the world alone for so many weary years! But
+she would never do so any more. She clung to her husband's arm, clasping
+over it both her little hands in a sweet caressing way: and so they went
+on together.
+
+Olive told him all the good news she had to tell, and he rejoiced with
+her for Christal's sake. He agreed that there was hope and comfort for
+their sister still; for he could not believe there was in the whole
+world a heart so hard and cold, that it could not be melted by Olive's
+gentle influence, and warmed by the shining of Olive's spirit of love.
+
+They were going home, when she saw that her husband looked tired
+and dull--he had been poring over his books all day. For though now
+independent of the world, as regarded fortune, he could not relinquish
+his scientific pursuits; but was every day adding to his acquirements,
+and to the fame which had been his when only a poor clergyman at
+Harbury. So, without saying anything, Olive led him down the winding
+road that leads from Edinburgh towards the Braid Hills, laughing and
+talking with him the while, "to send the cobwebs out of his brain,"
+as she often told him. Though at the time she never let him see how
+skilfully she did this, lest his man's dignity should revolt at being
+so lovingly beguiled. For he was still as ever the very quintessence of
+pride. Well for him his wife had not that quality--yet perhaps she loved
+him all the better for possessing it.
+
+At the gate of the Hermitage Harold paused. Neither of them had seen the
+place since they last stood there. At the remembrance he seemed greatly
+moved.
+
+His wife looked lovingly up to him. "Harold, are you content? You
+would not send me from you?--you would not wish to live your whole life
+without me now?"
+
+"No--no!" he cried, pressing her hand close to his heart. The mute
+gesture said enough--Olive desired no more.
+
+They walked on a long way, even climbing to the summit of the Braid
+Hills. The night was coming on fast,--the stormy night of early
+winter--for the wind had risen, and swept howling over the heathery
+ridge.
+
+"But I have my plaid here, and you will not mind the cold, my
+lassie--Scottish born," said Harold to his wife. And in his own cheek,
+now brown with health, rose the fresh mountain-blood, while the bold
+mountain-spirit shone in his fearless eyes. No marvel that Olive looked
+with pride at her husband, and thought that not in the whole world was
+there such another man!
+
+"I glory in the wind," cried Harold, tossing back his head, and shaking
+his wavy hair, something lion-like. "It makes me strong and bold. I love
+to meet it, to wrestle with it; to feel myself in spirit and in frame,
+stern to resist, daring to achieve, as a man should feel!"
+
+And on her part, Olive with her clinging sweetness, her upward gaze, was
+a type of true woman.
+
+"I think," Harold continued, "that there is a full rich life before me
+yet. I will go forth and rejoice therein; and if misfortune come, I will
+meet it--thus!"
+
+He planted his foot firmly on the ground, lifted his proud head, and
+looked out fearlessly with his majestic eyes.
+
+"And I," said Olive, "thus."
+
+She stole her two little cold hands under his plaid, laid her head upon
+them, close to his heart, and, smiling, nestled there.
+
+And the loud fierce wind swept by, but it harmed not them, thus warm and
+safe in love. So they stood, true man and woman, husband and wife,
+ready to go through the world without fear, trusting in each other, and
+looking up to Heaven to guide their way.
+
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Olive, by
+Dinah Maria Craik, (AKA Dinah Maria Mulock)
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OLIVE ***
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